[transcriber's note: extensive research found no evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] bandit love by juanita savage author of "the city of desire," "passion island," "don lorenzo's bride," "the spaniard," etc. a. l. burt company _publishers_ new york chicago published by arrangement with the dial press printed in u. s. a. copyright, , by dial press, inc. bandit love chapter i rotten row on a brilliant june morning, and hyde park at its loveliest. the london "season" at its height, and throngs of fashionably-dressed men and women "taking the air," strolling idly to and fro, lounging on little green-painted chairs, or leaning on the rails watching the riders of all nationalities. a sight well worth watching. it is the week of the international horse show, and there are many foreign officers in gaily-coloured uniforms, mounted on sleek and beautiful thoroughbreds, cantering along amidst a throng of more soberly clad riders of both sexes. the "liver brigade" is at full strength. these red-faced, white-moustached, elderly men, with "retired colonel, indian army," stamped all over them, as it were, are probably telling each other, as they try to urge their hacks to a gallop, that "the row is becoming demnably overcrowded, sir, and the place is going to the dogs. those confounded foreigner fellows look like circus performers, and that sort of young woman wouldn't have been tolerated in my young days.... gad! just look at that girl!" the girl in question is mounted on a high-spirited bay which is resenting her mastery and is fighting to get the bit between his teeth. the horse rears, jerking his fine head from side to side, then bucks with a whinny of rage, and the "liver brigade" scatters. a mounted policeman, on the alert to render assistance and prevent accidents, brings along his well-trained steed at a hand-gallop, recognises the rider of the bucking thoroughbred, and reins up with a grin on his bronzed face. he knows that miss myra rostrevor, although she looks a mere slip of a girl, is quite capable of riding and handling almost any horse that ever was saddled, and is no more likely to be thrown than any of the italian officers who have been competing for championships at the olympia. he remembers, too, that when another woman's horse bolted with her a few weeks previously, miss rostrevor easily outdistanced him in pursuit of the runaway, brought the startled animal to a standstill, and rode off without waiting for a word of thanks from the scared rider. idlers lining the rails, however, ignorant of the identity and capabilities of miss myra rostrevor, watch her struggle with her spirited steed apprehensively if they are ignorant of horsemanship, and with admiration if they are experienced. "ride him, missie, ride him!" ejaculates a lean, bronzed american involuntarily. "gee! some girl! she's sure got you beat, horse, and you know it. sits you as surely as an arizona cowboy, and must have wrists like steel although she's got hands like a baby. attaboy! ... yep, she'll give you your head now, but i'll gamble she'll bring you back quiet as mary's little lamb." he was right. myra rostrevor gave her mount his head for a time and went the length of the row, then reined him in, turned, and trotted him back at a pace that would scarce have shaken up the most liverish of the indian colonels. she eventually brought her horse to a standstill close to the rails, and patted his neck as she bent forward to chat smilingly to a tall, fair young man of aristocratic appearance and languid air. "i said it! some good-looker, too," resumed the american, and turned to a well-groomed stranger next to him, after eyeing the graceful horsewoman admiringly. "say, sir, do you happen to know who that young lady is?" he inquired. "yes, i happen to know the young lady," responded the other, politely willing to satisfy the american's curiosity. "she is a miss rostrevor, daughter of a very old irish family, and as wild a madcap as ever came out of the emerald isle." "she looks it," the american commented. "there's a spice of devil in her expression, and i see she has red hair. i guess the man who marries her will sure need a bearing rein and a special bit and snaffle to keep that young beauty in order. but i'll bet she's not short of admirers, and lots of fellers'd jump at the chance of marrying her, and risk her kicking over the traces?" "you are perfectly right, sir," answered the englishman, with an amused laugh. "miss rostrevor has a host of admirers, which is hardly surprising, considering her remarkable beauty. several young men have lost their heads about her, and she is credited--or should it be debited?--with having broken several hearts. incidentally, the man to whom she is talking might be interested in your remark about the necessity for a special bit and snaffle. he and miss rostrevor are engaged to be married." "is that so?" drawled the american, gazing at the engaged couple with undisguised curiosity. "what is he? a lord, or duke, or something of the sort?" "no, he hasn't any title, but he is well-connected, and is one of the wealthiest and most eligible young men in england. his name is antony standish, and his income is reputed to be something like a hundred thousand pounds a year. his father was sir mark standish, a great iron-master and coal magnate." "you don't say! lemme see. one hundred thousand pounds. that's round about five hundred thousand dollars. some income! what does mr. antony standish do?" "nothing, if you are referring to work. he does the usual society rounds, takes an interest in racing, and roams the world occasionally in a palatial steam yacht. one does not have to worry about work if one has an income of one hundred thousand pounds a year." "no, i guess i'd somehow manage to struggle along on half a million dollars a year myself and kiss work good-bye," said the american, with a broad grin. "the little lady sure seems to have made a catch, sir, judging from what you've told me, and yet mr. antony standish somehow don't look to me to be her style. by the look of miss rostrevor, and the way she handled that horse, i should have guessed her fancy would have run to something more of the big, he-man type, instead of to a society dandy. but one can never tell where women are concerned. and five hundred thousand dollars a year will make any kind of guy almost any kind of girl's ideal." antony standish was not a "guy," in the colloquial english sense of the word, but he was hardly the type of man one would have imagined as likely to capture the heart of the high-spirited irish beauty. he was good-looking, with a fair complexion and a little sandy moustache, and he carried himself with the air of a patrician, but his face lacked character, and he had rather a weak chin. he had earned the reputation of being one of the best-dressed men in london, had a host of friends, most of whom called him "tony," and he was talked of as "a good sport." "sure, and i wasn't showing off at all, at all, tony," myra rostrevor was saying to him in her soft, musical voice with a delightfully attractive touch of the brogue. "it was tiger here that was trying to show off and make himself out to be my master.... weren't ye, tiger?" she patted the sleek neck of her horse again as she spoke, and he pricked his ears and tossed his head as if he understood. "there isn't any horse or man who is going to master myra rostrevor," she added. "that sounds like a challenge, myra," drawled tony standish smilingly. "how do you know but what i may adopt cave-man tactics after we are married, and attempt to beat you into submission?" myra tossed her red-gold head much in the same way as her spirited mount had tossed his, and trilled out a laugh. "i think, tony, you'd be even less successful than tiger, and more sorry for yourself than he is after your very first attempt," she responded. "so perhaps i'd better not make a first attempt, even in the hope of getting a pat on the neck afterwards," laughed tony. there was pride and admiration in his pale blue eyes as he looked up at the girl who had promised to marry him. he was the owner of many priceless art treasures, none of which, however, was half as beautiful in his eyes as myra rostrevor. her beauty was unique, and even in an assembly of lovely women she would have attracted attention. yet her features were not classically perfect, her small nose had the faintest suspicion of tip-tilt, and there was nothing stately or majestic about her. no one had ever compared her to a greek goddess, but even artists raved about her beauty and charm, and competed for the privilege of painting her portrait. she was slim but shapely. her hair was the auburn that titian loved to paint, with a golden gleam in it, as if a sunbeam had become entangled and failed to escape. her complexion, innocent of powder or cosmetics, was clear and delicate as a rose-leaf but with the faintest tinge of healthy tan. her eyes, blue as summer seas, were fringed with long, dark lashes, and she had an aggravatingly seductive dimple in each cheek, and another in the centre of her daintily-rounded chin. a lovely, fascinating and bewitching girl, whom the fates and the fairies had endowed with that undefinable gift we call "charm." and myra had charmed the hearts out of many men, while remaining herself heart-whole. she was still heart-whole although she was engaged to be married to tony standish, and she had left her fiancé no illusions on that point. "yes, i'll marry you, tony, but i don't love you," she had told him, when he proposed a second time after having been rejected on the first occasion. "i'm going to marry you because aunt clarissa insists i must marry a rich man, and you happen to be the least objectionable rich man who wants me. i like you, tony, and think you are rather a dear, but i want you to understand i'm not in love, and you will be buying me. i'm selling myself simply because i love all the good things of life, because you can pay for them, and because aunt clarissa keeps badgering me to marry and i am dependent on her for practically everything." "you have turned down other fellows as rich as i am who were crazy about you, and other men much more attractive, so you must love me a little, myra dear," tony had responded. "i am going to make you love me a lot." antony standish had a good conceit of himself, which was hardly surprising, for he was the only child of a very rich man, had been pampered and made much of in his childhood, and later had been toadied to and sought after by women as well as men, first as heir to, and subsequently as the actual possessor of, a vast fortune. many girls with an eye on the main chance had set their caps at him, angled for him, and made no secret of their willingness to become mrs. antony standish, and tony was not unaware of the fact. perhaps it was because myra rostrevor had always seemed to be totally indifferent to him that he had lost his heart to her, and made up his mind to win her and make her his wife at all costs. it had not been easy, but tony had found a very willing ally in the person of myra's aunt, clarissa, lady fermanagh. for lady fermanagh was only too anxious to get her orphan niece off her hands, not only because myra was an expense, but because her madcap exploits occasionally drove her almost to distraction, while her heartbreaking flirtations were the cause of gossip. like her fiancé, myra was an only child, who had been allowed to do everything she liked practically since infancy, and had come to expect, and accept, homage, almost as a right. her father, sir dennis rostrevor, had at one time been wealthy, but had lost practically everything in the rebellion, when the great house that had been the home of the rostrevors for generations was burned to the ground. the loss broke his heart and killed him, and his death almost broke myra's heart and left her for a time distraught and inconsolable, for she had loved and adored her handsome and indulgent father. time, however, speedily heals grief's wounds when one is in the early twenties, and in the social whirl of english society myra had all but forgotten her loss and the dark days of tragedy in ireland. "will you be at home if i call round in an hour or so?" inquired tony, as myra was about to move off, her horse becoming restive again. "i've got something important to discuss." "let me see," answered myra. "i've got a luncheon appointment, then i'm going on to hurlingham, dining with the fitzpatricks, and going on later to lady trencrom's dance. have to see my hairdresser and manicurist at eleven this morning, but i expect i shall be free by noon. call about twelve, tony, and don't forget to bring some chocolate and cigarettes with you." "righto, old thing!" said tony smilingly, and his eyes followed myra as she cantered away, the cynosure of many admiring glances. tony liked her to be admired. it seemed a compliment to his own good taste and discrimination. he liked to think that other men envied him his position as myra's accepted lover. it pleased him to be pointed out as the lucky man who had won the heart and hand of the beautiful miss rostrevor, and he was not unconscious of the fact that he was being pointed out as he strolled along the row after watching myra out of sight. "i remembered your instructions, darling," he announced, when he called on his betrothed at her aunt's house in mayfair a couple of hours later. "here we are! chocs, your favourite brand of cigarettes, a few roses, and--er--just a little thing here that caught my eyes in asprey's window, which i thought you might like." the "little thing" he produced from his pocket was a platinum bracelet set with diamonds, and myra uttered an involuntary exclamation of admiration as she opened the case containing it. "how lovely! sure, but you're an extravagant darlint, tony! you deserve a kiss for this." she just brushed tony's cheek with her lips, and evaded him when he tried to enfold her in his arms. "myra, darling, i want to fix a date for our wedding," said tony. "let's get married before the season is over, or early in the autumn, and spend a long honeymoon in the east or in the south seas. i want to make you all mine as soon as possible, dear. let's arrange to get married next month." myra's smile faded, and she shook her red-gold head. "tony, darlint, i don't want to marry you just yet," she answered gently. "i told you when we became engaged that you must give me time to get accustomed to the idea of becoming your wife, time to try to fall in love with you first." "why not reverse the usual procedure, marry me first and fall in love with me after?" suggested tony, and again myra shook her head. "i love taking risks, tony, but that would be too great a risk," she responded. "it would be ghastly for us both if i married you and found myself incapable of loving you, and tragic if i fell in love with somebody else later. please be patient, tony. i am really and truly trying to fall in love with you." "and you know i am tremendously in love with you, myra, and want to make you all my own," said tony, capturing her hands. "i know i can make you love me, and we will be enormously happy after we are married. do be a darling and let me fix a date for our wedding." "be a dear, tony, and don't press me," pleaded myra. "we are happy enough as we are, and since we became engaged and aunt clarissa ceased to badger me, i've been having a gorgeous time. let's postpone fixing a date for our marriage until next spring, by which time i may be sure of my own heart. perhaps it's an old-fashioned idea, but i'd like to be in love with the man i marry." "i say, myra!" exclaimed tony, as if struck by a sudden idea, after a few moments of silence. "i say! a promise is a promise, you know. you won't throw me over and make me look and feel an ass, will you, if you should happen to meet someone you think you like better than me? you've promised to be my wife, you know." "yes, i know, tony, but i also know you are too much of a sportsman to hold me to my promise if i should happen to fall in love with another man," myra responded. "that isn't in the least likely to happen, tony dear, and i am truly trying to love you in the way a girl should love the man she has promised to marry, as i have already told you. let me have my freedom and my fling for a few months longer." "well, i suppose it isn't any use my trying to bully you into marrying me at once," said tony, with a shrug, a sigh, and a wry smile. "but you know i'm tremendously in love with you, darling, and i can't help feeling jealous of the fellows who still go on dancing attendance on you although you are engaged to me. i'm haunted by the fear of someone stealing you from me." "tony, darlint, you've no need to be jealous," myra smilingly assured him, and patted his cheek. "there isn't anyone else. dozens of men profess to be in love with me, but there isn't a single man--or a married man either--that i'm the slightest little bit in love with. so don't worry! i promise you that if ever i do meet a man whom i'd rather marry than you, i'll tell you." and with that tony had, perforce, to be content. chapter ii a few hours later myra was one of a fashionable and interested crowd watching the polo at hurlingham. an exciting match was in progress, and myra cried out enthusiastically as one of the players, after a thrilling mêlée, made a splendid shot, followed up, beat the defence, and scored a magnificent goal. "oh, well played, sir, well played!" myra exclaimed enthusiastically, clapping her hands. "who is he, jimmy?" she added, turning to her escort, who was also applauding. "do you know him?" "i was introduced to him at a dinner at the spanish legation the other evening," her friend answered. "he's governor of a province, or something of the sort, in spain, and a most interesting chap. told me he spends most of his time out there hunting brigands and outlaws. speaks english perfectly, and is good-looking enough to be a film star. mentioned that he played polo and hoped to get a game to-day, but didn't hint that he was a star performer. i've got a rotten memory for names, but he's called don carlos de something-or-other." he consulted his programme. "ah! here we are! don carlos de ruiz.... look! he's on the ball again. well hit indeed, sir!" at the end of the game myra, at her own request, was introduced to don carlos de ruiz, who was smilingly receiving the congratulations of english friends on his splendid play. at close quarters she found him to be a man of about thirty-five, very handsome, with clean-cut features, pale complexion, jet-black hair with a natural crinkle in it, and dark, inscrutable eyes that gleamed like black diamonds. "delighted to meet you, señor," said myra, deciding at first glance he was one of the most attractive men she had ever seen. "congratulations on the win. you played wonderfully." "i am flattered and honoured, miss rostrevor," said don carlos, bowing low over her hand. "praise from the most beautiful woman in england is praise indeed!" he kissed her finger-tips, and myra was conscious of an unusual thrill as she involuntarily jerked her hand away. "obviously you have the equivalent of a blarney stone in spain, don carlos," she commented with a laugh, looking up into the bold dark eyes that were regarding her with undisguised admiration. "do you play much polo in your own country, señor?" "alas, no!" don carlos answered. "my home is in the wilds of the sierra morena, miss rostrevor, and one has few opportunities for playing polo there. but we have good sport, nevertheless. we spend much of our time hunting a notorious brigand known as el diablo cojuelo, who plays hide-and-seek with us and defies capture. he kidnaps all the most beautiful of our girls, robs our rich men, and gives most of the proceeds of his robberies to the poor. the rascal even had the audacity to capture me and hold me to ransom. i had no alternative but to pay the price he demanded. subsequently i led troops into the mountains in search of him, but he had vanished into thin air and has not since been seen. however, his disappearance and the cessation of his activities have enabled me to take a holiday, and i hope to spend some months in england. i fervently trust, miss rostrevor, that i shall have the pleasure of meeting you often." "thank you," said myra, greatly interested. "i thought brigands were a thing of the past, and what you have told me makes me long to visit spain. it would be tremendously thrilling to be captured and held to ransom by a spanish brigand." "dear lady, if you were captured by el diablo cojuelo, all the riches of the indies would not ransom you," don carlos responded, with a smile that showed a double row of gleaming white teeth. "cojuelo is a connoisseur of feminine beauty, and were he fortunate enough to capture you, i feel certain nothing would induce him to part with you." "there must certainly be the equivalent of a blarney stone in spain," laughed myra, nodding good-bye and turning away to rejoin her friends. she met don carlos de ruiz again that night at lady trencrom's dance, looking handsome and distinguished in full evening kit, with medals and orders in miniature glinting on his left lapel and a jewelled decoration on his breast. he recognised her instantly, and made his way masterfully through the crowd that surrounded her at the first interval. "i shall have the pleasure of the next dance with you, miss rostrevor?" he said, and it struck myra that his words were more by way of being an assertion than a question or a request. "indeed, señor, and you won't," she retorted in her soft irish voice. "i'm dancing the next with my fiancé, mr. tony standish. here he is coming now... tony, my dear, this is don carlos de ruiz, who plays polo like an angel." "didn't know that angels played polo, but i'm pleased to meet you, don carlos," drawled standish. "frightful crush, isn't it?" "miss rostrevor was going to dance the next number with me, mr. standish, but suddenly remembered she had promised to dance with you," said don carlos, with smiling sang-froid, as he shook hands. "if you would be so good as to resign your right in my favour--" he paused with a questioning glance at tony, who looked a trifle bewildered. "why--er--of course, if miss rostrevor so wishes," tony said, just as the band struck up; and before myra quite realised what was happening she found herself gliding round the room in the arms of don carlos. "you certainly are not lacking in nerve, señor, and you apparently have no regard for the truth," she commented, recovering from her astonishment. "i never said i was going to dance with you." "sweet lady, i would perjure my soul for the privilege and pleasure of dancing with you," don carlos responded, smiling down into her blue eyes. "it is an honour and a delight to have for partner the most beautiful and charming girl in england. you dance divinely, señorita, and are light as thistledown in my arms. my soul is enchanted, enraptured!" "away with your blarney!" exclaimed myra, half-laughingly, half-impatiently, but conscious of a queer little thrill as she met his smiling glance. "do you pay every woman you meet such fulsome and extravagant compliments, señor?" "no, señorita, i am a connoisseur," answered don carlos, his tone quite serious but his black eyes twinkling. "and no compliment could be extravagant if applied to you, dear lady. one would have to be a great poet to find words to do justice to your beauty and charm." he had a deep, musical voice which was infinitely attractive, and myra found herself more than a little fascinated, and felt that she could listen to him all evening. but she tossed her red-gold head and laughed lightly. "should i respond by telling you in honeyed words that you dance as well as you play polo, and congratulate you on being a most delightful conversationalist?" she inquired in bantering tones. "please don't be absurd!" "absurd?" repeated don carlos. "sweet señorita, i am but speaking what is in my heart. never have i seen any woman to compare with you. you are wonderful--my ideal! do you believe in love at first sight?" "it's surely daft the man is!" remarked myra to the ceiling, before looking again into the bright eyes of her partner. "pardon me, don carlos, but you are carrying your extravagant nonsense too far," she added. don carlos raised his dark eyebrows in mock-surprise and sighed heavily. "how have i offended, señorita? i have but asked a question which you have not answered. let me explain that i have known women to fall in love with me at first sight, but never before have i myself been a victim." "sure, and it's a good conceit of himself the don has, and he needs taking down a peg or two," said myra to herself. "i am afraid i don't believe in love at first sight, don carlos, and the idea of any woman falling in love with you at first sight only makes me feel inclined to laugh," she said aloud. "of course, the english conception of what love is and means may be totally different from the spanish." "but you are not of the cold-blooded english," don carlos objected, skilfully guiding her through the maze of dancers. "i have heard that the irish are as warm-blooded as the latins, and can love and hate with the same passionate intensity. you, i feel sure, dear lady, would be capable of loving wonderfully were your heart really awakened. and some instinct tells me it is i who will awaken your heart and kindle the fires of passion dormant within you." the words, spoken in a low, caressing tone, thrilled myra anew, but she made pretence of being shocked and offended. "you flatter yourself, señor," she said, with a disdainful glance and a note of contempt in her sweet voice. "unless you are entirely ignorant of english conventionalities, your remarks are unpardonable. would you care to repeat to mr. standish, to whom i am engaged to be married, what you have just said?" "yes, if you so desire," responded don carlos calmly. "conventionalities--english or otherwise--do not concern me. i follow the dictates of my heart in all things, and i am master of my own destiny. shall i tell your mr. standish that i fell in love with you the first moment i saw you, and that i mean to take you from him by hook or by crook?" "i think you must be crazy!" exclaimed myra, at heart just a little scared, but more than a little fascinated. "surely even in the wilds of spain it is considered dishonourable to attempt to make love to a girl who is betrothed to another man? "not if one is prepared to fight the other man," don carlos replied, with a sudden smile. "i am quite prepared to fight for you, believe me. as for making love, dear lady, i have not even yet begun to make love to you in earnest. my love is a raging torrent which will overwhelm you and sweep you off your feet, a raging fire which will set your heart aflame in sympathy." "i'm thinking, don carlos, that you must be a bit irish yourself to mix up torrents and flames, and the sooner you let the torrent put your fires out the better i'll be pleased," said myra, with forced lightness, after a pause, during which she decided it would be best to treat the whole matter as a joke. "incidentally, you are carrying your jest too far, and i shall be seriously annoyed if you persist in this nonsense." "even if i have mixed my metaphors, señorita, i assure you i have never been more serious in my life," don carlos retorted. "may i call on you to-morrow to convince you of that fact?" "no, thank you, señor," answered myra. "and if you are really in earnest, i shall instruct the servants that i am never at home to don carlos de ruiz." "you are cruel, dear lady, but i warn you i am not to be rebuffed," said don carlos. "love will surely find a way." the music ceased as he spoke, and myra disengaged herself from his encircling arm and darted away from him, glad to escape. she could not have analysed her own feelings, and found herself at a loss to know how to deal with the situation. to complain to tony standish seemed futile. tony, if she told him what had happened, would, of course, be indignant and demand an explanation, and myra felt sure in her own mind he would come off second best if there was a scene and a personal encounter. "sure, and is it frightened you are of the conceited spaniard?" she asked herself. "you've prided yourself on being a match for any man, and being able to keep any ardent suitor at arm's length, and here you are in a funk! it's ashamed of you i am, myra rostrevor!" she did actually feel ashamed of herself for being so disturbed by don carlos's extravagant words, and mentally decided she would snub him severely at the first opportunity. the opportunity presented itself sooner than she anticipated. next afternoon she strolled into her aunt's drawing room, and her heart gave a queer little convulsive jump when she found lady fermanagh engaged in animated conversation with don carlos. "myra, dear, i'm so glad you have come in," exclaimed her aunt. "allow me to introduce don carlos de ruiz. don carlos, my niece, miss myra rostrevor." don carlos was en his feet, and he bowed low smilingly. "miss rostrevor and i have already been introduced, dear lady, but i did not know the señorita was your niece," he said. "what a delightful surprise! i had the honour of dancing with miss rostrevor last night at lady trencrom's ball." as on the previous night, myra found herself somewhat at a loss. she gave him her hand, and he bowed over it, holding it a moment longer than necessary. at that moment a footman appeared at the drawing room door. "pardon, your ladyship," he said. "the countess of carbis wishes to speak to you on the telephone." "good! i particularly want to speak to her," said lady fermanagh, rising. "excuse me, don carlos. myra, my dear, give don carlos some tea." don carlos laughed softly as the door closed behind her ladyship, and his dark eyes were sparkling wickedly as he looked at myra. "did i not warn you, sweet lady, that love would find a way?" he said. "we have a proverb in spain that the way to make sure of winning a girl is to make love to her mother. as you have no mother, i made love last night to lady fermanagh, who, i was told, is your guardian, and she invited me to call. hence my presence here. the fates are kind, and now i can make love to you in earnest. myra, darling, my heart is all afire with love for you, and all my being is crying out for you." myra drew herself up to her full height, regarding him disdainfully and endeavouring to put all the hauteur she could summon up into her manner and expression. "here in england, don carlos, we call a man a cad who persists in attempting to force his unwanted attentions on a girl," she remarked icily. "i do not know if there is a spanish equivalent for the word cad." "'cad'? let me think," drawled don carlos, seemingly not a whit rebuffed, his dark eyes still twinkling mischievously. "in spanish, 'cad' would be 'mozo' or 'caballerizo.' 'caballerear' means to set up for a gentleman. you must let me teach you spanish, myra. it is an ideal language in which to make love. let me tell you in spanish that i love you, that you are the most beautiful, adorable, fascinating and seductive girl i have ever met, the loveliest and most enticing creature ever created, the woman of my dreams, my ideal, and my predestined mate." "let me tell you in plain english that you are the most impudent, offensive and exasperating man i have ever met!" exclaimed myra, shaken by a gust of angry resentment. "i don't want to talk to you, señor, and i repeat that you are behaving like a cad!" don carlos sighed lugubriously and turned up his eyes to the ceiling. "i am spurned!" he lamented, as if soliloquising. "i am desolated! the most wonderfully beautiful girl in the world rebuffs me and calls me a cad when i offer her my heart and the love for which many another woman would barter her very soul! my myra thinks i am the most exasperating and impudent man in the world! condenacion! still, i must be unique in one respect!" he lowered his eyes to look at myra again. "so this is english hospitality, señorita!" he resumed, after a pause. "the lady fermanagh, your charming aunt, told you to offer me tea, but not even a spoonful have you proffered me." he assumed such an absurdly pathetic expression that myra laughed in spite of herself, and quite forgot to continue to be angry and offended. "you are an utterly impossible person, don carlos," she commented, dimpling into smiles. "sit down and let me give you tea and anything else you want." "ten thousand thanks, myra!" cried don carlos. "how wonderful! anything else i want! the tea does not matter, but i want ten thousand kisses from the woman who has entranced and enraptured my heart. i want to hold you in my arms, myra mine, clasped close to my breast, to set your darling heart afire with burning kisses, to kiss the heart out of you then kiss it back again all aflame with love and longing. myra, darling, i love you as i have never loved before, and i want you for my wife." he stretched out his arms as if to enfold myra in them, but she evaded him adroitly. she had been listening half-fascinated, conscious of the spell of his personality, thrilled by the passionate tones of his deep, musical voice, but she broke the spell and recovered herself in an instant. "quite an effective piece of play-acting!" she remarked, forcing a laugh. "you really should be on the stage, don carlos, or acting for the movies. i feel sure you would be a success as a film actor, and all the flappers would lose their hearts to you. will you have some tea?" "myra, i am not acting," don carlos protested, at last showing signs of chagrin. "i am in deadly earnest. i love you and want you, and the devil himself will not prevent me from making you my own." "his satanic majesty need not concern himself with the affair at all, at all," retorted myra, regarding him coldly. "let me save him the trouble by assuring you that your eloquent and melodramatic protestations of love leave me cold, and your boast that no woman has ever been able to resist you inspired me only with contempt for your conceit. let me remind you again, also, that i am engaged to be married to mr. antony standish, and assure you i have not the slightest intention of transferring my affections from an english gentleman to a spaniard who evidently prides himself on being a sort of modern don juan." don carlos's face went white beneath the tan as he listened to the scathing words, and a gleam of anger flashed into his dark eyes. "you do me an injustice, and i think you are doing your own heart an injustice, myra," he said, in a curiously quiet voice, after a momentary pause. "if----" "i object to your calling me by my christian name," myra interposed abruptly, intent on snubbing him. "may i remind you we met for the first time yesterday. i can hardly imagine that in your own country you would dare to call a girl 'myra' a few hours after meeting her for the first time." "my dear miss rostrevor, i can lay my hand on my heart and assure you on my word of honour that never in spain have i ever called a girl 'myra,' either within a few hours or a few years of our first meeting," said don carlos, his eyes beginning to twinkle again. "that may be explained by the fact that i have never heard the name before. but i think it is a charming name, which somehow fits you. incidentally, señorita, may i venture to point out that you have been addressing me as 'don carlos,' instead of as 'señor de ruiz'? you have been calling me by my christian name." "that was only because i thought 'don' was a sort of spanish equivalent of 'sir' in english," myra responded, somewhat taken aback. "here i should address a knight or a baronet as 'sir charles' without the slightest idea of being familiar, but i should not expect him to respond by addressing me as 'myra.' do i make myself plain?" "dear lady, you could never make yourself plain, you who are so beautiful, but you are explicit," answered don carlos with a radiant smile that made him look quite boyish. "i stand rebuked, myra, but i am impenitent. surely one is not committing a crime by calling the girl one loves by her christian name? i would prefer to call you cara mia or querida, which are the spanish equivalents for my beloved and sweetheart, but, of course, as you seem to think i----" "señor de ruiz, i have had enough of this nonsense!" myra interrupted, impatiently. "your attempts at love-making are utterly distasteful, and if you imagine you are going to add me to your list of conquests you are a case for a mental specialist." "alas!" exclaimed don carlos, and again sighed heavily. "you seem to think i am a sort of mountebank who makes a hobby of paying court to women. you misjudge me, myra. true, i have made love to women before, true, many have fallen in love with me and thrown themselves at my head--as you say in english. true----" "you are boasting again," interposed myra once more. "i have no desire or inclination to listen to an account of your amorous conquests." "but you must listen, myra," said don carlos earnestly. "you misjudge me. true, there have been many women in my life, but not one who inspired love, not one to whom i offered my heart, not one whom i had any wish to marry. long ago it was foretold by a gipsy gifted with second sight that i should meet my fate in my thirty-fifth year in a foreign land, meet my ideal, the woman of my dreams. that prophecy has come true. the moment our eyes first met yesterday i knew you were the woman for whom i had been seeking and waiting. it is useless to fight against destiny, myra. i shall win you by hook or by crook, and make you all mine." "that sounds like a challenge, don carlos," retorted myra with forced lightness. "as you believe in gipsy forecasts, however, let me tell you that a gipsy woman 'read my hand' a few years ago, warned me to beware of a tall, dark man, and foretold that i should marry a tall, fair man. if she was right, you are obviously the tall, dark man of whom i am to beware, just as tony standish is the man i am destined to marry." "pouf! i pay no heed to the foolish prattle of so-called gipsy fortune-tellers," said don carlos, smiling again. "the seer who foretold that i should meet and win you was king of the spanish gypsies, and his every prophecy comes true." "well, to make his prophecy come true as far as you are concerned, don carlos, you will have to fall in love with someone other than me," responded myra. "hadn't you better have some tea, señor?" chapter iii to myra's relief, lady fermanagh returned just then, full of apologies for having been detained so long at the telephone. "i hope myra has been keeping you entertained, señor," she inquired, and don carlos nodded smilingly. "more than entertained, lady fermanagh," he answered. "miss rostrevor and i have been discussing predestination. i have been telling her it was foretold by the king of the gypsies that in this, my thirty-fifth year, i should meet my ideal, the woman predestined to be my wife. i have met her. the prophecy has come true." "i'm afraid it is another case of mistaken identity, aunt clarissa," interposed myra. "señor de ruiz has made the amazing and amusing suggestion that i am the woman! did you ever hear anything more absurd?" she thought to cover don carlos with confusion, but he did not turn a hair. "alas, lady fermanagh, your charming niece refuses to take me seriously!" he smilingly lamented. "it seems she was warned as a child to beware of a tall, dark, handsome man, and to put no faith in his honeyed words. i am desolated--but only temporarily!" "from what i can make of it, you appear to have been engaged in a 'leg-pulling' contest," commented lady fermanagh, darting a quick glance from one to the other, and deciding that myra was probably evolving some mischievous joke. "you don't mean to tell me seriously, don carlos, that you have any faith in the predictions of a gipsy?" "dear lady, since the king of the gypsies predicted i should get my heart's desire, surely it would be almost heresy to doubt?" don carlos replied, with a side-glance at myra. "in my own country i have the reputation always of gaining anything on which i set my heart, and here i intend to live up to my reputation. assuredly the gypsy king's prediction will come true, your ladyship." he took his leave a few minutes later, pleasing lady fermanagh greatly by bowing low over her hand and raising her fingers to his lips. "one of the most charming men i have met for years," the old lady remarked, when the door closed behind him. "he is a true spanish grandee, with all the grace of a born courtier. i think it was exceedingly rude of you, myra, to snatch your hand away as you did when don carlos was going to kiss your fingertips." "personally, aunt, i think he is the most arrogant, ill-mannered and insufferably conceited man i have ever met," myra responded warmly. "he openly boasts that no woman can resist him, prides himself on his conquests, and while you were out of the room he was making passionate love to me, and only made fun of my attempts to snub him. i hope you won't invite the horrible creature here again." lady fermanagh regarded her in amazement for a few moments, then dissolved into laughter. "oh, you modern girls!" she exclaimed. "you think you know such a lot and are so advanced, yet you are as easily scared or fooled as any country maiden in victorian times." "my dear aunt, don carlos de ruiz can neither scare nor fool me," protested myra; "but surely i have a right to object to his attempting to make love to me when he knows i am engaged to tony standish." "remember he is a spaniard, my dear," said her aunt, with a tolerant smile. "the greatest compliment a latin can pay a woman is to make love to her--and the majority make love merely by way of being complimentary. don carlos de ruiz probably makes love to every woman he meets, which very likely explains why he is so popular. why, my dear, he almost made love to me!" "but he didn't tell you he wanted to marry you, did he, aunt clarissa, swear he would win you by hook or by crook, and vow that old nick himself would not prevent him from making you his own?" inquired myra, beginning to smile again. lady fermanagh laughed heartily. "no, my dear, he certainly did not go as far as that," she answered. "you don't mean to tell me he actually said something to that effect to you?" "yes, both last night at the dance, and again a few minutes ago--and he said it as if he meant it. i have half a mind to ask tony to tell the arrogantly conceited spaniard not to pester me with his attentions again." "my dear child, don't make yourself ridiculous by doing anything so foolish. you need not take don carlos too seriously. he is very much a man of the world, probably something of a don juan, and likely makes love as a pastime. i met many of his type when your uncle was in the diplomatic service--wealthy bachelors who made love to almost every pretty woman they met, provided always, however, that the woman was married or engaged, and there was no danger of being caught in the matrimonial net. i should say, my dear, judging from my experience, that don carlos probably would only have paid you compliments instead of making love to you, if he had not known you were engaged." "that sort of philanderer deserves to be kicked or horsewhipped, aunt clarissa, for making a mockery of love." "oh, i don't know about that, my dear myra. after all, as i have told you, men of the latin races make love almost indiscriminately by way of paying a compliment, and pretty women in spain, italy, or france, would feel quite insulted if the men to whom they were introduced did not profess to be hopelessly in love with them. if you had lived abroad, myra, you would feel flattered rather than annoyed." "maybe--and maybe not," said myra, with a toss of her red-gold head. "if you are right, then don carlos is merely trying to amuse himself at my expense. i have no use for a professional philanderer who imagines that no woman can resist him. him and his king of the gypsies prophecy! pouf!" yet as she dressed for dinner a little later she found herself recalling the passionate words of don carlos, remembering the ardent light in his dark eyes, the vibrant note in his deep, musical voice, found herself wondering, wondering, and wishing with all her heart that tony standish was a little more like don carlos de ruiz. "i'm not scared of him, and i am certainly not going to lose my heart to him," myra whispered to her reflection in the mirror. "if aunt clarissa is right, he is only making love to me for his own amusement, and would sheer off if i took him seriously and expected him to marry me. a pretty fool i should look if i fell in love with him, broke off my engagement to tony, and then don carlos levanted! but i'm not going to fall in love with him.... he certainly is fascinating, and he would be a wonderful lover if he were in earnest, but he can't make a fool of myra rostrevor. i'll show the conceited creature that there is one girl at least who does not find him irresistible, and i'll give him the cold shoulder again at the first opportunity." yet again she had the opportunity sooner than she had expected. almost it seemed as if the fates were playing into the hands of don carlos. that very evening myra discovered, to her inward consternation, that don carlos de ruiz was the guest of honour at the dinner-dance to which she had been invited, and her hostess, finding they had met before, placed them together at the dinner table. "truly, the gods are good, fair lady!" exclaimed don carlos, his dark eyes sparkling. "i am the most fortunate of men to have so lovely and charming a partner. and i think i have reason to congratulate myself on contriving to surprise you twice within a few hours." "a very unpleasant surprise," commented myra coldly. "after what happened an hour or two ago, i should have begged to be excused from this party if i had known you would be present." "alas! señorita, it is sad to find you still rebelling against destiny," said don carlos. "yet i am flattered, for your desire to avoid me does but prove you are afraid of losing your heart to me, and you know that only by avoiding me can you delay the day of surrender." "sure, señor, if conceit were a disease you would have died of it long since," retorted myra, and turned to talk to the man on her other side. she ignored don carlos completely for some time, but she found herself listening to his deep, musical voice as he chatted to his hostess and modestly acknowledged compliments fired at him across the table by a polo enthusiast. when common politeness at last compelled her to turn to speak to him again, it was to find his eyes still twinkling mischievously. "a thousand thanks, señorita, for giving me the opportunity of admiring your beautiful back for so long," he said in a low voice. "it is flawless. your skin is smooth as polished marble, yet soft and sweet as the petals of a rose." "your compliments are becoming tedious, señor," myra remarked, assuming an air of boredom. "am i expected to endure this kind of talk all evening?" "all the days of your life, i hope, señorita," don carlos answered calmly. "in the intervals of making love to you, myra, i shall sing the praises of your beauty even after you are all mine." "don carlos, you are quite impossible!" exclaimed myra. "i warn you again i shall take precautions to avoid you in future if you persist in this folly." "that will necessitate your cancelling all your engagements, or nearly all of them, for the rest of the season," responded don carlos. "already i have contrived to obtain an invitation to practically every function at which you are likely to be present. your aunt was good enough to show me your engagement book this afternoon. dear lady, i assure you that you will find it difficult to avoid me." myra fancied he was boasting again, but he was stating facts, as she subsequently discovered. at practically every society function she attended during the next few weeks, save for a few private parties, don carlos de ruiz was a fellow guest, and invariably he contrived to talk to her and make love, even when tony standish was also present, and ignored the snubs and rebuffs she administered. "sure, and i'm beginning to feel something like the fox must feel when the hounds are in full cry after him," soliloquised myra, as she drove home one night after another vain attempt to rebuff don carlos. "no wonder he is able to boast of so many conquests if he has pursued every other woman who took his fancy as relentlessly as he is pursuing me! what can i do?" what made myra's position the more embarrassing was that de ruiz and standish had become very friendly, don carlos having exercised his personal magnetism to the utmost to win tony's regard. one hobby they actually had in common was collecting old jade, and on discovering this don carlos sent to spain for two of the choicest and rarest of his pieces--ancient chinese sword ornaments of jade set with gold. these he presented to tony, who was delighted, but protested that he could not accept so valuable a gift without making some return. "later, i promise you, my dear standish, i shall take one of your treasures," said don carlos in his charming way. "meanwhile accept these trifles as a token of my esteem. it is a joy to give to a fellow collector something which money cannot buy, and it will be a delight to take from you something you prize. by the way, let me remind you again of your promise to come to my place in spain this winter to see my collection. i shall be pleased and honoured to entertain you and any of your friends at el castillo de ruiz." "thanks. frightfully good of you, don carlos," said tony. "if i make my usual cruise in my yacht this year i shall certainly make a point of visiting you. i say, if you are not already booked, what about doing me the honour of being one of my guests at auchinleven in august for the shooting, and then being one of the yachting party later on if i arrange a cruise. i shall be charmed if you will." "my dear mr. standish, you are too good," exclaimed don carlos, with unaffected delight. "ten thousand thanks! nothing will give me greater pleasure. i gladly and gratefully accept your invitation, but you must promise to allow me to attempt to return your hospitality in spain. i cannot promise you much in the way of sport, except, perhaps, a little brigand shooting, but i can promise you some novel experiences." "thanks awfully," said tony. "i must tell myra, and show her your beautiful present." myra gazed at her fiancé in wide-eyed amazement and consternation when she heard the news. "tony standish, you must be blind and crazy!" she burst out tempestuously. "i won't come to auchinleven if don carlos is to be one of your house party. i won't! surely you must have seen for yourself that don carlos has been making love to me on every possible occasion for weeks? yes, right in front of your very nose, tony. he said he would see to it that we were fellow-guests for the shooting--and now you have invited him to auchinleven!" "i--er--i say, myra, this is news to me," exclaimed tony, flabbergasted. "you--er--you don't actually mean to say that don carlos has been making love to you in earnest? i can't imagine his doing such a thing. i mean to say he--er--he seems an awfully good sort, although he is a foreigner, and he and i have become quite pally. he seems quite a good sport, and he does not strike me as being the sort of chap who would poach on another fellow's preserves. really, myra, this is quite a shock!" "if you are referring to me as your 'preserves,' tony, don carlos has certainly been poaching--or trying to poach," said myra. "he persists in making love to me and refuses to be rebuffed, and he has repeatedly sworn that he will take me from you and make me his own at all costs." "the deuce he has!" ejaculated tony, surprised, indignant, and flustered. "i say, myra dear, i--er--i wish--er--i wish you'd told me this before--i mean before he and i became pally, i had no idea he was really making love to you. no idea, i assure you. if i'd known, i certainly wouldn't have invited him to auchinleven or accepted his presents. now i don't know what the deuce to do. i'm in a frightfully awkward position. frightfully awkward!" "frightfully awkward!" myra mimicked. "oh, tony, don't be such a duffer! unless you want to lose me, you've got to tell don carlos de ruiz--and tell him very, very plainly--that his attempts to make love to me and win me away from you have got to stop. you've got to warn him off." "why, of course i will, darling," said tony, in flustered haste. "confound the fellow! i should not have believed it of him. never heard of such outrageous conduct. i'll go and see him at once, myra, and warn him that if he dares to attempt to make love to you again i'll--er--i'll show him! yes, by jove!" he rushed off, full of righteous indignation but still feeling he was in a "frightfully awkward position," to interview don carlos, whom he found wearing a silken dressing gown and stretched out luxuriously among cushions on a settee in his suite at the ritz. "my dear standish, how good of you to return my call so soon!" cried don carlos, rising with a welcoming smile as tony was shown in. "i am truly delighted to see you. you know what a pleasure is an unexpected visit from a friend when one is feeling bored. sit down and make yourself comfortable, my dear standish, and let me mix you a drink." "er--no, thank you," said standish, disarmed to some extent at the outset, for he felt it would be boorish and "bad form" to have a row with a man who seemed to hold him in high regard. "no, i won't have a drink. as a matter of fact, don carlos, i have called to see you in connection with--er--with a delicate personal matter." "my dear mr. standish, i am flattered that you should make me your confidant, and i shall be only too pleased if i can assist you." "assist me! hang it all, sir, you--er--you don't seem to understand!" spluttered tony, taken aback again, but determined, nevertheless, to "have it out" with the spaniard. "i--er--i haven't called to take you into my confidence or anything of the sort. i have come to demand an explanation." "an explanation?" don carlos raised his black eyebrows in seeming bewilderment. "an explanation? concerning what, mr. standish?" "concerning your outrageous conduct, sir," blurted out tony, trying to look fierce, but succeeding only in looking hot and embarrassed. "concerning myra--miss rostrevor. she tells me you have persistently been attempting to make love to her ever since you first met her, and have even gone so far as to ask her to throw me over and elope with you! what the deuce do you mean by it, sir? miss rostrevor, as you are well aware, is engaged to be married to me. how dare you make love to my fiancée?" chapter iv don carlos's eyebrows rose still higher, his lips twitched, and tony standish got the impression that it was only with difficulty he was refraining from laughing outright. that angered him, and his ruddy face became still redder. "well, what have you to say for yourself?" he demanded, after a pause. "this is no laughing matter." "my dear mr. standish, what can i say for myself?" don carlos retorted, quietly and gravely. "your demand for an explanation places me in a most embarrassing position. how should one answer in the circumstances. if miss rostrevor has told you i have been making love to her, i cannot deny the accusation without casting doubt on the word of the most charming and beautiful girl in the world. yet if i admit that miss rostrevor is justified in her accusation, you may decide i have been acting dishonourably, and i shall lose your friendship. condenacion! was ever man placed in such an awkward position!" "look here, you will certainly make matters worse if you dare to insinuate that myra was not telling the truth," exclaimed standish hotly. "i quite appreciate that, my dear mr. standish, and i realise, also, that miss rostrevor would be justified in hating me if i dared to cast doubt on her assertions," said don carlos more gravely than ever, with a sigh and a shrug. "so i must, perforce, confess that i have been making persistent love to miss rostrevor ever since i first met her, and--well, i am quite prepared to take the consequences. how do you deal with such a situation in england? in my country we would fight a duel, and the lady would marry the survivor. should you think of fighting a duel, however, mr. standish, it is only fair to warn you that i am an expert swordsman and a dead shot. how shall we deal with the matter?" baffled, and at a loss to know how to deal with the situation, tony standish glowered at him, with the uncomfortable sensation that he was making a fool of himself, and that don carlos was inwardly laughing at him. "it isn't a matter to jest about," he said stiffly. "that sort of thing isn't done in england, and i must ask you to refrain from approaching miss rostrevor again." "i am desolated, señor!" exclaimed don carlos, with a despairing gesture. "i find it difficult to understand the english conventionalities in the matter of love-making. if you were spanish, my dear standish, you would not complain of my making love to your betrothed unless you were unsure of her and were afraid of my winning her away from you. if you regard me as a dangerous rival, and the adorable miss rostrevor takes me seriously, and you are afraid----" "that isn't the point, don carlos," hastily interposed tony, beginning to regret having made so much fuss. "i--er--i am willing to believe that you have not seriously been trying to steal myra's affections away from me, or that possibly myra may have taken you too seriously." "how can a mere man hope to read what is in the heart of a woman?" responded don carlos, helping himself to a cigarette. "our spanish girls, if they think an accepted lover is not sufficiently devoted and attentive, will complain that another man is making passionate love--thus arousing the lover's jealousy and re-firing him with ardour; and a married woman will invent a lover and complain of his attentions for the same reason, if her husband's love seems to be cooling." "i say, don carlos, are you suggesting that myra complained for that reason--because she thinks i'm not keen enough?" "my dear standish, i am not suggesting anything. i am merely trying to explain the psychology of the women of my own country as i understand it. yet i doubt if englishwomen differ very greatly, after all, from their latin sisters where affairs of the heart are concerned. won't you have a cigarette?" tony accepted a cigarette from the silver-and-cedar-wood box that was slid across the table to him, and he lit it with thoughtful deliberation. had myra complained about don carlos making love to her just to keep him "up to scratch," he was wondering, and found himself more puzzled than ever. he knew that lots of men had been, and probably still were, in love with myra, and that fact made him the more proud to be her accepted lover. he recalled myra's boast that there was no horse or man she could not master, and he found it a little difficult to believe she was really scared of don carlos. "in my country, mr. standish, a man betrothed to a girl as beautiful as miss rostrevor would feel almost insulted if his friends did not openly envy him and protest themselves hopelessly in love with the young lady he had won," resumed don carlos. "the lady herself would feel slighted if the friends of her betrothed did not continue to attempt to make love to her. to profess to be heartbroken because she belongs to another, and to make love to a betrothed girl or a married woman, is surely paying an indirect compliment to the accepted lover or husband, as well as a direct compliment to the lady." "humph! i hadn't thought of it that way," commented tony drily. "it would never have occurred to me for a moment that in making love to myra you were paying me any sort of compliment. here in england, don carlos, any man who persists in making love to an engaged girl or a married woman is asking for trouble. of course, i can appreciate the fact that most women would feel flattered by the thought that a man like you had fallen in love with them, even if you were only pretending out of a desire to be polite, but--er--well, obviously myra appears to be more annoyed than flattered. perhaps, as i said before, she has taken you too seriously." "or possibly not seriously enough," responded don carlos, his grave face crinkling into a smile. "i am hopelessly in love with her, my dear standish, and mean to make her fall in love with me. what are we going to do in the circumstances?" "really, i don't know, don carlos," answered standish, deciding that the other was jesting. "it's frightfully awkward. frightfully! er--you see, old chap, myra says she won't come to auchinleven for the shooting if you are going to be one of the party, and--er--well, as you can understand, that places me in a frightfully awkward position." "i fully realise that, mr. standish," said don carlos very gravely, after a long pause which increased tony's embarrassment. "i, also, am now placed in an awkward position. i have told many of my friends and acquaintances to-day that i have been invited to auchinleven for the shooting by my friend mr. antony standish, and now i shall have to explain to everyone that the invitation is cancelled because my friend fears i shall continue to make love to his fiancée, and miss rostrevor fears i may abduct her, persuade her to elope with me, or something of the sort. yes, decidedly a difficult situation!" "here, i say, don carlos, you'll make me and myra the laughing-stock of london if you tell people that!" tony protested, looking quite distressed. "myra will be furious with me and with you, and--er--i--i suppose you are thinking i am a mean sort of skunk. i'm frightfully sorry! i say, old chap, can't you suggest some way out of the difficulty?" "well, possibly if i were permitted to have a talk with miss rostrevor, and explain why i have been making love to her, she might understand matters better and raise no objection to my figuring as a guest at auchinleven," said don carlos, after another thoughtful pause. "jolly good idea!" tony exclaimed. "i'm quite sure if you explained matters tactfully to myra she would understand you have really only been trying to pay her compliments. myra's a good sort, and i feel sure she will accept your explanation." don carlos made no immediate response. he dropped his cigarette into an ash-tray, rose to his feet with a sigh, and strolled to the window of his sitting room to gaze out absently across the green park. "'there be three things which are too wonderful for me, yea, four which i know not: the way of an eagle in the air; the way of a serpent upon a rock; the way of a ship in the midst of the sea; and the way of a man with a maid,'" he said at length, as if to himself. "so it is written in the book of proverbs." "er--i say, old chap, i--i hope you are not going to take this too much to heart," remarked tony, again feeling puzzled and uncomfortable. "if only myra understands and appreciates what your love-making meant----" "i shall be happy--provided she responds in the way i desire," broke in don carlos, swinging round suddenly from the window, his face lighting up into a smile again. "of course, if miss rostrevor is afraid of me, or if you are afraid i shall take her from you and desire to cancel your invitation on that account, i----" "there isn't any question of that, don carlos," tony interrupted in turn. "at least, i--er--i don't think myra is afraid of you. i fancy she has merely misunderstood your intentions." "i should not have imagined that to be possible," said don carlos. "however, when i have discussed the situation with the charming lady, perhaps she will decide to allow me to be a guest at auchinleven. i warn you, my dear standish, that i shall not promise to refrain from making love to her, and will continue to try to win her heart. i think i can take the risk of your challenging me to mortal combat." he looked with a challenging smile at tony, who laughed, imagining that he was making a jest of the whole affair. "i hardly fancy it will be a case of 'pistols for two; coffee for one,'" tony said; "and i feel sure you will be able to make peace with myra. as a matter of fact, don carlos, i am beginning to wonder now if myra has been pulling my leg. she has played jokes on me more than once before and made me feel rather an ass." "perhaps on this occasion the charming lady is playing a joke on both of us," suggested don carlos lightly. "let us drink a toast to her together, although we are such deadly rivals." he slid the decanter across the table invitingly, and tony helped himself to a drink, still imagining that don carlos was jesting, and deciding that myra had again made him feel "rather an ass." "cheerio!" he drawled, raising his glass after don carlos had poured himself a drink. "all the best!" "the toast is miss myra rostrevor, the loveliest and most adorable girl in the world, and may her lover get his heart's desire," cried don carlos gaily, and drained his glass. "thanks awfully!" said tony. "it's frightfully good of you, my dear chap, not to take offence, and i feel sure you will be able to win myra over." "it is my most ardent desire to win myra over, my dear standish," said don carlos, as tony rose to go. "pray convey to her my most respectful salutations, and beg her to receive me this afternoon." it was with mingled amusement and exasperation that myra listened to tony's account of the interview. she could not help feeling that don carlos had turned the tables on tony, and now had it in his power to make her look ridiculous. "i think he is the most conceited and impudent man in the world," she commented. "and he's clever! if i refuse to go to auchinleven, he will tell the world it is because i am afraid of falling in love with him. if you withdraw your invitation to him, he will explain it is because you are afraid he might persuade me to elope with him. he will flatter himself we are both afraid of him, and the affair will become the joke of the season." "yes, i realise that, myra," drawled tony. "he's got that laugh on us, so to speak, and i think it would be best to save our faces by pretending the whole affair was a sort of practical joke on your part. i don't suppose he'll try to make love to you again, and even if he does you will know he is not in earnest." "tony, you duffer, let me assure you he is very much in earnest, and he means to take me from you," said myra. "and i warn you, my dear, that i should probably have fallen for him and jilted you if he wasn't so inordinately proud of himself and hadn't boasted that he would compel me to love him. as it is, i am not sure that i am not in love with him." "i say, myra, you're not pulling my leg again, are you?" asked tony, tugging at his little sandy moustache and looking worried. "i'm in a frightfully awkward position, as i said before. i like the chap immensely, and i think he's too much of a gentleman to poach--although, of course, foreigners have a different code of morals from us, and aren't to be trusted where women are concerned. i--er--i don't quite know what to do, but, of course, i'll do anything rather than risk losing you." there flashed into his mind as he spoke don carlos's remark concerning women complaining of another man's attentions in order to bring a husband or a lover "up to scratch," and he had what he would have described as a "brain wave." "i say, i've got a bright idea, darling," he continued, before myra could speak. "let's solve the difficulty by getting married at once. i'll get a special licence, and we'll set a new fashion by entertaining a house party in the highlands during our honeymoon. even the boldest man would surely hesitate to make love to another man's wife during her honeymoon. what do you say?" myra pursed her red lips and wrinkled her brows in thought, and tony took her indecision to be a good sign. "say 'yes,' darling," he urged. "you know i'm most tremendously in love with you and frightfully keen, and you will have no further reason to feel afraid of don carlos when you are my wife." "i'm not afraid of don carlos," snapped myra. "oh, tony, don't be so dense and exasperating! almost i wish now i had never told you about the tiresome and conceited creature's love-making... besides," she added, inconsequentially, "i don't want to get married yet, and if i did marry you before we go to scotland don carlos would pride himself it was to protect myself from him, and it would be worse and more dangerous if he made love to me as a married woman. oh, tony, my dear, i'm getting mixed, but maybe you understand what i mean. i'm not afraid of don carlos, but i don't want to give him any chance of going about boasting that i am in love with him." "i don't think he would do that, myra," said tony. "he seems an awfully decent sort of chap. if you'd heard his explanation, you would understand that he was really only paying us both a compliment by pretending to make love to you. i do hope you'll see him, my dear, and let him explain and apologise. i don't understand why you're so cross with me, darling." he looked so absurdly pathetic that myra's irritation gave way to amusement, and her lovely face dimpled into smiles. "i'm not really cross with you, tony, my dear, although i do think you have made rather a mess of things," she exclaimed, and gave tony an affectionate pat on both cheeks. "it will be interesting and amusing to listen to don carlos's explanations and apologies--if any... oh, yes, tony, i'll see him, and i think i shall manage to take some of the conceit out of him." as it happened, lady fermanagh had an engagement that afternoon, and myra was alone when don carlos de ruiz was announced. myra had been doing some hard thinking, and she was feeling sure of herself as she rose to greet her visitor, who bowed low before smiling into her eyes. "i have called to offer my congratulations, dear lady," he said, in his deep, caressing voice. "congratulations? on what, pray?" inquired myra very coldly. "i understood from mr. standish that you were calling to offer apologies for having annoyed me." "i have come to proffer both apologies and congratulations," said don carlos slowly, twin imps of mischief dancing in his laughing eyes. "i have come to tender my most humble apologies for having so far, apparently, failed to melt your icy heart and fire it with the love that burns within me; to congratulate you on being the first woman who has ever taken exception to my making love to her. and to congratulate you, also, on being such an excellent actress." "actress? what do you mean?" "your pretence of annoyance, dear lady, is such a fine piece of acting that almost i am persuaded you are not in love with me and have steeled your heart against me." "please go on being persuaded." myra's tone was intended to be sardonic. "so far it seems to me you have called to pay yourself compliments instead of to offer apologies. apparently you explained to mr. standish that your love-making was intended as a compliment. let me tell you, don carlos, if that is so i want no more of your compliments." "if i believed that, sweet lady, life would lose its savour and become but a bleak existence," responded don carlos. "i prefer to believe that you love, yet refrain, and that your complaint to your fiancé is an indication that your resistance is weakening, that you fear unless you are able to avoid me you will inevitably surrender to the call of love." "your overweening conceit would be laughable if it were not so irritating," myra retorted curtly. "i want to tell you bluntly that unless you give me your word of honour not to attempt to make love to me i shall refuse to go to auchinleven if you are to be one of the party, and that will leave mr. standish no alternative but to cancel his invite to you--and explain to his friends that his reason is my objection to you." the smile died out of don carlos's eyes, and he regarded myra gravely and silently for a few moments. "i promise you i shall not make love to you while we are in scotland," he said at last. "it will be desperately hard to resist the temptation, but i promise to refrain. and i never go back on a promise." "good! in that case we can let bygones be bygones and be friends," exclaimed myra, and impulsively held out her hand. don carlos raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them, and the boyish smile came back to his face. "let me warn you, however, my dear myra, that although i speak no word of love, my heart and my eyes will be making love to you all the time, and every fibre of my being will be loving you and longing for you," he said. "i shall be planning new ways of overcoming your resistance and inducing you to confess that you love me. always my heart will be calling and calling to you." "as long as you do not badger me with your attentions, as you have been doing, it will not concern me what is happening to your heart," remarked myra, forcing a laugh. "you can even pretend to be heartbroken, if you think the role will suit you." "no, the role of broken-hearted, rejected suitor would not please me," laughed don carlos. "i shall be the strong, silent man, biding his time, confident of eventually gaining his heart's desire. meanwhile i am congratulating myself on having made it possible to fulfil my boast that i should be your fellow-guest in scotland for the shooting." "you have my leave to congratulate yourself as much as you like, don carlos, and to hand yourself as many bouquets as you like," said myra smilingly, "but i shall hold you to your promise not to attempt to make love to me." "i promise you, myra, i shall be as silent as a trappist monk, so far as talking love to you is concerned," don carlos assured her. "my promise, however, only holds good for the duration of our stay in the highlands. after that----" "tony and i are going to be married in the spring," interrupted myra. "i think not," said don carlos with great earnestness. "you will be mine, dear heart, before the spring flowers have finished blooming." "oh, please don't start being absurd again, just after promising to be sensible!" protested myra. "you will be mine, dear heart, before the spring flowers have finished blooming," repeated don carlos. "sweet lady, you may take that as another promise made in all seriousness. i love you, and i have sworn----" "let's change the subject, don carlos," interrupted myra again. "oblige me by making your promise not to make love to me date from this minute." "as you will, beloved," said don carlos, with an exaggerated sigh; and myra could not decide whether or not he was laughing. chapter v his demeanour as her fellow guest at tony standish's shooting lodge at auchinleven, where he arrived about the middle of august, piqued and perplexed myra. not only did don carlos keep his promise to refrain from making love to her, but he seemed to avoid her as much as possible, and was only formally polite when they happened to be thrown together. yet he made love to practically all the other ladies of the party, and obviously set the hearts of several of the younger ones fluttering. myra tried to persuade herself she was thankful to be relieved of his ardent attentions, but at heart she was annoyed to find herself ignored. "i suppose he is proving that he was only amusing himself and that his fervent love-making was mere pretence," reflected myra. "he is making my complaint about him seem absurd. bother the man! i have half a mind to try to make him fall in love with me in earnest, and then take the conceit out of him by telling him i have only been amusing myself at his expense." what added to her inward vexation was the fact that don carlos appeared to have won the good opinion of all the other men of the party, and had completely ingratiated himself with tony standish, who constantly talked about him with enthusiasm and spent much time in his company. "have you offended don carlos in some way, myra?" lady fermanagh inquired one night. "i notice he seems to avoid you as much as possible, and yet he and tony have become great friends." "i think don carlos is the most exasperating man in the world, aunt, and it is most annoying that tony should make such a fuss of him after what happened," responded myra, half-petulantly. "it would serve tony right if i threw him over. it is exasperating that he is so sure of me that he isn't a bit jealous of don carlos, and probably thinks i made a fuss about nothing. why didn't he half-kill the conceited spaniard for daring to make love to me? i should have loved him if he had done that--yes, even if he got the worst of it, i should have loved him for trying to give don carlos a hiding." "don't be absurd, my dear myra!" protested lady fermanagh, laughingly. "i told you that the love-making of men like don carlos should not be taken seriously, and it was foolish of you to take offence." "and now, i suppose, he is laughing up his sleeve at me for having taken him seriously, and thinks he is punishing me by ignoring me for being such a little prude!" said myra. "perhaps i did make rather a fool of myself, but i intend to get even with him. yes, i'll get even with the conceited creature! do you know what i have decided to do, aunt? i am going to make love to don carlos and make him fall in love with me in earnest, just to have the satisfaction of turning him down afterwards and making him feel, and look, a fool." "for goodness sake don't try to do anything of the sort, myra," counselled lady fermanagh. "don carlos is very much a man of the world, and you would be playing with fire. i should judge that he knows women better than most men. and in any case, my dear, it isn't safe to trifle with a spaniard." "and it isn't safe to trifle with a rostrevor don carlos de ruiz will find to his cost," retorted myra, with a sudden laugh. "my mind is made up, and i shall start on my conquest to-night." she took special pains over her toilette that evening, and her maid found her unusually exacting. she chose a very decollété evening frock of jade green shot with blue that matched the blue of her eyes but contrasted beautifully with her red-gold hair, and with it she wore a necklace of emeralds and turquoises. "by jove! myra, dear, you are looking lovelier than ever to-night!" exclaimed tony standish, admiringly and adoringly, when she went down into the great hall of auchinleven lodge before dinner. "you look simply wonderful, darling. wonderful!" "thank you for these few kind words, good sir," myra answered smilingly, in bantering tones, and dropped a mock curtsey. "i hope don carlos will be equally complimentary. you see, tony, i am afraid he is rather vexed with me for complaining to you about him and snubbing him, so i have decided to let him fall in love with me again and make you furiously jealous." "righto!" laughed tony. "but don't overdo it, old thing, or i may do a bit of the othello business, don't you know. i believe i could be as fiercely passionate as any spaniard if i tried." "why not try?" responded myra lightly. "incidentally, i fancy othello was a moor, and not a spaniard." "well, the moors had something to do with spain, so it amounts to the same thing. talking of spain, myra, reminds me that don carlos has consented to be one of my yachting party for our mediterranean trip in the winter, and has invited all of us to spend a week or so with him at his place, el castillo de ruiz, somewhere in the sierra morena." "really! that will give me plenty of time to complete my conquest," commented myra, her blue eyes sparkling mischievously. "i suppose it isn't good form to make a fool of one's host, but don carlos will deserve anything he may get." "i say, darling, i hope you're not in earnest," tony remarked. "you seem to be in a dangerous mood to-night, and you look adorably lovely--yes, simply scrumptious! you would fascinate any man, my dear, and i am sure even don carlos will be clay in your hands. don't be too hard on him, myra. he's an awfully good chap, and i feel sure he didn't mean any harm." "to-night, my dear tony, i am a 'vamp,'" laughed myra. "just look at aunt clarissa over there flirting with don carlos, who is probably telling her she is the most accomplished and beautiful woman in the world. watch me go and cut her out!" conscious that she was looking her best (a feeling that gives any woman a sense of power), myra strolled across the hall to where don carlos was chatting to lady fermanagh. "forgive me if i am interrupting," she said sweetly, smiling into the dark eyes of the spaniard. "i want to tell you i am so glad to hear from tony that you are coming with us on the yachting cruise this winter, and i want to thank you for your invitation to el castillo de ruiz. i was so afraid you had not forgiven me for being so rude to you, and dreaded lest you had decided to have nothing further to do with such an ungracious person as myra rostrevor." "sweet lady, i should dismiss such a thought as treason, not to say blasphemy," don carlos responded gallantly. "even when you are ungracious, if ever, you are always the most adorable and beautiful woman in the world." myra trilled out a laugh, her blue eyes still smiling at him. "thank you, señor, for these few kind words," she said. "i expect you have been saying something of the same sort to my aunt?" "yes, myra, don carlos has been telling me that mine is the type of beauty he has always most admired, and that i seem to have discovered not only the secret of perpetual youth, but the art of growing old gracefully," lady fermanagh told her smilingly. "i begin to suspect him of being irish instead of spanish--for how can one grow old with perpetual youth, i ask you? still, i confess i like his blarney, and i think it a pity that most englishmen seem to have lost the knack of paying a compliment, and saying flattering things as if they meant them." "dear lady, you do both me and yourself an injustice," exclaimed don carlos, his tone very grave but his dark eyes dancing. "the greatest of courtiers, even if he had kissed your famous blarney stone, would surely be at a loss for words which would even do justice to your charm, let alone flattering you." lady fermanagh wagged a finger at him. "my spanish is getting rusty, señor," she said, "but i think i remember one of the proverbs of your country: '_haceos miel y comeras han moscas_', which means, 'make yourself honey and the flies will eat you.' am i right?" "always you are right, dear lady," responded don carlos smilingly; "but you leave me undetermined as to whether i am your fly or your honey. incidentally, we have another proverb, '_en casa del moro no hables algaravia._' can your ladyship translate that?" "yes, señor," lady fermanagh answered, after a moment of thought. "it means, '_do not speak arabic in the house of a moor_,' but i don't know what the application is where we are concerned, unless you are suggesting i have misinterpreted your perfect english, or else you are subtly criticising my imperfect spanish. you are too deep for me, don carlos, and i will leave myra to try and fathom you. beware of him, myra!" she added smilingly, as she moved away. "i assure you i am absolutely sincere when i tell you, sweet lady, that i am more than charmed to know that you are coming to spain as my guest, and i promise you i shall do everything that lies in my power to make your visit interesting," said don carlos to myra. "but let me warn you that if el diablo cojuelo learns that the most beautiful, adorable, and wholly desirable girl in the world is going to visit el castillo de ruiz, he will assuredly make an attempt to kidnap you." "is the most beautiful, adorable, and wholly desirable girl in the world going to be one of the party?" inquired myra, assuming an innocent expression. "how interesting and exciting! who is she? a film star?" "she is _you_, señorita," don carlos responded, "and let me remind you that el diablo cojuelo almost makes a hobby of kidnapping beautiful women. so you will be in danger all the time you are in spain." "i refuse to be dismayed--and i don't believe a word of it!" responded myra, with a silvery laugh. "i don't believe you keep a pet brigand and outlaw on your estate, but even if you do, the prospect of being kidnapped does not dismay me. the risk, if any, will add a spice of adventure to the visit. but i can't believe you would let any brigand steal me from your castle, don carlos, although you have threatened to steal me yourself. would you?" "i promise you that el diablo cojuelo shall not steal you away from me even if he captures you, señorita," don carlos replied. "i am glad you are undismayed, and again i assure you i am honoured and flattered that you have accepted my invitation to----" "i regarded it more as a challenge than an invitation," interposed myra. "really! then i am more than honoured by your acceptance of the challenge," resumed don carlos, his face crinkling into a smile. "i wonder why you are condescending to be so gracious to me to-night, myra. do i understand i am forgiven?" "perhaps i have really nothing to forgive, carlos, and it was folly on my part to take offence," myra answered, with an alluring glance. "incidentally, it is nice of you to keep your promise not to make love to me, but--but----" she broke off as if at a loss. for once in a way myra rostrevor was deliberately playing the part of coquette, and she saw don carlos's eyes flame suddenly with ardour and expectation. "you mean that you no longer hold me to my promise, myra?" he asked, scarcely above a whisper. "no, i--i don't mean that, carlos," murmured myra, with eyes downcast; "but--but you have only been coldly polite to me ever since you arrived here, yet i have seen you making love to other girls. if you are in love with me, and were not merely pretending----" "i was not pretending, myra," interrupted don carlos. "i love you with every fibre of my being. it was only pretence where the other women are--and were--concerned. i confess i tried to make you feel jealous, and i trust i succeeded?" "i am not going to tell you," said myra, raising her eyelids to flash another alluring and provocative glance at him. "unless there is love, there can hardly be jealousy. if i were desperately in love with a man who did not care for me, or pretended he did not, i should not have the heart to try to make any other man fall in love with me. how can you expect me to believe you are really in love with me, carlos, when i see you constantly making love to other women?" "darling, give me but a chance to prove my love," don carlos breathed; then quick-wittedly began to talk about salmon fishing as two or three other guests approached. myra did not give him another opportunity to talk to her alone during the rest of the evening, but she contrived to tantalise and puzzle him further, nevertheless. she pleaded tiredness when he asked her to dance after dinner, but danced with other men, and she was unusually affectionate in her manner towards tony when she thought don carlos was watching her, which was often. "i say, myra, darlinest, you're looking lovelier and more adorable than ever, and i feel bewitched and enraptured," tony whispered to her as she took his arm and gave it an affectionate little squeeze after a dance. "i am trying to make up for being horrid about don carlos, tony dear," explained myra. "now i have come to my senses, i am going to let the delightful man make love to me as much as he likes, and play him at his own game... let's sit the next dance out in the conservatory, tony." she had seen don carlos wander into the conservatory, and the imp of mischief that possessed her was prompting her to find new ways of teasing and testing him. the conservatory was in semi-darkness, but as myra entered with tony she located don carlos, for he happened to strike a match at that moment to light a cigarette, before seating himself in a dark corner. "let's find a dark corner, tony," said myra, and guided her fiancé close to where don carlos was sitting--close enough to be sure that the spaniard would be able to overhear anything she said. "the man who loves me doesn't seem to realise that i want to be kissed," she resumed. "you may kiss me, tony." "darling!" exclaimed the delighted tony, taking her in his arms and kissing her. "i have been longing to kiss you all evening, sweetheart, but thought you might object even if i got a chance." "you silly men don't seem to understand that a girl isn't necessarily in earnest if she says she doesn't want to be kissed, or pretends she doesn't want to be made love to," responded myra, with a little gurgling laugh. "kiss me again, tony, but this time kiss me in the way i should love to be kissed by the man who loves me, and not just like a cold-blooded englishman." tony kissed her again, straining her closer, but myra broke from him as if in sudden alarm. "there's someone in the corner, tony," she whispered. "i saw the glow of a cigarette-end. let's slip out quickly. i hope they didn't see us or hear us, and that they won't rag us later on." little guessing that myra had intended part of what she said should be overheard, tony, a little bewildered, allowed himself to be rushed out of the conservatory, protesting in an undertone that it didn't matter about being heard or seen, as they were engaged. for the rest of the evening myra continued to avoid don carlos as much as possible, but she smiled at him in tantalisingly alluring fashion every time their eyes met, wondering as she did so what was in his mind and what effect her coquetry had had upon him. and she went to bed feeling that she had, at least, done something towards justifying her boast that she would make don carlos fall in love with her in earnest. at dead of night she woke suddenly, with the feeling strong upon her that someone, or something, had touched her, but when she sat up in bed and switched on the lights she could see nothing to give her any cause for alarm. deciding she must have been dreaming, myra was about to switch off the lights and compose herself to sleep again, when her eyes fell on a folded sheet of notepaper on her pillow. with a sudden intake of breath, she picked up the note, unfolded it, and read: "_the man who loves you will kiss you in the way you would love to be kissed as soon as he is relieved of his promise. relieve him of his promise, and leave the door of your bedroom unlocked again to-morrow night._" myra read the note again and again, her mind in something of a tumult, her heart throbbing fast. she knew it must have been written by don carlos, and she was dismayed by the thought that he had been in her room. "there seems to be no limit to the man's daring and impudence," she reflected, and was annoyed to find that she was blushing. "what cheek to suggest that i should relieve him of his promise not to make love to me--and leave my bedroom door unlocked! what infernal, stupendous, insulting cheek! ... yet i suppose he accepted what i said to tony as an invitation and a challenge--as i intended. heavens! if anyone should have seen him leaving my room at this time of the morning, i shouldn't have a rag of reputation left. i should be hopelessly compromised, and it wouldn't be much use producing this letter in the hope of clearing myself. still, i don't suppose anyone else was prowling about at this time of the night or morning... i wonder if he touched me or kissed me? i wonder if he is really in love with me? i wonder..." myra did quite a lot of wondering before she eventually drifted into slumber again, and when she was reawakened by her maid bringing her morning tea, it was to find that she had been sleeping with don carlos's note clasped against her breast. "i suppose the wisest and safest course will be to make no reference whatever to the letter, and to pretend i don't know what he is talking about if don carlos has the cheek to refer to it," myra soliloquised, as she dressed. "after all, i deliberately provoked him, and i should have been disappointed if he had taken no notice. i shall keep the letter and challenge him about it later. meanwhile i shall hold him to his promise not to make love to me, yet do my utmost to make him break his word. i wonder what will happen if i do make him fall in love with me in earnest. life is becoming quite an adventure!" so she made no reference to the letter when by chance she found herself alone with don carlos for a time during the course of the afternoon, but continued to exert herself to be "nice" to him. and when myra rostrevor set herself out to fascinate, she was an exceedingly alluring and seductive creature. her sweetness, graciousness, and the inviting and enticing glances of her blue eyes obviously had a strong effect on don carlos, and fired his ardour. "myra, why are you torturing and tantalising me in this fashion?" he burst out suddenly. "confess that you love me, darling, and release me from my promise not to make love to you." "why, you dear, conceited man, don't you understand it is only because you pledged your word not to make love to me that i am being nice to you?" myra replied, with her bewitching smile. "if you break your promise, i shall immediately freeze up again and keep you at a distance." "you are cruel, señorita," commented don carlos, with a shrug and a sigh. "you are the most tantalising, puzzling and exasperating girl i have ever met, as well as the loveliest and the most adorable." "really!" laughed myra. "i wonder you consort with such an annoying person!" "consort? consort? i like that word, myra," he responded. "i intend to be your consort for the rest of my life, and you shall be my queen and the empress of my heart." "what a horrible threat!" exclaimed myra. "and i am afraid, incidentally, it is camouflaged love-making. you must keep to the spirit as well as the letter of your promise, don carlos, if you wish to continue on our present footing." "i am but human, sweet lady, and you are torturing me," said don carlos. "i am like unto a man dying of thirst, and you hold a cup of water to my lips, only to snatch it away when i try to drink. but i promise you i shall yet drink my fill from your fountain of love." "another dreadful threat--and aren't your metaphors getting mixed again?" "myra, darling, i love-- "remember your promise!" interrupted myra. "if, as you say, i torture you so horribly, perhaps you would prefer me to avoid you?" "no, no, a thousand times, no!" don carlos cried. "i was desolated when you refused to dance with me last night, and you put me to the torture later in the conservatory. i wanted to murder the other man, the one in particular on whom you bestowed your favours." "dear me! what a bloodthirsty creature! incidentally, are you not still attempting to make love indirectly? i suppose making love has become a sort of second nature, and you do not know you are breaking your promise?" "i stand rebuked, sweet lady, and crave your pardon," said don carlos. "never yet have i consciously broken a promise. and let me remind you that i have made you several promises." "several?" repeated myra, raising her eyebrows inquiringly. "yes, you may remember that the first time we danced together i promised to awaken your heart and fire it with the passion which now consumes me," replied don carlos quietly. "i have promised several times since to make you my own, to make you surrender to the call of love and confess yourself conquered." "those, i presume, were promises made to yourself," myra retorted lightly. "we all promise ourselves things, and hope for things, we know at heart we shall never get." "i have told you it was prophesied that i should get my heart's desire, and also that i have won the reputation of getting anything on which i set my heart." "as far as i am concerned, you have won the reputation of being the most conceited and audacious man in europe," commented myra, turning away from him with a careless laugh. chapter vi it was tony standish who found himself practically ignored by myra after dinner that evening, and almost for the first time he began to feel jealous, really jealous, of don carlos de ruiz. myra danced three times with the spaniard, and "sat out" two more with him in the conservatory, flagrantly flirting with him, exercising all her powers of attraction and fascination, continually tempting don carlos to break his promise. his dark eyes told her that she had fired his heart and set his pulses throbbing with desire, but no word of love crossed his lips. when they were dancing together, however, more than once he crushed her close to his breast, but myra did not rebuke him, and several times she squeezed his hand and deliberately brushed his cheek with her hair during a tango. "i rather fancy i am going to justify my boast and take my revenge, and don carlos de ruiz will learn to his cost that it isn't safe to trifle with myra rostrevor," she reflected. "i suppose i am taking an unfair advantage, but it serves don carlos right." she was careful to lock and bolt her bedroom door that night before retiring, and she left a light burning and sat up in bed waiting and watching expectantly. two o'clock chimed, and myra was beginning to nod drowsily, when a faint sound brought her to sudden wakefulness and alertness. someone was trying the door of her bedroom! she saw the door-handle turn, and she held her breath and listened intently... the handle turned again ... turned back to its original position.... and that was all. listening with thudding heart, myra could hear no sound from the other side of her locked and bolted door, and the handle did not move again. slipping out of bed after a few minutes, she stole noiselessly across the room and, dropping on one knee, put her ear to the keyhole and listened, but heard no sound save the throbbing of her own heart. she could not have explained what she expected, hoped, or dreaded to hear as she crouched there, straining her ears, but it was characteristic of her that suddenly she laughed aloud. "so he was conceited enough to think that i would leave my bedroom door unlocked!" she whispered, as she went back to bed and switched off the light. "what sort of girl does he take me for? i don't know whether to feel insulted or amused... but i'm glad i didn't forget to lock and bolt the door. i wonder..." myra snuggled her head down in her pillow, but scarcely had she closed her eyes when there was a crash against her bedroom door, a shout, and then a shot, and the sound of more shouting. she sprang up convulsively, her hands pressed to her breast, screamed involuntarily, then, recovering herself, switched on the lights, sprung out of bed, unbolted and unlocked the door, and flung it open--to find don carlos de ruiz, clad in pyjamas and dressing gown, engaged in a desperate struggle with a burly, fully-dressed stranger on the floor of the corridor outside her room. in one swift glance myra saw that the stranger had a pistol clutched in his right hand, but that don carlos had a grip on the man's right wrist and was desperately struggling to prevent his antagonist from using the weapon against him. she screamed again, and even as she did so don carlos, by some dexterous twist, got the armed man's elbow across his knee, there was a howl of pain, and the pistol dropped from the fellow's hand. quick as lightning don carlos released his grip, made a dive for the pistol and got it, then leapt to his feet. "now lie where you are, you swine, or i'll kill you," he snarled breathlessly. "blast you! you've broken my arm," the man on the floor snarled back at him, writhing in agony. "blast you! don't shoot. i surrender... oh, gawd! my arm! i wish i'd killed you, damn you!" while this was happening, doors had been flung open, lights had been switched on, and scared women and startled men had appeared in the corridors from their bedrooms, excitedly demanding to know the cause of the uproar. tony, in a suit of purple pyjamas, and with his sandy hair on end, was almost the first on the scene. "what's up? what's happened? who's this fellow?" he asked breathlessly. "a burglar? have you shot him, carlos?" "no, i think i have merely dislocated his elbow," don carlos answered, without taking his eye off the brawny burglar, who was now sitting up nursing his damaged elbow and muttering curses through his clenched teeth. "he tried to shoot me when i surprised him as he was trying to force the door of miss rostrevor's room. you'd better 'phone for the police and have the house searched in case he has accomplices." "you can save yourself the trouble," growled the burglar. "i'm on my own. when you 'phone for the police, ask 'em to fetch a doctor with 'em. you've broken my ruddy arm, damn you!" "considering that you did your best to murder me, you dog, you can think yourself lucky that i did not kill you as soon as i got possession of your pistol," retorted don carlos, who had recovered his breath. there was little sleep for anyone at auchinleven that night. the local police inspector and a constable arrived after a long interval and took the burglar away, after making a search of the house, assisted by the servants, without finding any accomplices of the man in custody. next morning, of course, don carlos was the hero of the hour, and everyone was lavishing compliments and congratulations on him for having tackled an armed burglar single-handed and getting the better of the desperado. "i thought i heard someone prowling about in the corridor and got up to investigate," don carlos explained. "the fellow seemed to be trying to force the door of miss rostrevor's room, and when i challenged him he whipped out a pistol and fired at me. fortunately for me, he missed, and before he could fire again i grappled with him, managed to get a grip on his arm, and dislocated his elbow by a trick taught me years ago by an old wrestler." "i wonder why he was trying to force my door, which was locked and bolted, instead of discovering if some of the other doors had been left unlocked," said myra. "oddly enough, i fancied i heard someone trying my door some time before i heard the shot. and i still think there was more than one burglar concerned," she added, with a direct and challenging glance at don carlos. "the police inspector tells me the man asserts he had no accomplices or confederates," said don carlos, his face expressionless. "it is strange, nevertheless, that he should have attempted to force his way into your room in preference to any other." "very strange!" agreed myra. "and how fortunate for me that i should have happened to take the precaution of locking and bolting my door. oddly enough, i had a sort of presentiment that if i did not bolt my door something dreadfully unpleasant might happen. normally, you see, i don't bolt the door or lock it. it i do, it means that i have to get up when my maid brings my morning tea. but the night before last i seemed to have a warning, so last night i took precautions against any unwanted visitor. i shall always lock and bolt my door in future." "isn't there an old saying that love laughs at locksmiths?" inquired don carlos, his expression still sphinx-like, but his eyes twinkling. "you looked delicious in your nightie and boudoir cap, myra." "i shall remember to put on my dressing gown next time i am expecting burglars," responded myra, flushing slightly. "thank you for saving me, gallant sir." she was wondering whether it was don carlos or the burglar who had tried her door, and she could hazard a guess as to why carlos had happened to be in the corridor at two o'clock in the morning. "i am thinking of becoming a burglar myself, dear lady, but please do not wear your dressing gown on that account," laughed don carlos. "i am wondering what might have happened if i had left my door unlocked," said myra, assuming a thoughtful expression, but avoiding don carlos's eyes. "i feel half-inclined to leave it unlocked and unbolted to-night and risk the consequences." again, however, she was careful to bolt and lock her bedroom door when she retired that night, but again she sat up in bed, as on the previous night, waiting and watching. and again, in the early hours of the morning, she saw the door handle turn, and she trilled out a laugh, hoping that the would-be "burglar" would hear it. she continued to exercise her impish arts of tantalisation and her wiles of fascination on don carlos during the remainder of her stay at auchinleven. sometimes she would seem, metaphorically, to throw herself at his head and appear to be eager to surrender herself, at other times she would completely ignore him, and make open love to tony in his presence. as time went on she realised that she was driving the don almost to distraction, and she gloried in her powers. "i feel certain that i have made him fall in love with me in earnest," myra reflected triumphantly. "he boasted that no woman could resist him. women have been his playthings, and he must have fooled many. now he is being fooled himself. i think he is desperately in love with me now." she was right in her surmise. don carlos's love for her had become a burning, consuming passion. it needed the exercise of all his will power to keep it under control, and continually he had to curb his ardent passion and remind himself of his promise not to make love. but he was biding his time and had made a vow that he would make myra pay in full for her coquetry. the house party broke up at length and the guests dispersed, myra and her aunt returning to london for the "little season" and to equip themselves for the winter cruise in tony's yacht, which was being refitted at southampton. don carlos had begged to be allowed to call, and both lady fermanagh and myra had said graciously that they would be delighted to see him at any time. "my thanks to you for having succeeded in keeping your promise," said myra, as they parted. "accept my congratulations." "one reaches heaven by way of purgatory," responded don carlos cryptically. "i am looking forward eagerly to our next meeting, when i shall be free to express myself." expectant, and a trifle apprehensive, myra awaited events. nothing happened. a week elapsed without her seeing, or hearing from, don carlos, and when she made inquiries about him she learned from tony that he had returned to spain. "said he had some business matters to attend to, and wanted to arrange for our entertainment at his place out there," explained tony. "he promised to be back in time to join the yacht at southampton." myra was piqued. it hurt her pride to think she had not made a conquest after all, and had merely been flattering herself in imagining she had made don carlos fall in love with her. "what a fool i feel!" soliloquised myra. "i was confident he was in desperate earnest and was crazy about me, and i have been wondering how to resist and repel him. he shows how little he cares by going off to spain without even calling to say good-bye, and with never a farewell note. oh, what an exasperating creature!" another ten days passed uneventfully, and myra found herself oddly discontented with life and things in general. it was a dismal november afternoon, she had no engagements, and was feeling utterly bored as she took tea alone in the drawing room of her aunt's house in mayfair, when, to her astonishment, don carlos de ruiz was announced. her heart gave a convulsive leap at the mere mention of his name, and it was throbbing faster than its wont as she rose to greet him, although she assumed an attitude of cool indifference. "sure, and it's seriously annoyed with you, i am, don carlos, and you needn't expect me to say i'm glad to see you," she said in her musical irish voice as she gave him her hand. "how very rude of you to disappear without even a word of farewell. rude, did i say? perhaps crude would be a better word. how rude and crude to dash back to spain to attend to some matter of business when you had been trying to pretend to be hopelessly in love." "not 'hopelessly,' myra," don carlos responded quietly, raising her fingers to his lips. "never have i been 'hopelessly' in love, for always i have been sure at heart that i should win.... so you have missed me, darling, and now your heart is throbbing because i have come back to you? i am glad. i went away without a word in the hope that by so doing i should punish you for your cruelty in tempting and tantalising me as you did at auchinleven." "tempting and tantalising you!" exclaimed myra, and trilled out a laugh. "and you think, you conceited man, that you were punishing me by going to spain for a fortnight or so without even having the politeness to say au revoir! how very amusing! and how very crude and rude! didn't you understand i was paying you back in your own coin at auchinleven by pretending to be in love? so you went away with the idea of punishing me!" "i found it necessary to return to my home in order to take precautionary measures against the bandit, el diablo cojuelo, who is evidently planning fresh mischief," don carlos explained. "now i have come back to you to redeem my promise." "your promise?" queried myra, forcing herself to meet his ardent glance. "i don't understand. what promise?" "my promise to kiss you in the way you wanted to be kissed by the man who loves you," said don carlos quickly; and before myra realised what was happening she was crushed close to his breast and he was kissing her as she had never been kissed before, hungrily, fiercely, passionately, ardently. for a few minutes she found herself, in some mysterious way, robbed of all powers of resistance. don carlos's lips were crushed on her own, and his burning kisses seemed to be drugging her brain and drawing the very heart out of her. then suddenly she struggled and broke from him, her lovely face aflame, her bosom heaving tempestuously, her breath coming and going in sobbing gasps. "how dare you! oh, how dare you!" she panted. "you brute! you brute! i could kill you!" she dropped limply into a chair and covered her burning face with her hands. she was trembling, her heart was throbbing as if it would burst, and her brain was in a turmoil. don carlos stood silent for a few moments, his dark eyes still aflame with ardour as he looked down at myra. he, too, was trembling slightly, and a spot of hectic colour glowed on each cheek-bone. "why blame or reproach me, myra darling?" he said at last, his deep voice vibrant. "remember that you tempted me, challenged me. it was to me that you spoke, and not to standish, when you said you wanted to be kissed by the man who loved you, and not by a cold-blooded englishman. i promised you that night i would kiss you in the way you longed to be kissed, in the way i longed to kiss you, and i have fulfilled my promise--in part. myra, belovedest, the nectar of your lips has increased my longing a thousandfold. tell me, darling, that my kisses have fired your heart with the love for which i crave, and----" "i hate you, hate you, and i shall never forgive you for this!" burst out myra passionately, starting to her feet. "go away at once, and don't dare to come near me again. how dare you, how dare you kiss me like that! if i were to tell tony----" she broke off with a sharp intake of breath, for at that moment the butler tapped at the drawing room door and opened it. "mr. standish," he announced; and tony walked in, as if he were an actor taking his "cue." antony standish could (but didn't) boast of a 'varsity education, and he prided himself on his smartness, but he was far from being "gleg at the uptak'," as the scots say, and his powers of observation and deduction assuredly would not have qualified him for a position as a scotland yard "sleuth." seemingly he was quite unconscious of the electrical atmosphere as he entered, and quite failed to notice myra's agitation. "hullo, don carlos! what a surprise!" he cried breezily. "how are you, old fellow? ... hello, myra, my dear. thought i'd blow in on the chance of finding you at home this beastly afternoon and cadge a cup of tea.... where did you spring from, don carlos? thought you were still in spain. tremendously glad to see you again, old man. when did you get back? you're looking tremendously fit." "thank you," said don carlos, forcing a smile as he shook hands. "i got back to london less than an hour ago, and hastened to call on miss rostrevor to assure her of my undying regard--and to redeem a promise." he darted a side glance at myra, who was nervously biting her lips and trying to compose herself. "awfully nice of you, old chap. glad you're back," drawled the unobservant tony. "i say, myra, dear, aren't you going to offer me a cup of tea? i suppose i may smoke as lady fermanagh isn't here?" myra found herself at a loss to know how to deal with the situation. to tell tony what had happened would inevitably lead to a painful scene, perhaps even to violence; to refrain from telling him would seem like condoning don carlos's conduct. she was torn by conflicting emotions and could not make up her mind how to act. act, however, she did, in a literal sense, for although her heart was still throbbing wildly and her mind was in a whirl, she managed somehow to assume an almost casual air. "why, of course you may smoke, tony," she said, after ringing the bell and ordering more tea. "i'll have a cigarette myself to soothe my nerves." "never noticed any signs of nerves about you, old thing," laughed tony, as he proffered his case and struck a match to light the cigarette myra accepted. "nerves! the risks you have been taking of late in the hunting field have made my blood run cold. the way you took that hedge last week during the run with the quorn made my heart stand still. honestly, myra, i shall be glad when i have you safely aboard the _killarney_, and we are on our way to spain." "i am not going to spain," said myra, very abruptly. "not going to spain?" repeated tony, in surprise. "no, tony, i am not going to spain. don carlos has offended me beyond pardon." "i say, myra, you're ragging, aren't you?" asked tony. "i thought you had made it up with don carlos. don't tell me the villain has been making love to you again!" "why, of course i have," exclaimed don carlos. "i am madly in love with myra, and it is because she is afraid of falling as desperately in love with me as i am with her, and being forced, in consequence, to jilt you, that she has again decided not to go to spain. she is afraid of me--and of love." "what a pair of leg-pullers you are!" chuckled tony, assuming the whole thing was a jest. "half the men one meets are in love with myra, but i refuse to believe she is afraid of any of them." "ah, but she is afraid of me, my dear standish, and you should realise i am your most dangerous rival," don carlos said gravely, and again tony chuckled amusedly. "perhaps it is not only of me but of herself, and for herself, that myra is afraid," carlos continued, with a challenging glance at myra, who felt she would like to box his ears and also to shake tony for being so dense. "the lovely señorita is also afraid of being captured by el diablo cojuelo, who would make her an ideal husband." "i say, that's hardly complimentary, old fellow!" tony commented. "sort of _faux pas_, isn't it, to suggest that a brigand would be a better husband for myra than yours truly, and that myra is a suitable wife for a brigand?" "that, of course, depends on the brigand," answered don carlos, with a smile. "of course, if myra is really scared, and is genuinely afraid to come to spain lest she should lose her heart----" "i am afraid of nothing!" interrupted myra, exasperated beyond measure; and immediately she regretted the impulsive words. "so you will prove the fact by keeping your promise to come to spain as my guest?" queried don carlos quickly. "that will depend on whether you know your duty to a guest and your obligations as a host," retorted myra curtly, and tony raised his eyebrows, surprised by her unusual rudeness. "i flatter myself, dear lady, that i have a reputation as a host whose hospitality is boundless," said don carlos gravely. a footman entering with the tea-tray relieved the tension, and tony began to question don carlos about his trip, and to tell him what sport he had been enjoying. chapter vii don carlos took his leave a few minutes later, leaving myra and tony alone together, and again myra could not make up her mind whether or not to tell her fiancé what had happened. it happened that tony, as soon as they were alone, became particularly sentimental and wanted to kiss her--a fact which somehow seemed to make the situation still more difficult and complicated. "i don't want to be kissed, tony," myra objected, when her lover tried to embrace her. "i feel as if i never want to be kissed again, and i don't want any love-making. leave me alone!" "you certainly are in a queer mood to-day, myra," tony commented. "what has upset you, darling? you were quite rude to poor old don carlos, and now you are snubbing me. what's the matter, old thing?" "oh, tony, my dear, i--i don't know just what is the matter with me, and i don't know what to do," exclaimed myra, laughing tremulously and feeling inclined to give way to tears. "i don't understand myself. oh, why are you so stupid? why don't you make love to me and force me to kiss you? why don't you kiss and kiss me against my will?" "why, hang it all, myra, i've just been trying to make love to you and asking you to give me a kiss, and you wouldn't. now--oh, dash it all, i don't know what to make of you, my dear. you are a most puzzling girl!" "and you are the most exasperatingly dull man," myra retorted, still half-laughing, half-crying. "oh, tony, my dear, take care of me and love me terribly if you want to keep me. hold me fast and grapple me to you with hooks of steel, or you will lose me." she almost hurled herself into tony's arms, buried her face in his shoulder, and burst into tears. tony did not know what to make of it at all, and he felt utterly helpless. agitatedly he patted her on the back and stroked her hair. "myra, for heaven's sake don't cry," he said, in what was intended to be a soothing tone. "you make me feel so bally awful. i've never seen you crying before, and i can't make out what is the matter. what on earth has upset you, darling? you're quite hysterical. hadn't i better ring for your maid, dear?" poor tony did not realise how sadly he was blundering, how sorely he was failing in an emergency. "oh, why can't you understand!" burst out myra passionately. "why can't you love in the right way? don't pat my head and my back as if i were a pet dog, you ninny! tony, i--i--oh, i can't bear it!" she broke from him and rushed from the room, banging the door behind her. "well i'm sunk!" muttered tony, distractedly running his fingers through his sandy hair. "what on earth is a fellow to do in these circumstances? i hope to goodness myra won't carry on like this after we are married, or i shall never know where i am. i wonder what upset her?" troubled in mind, he took his departure, and on his way to his club he was fortunate enough to meet lady fermanagh. "my dear tony, all women are more or less creatures of impulse, liable to do the most unexpected and quixotic things," her worldly-wise ladyship told him, when he had explained what had happened and asked her to advise him what to do. "that is what makes us so interesting. we do not understand ourselves, and if men understood us we should cease to interest or attract them." "yes, i suppose so, lady fermanagh," agreed tony, with a disconsolate shake of his head. "but it would be rather awful to marry a woman who puzzled one all the time. i couldn't make myra out at all to-day, and can't think what can have upset her." "remember, dear boy, that myra is irish and has the celtic temperament," said lady fermanagh. "probably someone, or something, had upset her before you called, and you had to suffer for it." "it wasn't only i who had to suffer," remarked tony. "poor old carlos was there when i blew in, and myra was snubbing him unmercifully. between ourselves, lady fermanagh, myra was positively insulting. don carlos took it rather well, but i fancy he was upset all the same." "h'm! so don carlos is back?" commented her ladyship, with an inscrutable smile. "that may explain matters. perhaps it was he who was responsible for myra's tantrums. but don't worry, tony. myra will probably be particularly nice to you if you see her to-night." "i'm not exactly worried, lady fermanagh, but i'm very puzzled," said standish. "i don't suppose don carlos had anything to do with the matter, really, although he did say chaffingly that he had been making love to myra again and said she was afraid of him. but after he had gone myra seemed uncommonly annoyed with me for some reason or other, and--er--well, a fellow doesn't know exactly what to do in the circumstances, and i thought you'd be able to give me advice." "my advice to you, tony, is to make ardent love to myra, to woo her as if she had not already promised to marry you," lady fermanagh responded. "it is just possible, my dear tony, if you will forgive my suggesting it, that you have not been playing the part of devoted lover wholeheartedly enough." "perhaps so," said tony, rather ruefully. "er--the difficulty is that when i try to talk and make love like the chaps do in novels and plays, myra laughs at me and tells me not to be sloppy. i say, lady fermanagh, don't tell myra i've been talking to you about her. she might be angry. but if you can size things up and give me a hint later as to why she was vexed with me this afternoon i'll be tremendously obliged." lady fermanagh had a very shrewd idea that she could have told him there and then who was the cause of the trouble, remembering well myra's boast that she would make don carlos fall in love with her, and her resentment at his lack of courtesy in going off to spain without a word of farewell. "yes, tony, i'll do my best to 'size things up,' as you so gracefully put it, and may be able to drop you a hint later," she said. she did some hard thinking as she drove home, where she arrived to find myra seated listlessly in an armchair by the fire, an unlighted cigarette between her fingers, and a brooding expression in her blue eyes. "no, there's nothing really the matter, auntie, and i'm quite well," myra said, in answer to her ladyship's questions; "but--oh, i can't explain, but i feel fed up with everything. i don't think i shall go to the cavendish's dance to-night." "what, or who, has made you suddenly feel 'fed up with everything,' as you put it?" inquired lady fermanagh. "you seemed in quite good spirits at lunch-time. i noticed don carlos de ruiz's card in the salver in the hall as i came in. was it he, by any chance, who upset you, myra?" myra's fair face blushed hotly, and she hesitated before replying. then, impulsively, she decided to tell her aunt everything, and did so. lady fermanagh listened in grave--almost grim--silence, and with a troubled look in her fine eyes. "my dear, do you realise that you have brought this on yourself?" she asked quietly, when she had heard myra out. "i warned you at auchinleven that you would be playing with fire, and that it was extremely dangerous to trifle with a spaniard. you deliberately set yourself out to play the part of siren, to make don carlos fall in love with you, and----" "he had deliberately laid himself out before that to make me fall in love with him, and pleaded that he was only amusing himself when he was challenged," interrupted myra. "that was an insult, and i wanted my revenge. if he did not expect me to take him seriously, he had no right to take me seriously, no right to take advantage and to kiss me as he did this afternoon. now you are throwing the blame on me, just as he did himself! why should there be one law for the man and another for the woman? it isn't fair!" "my dear myra, do try to preserve some sense of proportion," said lady fermanagh gently. "admittedly it was quite wrong of don carlos to make passionate love to you, knowing you were betrothed to tony, but, as i have told you repeatedly, he was probably only following the custom of his race and did not expect to be taken seriously in the first instance." "and is it an unheard-of thing in spain for a betrothed girl to play the part of coquette, and to flirt with the men who make love to her?" interposed myra again. "no, no, not at all, but i need hardly remind you, myra, that in england that sort of thing simply 'isn't done.' besides, yours was no mere flirtation. you set out to fascinate and captivate don carlos, to make him fall madly in love with you, and you seem to have succeeded. you admit you challenged him to kiss you----" "he had no right to take what i said to tony as a challenge, although i confess i said it to tantalise him." "humph! if i were your age, as beautiful and attractive as you, and i had dared a man to kiss me, i should feel slighted, to say the least of it, and regard him as a poltroon, if he failed to take up my challenge," commented lady fermanagh drily. "you can't mean to say you did not expect don carlos to carry out the threat or promise he made in his note, particularly as you made no protest against his having entered your bedroom?" "i--er--i don't know what i expected," answered myra, rather weakly. "i mean, i did not intend to give him the opportunity to carry out his threat. and i thought it best to say nothing about the note, because i was afraid to risk a scandal, and i was somehow afraid that don carlos would turn the tables on me. now i have a good mind to tell tony, and to tell him what happened to-day, and leave him to deal with don carlos." "do, by all means, my dear--if you want to make shipwreck of your life," retorted lady fermanagh, sardonically. "tony will be flattered to find you were playing him off against don carlos at auchinleven. and perhaps not! he may decide, on reflection, that a girl who makes love to another man, or, if you prefer it, encourages another man to make love to her, during her engagement and in the house of her fiancé, might do something of the same sort after marriage in the house of her husband." "tony wouldn't be such a beast," exclaimed myra. "if he dared to blame me, i'd break off my engagement and marry don carlos, if only to spite him." "humph! and supposing, after breaking off your engagement, you found that don carlos did not want to marry you, what a fool you'd look and feel!" responded her aunt. "my dear myra, don't you realise that if the facts were known the world would condemn you for attempting to play fast and loose with both tony standish and don carlos de ruiz, and the general verdict would be that it served you right to be left in the lurch. tony would be quite justified in throwing you over, and by the time the gossips had finished your reputation would be--well, rather the worse for wear." "aunt clarissa, you don't really think tony would throw me over if he knew?" asked myra anxiously, after a thoughtful pause. "why, i told tony at auchinleven that i intended to flirt with don carlos and make him fall in love with me, but he would not take me seriously. i told him i meant it and was in earnest, but he only laughed. it is really all his fault. and he was so obtuse this afternoon. surely he might have guessed what had happened." lady fermanagh sat silent for a full minute, then suddenly she rose and laid her hands on myra's shoulders. "myra rostrevor, answer me truthfully," she commanded, with a searching glance. "are you, or are you not, in love with don carlos?" "i--i don't know," myra answered, shaking her head distractedly. "i think i hate him, but if i could believe he was really sincere and in earnest i think i should love him. if i had been tempting, teasing, and tantalising him to-day, as i did when we were at auchinleven, i could excuse him for losing his head and kissing me. to-day i didn't give him the slightest encouragement. he had shown his indifference by going away without even a word of farewell, and i suppose he kissed me in cold blood merely to fulfil his threat and his boast that he always keeps a promise." "cold-blooded kisses can hardly be very shocking, i should imagine," remarked lady fermanagh drily. "they were not cold-blooded. he kissed me ravenously, passionately, and almost stifled me. i felt as if he were drinking the heart out of me," said myra. "if i was sure he is as frantically in love with me as he professes to be, i could excuse him, and i might find myself falling in love with him. it is the thought that he may still only be amusing himself, gratifying his vanity and trying to make good his boast that no woman can resist him, that galls me. if i confessed myself in love with him, and he then told me he had merely been amusing himself and proving his power, i should die of shame." "why take the risk, myra? you have been playing with fire, and the dice are loaded against you. that is an irishism and a mixed metaphor, i suppose, but you know what i mean. if you lose your heart to don carlos de ruiz, you lose antony standish, and if you subsequently discover don carlos is not in earnest you will be left broken-hearted, humiliated, and with your matrimonial prospects ruined." "i have no intention of breaking my heart about don carlos, and don't intend to make a fool of myself, if that is what you mean," said myra, with a sudden change of manner. "i said i'd fool don carlos to pay him out for asserting he had only been amusing himself with me, and i'll do it yet--if i have not already done it. if he is actually in love with me, i have the laugh on him now, in spite of what has happened." "myra, for goodness sake be sensible!" counselled lady fermanagh. "if don carlos is actually in love with you and you make mock of him, his love may turn to hate. and i warn you that the hatred of a spaniard is even more dangerous than his love." "pooh! i'm not afraid of him, and i don't understand why i have been upsetting myself so much," exclaimed myra, impulsively starting to her feet. "i'll get even with him. i'll go to the cavendish's dance after all. don carlos is almost sure to be there, and i may get an opportunity to punish him for his impertinence." "myra, i do wish you would drop this folly," said her aunt. "you must realise you are running grave risks and imperilling your own happiness. it seems to me, my dear, that as well as trifling with don carlos, you are trifling with your own heart, and you are not playing fair with tony." "i mean to get even with don carlos," myra responded, stubbornly, with an impatient toss of her red-gold head. "it will be amusing to see the man who boasted that no woman could resist him chagrined and broken-hearted because myra rostrevor has laughed at him and made his boasts seem foolish." "you have had your warning," exclaimed lady fermanagh abruptly. "don't expect any sympathy from me if you get burnt as a result of playing with fire." she swept out of the room, and as the door closed myra made a moue, flung herself down in the armchair again, and lit her cigarette. "damn him!" she said fervently. chapter viii so many people had been invited to the cavendish ball that there was scarce room to dance. myra caught sight of don carlos several times, and her heart beat a trifle fast when at last she saw him making his way through the crowd towards her during an interval. "may i have the pleasure and honour of dancing the next with you, miss rostrevor?" he inquired, with his usual courtly bow. "the floor is becoming less crowded now the news has gone round that supper is being served." myra's first impulse was to snub him, but she refrained, rose without a word as the music re-started, and they glided round together to the lilting refrain of the band. both were extremely graceful and accomplished dancers, and several other couples ceased dancing to watch them, giving them the centre of the floor. "are you afraid to look at me, cara mia?" whispered don carlos, after a few minutes. "i want to look deep into your dear blue eyes and try to read what is in your heart." "i am afraid the result would be a shock to your overweening vanity, don carlos," responded myra coldly, still avoiding his eyes. "i am very angry with you, and i am surprised you should have had the audacity to ask me to dance with you before even attempting to offer any apology for your outrageous behaviour of this afternoon." "dear, darling, delicious, delectable lady, why should i apologise for taking up your challenge and redeeming my promise?" don carlos asked. "why profess to be offended with the man who loves you so passionately for taking a few of the kisses for which he was craving and hungering? what is it your great shakespeare wrote that fits our case? ... ah! i have it! ..." he sang the words softly, fitting them to the rhythm of the air the dance-band was playing: "_'a thousand kisses buys my heart from me; and pay them at your leisure, one by one. what are ten hundred touches unto thee? are they not quickly told and quickly gone? say for non-payment that the debt should double; is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble?'_" "oh, you are an utterly outrageous and impossible man!" exclaimed myra, half-annoyed, half-amused, and at heart a little fascinated withal. "even if i did flirt with you at auchinleven to amuse myself, you had no right to take my teasing seriously--you, who are such an experienced flirt and philanderer, and who do not expect women to take your love-making seriously and laugh at them if they do." "i expect you to take my love-making seriously, myra," he answered. "your expectations will not be realised, don carlos, and if you attempt to repeat your conduct of to-day there will be trouble," said myra, forcing herself to meet his ardent eyes unflinchingly. "it is unsportsmanlike to try to excuse yourself by throwing the blame on me, pleading, like adam, 'the woman tempted me.' you might at least express regret for your conduct." "i have no regrets, myra," murmured don carlos. "i have tasted the nectar of your lips, and now i hunger for a banquet of love." "in that case you will surely die of starvation," said myra, with a light laugh. "dios! how you torture me, myra!" muttered don carlos frowningly. "i hoped you would tell me you had found your heart, that my kisses had at last awakened it. i love you, love you with every fibre of my being, and you--you love, yet you refrain." "quoting henley, aren't you, don carlos, and trying the effect of pathos by way of a change?" retorted myra. "how amusing! as far as i am concerned, you can 'break your heart on my hard unfaith and break your heart in vain...' don't grip my hand so tightly. you are hurting me." "i will hurt you if you are trifling with me and making mock of my love," said don carlos quickly, through clenched teeth. "don't try me too far, myra. beware lest my love turns to hate!" "beware lest my love turns to hate!" mimicked myra, and trilled out a laugh. "you are talking like a character in an old-fashioned melodrama. should i play up to you by crying, 'unhand me, villain,' turning deathly pale, and screaming for help. don't be absurd! ... we won't dance the encore. but if you will promise to be sensible and refrain from talking extravagant nonsense, you may take me in to supper." she felt certain that she had both hurt and puzzled don carlos, and she gloried in the thought, flattering herself that she was really taking her revenge. she was completely mistress of herself again, sure of her own powers, and during supper she laid herself out to be "nice," with almost devastating effect, playing on the emotions of the spaniard like a skilled musician on a sensitive instrument. deliberately she encouraged him, only to rebuff him when she had inflamed his ardour, deliberately she set herself to excite his passions, only to reward him with a cold douche of ridicule. "i believe the man is actually in love with me," myra soliloquised, smiling in self-satisfied fashion at her reflection in the mirror as she undressed that night. "he was grinding his teeth in sheer mortification and looking quite murderous when i told him he was boring me, and i went off with tony. yes, i think i am taking my revenge. what a triumph if i find myself able to twist round my little finger, so to speak, the man who boasted no woman could resist him!" yet when she fell asleep she dreamed that she was again in the arms of don carlos with his lips crushed on her own, and that she was returning his passionate kisses with fervour and straining the spaniard close to her heart although tony (in her dream) was looking on, feebly begging her to desist and to kiss him instead, and lady fermanagh was standing by protesting in solemn tones that she was "playing with fire." "what an utterly absurd dream!" myra reflected, when she woke with her heart thrilling queerly. "i wonder what particular and peculiar kink in my mental outfit made me enjoy kisses in my dreams which i hated while i was awake? how flattered don carlos would be if he knew!" an hour or so later she chanced to encounter don carlos while she was taking her morning gallop in the row, and he brought his horse abreast of hers, saluting in his usual gallant manner. "you tortured me last night, myra, but in my dreams i got full recompense," he said, after formal greetings. "really! how fortunate for you!" drawled myra, with well-feigned lack of interest. "do you flatter yourself even when you are asleep?" "it was an extremely vivid dream, myra," continued don carlos, ignoring the jocular question. "i dreamed you were in my arms, straining me close to your breast, and returning my hungry kisses with passionate ardour. we were drinking love's cup of rapture together, my beloved and i, giving and taking all." with her own dream still vivid in her memory; myra was startled. her heart seemed to miss a beat, she felt the hot colour rush to her face, and she bent forward to stroke her horse's neck lest her expression might betray her if she met don carlos's eyes. "how utterly preposterous!" she commented. "however, it is said that dreams are contrary. incidentally, i meant what i said when i told you i should refuse to talk to you if you persisted in being sentimental. good morning!" being irish, myra rostrevor was by nature more than a little superstitious and inclined to attach some importance to dreams and omens, and she rode away feeling just a tiny bit scared at heart, and wondering uneasily if perchance don carlos de ruiz was a thought-reader. "sure, and i don't know what to make of you, myra," she whispered to her own reflection in the mirror, as she changed from her riding costume into a morning frock. "i don't know what to make of you at all, at all! and i don't know what to make of don carlos, either. i don't know if you are in love with him or not, and i'm not sure but what if he kissed you again you might make a fool of yourself and give up the idea of making a fool of him.... oh, if only i knew whether he is in earnest or not!" myra was almost afraid to attempt to analyse her own feelings and emotions, and could come to no decision concerning either herself or don carlos. she continued to "blow hot, blow cold" every time they met, sometimes treating him with studied coldness, at other times flirting with him beguilingly, but always taking precautions against giving him any opportunity to kiss her again. meanwhile tony standish had taken lady fermanagh's advice, and he was wooing myra with all the fervour and passion of which his somewhat phlegmatic nature was capable, wooing her as if their betrothal was yet to be, instead of an accomplished fact. hardly a day passed but he brought or sent some expensive trifle, together with flowers, chocolates, or cigarettes, with assurances of his undying affection. his tributes of devotion made myra feel just a trifle guilty, made her wonder, too, if tony had decided that the love-making of don carlos was something more than make-believe, and he was trying to make sure of her. "oh, tony, dear, you make me feel as if you were buying me!" she exclaimed one afternoon, when her lover presented her with a diamond pendant. "why have you given me such lots of presents lately, you extravagant old thing?" "well, darling, i want to show you how much in love with you i am," answered tony, looking quite bashful. "i am tremendously in love with you, myra, honour bright, and i'd do anything to prove it. i'd--i'd give my life for you, sweetheart. honestly, it would break my heart if i lost you." "tony, what makes you talk of losing me?" myra asked quickly. "oh--er--nothing, really, but--er--well, you're so beautiful, and fascinating, and attractive, and all the rest of it, and i know there are several men who are in love with you and would like to cut me out if they could," explained tony. "i say, dear, i don't mean that i think you'd let me down and go back on your promise to marry me. er--you weren't in earnest, were you, darling, when you talked about letting don carlos fall in love with you at auchinleven, and making me jealous? please don't mind my asking, but i'm rather worried, to tell the truth." "worried because you think i may be in love with don carlos?" "no, myra, not exactly, but because i know he is in love with you. he told me so himself last night." "he told you so himself!" exclaimed myra, startled. "yes. placed me in a rather difficult position. i suppose it was really rather sporty of him. i don't know if i should tell you. he called on me and said he was afraid he'd have to ask me to release him from his promise to be my guest on the yachting tour. naturally i asked him why, and he told me frankly that he had fallen in love with you." myra's heart beat a trifle faster as she listened. "said he thought it was only right i should know, and that he supposed it wouldn't be playing the game according to english ideas if he made love to you and tried to win you from me while he was my guest," continued tony. "i didn't know quite what to say, except that i was sorry." he looked at myra expectantly and a little anxiously as he paused, and myra laughed involuntarily. but her heart was still behaving rather oddly and she felt her face flushing. "how absurd, tony!" she exclaimed. "do you think he was in earnest?" "oh, yes, he seemed to be in deadly earnest," replied tony. "er--i didn't quite know what to do about it, as i said before, but it suddenly occurred to me that if i let don carlos withdraw his acceptance of my invitation it might seem like an admission that i had not complete faith in you and was afraid of losing you. you see what i mean, myra?" "more or less," said myra, rather bewildered. "but surely you don't mean that you pressed him to come, knowing he would go on making love to me?" "i didn't exactly press him, but i told him that if he felt he must decline my invitation because he was in love with you, we should naturally have to decline his invitation to spain for the same reason," responded tony. "i told him he ought to have known you were only amusing yourself to pay him out, and that he should have known better than lose his heart after you had objected to his attempting to make love to you. so eventually he laughed and said if i wasn't afraid of him as a rival he would come. i hope you don't mind, darling. i told him he hadn't an earthly hope." "it is nice to know you are so sure of me that you have no fear of a rival," commented myra drily, after a momentary pause. "i say, myra, do you mean that, or are you being sarcastic?" asked tony. "what could i do in the circumstances? perhaps i shouldn't have mentioned the matter to you at all, but--er--i thought you might feel rather flattered to know that you have made another conquest, and you know you said you weren't in the least afraid of don carlos. i thought, too, that you'd take it rather as a compliment if i showed i had complete faith in you. you didn't really want me to display jealousy, did you?" "i don't know, tony," replied myra evasively. "if the positions were reversed and i were engaged to don carlos and you had been making love to me, i expect he would have killed you by now, and perhaps strangled me into the bargain." "englishmen don't do that sort of thing," remarked tony, looking hurt. "if you mean you would prefer me to behave like an emotional foreigner----" "oh, tony, dear, don't be absurd!" interrupted myra, her mood changing. "i see how you looked at the matter, and i know i should be glad you have such faith in me. but don't you think don carlos may regard your indifference to his rivalry as being almost in the nature of a challenge?" "i hadn't thought of it that way, myra, but in any case i know you'll be able to keep don carlos at a distance if he should try to make love to you again," answered tony. "sure you're not vexed with me, dear?" "i don't know whether i'm vexed or pleased, amused or scared, but i am certainly thrilled," said myra. "to think that don carlos, who boasted that no woman could resist him, should confess to you, that he has lost his heart to me!" "i couldn't help feeling rather sorry for the poor chap," remarked tony. "i should feel ghastly if i had fallen in love with you after you had become engaged to another man, and knew there was no hope." "don't be too sure there is no hope for don carlos," said myra provocatively; but tony's look of piteous dismay caused her to relent almost instantly, and she kissed him. long after tony had gone, myra sat lost in thought, her heart still thrilling. don carlos's confession was, of course, a compliment and tribute to her powers of fascination, and naturally myra was flattered; but she was also more than a little puzzled. she could not quite fathom don carlos's motive for telling tony standish he was in love with her, and she realised that tony had been cleverer than he knew. by telling her of don carlos's confession and assuring her that he had complete faith in her he had, as it were, placed her on her honour not to forsake him. "i wonder what wise aunt clarissa would advise?" mused myra. "i must tell her that although she said i was playing with fire it is don carlos, apparently, who has got burnt." "you certainly appear to have reason to flatter yourself on your success as a coquette, myra," commented lady fermanagh drily, after listening attentively to myra's story of don carlos's confession to tony, and, incidentally, without making any mention of the fact that she had already heard the story from tony himself over the telephone. "you have the laugh on don carlos de ruiz now, my dear, but don't forget the old proverb that he who laughs last laughs best. actually, it is not a laughing matter at all, but a crime to break a man's heart in jest." "you don't really suppose that don carlos is heart-broken, do you, aunt?" asked myra. "frankly, i do not," responded lady fermanagh. "i don't quite know what to make of it. my idea is that don carlos probably guessed you had boasted you would make him fall in love with you, and he may either be pandering to your vanity by leading you to believe you have succeeded in your object, or else trying to make a fool of you. be careful, my dear! it isn't safe to trifle with men of the type of don carlos de ruiz, as i have told you before." "pouf! if he has actually fallen in love with me, he is more likely to make a fool of himself than of me," myra exclaimed. "one never knows," lady fermanagh responded. "i believe you are half in love with him as it is, myra, and if he cared to exercise all his powers he might be able to induce you to break with tony." myra shook her red-gold head, but at heart she knew her aunt might be right. "your idea, as you have admitted, was to make don carlos fall in love with you in earnest, because he had made love to you in jest," continued lady fermanagh. "you wanted to have the satisfaction of 'turning him down'--to use the ultra-modern expression--and laughing at him for losing his heart. take care, my dear myra, that he does not turn the tables on you again." "how could he?" asked myra, feeling somewhat piqued. "well, it might amuse him to protest that he is heart-broken, to persuade you to take pity on him and forsake tony, to confess yourself in love with him, and then in the end to remind you of his boast that no woman could resist him, and explain that he did not want you, had merely been testing his powers and taking revenge for your coquetry." "surely, he wouldn't be such a beast!" "he might--and more particularly if he is in earnest," said lady fermanagh gravely. "no man likes being laughed at, except when he is appearing on the stage as a comedian. a man in love is particularly sensitive to ridicule. i wonder how many murders have been committed in spain as a result of girls inducing men to make fools of themselves?" "oh, aunt, don't be absurd!" interposed myra. "are you suggesting that don carlos may murder me? do you anticipate his plunging a stiletto or some sort of spanish dagger into my heart, or committing suicide on our nice clean doorstep, because i do not reciprocate his passion?" she trilled out a laugh and her aunt had, perforce, to smile. "one never knows," she said again. "my advice to you is not to take any further risks, and not to attempt to gloat over don carlos. and i think you should fix the date for your marriage to tony standish and make a good resolution to break no more hearts." "and join a dorcas society, and wear flannel next the skin, and woollen stockings and flat-heeled shoes!" myra added frivolously. "thank you _so_ much, aunt clarissa!" chapter ix sure of her own powers, but uncertain of her own heart, myra could not make up her mind in advance what attitude to adopt towards don carlos at their next meeting, and wondered what his attitude would be towards her. would he profess to be heart-broken, or continue to make passionate love to her at every opportunity? she was left wondering, for don carlos left london that very day, after explaining to tony that he had been called to paris on important business. "said he might be away for a week or two, but promised he would make a point of getting back in time to join our yachting party," tony informed myra. "just as well, perhaps, what? give him time to get over having fallen in love with you, darling. asked me to give you his humble and dutiful regards--i believe that was his expression--and to assure you he never broke a promise. i suppose he meant his promise to be back in time to join us at southhampton." "i suppose so," myra equivocated. "i don't believe he is in love with me, tony." "i don't see how anyone could help being in love with you, darling," responded tony gallantly. "my idea is that poor old carlos is hard hit, and has probably gone to paris to pull himself together, so to speak, and to avoid meeting you for a bit." "paris is so consoling!" commented myra satirically. "just the sort of quiet, soothing place where a heart-broken lover can find solace! i shall waste no sympathy on don carlos." she was piqued and puzzled, and a little exasperated by the thought that don carlos was playing a joke on her. "he probably thinks i am deeply in love with him, and flatters himself i shall be hurt and grieved by his sudden departure," reflected myra. "perhaps he thinks he is paying me back in my own coin, and he will find me ready to fall into his arms, so to speak, on his return. if so, i can promise him a disappointment." she tried to put don carlos out of her mind, but she found herself thinking of him continually. often in her dreams she was again enfolded in his arms with his lips crushed on her own, and she would wake with her heart throbbing wildly. tony never managed to set her heart throbbing in the same way. myra wished he could and would. perhaps it was her dreams of don carlos that caused her to be particularly nice to tony during the next week or two, and to try to persuade herself that she was really in love with him. no word came from don carlos, but he duly presented himself aboard the _killarney_, tony standish's yacht, on the appointed day. and he looked as little like a heart-broken, forlorn lover as anyone could imagine. indeed, he seemed to be in exceptionally high spirits, talked gaily of the enjoyable time he had had in paris, explaining that he had combined business with pleasure. he made no attempt to speak to myra alone on the first night aboard, and joined a party of men playing poker in the smoking-room, in preference to dancing. "he is really the most baffling and exasperating creature," myra told herself. "i expect he thinks he is vexing me by being so casual, the conceited fellow. i am annoyed with myself for feeling annoyed." she encountered don carlos next morning, when she went up on deck from her state room to take a stroll before breakfast, and he greeted her smilingly. "buenos dias, señorita," he said, with a gallant bow. "i start the day well by meeting you, my myra. has absence made your heart grow fonder, my heart's desire?" "yes, i am fonder of tony than ever," answered myra lightly. "i think i really ought to thank you, don carlos, for pretending to tony that you had fallen in love with me. i was vastly amused, but tony actually took you seriously, and he has been the most adorably devoted lover ever since. i am half inclined to suspect that you must have given tony some lessons in love-making!" don carlos flashed a searching glance at her, and his smile faded. "if i thought that standish would hold you to your promise to marry him, knowing that you love me, i should kill him," he said, quietly, calmly and deliberately. "in that case, tony is a doomed man," commented myra, with a mocking laugh. "but perhaps the fact that i do not love you will induce you to spare his life," she added hastily. "don't you find it rather difficult to be melodramatic and to talk farcical nonsense before breakfast, don carlos?" "i am debating with myself how best to get rid of standish," responded don carlos unsmilingly. "an opportunity may present itself during this cruise. i do not wish to kill him, and would much prefer him to surrender you to me voluntarily. but if he is obstinate, and if you persist in refusing to obey the dictates of your heart to break with him, he, as you have said, is a doomed man." so earnest was his tone, so serious his manner, that myra felt her heart contract, but she forced herself to treat his speech as a joke. "don carlos, you are an impossible person!" she exclaimed. "do you want me to rush away and warn tony that his life is in danger? shall i ask the captain to order two of the crew to play the part of scotland yard detectives, shadow your every movement and keep guard over tony? you don't really expect me to take you seriously, do you?" before don carlos could answer, tony, together with two or three other members of the party, came up the companion-way. "hallo, people, what are you looking so solemn about?" cried tony cheerily. "not feeling sea-sick, are you, what?" "good morning, darling, so glad you've come," said myra, and tilted up her face for a kiss. she seldom greeted her betrothed with a kiss if there were others present, but she guessed the display of affection might annoy don carlos. "this dreadful man has been trying to make my blood run cold," she added smilingly, with a challenging glance at don carlos. "i think he must have spent most of his time in paris at the grand guignol, and it has turned his brain. i'm afraid he is suffering from some sort of homicidal mania, poor fellow." "i warn you, good people, and you, mine host in particular, that i am in a murderous mood," said don carlos gaily. "miss rostrevor has driven me insane, and i may go berserker at any moment." "splendid, old chap!" laughed tony. "what about attacking the breakfast with savage fury? there goes the gong...." it was a beautifully calm day, and after breakfast most of the company assembled on the promenade deck, some to lounge and smoke and chat or read, others to play quoits or deck billiards. for once in a way myra did not feel particularly energetic, and she sat down on a comfortable deck chair beside her aunt and several other women and girls seated in a group gossiping and exchanging badinage with two or three men of the party standing by their chairs or lounging against the rail. tony standish and don carlos were standing together, both leaning against the rail, and myra lay back in her chair with her hands clasped behind her head, studying and comparing them through half-closed but keenly-observant eyes. she noticed that as don carlos talked and laughed he was fingering a bolt under the rail behind him, saw him slide the bolt back, and she was in the act of sitting up and calling out to him to be careful, to point out that the part of the rail against which he and tony were leaning was that which is swung open to make way for a gangway, when don carlos straightened himself and took a pace forward. the rail swung loose at the same instant, and tony, who had been leaning heavily against it with his arms folded, was precipitated backwards into the sea! screams of horror and consternation broke from all the women, and myra sprang to her feet and made a dash towards the side of the yacht. whether or not she intended to fling herself into the sea in the hope of rescuing tony, she could not afterwards have told. as it was, don carlos seized her, hurled her aside, and flung off his coat. "man overboard!" he yelled at the top of his powerful voice, and as he did so he dived overside. his cry was heard and repeated instantly by several of the crew. there was a clang of bells in the engine room as the chief officer on the bridge shot over the indicator, signalling "full speed astern," at the same time shouting orders that sent men racing to swing out a boat from the davits, while others ran with life-buoys to the stern of the vessel, ready to fling them to the men in the water if the opportunity presented itself. the _killarney_ had been going full speed ahead when standish went overboard, and at first myra, when she began to recover her scattered wits, could see no trace of either tony or don carlos. then she glimpsed a black head, and saw don carlos swimming strongly towards a fair head, which she knew was tony. a pair of hands shot up and the fair head disappeared just when don carlos had almost reached it, and a sob of anguish broke from myra's white lips. "he's gone down! he's drowning!" she gasped, and as the words passed her lips don carlos also disappeared--to reappear, however, a minute later, swimming on his back and supporting tony. he seemed to be having difficulty in keeping afloat, and it seemed to all those anxiously watching that he might go under before help could reach him. again the engine-room bells clanged, and this time the signal from the bridge was "stop"; the boat, fully-manned, was lowered with a run, and at the same time one of the sailors at the stern of the yacht slung a lifebuoy overside with such force and accuracy that it hit the water with a splash within ten yards of don carlos, who propelled himself towards it, and with its aid succeeded in supporting himself and tony until the boat reached him and he and tony were safely hauled aboard. orders were shouted from the bridge, sailors scurried to let down the accommodation ladder and stood by with ropes, awaiting the return of the boat, which was being rapidly rowed back to the _killarney_. the boat came alongside at last, and tony, who appeared to be exhausted and almost unconscious, was with difficulty hoisted up the ladder to the deck, where the ship's doctor was already waiting with restoratives. someone started a cheer as don carlos, dripping wet but smiling, came up the ladder, and the cheer was taken up by practically everyone around, save myra, who was standing tense and white, her brain in a turmoil. "bravo, don carlos, bravo!" shouted an excited and enthusiastic youngster, rushing forward and trying to shake don carlos's hand; but don carlos waved him off with an impatient frown and bent over tony, who had opened his eyes and was making an effort to sit up. "is he all right, doctor?" he asked. "yes, i think he is only suffering from shock, sir," the doctor answered, unfastening tony's collar, which seemed to be choking him. "thanks," gasped tony faintly and painfully. "i--i'll be all right presently. think i must have hit my head on something. give me a drink, will you?" the doctor gave him brandy, had him carried to his cabin, where he examined him carefully and discovered that he was not injured. he surmised that tony had probably been partly stunned by falling flat on the water when he toppled overboard, and "knocked silly"--to use tony's own expression--and he was able to tell the passengers that their host would probably be all right again within an hour or two. "thank heaven for that!" exclaimed lady fermanagh fervently. "myra, darling, you look ghastly. doctor, please give miss rostrevor something to pull her together." "i'm quite all right, thanks," said myra--and promptly disproved her own statement by dropping limply into a deck-chair, covering her face with her hands, and bursting into tears. she speedily recovered herself, however, after she had been helped to her state-room and persuaded to swallow some sal volatile, but she still felt shaken and unnerved. "better lie down and rest for a little while until you have quite recovered from the shock, myra dear," advised lady fermanagh. "don't worry. you heard the doctor say that tony will be quite all right and isn't hurt." "i don't understand it," said myra, more to herself than to her aunt. "don carlos meant to kill tony, and yet he saved him. does he want to make himself out to be a hero simply to flatter still further his own vanity, or is he trying to frighten me?" "my dear myra, what on earth are you talking about?" inquired lady fermanagh in concern. "don carlos undid the bolt of the rail against which tony was leaning," explained myra. "i saw him do it, but had no time to warn tony. he threatened this morning that he would murder tony rather than let me marry him. what can i do, aunt?" lady fermanagh shook her grey head, looking greatly concerned. "i heard don carlos say something about being in a murderous mood, and perhaps the accident to tony was only an unfortunate coincidence," she said. "it was not an accident, aunt," insisted myra. "i tell you i saw him slip back the bolt that holds the rail." "but that may have been accidental, myra," suggested her aunt. "don carlos was talking at the time, and he may not have realised what he was doing. you know how often one fiddles with something while one is talking or thinking. why, you are twiddling your necklace now, myra, without knowing you are doing it, and a minute ago you were twisting your engagement ring round and round your finger. if don carlos had been in earnest about murdering tony is it likely he would have gone to his rescue immediately the accident happened and risked his own life as he did? why, he could easily have let tony drown?" "yes, that's true," agreed myra, with a despairing gesture. "i don't know what to make of it. i don't know what i should do. i feel now that tony's life is actually in danger. should i warn him, tell him of don carlos's threat?" "no, i think not, myra, unless he says something more which leads you to believe he meant the threat seriously," said lady fermanagh, after a thoughtful pause. "oh, my dear, i do wish you had taken my warning not to play with fire, and i do hope don carlos was not in earnest!" chapter x when myra, having recovered herself, went from her state-room into the saloon a little later, it was to find that don carlos had, so to speak, "spiked her guns," had she intended to denounce him as being responsible for the "accident" to tony. the captain of the _killarney_, it appeared, had held an inquiry as to who was responsible for having left the rail unfastened and charged two members of the crew with neglect. on learning this, don carlos had at once interviewed the captain and taken the blame upon himself, explaining that he remembered fingering the bolt while he was talking, and doubtless unfastened it. he had told his fellow guests the same thing when they praised and complimented him for his gallant rescue. "don carlos is a true sportsman," said one of the men of the party to myra. "my own opinion is that he has made up the yarn about unfastening the bolt, just to prevent us making too much of a hero of him and to save any of the crew from getting into trouble. he has been in to see tony, i hear, told him it was all his fault and asked him to accept his apologies. of course, his idea is to try to prevent tony from thanking him. but i guess you will thank him, miss rostrevor!" "perhaps it would please him better if i reproached him," responded myra, whereat her companion laughed. don carlos was seated opposite her at lunch, but myra did not attempt either to thank or blame him, deciding to wait until he himself referred to the "accident," and discover, if possible, what was in his mind. after lunch, most of the other members of the party settled down to spend the afternoon playing bridge, but myra went on deck and ensconced herself in a comfortable chair in a sheltered spot to read and think. she had not been there more than a few minutes when don carlos appeared beside her chair with a cushion in his hand. without a word he tossed the cushion down on the boat-deck at myra's feet, sat down on it, and rested his dark head against myra's knees. he did it all so deliberately and with such calm assurance that myra was somehow amused in spite of herself and laughed involuntarily. "evidently the poor man is so overcome by sea-sickness that he doesn't know what he is doing and needs a nurse!" she exclaimed. "shall i call for a steward?" she slewed her chair round as she spoke, and laughed again as don carlos, suddenly deprived of the support of her knees, fell backward. he did not seem in the least disconcerted, however, and merely rolled over on his side, supported his head on one hand, and gazed up at myra quizzically. "that was rather the equivalent of unfastening the bolt of the rail, was it not, myra?" he drawled. "i hope you will now proceed to rescue me from the slough of despond by telling me that you love me and will marry me?" "you said once that i would be a suitable mate for el--er--what's his name?--el cojuelo diablo, isn't it?--your pet brigand, i mean," retorted myra. "now you are presumably suggesting that i am a fit mate for a man guilty of attempted murder!" don carlos smiled enigmatically. "el diablo cojuelo is the correct name, myra," he said in the same lazy, unmoved tone. "if i fail to conquer you and teach you the meaning of love, perhaps el diablo cojuelo will. beloved, i should love to rest my head against your knees and feel your fingers caressing my hair." "don't be so utterly ridiculous!" exclaimed myra. "in novels, as you know," went on don carlos, paying no heed to her protest, "the fair heroine usually marries the gallant who rescues her, or her half-witted brother, or her aged parent, from drowning. you can give the plot a new turn by marrying me for saving your lover from drowning. mr. standish was good enough to say that it was 'demmed sporty of me' to rescue him and that he owes me his life. why not suggest to him, myra, that he can best show his gratitude by surrendering to me his greatest pride and treasure--you?" "your audacity is only equalled by your conceit," myra commented. "let me warn you----" "let me warn you, you siren, that i shall go to any lengths to win you," interrupted don carlos with sudden passion. "this morning's incident was a warning to prove to you i am in earnest. dios! why do you torture me so? at times you make me hate you almost as much as i love you!" he sprang to his feet, picked up the cushion on which he had been reclining and hurled it overboard, then strode away without another word, leaving myra thrilled and more than a little scared. "it rather looks as if i shall have to take him seriously after all!" she soliloquised. "i wonder what i should do?" she was left wondering and sorely perplexed, for within an hour she found don carlos obviously carrying on a violent flirtation with another girl, and at dinner, at which tony standish appeared looking little the worse for his adventure, he was the life and soul of the party. after dinner he delighted the company by singing some spanish songs, accompanying himself on the guitar, and he was enthusiastically applauded. "why, old chap, you ought to be the star baritone in grand opera!" cried tony. "sing us another, please." "sorry, but i promised to sing to the crew in the fo'c'sle--and i always keep my promises," responded don carlos, and flashed a smiling glance at myra as he went out. he became as popular with the crew as with his fellow-guests during the days that followed, and seemed to enjoy himself hugely, a fact which somehow piqued myra, who felt he had been, and was still, making mock of her. she was forced to the conclusion that his passionate outburst had been merely a clever piece of acting, for he made no further attempt to make love to her during the cruise, and at times seemed to shun her. * * * "now that we are in spain, dear people, you must permit me to try to repay you in some small measure for the wonderful hospitality extended to me in england," he said to tony and his guests, when at last they disembarked at cadiz. "you are my guests from now onward." that evening he entertained the whole party royally at the premier hotel of the city, and next morning they found a fleet of luxurious hispano cars waiting to convey them through some of the most picturesque parts of spain to el castillo de ruiz, his ancestral home, situated in a fertile valley amid the heights of the sierra morena. it was a mediaeval-looking place, part of which had been built by the moors, and used as a fortress. "it is still, to some extent, a fortress," don carlos had told his guests in advance, "for always i have to be on the alert lest that rascal el diablo cojuelo should raid the place again, and i employ an armed guard. let me warn you, dear people, that if el diablo learns i am entertaining a party of wealthy english people he may attempt another raid." the others had laughed, assuming that he was jesting. most of them had decided that don carlos had "invented" el diablo cojuelo and his brigand gang, with the object of adding a spice of adventure to their visit. el castillo de ruiz was a place of surprises. it looked massive and strong enough to resist an artillery siege, let alone the attack of a few bandits, and its outward appearance immediately gave the impression that a guest would have to expect to endure at least some of the discomforts of the middle ages. several of the party exchanged glances of dismay as they alighted from their cars in the great cobbled courtyard or patio, to find themselves stared at by a motley crew of men, women and children, and to see pigs, dogs, asses and fowls wandering about. "looks as if we'll have to rough it!" whispered tony to myra. "i didn't expect this sort of thing--what?" myra made a moue, but did not answer. she was wondering if don carlos's invitation had been by way of an elaborate practical joke, wondering if he intended to subject her to intense discomfort under the guise of hospitality, or if he had some surprise in store. the first surprise came when she followed don carlos into the great hall of the castle to find a retinue of servants in livery, headed by a gorgeously-attired major-domo carrying a silver wand of office, waiting to greet their master and his guests. the hall itself was panelled with polished spanish mahogany, black with age, and softly illuminated by cunningly-concealed electric lights around the painted roof. there were beautiful persian and moorish rugs on the floor, and here and there along the walls there hung paintings by old masters between stands of ancient armour. "magnificent!" cried myra in her impulsive way, after a gasp of amazement. "magnificent! this is the sort of hall one can imagine velasquez delighting to paint, the fit setting and background for a spanish grandee in all his glory." "i thank you, señorita," said don carlos, with a low bow. "el castillo de ruiz is but a poor background for the most beautiful of women, but you honour it by your presence, and all it contains is yours and at your service. i give you welcome!" he gave quick orders to the major-domo, who in turn issued orders to the small army of servants--men in livery and comely maids in neat black dresses with perky caps and wisps of aprons--to escort the guests to their various apartments. the magnificence of the hall might have prepared myra for something equally luxurious in other parts of the castle, yet she gasped again in astonishment when she found herself ushered into a bedroom beautifully decorated in dove grey and rose pink, a room in which everything harmonised delightfully. the small casement window, set in a wall three or four feet thick, admitted little light, but that fault was remedied by the fact that the room, like the great hall below, was softly lighted by electricity. "the señorita would like a bath?" inquired the trim maid in english, opening another door, to reveal a beautifully-appointed little bathroom. "why, this is wonderful!" exclaimed myra, with an involuntary laugh. "i never expected such luxuries in such a grim-looking, old-world place. tell me, are all the rooms like this?" "this, señorita, is the most beautiful of all, but all the guests' rooms are lovely," the maid answered. "the master himself designed and planned them all. he is wonderful." "he certainly is, and i must congratulate him," said myra. "is it true, by the way, that there is a daring brigand lurking about in the mountains around here?" "you mean el diablo cojuelo, señorita?" the maid responded, and instinctively crossed herself. "he has not been seen for months, but his very name still terrifies. he is daring beyond belief, señorita, and no woman is safe from him. the saints forbid that el diablo cojuelo should come back while you are here!" myra had mentally discounted don carlos's tales about the bandit, just as she had discounted his passionate avowals of love, and she began to feel that she had been doing him an injustice--at least as far as el diablo cojuelo was concerned. "well, he promised me romance, and he certainly seems to have provided the right setting," she reflected, as she leisurely bathed and changed. "a sort of aladdin's palace among the hills of spain, but fitted up in a way more wonderful than any genii could have contrived. pigs and fowls and people who look like barbarians outside; all the luxuries of civilisation inside, including an english-speaking maid. and a real live daring brigand apparently lurking about in the mountains. i feel that anything might happen at any minute. this is more like a romantic novel than real life." myra went down to the great hall to find the rest of the guests as enthusiastic as herself about the appointments of the castle. "you should see my room, my dear," exclaimed lady fermanagh. "it is an exquisite harmony in primrose and pale green that gives one the impression of sunlight and spring." "mine is decorated in japanese style," chimed in tony. "there are some priceless lacquers on the walls, some exquisite old japanese prints, and some of the fittings of the dressing-table are of old jade. actually, i believe don carlos must have had the place specially fitted up for me, knowing how keen i am on japanese things." congratulations were showered on don carlos, who shrugged his shoulders and smilingly tried to make light of the whole matter. "one must have comforts even in the wilds," he said. "i had the whole place modernised inside as far as possible, without altering its grim exterior, and it amused me to plan the furnishings and colour schemes to suit the tastes of the guests i might be likely to have the honour of entertaining." a gong sounded, and the magnificent major-domo appeared to announce that dinner was served, and to lead the guests to the dining-table, the very sight of which evoked rapturous expressions of admiration. the table was of highly-polished black mahogany, and instead of a fillet of lace there was a slab of pure crystal at every place set for a guest. all the appointments of the table were of crystal and silver, and in its centre there was a great crystal bowl filled with spring flowers. the effect was strikingly artistic and wholly delightful. the overhead lights reflected the table appointments and the flowers in the surface of the table itself, much in the way that sunlight and shadow reflect the surrounding trees in a dark pool. "don carlos, you are an artist!" exclaimed myra, who loved beauty. "your castle is full of surprises." "and who knows, dear lady, that i may not have still more surprises in store for you," responded don carlos, with a cryptic smile. "remember that i always keep my promises." chapter xi after what they had seen, it came as no great surprise to the guests of don carlos to find themselves served with a dinner which would have done credit to the ritz or the savoy, and with rare wines of the choicest vintages. "would you care to dance after dinner, or merely to listen to a wireless programme?" their host inquired during the meal. "concealed in the big antique cabinet in the hall there is a powerful wireless set with which i can pick up any european station, and possibly you noticed that the floor of the hall is really a spring dance-floor, stained to make it seem as ancient as the panelling." "our host is a magician!" cried lady fermanagh. "you certainly seem to be something of a magician, don carlos, and your castle is something like aladdin's cave," myra remarked to her host as she was dancing with him later in the evening in the great hall. "myra, darling, have i found the magic to make your heart respond to the call of love?" asked don carlos in a low voice. "my castle lacks nothing save a mistress, and all my heart is craving for you, its ideal mate. i love you, love you, love you, mia cara, with all the strength and passion of my being. confess that you love me, darling, and say you will be mine." myra found herself compelled to look into his glittering dark eyes, felt as if she were being hypnotised, and it was only by an effort of will that she broke the spell he seemed to be casting on her. "it isn't fair to take advantage of your position as host to make love to me again," she protested, annoyed to find her heart throbbing tumultuously and her cheeks burning. "you are quite a wonderful person, but i do not intend to give you the opportunity to justify your boasts." "who knows but what i may make the opportunity, myra, and take you in spite of yourself?" don carlos responded. "here i am a king, and none dares dispute my authority, save el diablo cojuelo." "if you persist in talking like that, i shall not feel safe in your house," said myra. "that sounded like a veiled threat, don carlos, and you are not playing the game." "there are no set rules to the game of love, dear lady, and i am playing to win," retorted don carlos, scarcely above a whisper. "listen for your lover at midnight." at heart myra was a little scared, although her pride would not permit her to acknowledge the fact. she remembered how she had been awakened at dead of night at auchinleven, with the impression strong upon her that someone had touched her, and had found don carlos's note on her pillow. she remembered his threats or promises to take her in spite of everything... most of the guests were tired after their long journey, and the party broke up about eleven o'clock. myra went to her own grey and rose bedroom, declined the services of the waiting maid and carefully bolted the door after bidding the girl good-night. "what did he mean by telling me to listen for my lover at midnight?" she wondered. "what am i scared about? he surely wouldn't be so dastardly as to force his way into my room... oh, i wish i hadn't come!" myra was tired, yet she was reluctant to undress and go to bed, flung herself down in a chair by the fire, and lit a cigarette. presently the room seemed to her oppressively hot and she rose and opened the casement. as she did so she saw lights moving about in the dark courtyard below, and again she felt unreasoningly apprehensive until common sense told her the lights were probably lanterns carried by outdoor servants attending to their duties. at last she heard a clock in one of the corridors strike twelve, and as the last stroke died away a mellow voice, which she recognised as that of don carlos, rang out in song in the courtyard beneath her window. he sang in spanish, accompanying himself on a guitar, and although myra could understand but few of the words she knew he was singing a passionate love song, serenading her, and she was conscious of a heart thrill. she rose and moved involuntarily towards the open window, where she stood listening, the prey of mingled emotions. it did not occur to her for some minutes that her figure would be silhouetted against the light, and when the thought did flash across her mind she moved back quickly and switched off the lights, but crept back again to the casement to listen again to the thrilling song until the last notes died away. "adios, mia cara!" said the voice below, and there was silence. strangely stirred, myra undressed in the dark and crept into bed, but, tired though she was, it was a long time before she could compose herself to sleep. "am i falling in love with him?" she asked herself, and did not answer her own question. she was inclined to laugh at herself next morning, and to chide herself for being sentimental, and the opportunity to administer another reproof speedily presented itself. "did you hear someone singing a serenade in the courtyard last night, myra, after we went to bed?" one of the guests inquired in don carlos's hearing. "yes, i thought of throwing him a few coppers in the hope he would stop and let me get to sleep," drawled myra, and had the satisfaction of seeing don carlos's lips tighten and his black brows draw together in a frown. "if you are prepared to run the risk of being waylaid by el diablo cojuelo, i suggest that you go riding and allow me to show you the neighbourhood," don carlos said. "i have half a dozen good horses in my stables." myra, tony, and several others who were keen on horse exercise welcomed the proposal with enthusiasm, and went to change into riding kit. their ride was quite uneventful. they saw some fine mountain scenery, but no sign of any brigands. they did, however, meet a squad of mounted carabineros, who saluted them respectfully, and with the leader of whom don carlos paused to chat. "you will be relieved to learn that the officer reports that everything seems quiet, and he has no news of el diablo cojuelo having been seen in the neighbourhood for many weeks," he reported when he rejoined his guests. "but i doubt if he has taken fright, as the captain suggests. he isn't easily scared." he made no attempt to make love to myra that day, but often she caught him looking at her with an expression that baffled her and made her feel vaguely uneasy. he looked, somehow, like a schoolboy with a sphinx-like expression, planning mischief and inwardly enjoying some private joke. "he is quite the most exasperating man i have ever met--and the most interesting," myra reflected, as she dressed for dinner that evening. "i wonder if he really has a heart, or if he is acting all the time?" dinner was served in the great hall that night, and once again it was a triumph for the chef and the host. during the meal an orchestra, composed of some of the servants on the estate, clad in picturesque national costumes, discoursed sweet, haunting, heart-stirring music. outside, the courtyard was festooned with coloured lights and around lighted braziers groups of men, women and children, in multi-coloured garments, were gathered, feasting, singing, playing and dancing. "to-night, if it pleases you, we will mingle with my people, who are holding festival in your honour," said don carlos when dinner was over. "i would advise you all to put on your warmest wraps, for the night winds here in the sierra morena are treacherous." the night seemed quite mild, but myra took her host's advice and put on her fur coat before going out into the courtyard to watch the performance. don carlos and his english guests were greeted with cheers when they appeared in the patio. a bearded patriarch, who looked as if he had stepped out of a picture by velasquez, stepped forward and delivered a flowery speech of welcome, then comely maidens and dark-visaged youths performed a picturesque dance to the accompaniment of stringed instruments. the set dance over, groups of men sang old spanish and basque folk songs, after which don carlos's own orchestra, which had played in the great hall during dinner, took up a position in the centre of the patio and dancing became general. "come, let's mingle with the throng and take part in the fun," cried don carlos gaily. "come, myra, let me teach you the spanish dance the boys and girls are dancing so merrily." he did not wait for an answer, and before myra quite realised what was happening she found herself being whirled round in his arms in the midst of the motley crowd. "don't hold me so tightly, don carlos, and don't dance so fast," she protested breathlessly, after a few minutes. "i am nearly suffocated in this fur coat, and the cobbles are hurting my feet. one can't dance on cobble-stones in satin shoes." "myra, darling, the delight of holding you in my arms made me forget all else," don carlos responded, slackening his pace. "i'll guide you out of the crowd, and make love to you instead of dancing." "i don't want you to make love to me," said myra, "but i shall be glad to get out of this crush, for i hate being elbowed about." "make way, good people, make way for the señorita who will soon be your mistress!" cried don carlos in spanish, and those around stopped dancing to cheer. just as the couple were free of the crowd, all the electric lights, both in the castle and the courtyard, were suddenly extinguished, and at the same moment uproar broke out at the courtyard gates and shots were fired. "the bandits! el diablo cojuelo and his men!" a voice screamed. instantly all was confusion. women shrieked and ran in all directions in the darkness. "i am here! rally to your master, don carlos!" shouted don carlos. "rally to don carlos!" almost immediately he was surrounded, not by his own servants, but by a body of masked and armed men. myra clung to his arm, but was snatched away from him, someone enveloped her head in a cloak, she was picked up in strong arms as if she were a baby and carried quickly for some distance. she struggled fiercely, but the cloak that enveloped her, to say nothing of her own fur coat, hampered her movements, and she was almost as helpless as an infant in the arms of its nurse. her captor halted for a moment, growled out some orders breathlessly in spanish, and myra found herself dumped down on the seat of a motor car, which immediately started off at a rapid rate. half stifled, she tore the cloak from her face, and as she did so an arm encircled her. "el diablo cojuelo has captured the prize of his lifetime!" said a deep voice triumphantly. myra's heart seemed to miss a beat as she felt the outlaw's arm tighten around her, panic seized her, and she had to fight the inclination to scream, and scream and scream. "you are trembling, little lady," said the muffled voice of her captor. "do not be so sore afraid. i am not the fiend people make el diablo cojuelo out to be, and will take care of so precious a treasure. don carlos will ransom you, but perhaps when you have seen me and my mountain nest you will not want to be ransomed." myra's natural courage began to reassert itself, and she was ashamed of having displayed any signs of fear. "displayed" is hardly the word, for the inside of the car, which was hurtling along at great speed, was so dark that she could not even see the shape of the man whose arm encircled her, and she knew he could not see her. somehow, the brigand's voice, muffled though it was--as if he were speaking with something over his face--struck her as vaguely familiar, and as myra collected her scattered wits it occurred to her that el diablo cojuelo had spoken in english. "a spanish brigand who speaks english!" she exclaimed aloud, and cojuelo laughed. "si, señorita!" he answered. "so we shall be able to understand each other. don carlos de ruiz taught me english, and i imitate his voice and accent when i am speaking your language. we are really very good friends, don carlos and i, and he bears me no ill-will. i provide him with amusement, and he would be sorry to see me captured." "he will certainly bear you ill-will for having kidnapped me, and make every effort to kill you," retorted myra, recognising that cojuelo's muffled voice did resemble that of don carlos. "because he loves you?" queried cojuelo, with a chuckle. "you think he will be mad because i have robbed him of his heart's desire?" "how do you know that he loves me?" asked myra in amazement. she was no longer terrified, and had recovered her nerve, but she still found it difficult to believe she was not dreaming. it seemed more like a nightmare than actuality that she should be sitting in a pitch-dark car, talking of love and don carlos to a spanish outlaw who had captured her, and whose arm encircled her waist. she was not conscious of fear now, but cojuelo's reply to her question scared her more than a little. "sweet señorita, what man with a heart and eyesight could resist falling in love with so beautiful a woman?" he responded. "perhaps i shall fall in love with you myself and refuse to surrender you, no matter how great a ransom is offered. for years i have been seeking my ideal, but not one of the many women i have captured in my time pleased me enough to make me wish to keep her. you may be different." before myra could find words to reply, the car came to a sudden stop, the door was flung open and a gruff voice growled out a question in spanish which cojuelo answered in the same language. "we will alight now, señorita, and take a little riding exercise," he said to myra. "i know you are an expert horsewoman, for i was near you this morning when you were riding with don carlos, and i know you will have no difficulty in sitting a mule although you are not in riding dress. only mules can negotiate the paths that lead to my mountain nest. come!" chapter xii without a word, myra stepped out, to see by the headlights of the car that she was apparently in a mountain gorge, and to see a group of masked and armed men standing beside some mules. she turned to look at her captor as she reached the front of the car, and found that cojuelo was wearing what looked like a monk's cowl which completely covered his face, and which accounted for his muffled voice. she saw that he was tall, but that was all. cojuelo snapped out some orders, and a soberly-dressed, elderly man, wearing no mask and carrying in his arms a number of parcels, appeared out of the darkness and got into the car, which turned and sped away. "bien!" exclaimed cojuelo, as the motor disappeared. "everything is working according to plan. in the unlikely event of the car being stopped, it is found to contain garcilaso, don carlos's steward, returning from doing some marketing in the city. and who would guess that the fair señorita had been spirited away in one of don carlos's own cars?" "so some of don carlos's servants are in your pay?" exclaimed myra. "they are all in my pay, sweet lady, and every man knows it is as much as his life is worth to betray me," cojuelo answered, with a triumphant laugh. "but we waste time, and must not take the risk, remote as it is, of being seen. let me assist you to mount." he picked myra up in his arms and swung her up without any apparent effort on to the saddle of a mule which one of the men had led forward, mounted another mule himself, and gave some rapid orders. "follow me and ride carefully, señorita, for there are some steep and dangerous paths to negotiate," he called to myra. "mendoza will lead your mule at the most perilous places. _avanzar!_" to anyone less accustomed to riding and to taking risks than myra, that night ride through the mountains of the sierra morena would have been a blood-curdling and nerve-shattering experience. often she had to guide her mule along a rough path barely a couple of yards wide, with a sheer drop of hundreds of feet on one side, a path where a stumble or a false step on the part of the animal would have meant certain death. yet myra was conscious of no sense of fear now, and the dangers only made her pulse beat faster and stirred her blood. but it was no easy task riding a mule along precipitous paths and keeping her seat while slithering down slopes, clad as she was in only a filmy evening frock and a fur coat, and she cried out in protest at last: "how much further, señor cojuelo? i cannot sit this ungainly brute much longer in these clothes." "courage, sweet lady, we have but a little further to go," cojuelo called back to her over his shoulder. he spoke truly. a few minutes later the party halted in a narrow, pitch-dark ravine, and myra was lifted from her mule. "take my arm, señorita, lest you stumble in the darkness on the rough ground," said the muffled voice of el diablo cojuelo. "the entrance to my mountain eyrie is narrow and unprepossessing, but i promise you that you shall find comfort within." he pressed the switch of an electric torch as he spoke, and guided myra over rocky ground to what seemed a mere cleft in a wall of rock. "you will notice that this entrance to my lair is only wide enough to allow of the passage of one person at a time," he resumed. "here a handful of men could defy an army corps, and there are other means of entry--and other ways of escape. i give you welcome, sweet lady, to the fortress of el diablo cojuelo." myra, again with the sensation that the whole affair was a sort of fantastic dream, squeezed through the cleft revealed by the light of the electric torch, advanced two or three yards, passed through another cleft at right-angles to the first, and stopped at cojuelo's bidding. "you perceive, señorita, that we seem to have come to a dead end," said the bandit, flashing the light about. "what appears to be a solid wall of rock confronts us. it is actually a cunningly-contrived door giving entrance to a series of caves which nature must surely have constructed for my use. and el diablo cojuelo has improved on nature. _he aqui!_" with his foot he pressed some hidden spring or lever on the ground, and a massive door swung open, revealing to the astonished eyes of myra a big, irregularly-shaped room that looked as if it had been hewn out of the solid rock, a room furnished with roughly-constructed chairs and a settee on which there were many cushions, and with many rugs on the rocky floor. most amazing feature of all, the place was lighted with electricity and warmed by an electric radiator. "i suppose i am awake and not dreaming!" exclaimed myra, moving forward and gazing round with wondering eyes. "this is more amazing than the castle of don carlos. are you a magician as well as a brigand?" "both, señorita," cojuelo answered, as he closed the secret door, "but there is nothing magical about it, after all. it was a simple matter to have an electric light plant smuggled up here in sections. it was an equally simple matter to obtain rugs and cushions from the castillo de ruiz, since all the servants of don carlos, as i have told you, are in my pay." he strode forward to the table and touched a bell, and almost immediately an ancient woman with a wrinkled monkey-like, nut-brown face, tanned by wind and weather, appeared through an opening concealed by a curtain in the further wall. she was obviously of great age, but her eyes were bright and sparkling with intelligence, and she was active in her movements. "this is mother dolores, who will attend you," cojuelo explained, after giving the woman some instructions in her native tongue. "she has a change of clothing and refreshments in readiness for you. i will leave you in her charge while i attend to the disposal of my other captives." he disappeared through the aperture in the wall, and mother dolores, after inspecting myra appraisingly and admiringly, gabbling away in spanish idioma meanwhile, indicated to the fair prisoner that she wished her to accompany her. she led the way through a regular maze of crooked passages, and myra saw that cojuelo's mountain lair was a strange freak of nature, probably the result of a volcanic upheaval or an earthquake in some prehistoric age. it was a series of caves connected with fissures, a sort of irregular honeycomb of rock. "apartiamento--dormitorio," were the only words myra understood of the flood dolores let loose as she ushered her into one of the cave-rooms, and by pantomime indicated that she wished myra to undress. the rocky walls of the cave-bedroom were hidden beneath hangings of moire silk, the floor was thickly carpeted, and the place was equipped with an oak bedstead and some small pieces of roughly-constructed furniture. but what made myra gasp in amazement was to see her own silk dressing-gown and the nightie she had worn the night before lying on the eiderdown bedspread, together with other garments, while on the primitive dressing-table stood her dressing-case. "incredible!" she exclaimed. "these things were in my bed-room at the castillo de ruiz only an hour or two ago!" "si, si, señorita, el castillo de ruiz," said dolores, nodding her head and showing her toothless gums in a grin. "maravilloso! etra vez el bueno maestro cojuelo." "cojuelo boasted that all the servants of don carlos are in his pay, and it must be true," thought myra. "these things must have been taken from my room before the raid, and the servants probably knew el diablo cojuelo was going to kidnap me.... surely i have nothing to fear from a man who takes such trouble to ensure that i shall be comfortable? and yet..." dolores scuffled out, still gabbling unintelligibly in spanish, but reappeared almost at once with a jug of hot water. she stood watching myra with mingled curiosity and admiration as her fair charge washed after leisurely undressing, then put on her chic night-dress and dressing-gown, and a filmy, attractive boudoir cap. "señor cojuelo said something about refreshments," said myra, hoping she would make mother dolores understand, and trying to remember some of the spanish words she had learned. "i should like a cup of coffee--café--or a glass of vino, and a cigarette--cigarillo. entender?" "si, si, señorita," answered dolores. "café, vino, aguardiene, cigarillo, todo pronto." she opened the door and made signals to myra that she wished her to return with her to the outer apartment, at the same time letting loose another torrent of words. "perhaps meals in bed-rooms are charged extra!" myra remarked, and laughed at the idea. she was conscious of no sensation of actual fear, but she was curious and apprehensive as to how el diablo cojuelo would behave, remembering his reputation and his hint that he might fall in love with her and refuse to surrender her no matter how great the ransom offered. still smiling, myra slid her bare feet into her bedroom slippers and accompanied mother dolores back through the maze of crooked, rocky passages to the outer apartment. "comer e heber e fumar, señorita," said dolores, indicating a tray set on a stool close by the electric heater. on the tray stood a steaming jug of coffee, a flagon of cognac, a plate of biscuits, a cup and saucer, and a silver cigarette-box. "more magic!" commented myra, as dolores set a chair for her and poured out a glass of cognac which she insisted upon myra drinking at once. then she poured out coffee, gabbled something about the "bueno maestro," and withdrew. left alone, myra sipped the fragrant coffee and looked about her with interest. "this is certainly brigandage up to date!" she reflected. "i wonder what manner of man el diablo cojuelo is?" a minute or two later she heard a movement behind her and glanced over her shoulder expecting to see mother dolores, but saw instead the hooded figure of el diablo cojuelo. instinctively, she drew her silken dressing-gown closer around her and started to her feet. "i am sorry if i startled you, señorita," said cojuelo. "it is a delightful surprise to find you like this." "dolores seemed to be insisting that i must come here for my coffee," explained myra, recovering her composure. "i instructed madre dolores to ask you to do me the honour of returning here to have a talk with me before you retired, señorita, forgetting that you do not understand much spanish," responded cojuelo. "i hardly hoped to find you in négligé. you are a vision of beauty to ravish the heart of any man, sweet lady." "thanks for the compliment, señor," said myra coldly. "if i had understood you wished to talk to me, i should not have prepared to retire. surely anything you have to say will keep until to-morrow. meanwhile, i shall be thankful for a cigarette." "pardon!" exclaimed cojuelo, turning quickly to pick up the silver cigarette-box from the table, and proffering it. "your favourite brand, you perceive. you will give el diablo cojuelo credit, i hope, for making provision for your comfort." "you certainly seem to be something of a magician," commented myra, as she helped herself to a cigarette and accepted a light. "perhaps you are in league with the devil, and that is why you are known as el diablo cojuelo! i should be interested to know how you managed to get some of my clothes here, together with my toilet requisites." "that was not the work of the devil, señorita," the hooded figure answered, with a muffled laugh, "el diablo cojuelo thinks of everything, and had made his preparations in advance. did i not tell you all the servants of el castillo de ruiz were in my pay? it was a simple matter, therefore, to have some of your things smuggled out of the castle before the raid. pray be seated, señorita." he waved his hand invitingly towards the couch which was drawn up close to the electric heater, and myra, reflecting that it was in keeping with the rest of the fantastic, dream-like adventure that she, clad only in a nightdress and dressing-gown, should be talking to a hooded bandit in an electrically-lighted room in the heart of a mountain, seated herself. "i suppose i should thank you for being so thoughtful," she remarked, with a tinge of irony in her sweet voice. "am i to understand that even the english-speaking maid at the castillo de ruiz is in your pay?" "even she, señorita, and i reproach myself--i who have boasted that i think of everything--for not having kidnapped her at the same time as you, so that we should have had no language difficulty such as has occurred with madre dolores. if you wish it, i will kidnap her to-morrow." "please don't trouble, señor. i can't believe she is in your pay. she seemed afraid and crossed herself when she mentioned your name. you might frighten her to death. incidentally, do you wear your disguise all the time, even when you are safe here in your mountain lair? do you look so much like a devil that you are afraid to show your face?" she looked challengingly at the hooded figure of her captor as she asked the questions. his cowl had two holes cut for the eyes and a slit at the mouth, and she was wondering what manner of face it concealed. "the señorita pays me the compliment of wishing to see me without disguise!" exclaimed cojuelo. "sweet lady, are you not afraid you may fall in love with your captor?" "i think i can take the risk," retorted myra drily. "it is more than a risk," rejoined cojuelo, "but i will discard my disguise with pleasure. behold el diablo cojuelo!" he flung off his cowl and robe, and myra sprang to her feet with a cry of amazement and her hands went convulsively to her breast. for she found herself looking into the smiling and triumphant eyes of don carlos de ruiz. chapter xiii "don carlos!" she gasped. "you! but i don't understand." "i am el diablo cojuelo, dear myra," explained don carlos, obviously enjoying the sensation he had created. "i feared you had guessed my secret." "so the whole affair, i take it, is an elaborate practical joke?" myra queried after a pause, dropping back into her seat and forcing a laugh. "el diablo cojuelo, the outlaw, is merely a creature of your own imagination?" "i am el diablo cojuelo," repeated don carlos. "i am a dual personality. at my castle and at court i am don carlos de ruiz, governor of a province and an administrator of the laws. here in my mountain eyrie i am cojuelo, the outlaw, acknowledging no laws save those i make myself." "i still do not understand," remarked myra, with perplexity in her blue eyes. "do you mean to say you lead a double life and occasionally masquerade as a brigand, without anyone knowing that don carlos and cojuelo are one and the same? is there no one aware of your identity?" "many of my people are aware of my identity, but none would betray me, even if put to the torture," replied don carlos. "those who are in the secret vastly enjoy the way in which i hoodwink the authorities. they enjoy the joke of my offer of a reward for the capture of el diablo cojuelo, dead or alive, and my periodical 'searches' for the outlaw." "but what is the idea of it all?" inquired myra. "it seems foolishness to me, but perhaps it flatters your vanity to be able to go about scaring women and kidnapping girls." there was scorn instead of bewilderment in her voice and eyes now, and don carlos's pale face flushed slightly. "before the coming of el diablo cojuelo there were men in this province who had enriched themselves at the cost of the peasants, cheated farmers out of their land, and made them little better than serfs," he explained quietly and deliberately. "the law could not touch these vampires, parasites, money-lenders and profiteers. cojuelo came upon the scene, bled these rogues as they had bled the peasants, plundered their houses, spirited them away, and held them to ransom." "really! quite a profitable hobby, i suppose!" myra remarked. "quite--and useful, to boot," responded don carlos, his face now expressionless. "with the money which i have wrung from the spoilers i have been able to restore their lands to many of the people without much cost to myself, to pay their debts and aid them to escape from the thraldom of blood-sucking money-lenders and tyrannical masters. i have also made it possible for men to marry the girls of their choice, in cases where the parents objected. a threat from el diablo cojuelo to carry off a girl if she is not allowed to marry the man she loves, is usually enough to bring her parents to their senses." "so, if i understand you aright, you are a sort of benevolent brigand, doing good without much risk or expense to yourself?" remarked myra. "a sort of modern claude duval--although he was a highway-man and not a kidnapper." "it pleases you to be ironic, myra," responded don carlos. "expense does not concern me, for i am very wealthy, but it pleases me to deprive the blood-suckers of their ill-gotten gains. as for the risk, i suggest you underestimate it. there is a price on the head of el diablo cojuelo, as i have mentioned, and the military have orders to shoot at sight. apart from that, however, if my identity were betrayed, my wealth and position would not save me from being cast into prison. i might even be condemned to death." "how amusing!" commented myra, still inclined to be scornful. "what you say may be true, but it does not explain or excuse your conduct in bringing me here as your captive. i was your guest, and therefore you were responsible for my safety." "i warned you that el diablo cojuelo might carry you off and teach you how to love," answered don carlos, his grave face illuminated by a boyish, impish smile. "oh, don't talk nonsense!" exclaimed myra impatiently. "you cannot excuse your conduct. i haven't been robbing the poor or anything of the sort, and if you attempt to keep me here there will be trouble. tony will move heaven and earth to find me." "i could excuse myself, if excuses were necessary, by explaining that i have captured girls before to save them from marrying men they did not love," said don carlos. "el diablo cojuelo fell in love with you at first sight, and will prevent you from marrying the man to whom you are betrothed but do not love." "don carlos, please be sensible," pleaded myra, at heart a little fearful now. "don't you realise that this escapade may have serious consequences for you? tony is sure to communicate with the british ambassador, and the affair may become one of international importance. the best thing you can do is to take me back to-morrow morning, and explain that the whole affair was an elaborately-planned practical joke." "i am quite agreeable to do that, myra, provided you promise to marry me and confess that you love me," said don carlos. "we can explain that we succeeded in escaping from the clutches of el diablo cojuelo, or, if you prefer it, you can tell mr. antony standish that i rescued you, and you have fallen in love with your rescuer." "i shall do nothing of the sort," exclaimed myra with spirit. "in that case, myra, you will remain here as the captive of el diablo cojuelo, and the outlaw will try to teach you the meaning of love and passion, teach you to respond to the call of your heart--if you have a heart. you shall have your first lesson now, my sweet captive." he sat down beside myra on the couch as he spoke, flung his arms around her and drew her into a close embrace in spite of her frantic struggles, crushing her close to his breast and kissing her lips, her cheeks, and her breast. myra screamed breathlessly, but he only laughed at her. "why waste your breath, sweet lady?" he laughed. "no one can hear your cries, except, perhaps, mother dolores; but if all my band were within hearing not one man would even think of daring to attempt to intervene, no, not even if you were his own daughter. you are completely at my mercy." "let me go. oh, please, please, let me go!" gasped myra, still vainly striving to break from his embrace. "surely you won't be coward enough to take advantage of my helplessness!" "only confess that you love me, myra darling, and i will do anything you ask," don carlos replied, his deep voice vibrant with passion, his dark eyes aglow with ardour. "only confess yourself conquered." "i won't! i won't! i'd rather die! i hate you, hate you!" stormed myra gaspingly, still struggling. "let me go, you brute. you are hurting me." don carlos relaxed his hold, but restrained myra when she would have risen from the couch. "myra, darling, why do you persist in resisting me and refusing to listen to the call of love?" he asked gently. "do you realise that your resistance is but adding fuel to the fires of my passion? you drove me almost mad when you coquetted with me aboard the yacht, made me crazy with desire, then laughed at me. i am but human, and my longing for you is not to be denied. i vowed i would make you mine if i had to break every law of god and man. you are mine now, my lovely, adorable myra, my heart's delight, mine to do with as i will, to take or break." the quietly spoken words struck dread into myra's heart. it seemed to her that a remorseless gleam had crept into the bright eyes of don carlos. intuitively she knew that he was determined to impose his will upon her, and mingled with her dread there was resentment. "is it useless to appeal to your better nature, to your chivalry?" she asked quickly, her voice tremulous. "is it useless to appeal to you again to surrender to the call of love?" countered don carlos. "myra, mia cara, every fibre of my being is pulsing with love for you, and my heart is craving for the joy and rapture that you alone can give. look into my eyes, mia cara, and whisper that you love me." he laid his hands on myra's shoulders as he spoke, compelling her to meet his burning glance, and myra felt as if she were being hypnotised. "you love me, myra darling, and it is only pride that prevents you from confessing yourself conquered," went on the caressing voice. "when you are mine, you will whisper you are glad that i conquered you. you are lovely, my dear, seductive, adorable prisoner, and the beauty of you sets me aching with longing." his hands slid caressingly from myra's shoulders down her arms to her hands, which he raised to his lips and then drew round his neck. myra was trembling, and her breath was coming and going unsteadily, and she felt as if she had lost all powers of resistance, felt as if she had been drugged. she closed her eyes, and a gasping sigh broke from her lips as don carlos strained her close to his breast again, murmuring endearments. "let me set your heart afire with burning kisses," he murmured. "i will kiss the heart out of you, sweet one, and kiss it back again white hot with my own love and ardour. give me back kiss for kiss, beloved." again he was kissing her, hungrily, passionately, yet tenderly withal. myra's senses were reeling. he did seem to be drawing the very heart out of her with his lips, and drugging her senses. she felt as if she were suffocating, and again she began to struggle involuntarily after a few minutes as he drew her down with him on to the couch. "you are stifling me," she panted. "let me go." don carlos released her at once, and she rose to her feet, pressing her hands instinctively to her heaving bosom, as if to try to still the wild throbbing of her heart. her lovely face was flushed, her breath was coming and going in sobbing gasps, her eyes, dark with emotion, were feverishly bright, and her whole body seemed afire. "let me go now, please," she added gaspingly. "i can bear no more. i--i think i am going to faint." she swayed as she spoke, and don carlos was on his feet in an instant, and had thrown his arm around her lest she should collapse. "lie down again for a few minutes, beloved, until you recover," he said quickly. he settled myra back again among the cushions on the couch, and insisted upon her drinking a glass of aguardiente, which made her feel more feverish than ever but revived her and dispelled the faintness. "did i kiss you too hungrily, darling, and feast myself too long on your sweet lips without pausing for breath?" asked don carlos, after a pause, when he saw that myra was recovering. he, too, was flushed and rather breathless, and his long, sinewy hands were trembling slightly. "myra, beloved, have my kisses fired your heart?" "you have hurt me," equivocated myra, avoiding his glowing eyes. "i feel faint and exhausted. oh, surely i have suffered enough to-night! my strength is spent. oh, surely you won't be so cruel as to take further advantage of my helplessness?" don carlos sighed heavily, and ran his fingers through his hair. "i did not mean to hurt you, and had forgotten that you must be weary," he said, after a moment of hesitation. "i will put you to bed, beloved, and to-morrow you will tell me that you love me." he bent down and picked myra up as if she were a baby, cradling her in his arms and smiling down into her startled blue eyes. "always, since our first meeting, i have longed to hold you in my arms like this and to feel that you were wholly and completely mine," he murmured, as he caressed myra's cheek with his lips. "you are very beautiful, my sweet love. the sweetness and loveliness of you entrances and enraptures my heart. i shall spend my life admiring and adoring and worshipping, exploring and delighting in the loveliness of you, my heart's delight. do you not feel, myra mia, that here in your lover's arms and on my breast you have found the home of your heart?" yet again myra felt he was sapping her powers of resistance, casting a spell over her, and she lay passive in his strong arms, breathing gaspingly. "let me go," she pleaded brokenly. "please let me go!" "as you wish," said don carlos. "i shall put my sweet baby to bed." he carried myra through the winding, rocky passages to her room, at the door of which madre dolores was waiting. the old woman cackled with laughter at sight of them, and rubbed her skinny hands together delightedly. "io! i see i shall not be wanted, master!" she chuckled, and scuffled away, her skinny shoulders shaking a half-suppressed merriment which betrayed her thoughts more than words could have done. dread gripped myra's heart as don carlos carried her into the bedroom and set her down gently on the side of the bed. every vestige of colour had drained out of her lovely face and she was trembling violently. "do not be afraid, myra darling," don carlos murmured caressingly. "i can be gentle as any woman, and would not harm my precious treasure. are you afraid that the sight of you will be so enticing to your lover when he takes off your dressing-gown that he will not be able to tear himself away from you?" "don carlos, it isn't fair!" burst out myra tremulously. "please go!" "not until i have put my sweet baby to bed, tucked her in, and kissed her good-night," said don carlos, and myra knew that further protest would be useless. so she had, perforce, to submit to his taking off her dressing-gown, and the glowing ardour and admiration in his dark eyes when she stood before him clad only in her filmy, sleeveless "nightie" brought the hot colour flooding back to her fair face again. "once before, myra mia, i have seen you like this--on that night in scotland when i put my letter on your pillow," breathed don carlos. "surely you are the loveliest and most seductive woman in the world!" he swept myra into his arms again and kissed her repeatedly before at last laying her down on the bed. in a sort of panic myra slid herself under the bedclothes and begged him breathlessly to leave her, but he paid no heed. he bent over her, his dark eyes glowing like twin flames, and laid his cheek against her own. "bid me stay, beloved," he whispered. "give me the love for which my whole being is craving. bid me stay." chapter xiv drowsily, myra opened her eyes, awakened by the clatter made by madre dolores as she set down a tray on which was a breakfast of coffee and rolls by her bedside. "buenos dias, señorita," said dolores, as myra, unable to realise for a few moments where she was, blinked at her sleepily and dazedly. "buenos dias," repeated myra mechanically. "let me see, that is spanish for 'good morning,'" she added to herself, stretching luxuriously and yawning. "i wonder where the maid is who speaks english?" and then the mists of sleep lifted suddenly as she sat up in bed and she remembered everything vividly. dolores, eyeing her curiously, wondered why the english señorita blushed furiously, wondered what she could have said to cause the fair señorita such obvious embarrassment. "possibly it is not anything i have said which caused her to blush," reflected the old woman. "maybe she is thinking of last night, remembering that i saw the master carrying her to bed, or perhaps she is thinking of something that happened afterwards." dolores was not so wide of the mark. it was recollection of the events of the preceding night that had brought the burning blush to myra's cheeks, and the thought of the interpretation the old woman might have put on what she had seen and heard. "just as well, perhaps, that she does not understand english, as she was probably eavesdropping all the time," thought myra. she was amazed that she should have been able to sleep soundly after her emotional ordeal, until she remembered that when at last don carlos had desisted in his attempt to make her surrender herself voluntarily and had left her, madre dolores had reappeared and insisted upon her drinking something out of a glass. the "something" was a sweet and pungent cordial, which probably contained some soporific drug. when the mists of sleep cleared away completely from her mind, myra found it difficult to analyse her feelings, but her predominant emotion was resentment against the man who had made love to her so lawlessly and had almost imposed his will on her. mingled with her resentment was something akin to fear, the haunting dread that her ordeal of the previous night might be a prelude to something worse. the hot flush of shame stained her fair face again as she realised she had been on the very verge of surrendering herself. "i hate him! i hate him!" myra told herself as she dressed. "i'll kill myself rather than confess i love him, and let him gloat over his conquest.... what should i do? should i promise to marry him on condition that he takes me back to-day, and then denounce him to the authorities when we reach the castle? that would be something like treachery, but it was treachery on his part to kidnap me while i was his guest.... i shall wait and see how he behaves before deciding." she had to wait longer than she anticipated, for she found that "el diablo cojuelo" had left his stronghold. failing to make herself understood, dolores fetched an old man who looked like a comic opera pirate and who could speak a little english. "el bueno maestro--the boss--he go away sun-up but will come back pretty-dam-quick, yes, i think," the man explained, with many bows and smiles. actually it was not english he spoke but a queer mixture of spanish and american. "the boss cojuelo, he makka the business with the ingles at el castillo de ruiz. you no need to have the fear, señorita. you alla right, yes, sure aqui. i spik the ingles all right--yes? vos comprender? bein! the boss, the maestro, he come back all right, señorita. yes, allaright, tank you ver' much, please!" left alone in the outer room, myra walked up and down restlessly, wondering why he had gone back to the castillo de ruiz. the idea of attempting to escape occurred to her, and, after satisfying herself she was not being watched, she went to the cunningly-contrived door which seemed to be part of the wall of rock. it was difficult enough to determine which part of the wall was the door, and when she did discover the seam that indicated it, myra could find no lock, lever or spring to open the portal. baffled, she wandered through the maze of rocky passages, and encountered madre dolores, who, realising that she was on a sort of tour of exploration, showed her various cell-like apartments, gabbling away volubly but unintelligibly all the while, before conducting her to a great cave at the end of the labyrinth, a cave in which there were mules and asses tethered to rings fixed into the walls, and men of all ages and in all sorts of garb were taking their ease, smoking, drinking and playing cards or throwing dice. at sight of myra all the men who were awake rose and bowed respectfully, and the old brigand who could speak some english-american lingo stepped forward. "salve, señorita!" he exclaimed. "we give the welcomes and salutations to our reina, the consort of our boss el diablo cojuelo." myra turned and fled in confusion, blushing hotly, and found her way back to the other big apartment. she had no watch and no means of judging the passage of time, since no daylight could be seen, but she guessed it must be evening when madre dolores served a third meal. she was toying with the food that had been set before her when she heard a sharp click, the secret door swung open, and a hooded figure stepped into the room. "i have brought you your betrothed, myra," said don carlos, after quickly closing the door behind him and throwing off his disguise. "i have brought mr. antony standish here, and i propose to test the strength of his love for you and your love for him." "how interesting!" drawled myra, with forced calmness. "where is tony, and how did you manage to capture him? i should have thought the whole district by now would be full of police and soldiers hunting for el diablo cojuelo." "mr. standish has been conveyed to a cell through the entrance used by my men," answered don carlos. "unfortunately the messages summoning the police and the military, and reporting that the beautiful señorita rostrevor and don carlos de ruiz have been kidnapped, do not appear to have been delivered. possibly the servants of don carlos, sent to summon aid, were intercepted by the followers of el diablo cojuelo." "quite possibly!" agreed myra, satirically, meeting the challenging glance of his twinkling eyes unflinchingly. "but how did you manage to capture tony? didn't he make a fight of it?" "a masked and armed emissary of el diablo cojuelo by some mysterious means found his way into el castillo de ruiz, surprised mr. standish in his own room and demanded that he should accompany him to arrange terms for your ransom. needless to say, i was the masked emissary. mr. standish demanded that his own safety be guaranteed, and it was not until i sardonically suggested he was more concerned about himself than about his fiancée, and was probably content to leave the beautiful señorita rostrevor to the tender mercies of el diablo cojuelo rather than endure any personal hardship, that i persuaded him to accompany me." "well, the fact that he accompanied you, without any guarantee of his personal safety, shows how much he loves me," commented myra. "h'm! that remains to be proved, but i promise you he shall be put to the test," retorted don carlos. "you, of course, can simplify the situation by telling him you have fallen in love with your captor and do not wish to be ransomed." "i can further simplify the situation by telling tony that el diablo cojuelo is don carlos de ruiz," said myra. "no, myra, that would complicate matters, since it might necessitate my keeping standish a prisoner here indefinitely in order to prevent him from denouncing me to the authorities. give me your word of honour not to reveal my identity to standish, and i will have him brought in here to strike a bargain for you in your presence. you should be interested to know what value your english lover places on you." "i don't think you are playing fair," said myra, after much hesitation. "however, i promise, if you wish, not to reveal your identity to tony to-night, but i shall not promise not to denounce you as soon as i regain my freedom." "thank you, myra mia, that is sufficient promise," said don carlos, and laughed as he resumed his disguise. "i think i can promise you some amusement and enlightenment." he looked again a mysterious and forbidding figure as he took a seat at the table and rang a bell and gave orders, after laying an automatic pistol in front of him. seated on the couch some distance away, myra had the sensation of watching and taking part in a play or a game of make-believe when, after a few minutes, tony standish, guarded by two villainous-looking but picturesquely-attired brigands, was marched into the apartment. tony's face was pale and he looked ruffled. at sight of myra he gave a gasp of relief. "thank heaven you are safe, darling!" he exclaimed. "i have been crazy with anxiety about you. how have these bally ruffians been treating you?" "i have had a ghastly time, tony," answered myra. "i haven't actually been ill-treated, but this man"--she nodded towards the hooded figure at the table--"has been making love to me and trying to take advantage of my helplessness." "are you the fellow who calls himself el diablo cojuelo?" demanded tony, addressing the hooded figure. "do you speak any english?" "i am he who is known as el diablo cojuelo, señor, and i promise you that you will find me a veritable devil if you do not agree to my terms," answered don carlos. "oh, yes, i speak english. how else could i have made love to the señorita rostrevor?" "how dare you make love to miss rostrevor?" blustered tony. "i warn you you shall suffer for this outrage. we are british subjects, and the british government will make your confounded spanish authorities pay the penalty. take off that hood thing and let's have a look at you." it was a futile sort of speech, but tony was conscious that he was at a disadvantage and he was trying to bluff. "i am afraid the shock of seeing my face might be too much for you, señor," retorted don carlos, with a muffled laugh. "but i am willing to face you as man to man, if the idea is acceptable to you, and to fight you with such weapons as you may select, or without weapons. i flatter myself i am fairly proficient in your english sport of boxing, if you would prefer a fist fight rather than a duel with swords or pistols. i rather fancy we can settle this matter without calling for the intervention of the british government!" "what are you blathering about?" asked the astonished tony. "why do you want to fight me?" "i am making you what an englishman would surely call a sporting offer, señor," explained don carlos. "i will fight you for miss myra rostrevor. if i beat you, you surrender her to me. if you beat me, i surrender her to you, set you both at liberty, and promise you safe conduct back to el castillo de ruiz without any question of payment of ransom, provided you give me your word of honour not to betray my identity, which i shall reveal to you. is it a bargain?" "but--but--hang it all!--the whole thing's fantastic!" stammered tony, more bewildered than ever. "why should i take the risk of having to surrender miss rostrevor to you? it is an absurd proposal, although you may think it is a sporty offer. i'm not afraid to fight you, but i've got to consider miss rostrevor." "does this proposal appeal to miss rostrevor?" inquired don carlos, turning his hooded head in myra's direction. "it is possible that the risk of becoming the property of el diablo cojuelo is not altogether distasteful to her!" myra did not know how to answer. she felt inclined to bid tony accept the offer, yet she knew it would be an unwomanly thing to do. instinctively she felt, moreover, that in a fight don carlos would prove the victor. "the risk is distasteful to me," she equivocated, after a pause. "you seem to forget that you are completely at my mercy," remarked don carlos drily. "it is an act of grace on my part to offer señor standish the opportunity of fighting for you." "here, cut out this nonsensical talk and drop your pose of being a sportsman," interposed standish. "what's the idea, anyhow? it's heads you win and tails i lose, i suppose, if it comes to fighting you. if i beat you, one of your gang of cut-throat ruffians would probably knife me. i see through your bluff, my man. you are pretending that you want to keep miss rostrevor with the idea of extorting a bigger ransom." "you insult me!" thundered don carlos, springing up from his chair and bringing his clenched fist down on the table with a crash. "el diablo cojuelo has never broken his word and has kept his every promise, yet you dare to suggest he would not fight fair. let me insult you in return, señor standish, by suggesting you are too much of a coward to fight for the girl you profess to love, and would surrender her rather than suffer pain." "confound you, you ruffian! how dare you talk to me in that fashion!" burst out tony, forgetting his position, and taking an impulsive step forward--only to be seized roughly by his guards, one of whom jabbed the point of a knife against his breast. tony flinched, then he shrugged his shoulders and faced the hooded figure disdainfully. "easy to take the high hand and to fling insults at a man when you have a lot of armed ruffians to protect you!" he said sarcastically. "what's the idea, anyhow? why not get down to business instead of spouting a lot of balderdash?" "i can dispense with the protection of the guards," don carlos remarked. "garcilaso and riafio, you will withdraw and leave me to deal with the señor. wait outside," he added in spanish. he resumed his seat as the guards left the room, and myra could see his eyes gleaming like black diamonds through the slits in his mask. "well, how much will you take to set miss rostrevor at liberty?" inquired tony impatiently, after a pause. "i am sick of all this bluff and nonsense, being brought here blind-folded, and all that sort of thing, by another fellow dressed like you. the whole thing seems to me a fake, and it seems to me you must be in league with the authorities, else how could you have a place like this--electric light and all the rest of it--without being spotted?" "strange, is it not, señor standish?" responded don carlos, and his muffled voice had laughter in it. "yet i assure you i am not in league with the authorities, and even don carlos, who prides himself on knowing practically every foot of the mountain range, failed to find my stronghold. even a division of your wonderful british army and all your scotland yard would not discover the nest of el diablo cojuelo. you and miss rostrevor are as completely lost to the world here, and as helpless as you would be if the earth had swallowed you up." "oh, i quite realise you are in a position to dictate terms at present, if that's what you are getting at?" tony exclaimed. "why not get down to business without all this palaver? look here, i'll pay you , pesetas to set miss rostrevor at liberty and give her safe conduct back to the castle de ruiz." "ten thousand pesetas," repeated don carlos. "dios! ten thousand pesetas! miss rostrevor, i congratulate you! ten thousand pesetas are the spanish equivalent of about sixty pounds, in english money. you see what a fabulous value your lover places on you. sixty pounds! you must indeed feel flattered!" tony standish's face crimsoned in annoyance, and a vicious expression flashed into his pale blue eyes. "how much do you want?" he snapped. don carlos did not answer. he rose from the table and walked to and fro, reiterating: "ten thousand pesetas--sixty pounds!" tony cursed under his breath, then his glance fell on the automatic pistol lying on the table, and he snatched it up and levelled it at his captor. "hands up, or i'll put a bullet through you!" he cried excitedly. "ten thousand pesetas--sixty pounds!" sneered don carlos again, paying no heed to the pistol levelled at him. "so that is the value you place on the woman you profess to love!" stung to fury and scarcely realising what he was doing, tony standish fired, but the shot did not seem to take effect, and before he could fire a second time myra sprang at him and snatched the pistol from his hand. as she did so, the two guards dashed into the room, grappled with tony and bore him to the floor. one of them put a knife to the englishman's throat, and twisted round his head to call out something to his master. "no, not now," said don carlos shortly, in spanish. "take him away, manacle him, and guard him closely." the men dragged standish to his feet and hustled him out of the room, and as they did so don carlos reeled, a gasping cry broke from him, and he collapsed in a heap on the floor. chapter xv trembling with excitement and agitation, dazed by the suddenness of the seeming tragedy, myra stood rigid for a few moments, then threw aside the pistol she had snatched from tony and ran to don carlos, flinging herself down on her knees beside him, and tearing off his cowl with shaking hands. "are you badly hurt?" she cried breathlessly, horrified to see that don carlos's pale face was contorted in pain and his eyes were closed. "where are you wounded, don carlos? shall i call for mother dolores?" there was no response save a low moan, don carlos's limbs stretched out as if they were stiffening into the rigour of death, and his head sagged back as myra tried to raise it. temporarily, myra completely lost her head. "speak to me, don carlos," she gasped brokenly. "open your eyes and look at me, darling. oh, surely, surely you can't be going to die! what can i do? oh, my dear, my dear--" her voice failed her, she tried to cry out for help but sobs choked her utterance. don carlos's eyes fluttered open for a moment then closed again. "kiss me, myra darling," he moaned faintly. "kiss me, my sweet love." quivering with emotion, myra bent down and pressed her trembling lips to his--and immediately found herself encircled by two strong arms, found the eyes of the "dying" man open and glowing with life and ardour, found herself crushed in a close embrace, and being kissed, and kissed, and kissed. she struggled, broke free, and scrambled to her feet, her brain in a turmoil, and almost instantly don carlos also was on his feet, laughing exultantly. "myra, darling, surely you can no longer persist in pretending you do not love me," he exclaimed breathlessly. "if you hated me, as you professed, you would have let standish try to fire a second time. i have put you to the test and proved that you love me." myra, agitated, bewildered, torn by conflicting emotions, gazed at him wide-eyed. "but--but aren't you wounded?" she stammered. "have you only been pretending?" "only pretending, myra, but i blame myself for not acting my part for a little longer," answered don carlos. "if only i had waited, pretending for a few minutes longer that i was dying, you would have confessed your love. but your kiss so fired my heart that i forgot my part." he laughed again exultantly and made a movement as if to sweep myra into his arms, but she recoiled from him hastily. anger and resentment at having been fooled swiftly succeeded her bewilderment, and her blue eyes flashed her indignation. "so you have only been making mock of me, playing a part as usual, to flatter your own vanity!" she exclaimed. "i am sorry now that tony's aim was not truer, and that i prevented him from firing a second time." "the result would have been just the same, myra," don carlos responded. "the pistol was loaded with blank cartridges. i deliberately left it within the reach of standish, to see if he would have the nerve to use it, and to see how you would behave if he fired at me. you must admit, myra darling, that you showed more concern for me than for standish, thereby proving that you love me best. dear heart, i shall treasure the memory of the first kiss you gave voluntarily." "i would kiss any ruffian who begged me to do so if i thought he was dying," said myra. "you have no reason to flatter yourself on the success of your play-acting trickery." "myra, don't you think you have resisted me and the call of your heart long enough?" countered don carlos. "must i take still stronger measures to induce you to surrender yourself voluntarily? what if i tell you that i propose to have antony standish branded with hot irons and scourged as a punishment for attempting to kill me, unless you give yourself to me?" "you are talking melodramatic nonsense again," myra protested. "you would surely not be guilty of such devilish cruelty!" "el diablo cojuelo is capable of any devilry," don carlos retorted grimly. "would you sacrifice yourself to save standish if he were willing to accept your sacrifice?" "i suppose i should have no alternative," replied myra, after a pause. "but tony would not accept my sacrifice. he is an englishman, and will never be scared into surrendering me to one whom he believes to be a spanish brigand and outlaw. he loves me." "unless i am much mistaken, he has not even begun to know the meaning of love," said don carlos. "tell me, myra, if my threat to have him flogged and branded makes him offer to surrender you to el diablo cojuelo in order to save himself, will you marry me?" "if i thought he'd sacrifice me to an outlaw to save his own skin, i'd marry you in his presence," exclaimed myra impulsively. "that is a promise," said don carlos quickly. "you shall marry me in his presence if he proves himself a craven. i will see him again now and discover what is in his heart and mind--and i shall have a priest in readiness." "tony will not fail me," said myra bravely, but her heart misgave her, and already she was repenting of her impulsive promise. don carlos rang the bell, and gave some rapid orders to garcilaso, who appeared in answer to the summons. the man at first apparently did not grasp what was required of him, but presently nodded understanding, withdrew and returned in a few minutes, accompanied by riafio, who was carrying a pair of handcuffs and a coil of rope. "what are the handcuffs for?" asked myra apprehensively. "they are for me, dear lady," explained don carlos, with a ghost of a smile. "it would not do to let mr. standish think that even el diablo cojuelo could manage to keep don carlos a prisoner without fettering him. incidentally, i must give myself the appearance of having been roughly handled or standish may smell a rat." he flung off his coat as he spoke, tore off his collar and rumpled his hair, then ordered riafio to handcuff him. "garcilaso and riafio will now thrust me into the cell in which mr. standish is imprisoned, and he and i will have a little confidential talk about you and el diablo cojuelo," he resumed. "standish naturally imagines that don carlos was captured at the same time as your charming self, and he will doubtless give me his confidence. it may be that he will be the more ready to surrender you when he learns that don carlos will be prepared to ransom you when cojuelo has tired of you." "more play-acting--and you are taking an unfair advantage again," commented myra. "you should thank me rather than blame me for putting standish's love for you to the test," responded don carlos, with a shrug. "pray make yourself comfortable until i return to call on you to redeem your promise. adios!" he gave more orders to his men, sternly bidding them restrain their mirth, for they were treating the affair as a huge joke, and both tried to assume an expression of ferocity as they marched him out. left alone, myra flung herself down on the couch and pressed her hands to her burning cheeks. "oh, surely, surely he won't succeed in fooling or intimidating tony into surrendering me," she whispered, feeling shaken to the depths. "i feel confident tony won't give me up, and yet--oh, i wish i hadn't made that promise. i don't want to marry don carlos unless--oh, this is driving me crazy! what did he mean by saying don carlos might ransom me when cojuelo had tired of me?" it was fully an hour before don carlos reappeared, and myra found the time of waiting and the suspense almost unbearable. she started convulsively to her feet as don carlos entered, and her heart seemed to miss a beat when she saw that he was smiling triumphantly. "you are mine, myra, mine!" he exclaimed exultantly, his dark eyes gleaming. "as i expected, standish values himself and his own safety more than he values you, and he is ready to surrender you to el diablo cojuelo as the price of his freedom." "i don't believe it! it can't be true!" protested myra breathlessly. "tony wouldn't be such a knave and coward. you have tricked him, i suppose, into saying something which you distort into an offer to surrender me." "i repeat that standish is now willing to leave you here at the mercy of cojuelo, on condition that he is allowed to go scot free," said don carlos. "i don't believe it! it can't be true!" myra reiterated. "take me to tony and let me question him." "presently you shall have your wish, but first let me give you an account of my interview with mr. standish, so that you will know what questions to put to him," said don carlos. "pray be seated, myra, and calm yourself. does the prospect of surrendering yourself to me so dismay your heart?" myra merely nodded, as she seated herself in the furthermost corner of the couch. she did not know what to say or what to believe, and her blue eyes were dark with dread as she watched don carlos, who had assumed a nonchalant attitude. he put on the coat he had discarded before going to interview standish, helped himself to a drink from a side table, and lit a cigarette before taking a seat facing myra. "why, i wonder, do you persist in doubting me?" he said, slowly and deliberately. "what i have told you is true. i had myself thrust as a prisoner into the cell in which your dear tony standish is at present imprisoned. he welcomed me like a long-lost brother, told me what had happened, and asked me if i could help to arrange terms with cojuelo." he broke off with a laugh, flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette, and finished his drink. myra, waiting almost breathlessly for him to continue, felt that she wanted to shake him for being so tantalisingly deliberate. "i told him that i had had a conversation with cojuelo, and that the brigand had told me he meant to kill him by inches and make him die a hundred deaths for having attempted to murder him," resumed don carlos at length. "i told him i could ransom him and get him away scot free, but only if he agreed to hand you over to cojuelo as part of his ransom." again he paused, and myra could not restrain her impatience. "well? go on. do you mean to tell me tony agreed?" she asked. "or have you to pause every now and again to invent a story?" "to do him justice, i must tell you that standish did not at once agree," answered don carlos, tossing away the butt of his cigarette. "his idea was that cojuelo had only been bluffing, and that it was merely a question of offering him enough money. incidentally, you were right in your estimate, myra. he said he would pay anything up to ten thousand pounds as a ransom for you. when i told him cojuelo would not part with you for one hundred thousand pounds, he said he'd see him damned first before he'd pay it. so now you know your market value, as rated by mr. antony standish, who has an income, i understand, of something like a hundred thousand pounds a year!" "so because tony wasn't idiot enough to agree to pay more than ten thousand pounds as ransom, you are trying to make out he agreed to resign me and leave me to the tender mercies of cojuelo?" don carlos shook his head and lit another cigarette with exasperating deliberation. "dear myra, it may wound your pride, but he has resigned you," he said. "his love did not stand the acid test. i told him it was not a question of money, that cojuelo had fallen madly in love with you and was afire with desire to make you his own, but thought it might bring him bad luck to take a girl who was betrothed to another man, unless the other man agreed to surrender her to him, or, at least, give her her freedom. mr. standish protested that nothing would persuade him to surrender you to cojuelo." "and yet you have said he offered to give me up?" "hear me out, myra. i did not say he offered to give you up. i said he was willing to surrender you--which is a distinction with a difference. when he protested that nothing would persuade him to surrender you to cojuelo, i reminded him that the bandit had threatened to have him scourged and branded with hot irons, that he was absolutely at the devil's mercy, and i played on his fears. i warned him that cojuelo was a man of his word and would surely torture him unless he renounced you. he quailed at that, and after some hesitation agreed that he had no alternative but to accept his freedom and leave you here." "but that does not mean that he renounced me," objected myra, as don carlos paused again. "what else does it mean, myra?" asked don carlos. "i told him cojuelo is madly in love with you, as i have said, and that if he accepted his freedom the outlaw would take it as an indication he had given you up. yet he is going. true, he talked about organizing a rescue party, swore he would kill cojuelo if any harm came to you, and all that sort of thing, but that was mere empty talk. the whole point is, as i said in the first place, that he is prepared, in effect, to surrender you to el diablo cojuelo as the price of his own freedom and safety." "i cannot--i will not--believe it," said myra firmly, rising to her feet. "not until i hear tony say himself that he is prepared to renounce me will i believe it. let me see him." "as you will," said don carlos, rising and putting on his disguise. "i will take you to him. let me remind you, however, of your promise not to reveal the fact that don carlos and el diablo cojuelo are one and the same. i hold you to both of your promises--and i have a priest waiting to marry us. come!" chapter xvi he led the way through rocky, winding passages to the great cave, in which his motley band were enjoying their evening meal with much loud talk and laughter. at sight of the cloaked and hooded figure of their master and his fair captive there was a sudden hush, however, and practically all the men sprang to their feet at once. "mendoza, the keys of the prisoner's cell, please," said don carlos. "the señorita wishes to speak to the englishman." an elderly man with some keys on a chain attached to his belt hurried forward at once, and unlocked a massive door giving access to a small apartment that looked as if it had been hewn out of the solid rock. it was unfurnished save for a straw mattress with a brown blanket for covering, and a rough wooden bench, on which, when the door was flung open, antony standish was seated dejectedly with his head between his hands. he sprang up with a sharp intake of breath, looking pale, startled and dishevelled, at sight of myra and the hooded figure he assumed to be el diablo cojuelo. "hullo! what's the idea now?" he asked quickly. "why have you brought miss rostrevor here?" "the señorita wishes to assure herself that what she has been told by don carlos de ruiz is correct," explained el diablo cojuelo, in his disguised and muffled voice. "i, also, wish to hear you say that you are prepared to accept your freedom and go back with don carlos to his castle, leaving the señorita with me, resigning her to me as your ransom." myra found herself strangely calm, felt as if she had run through the whole gamut of emotions and exhausted them all. "tony, is it true you told don carlos that you were willing to go and leave me here at the mercy of this outlaw, who professes to be passionately in love with me?" she asked, scarcely recognising her own voice. "is it true?" "true? er--er--why, of course not," answered standish, nervously fingering his little sandy moustache. "i mean to say--er--what exactly did don carlos tell you?" "that you are prepared to leave me here, knowing that el diablo cojuelo will force me to become his wife, and accept your own freedom rather than run the risk of punishment," said myra. "you are prepared to renounce me, tony?" "no, no, nothing of the sort!" exclaimed tony, his face flushing duskily. "nothing of the sort! i distinctly told don carlos that nothing would induce me to surrender you to cojuelo. myra, darling, you know i would never think of doing such a thing." "so you assert that don carlos lied?" demanded cojuelo sternly. "you did not tell him you would accept your freedom and leave the señorita to me if i refrained from flogging you and branding you? will you swear that on oath--on your sacred word of honour as an english gentleman?" "don carlos must have misunderstood me," standish responded, nervously licking his dry lips. "look here, cojuelo, drop this fooling and be sensible. i realise you've got the whip hand, so to speak, and can dictate your own terms. how much do you want? i told don carlos i am willing to pay you ten thousand pounds--that's something like a million pesetas in your money--to set miss rostrevor and me free. think of it, man--a million, and----" "you have not answered my question, señor standish," interrupted cojuelo curtly. "do you assert that don carlos de ruiz lied when he said you were willing to accept your freedom and leave the señorita rostrevor to me? will you meet don carlos face to face and denounce him as a liar?" "don carlos must have misunderstood me," repeated tony. "it--er--it isn't a question of calling him a liar. look here, cojuelo, what's the use of all this bluff and bluster? why don't you come down to brass tacks and state your terms?" "don carlos did not misunderstand you, and you are lying," cojuelo rasped at him. "confess now to the señorita rostrevor that you have renounced her." "i shall do nothing of the sort, confound you!" standish exclaimed angrily. "why the deuce don't you state your terms and have done with it?" "my terms were clearly dictated to you through the medium of don carlos," said cojuelo. "i give you your freedom on condition that you renounce the señorita rostrevor and surrender her to me. incidentally, the señorita has promised she will marry me if you renounce her." "i made the promise, tony, because don car--er--i mean el diablo cojuelo--boasted that you would surrender me to save yourself," interposed myra hastily. "i knew nothing would induce you to give me up, tony. it isn't true, is it, that you agreed to go away with don carlos and leave me here?" "no, of course i didn't mean that, myra," answered tony, gulping as if he had a lump in his throat. "didn't i come here to ransom you?" "if don carlos lied, and you still refuse to renounce the señorita after you have been flogged and put to the torture, then i will set her free and you also," cojuelo said grimly. "that is a promise, and cojuelo never breaks a promise. meanwhile i say again that you are lying, and that don carlos told the señorita rostrevor the truth." "here, i say, cojuelo, cut out this bluff about torture and all that sort of nonsense," exclaimed standish, with just a suspicion of unsteadiness in his voice. "i tell you i am prepared to pay any sum within reason as a ransom, and you won't get any more by threatening me with physical violence. look here, i'm willing to apologise for having tried to shoot you, but you know you exasperated me by taunting me about not valuing miss rostrevor." "what a charming piece of condescension on your part!" sneered cojuelo. "if don carlos de ruiz lied to the señorita rostrevor, i shall shoot him. that is another promise, señorita. as for you, perhaps the lash and the red hot iron on your flesh will induce you to speak truth as well as test your courage!" he turned to the door, outside which the man with the keys was standing. "mendoza, order perez, riafio and garcilaso to get ready the whipping post and make hot the branding irons at once," he commanded in spanish, then repeated the order in english for the benefit of standish, whose face went livid. "oh, surely you won't be so fiendishly cruel!" burst out myra passionately. "if you dare to harm tony----" "we will withdraw, señorita, and leave señor standish to nerve himself for the ordeal that awaits him," interrupted cojuelo, and hustled her out of the cell before she could say more. "i swear i did not lie to you, myra," he resumed, as he clanged the door shut on the prisoner. "i am bluffing now, and have no intention of flogging or branding standish, but only of scaring him into confessing that he is willing to give you to me to save himself." "and if he stands the test, if he refuses to give me up even when threatened with flogging and burning, you will keep your promise and set us both free?" asked myra, after a breathless pause. "yes, assuredly--and i shall also keep my promise to shoot don carlos," was the grim reply. "look, is it not a picturesque scene?" he added, with a change of tone. the great cave, lighted by electricity, was certainly a remarkable sight, filled as it was with a picturesque crowd of men, some of them in what looked like stage costumes, nearly all chattering like excited children anticipating a treat as they watched some of their fellows erecting a whipping-post in the centre of the place, while another was busy working the bellows of what looked like a blacksmith's furnace and making irons red-hot. a scene a great artist might have loved to paint, yet the atmosphere was so sinister that myra shivered involuntarily. "you are frightened, señorita?" queried don carlos, and it seemed to myra there was something mocking and sardonic in his tone. "in england, i remember, you were renowned for your courage and your love of adventure. surely this is a great adventure?" the remark stung myra's pride, and her fair face flushed hotly. "it disgusts and revolts me that you should try to terrorise a defenceless man to gratify your own vanity and humiliate me," she answered angrily. "as for being afraid, the remote prospect of having to marry you certainly frightens me." don carlos made no answer, but strode across and talked rapidly to the men gathered round the whipping post and the furnace, evidently explaining to them at length what he wished them to do. myra, of course, could not understand what was said, but she saw that some of the men laughed while others looked disappointed, and she concluded that don carlos was telling them that the preparations for the torture of the englishman were all bluff. "god grant that tony's courage does not fail him, and that he stands the test," she whispered under her breath. "it will be necessary for you to remain and witness the performance, señorita," said don carlos coldly, returning to her. "if i spared you the ordeal, you might again refuse to believe me when i reported the result." "i wish to stay," myra answered, and her red-gold head went up proudly. "my presence will give the man i love courage." "it is a great gamble, and you, fair lady, are the stake," said don carlos. "the stage is set and our fate will be decided within a few minutes." he nodded his cowled head, shouted some orders in spanish to his men, and took up a position beside the whipping-post, which somewhat resembled an ancient pillory. four men hurried to the cell in which standish was confined, to reappear after the lapse of a few minutes with the prisoner between them. they had stripped standish to the waist, and he walked forward with firm step and head erect, but at the sight of the whipping-post and the furnace, and the sinister figure beside them with a cat-o'-nine-tails in his hand, he halted suddenly with an involuntary gasp, and his face went ashen. "cojuelo, you--you can't mean that you are going to be such a fiend as to torture me!" he burst out breathlessly. "i haven't done you any harm. look here, i'll--i'll double the ransom if you'll let me off. i'll make it twenty thousand pounds." "not for fifty thousand pounds would i forego my vengeance," rasped the hooded figure. "yet you have but to confess that you did agree to go away and leave the señorita rostrevor here, well knowing what would happen to her, you have only to tell her now that you renounce her to me, and i will let you go unharmed." "don't, tony, don't!" cried myra. "be brave, dear!" standish, who had not previously noticed her, jerked round his head at the sound of her voice. "myra, for god's sake intercede for me," he screamed, and began to struggle violently as his guards seized him and began to drag him towards the pillory. "beg him to spare me!" "oh, tony, don't fail me!" cried myra, shamed by his display of terror. "don't be a coward! be brave! be british!" struggling, shouting, protesting and appealing frantically, his face livid and the sweat of fear pouring down it, standish was dragged towards the stake. "the burning irons first, i think," snarled cojuelo. "the burns will make the lash more effective afterwards." the man beside the furnace drew from the fire a branding iron, the end of which was red-hot, and made a threatening movement. standish squealed like a rabbit caught in a trap. "don't! don't!" he shrieked in a frenzy of terror. "oh, spare me, spare me! i'll give her up. i--i can't face it. you can have her!" "do you still accuse don carlos of having lied?" demanded cojuelo remorselessly. "is it not true that you were willing to escape with him, or by his aid, and leave the señorita?" "yes, yes, it is true," gasped standish. "i lied to myra to try to--to save my face. don carlos said he would look after her. let me go! let me go!" "you hear, señorita?" exclaimed don carlos, his voice ringing out triumphantly. "to save his own skin, your lover has renounced you.... release the brave englishman, my friends. the farce is over." nauseated by tony's piteous exhibition of craven terror, myra turned away from him in loathing and contempt as the men released him. "oh, you coward!" she burst out passionately. "i was so sure you would stand the test and would not fail me that i promised i would marry this devil in your presence if you were dastard enough to offer to give me to him to save your own skin. all these preparations for torture were only bluff to test your courage and your love. you have failed me, tony, in my hour of greatest need, and i hate and despise you. i would give myself to any bandit now rather than marry you!" "i hold you to your promise, señorita," cried cojuelo. "you will marry me here and now in the presence of señor standish.... come hither, padre sancho, and perform the marriage service." a fat little bald-headed man, dressed in a greasy black cassock and carpet slippers, shuffled forward and addressed some questions to myra in a wheezy voice. "he is asking if you are willing to marry me," cojuelo interpreted. "yes, i will keep my promise and marry you in the presence of the man who has failed me," said myra, and flashed a glance at standish that made him quail. "here, i say! i--i didn't realise it was bluff," faltered standish. "i'll do anything... cojuelo, i'll pay you fifty thousand if only you'll----" "proceed with the ceremony, padre sancho," interrupted cojuelo; and the monk opened his book and began to gabble unintelligibly in his wheezy voice. presently he paused and addressed a question to the hooded figure. "i will," said cojuelo, and took myra's listless hand in his own. "you myra, will also answer 'i will,' when the padre asks you. this ring, which i took from the finger of don carlos de ruiz, will serve for the present." "myra, for heaven's sake----" broke in tony standish, but myra paid no heed to him. "i will," she answered firmly, in response to the priest's unintelligible question. it struck her suddenly that the priest did not appear to be treating the ceremony seriously, and the thought flashed into her mind that possibly "padre sancho" was only one of the brigands deputed by don carlos to play a part, and the whole proceeding was as much bluff as had been the preparations to torture tony standish. "is he fooling me again?" wondered myra, as padre sancho gabbled through the rest of the service, closed his book and raised his right hand as if bestowing a blessing, whereupon some of the brigands behind and around him began to cheer. they cheered more lustily still when their hooded chief put his arm round myra's shoulders with an air of possession. "mother dolores will escort you to your room, myra," said don carlos. "forgive your bridegroom for not accompanying you. i have to arrange for the release of señor standish." chapter xvii myra was infinitely glad to escape, and she flung herself down in a chair with a sigh that was half a sob when she reached her bedroom. "you may go, dolores," she said, and motioned away the old woman, who had been murmuring congratulations. "si, maestra, buena maestra," said dolores smilingly, as she withdrew. "'maestra?'--that means 'mistress,'" ruminated myra. "in what sense is it used? he used the word when he addressed his men after the mock-marriage. 'nueva maestra,' i think he called me. that must mean 'new mistress.' his new mistress! how many mistresses have there been--and what is going to happen to me? ... oh, why didn't tony play the man!" time passed and the suspense was becoming almost unbearable when the sound of heavy footsteps in the rocky corridor made myra's heart jump convulsively. she started to her feet as the door opened to reveal don carlos, still wearing his cowl. behind him were garcilaso and mendoza with standish, now fully dressed and with a bandage round his eyes, between them. "does the señora cojuelo wish to say farewell to the lover who renounced her?" inquired don carlos, with a note of mockery in his voice. "i am now about to redeem my promise and have him escorted back unharmed to the castillo de ruiz." "why are his eyes bandaged?" asked myra sharply. "what has happened to him?" "nothing has happened," don carlos assured her. "the bandage is merely a precautionary measure. he was brought here blindfolded, so that he might have no idea as to the location of my mountain nest. he leaves blindfolded for the same reason. don carlos de ruiz will follow him when i so choose. have you anything to say to señor standish?" "nothing," answered myra, after a moment of hesitation. "myra, if only----" said standish hoarsely, and paused, gulping as if he were choking. "i suppose it isn't any use attempting to say anything," he added weakly. "except farewell," remarked don carlos ironically, and laid his hand on myra's arm. "permit me to escort you to the door, señora mia, to witness the departure of señor standish." in the wake of standish and his escort, he led myra along the corridor to the outer hall, and myra, her senses acute, watched him closely as he manipulated knobs which looked like part of the rocky wall and the great door that looked like rock itself swung open. "lead the english señor forward carefully, and remember i have pledged my word that he shall be returned safely to the castle of don carlos de ruiz," said don carlos in spanish. "farewell, señor," he added in english. "you will have great stories to tell on your return to england of your encounter with el diablo cojuelo and how you escaped from him!" standish's face contorted in momentary passion, then with a sigh and a gesture of utter despair he submitted himself to be led away by mendoza and garcilaso. myra, her face tense and white, took an involuntary step forward, and instantly don carlos's hand closed on her arm. "you forget, dear lady, that you are the price of his freedom, and your place is with your husband," he said, as he drew her back into the hall and touched a lever which released the door. to myra the clang of the door as it shut seemed like a death-knell. don carlos took off his cowl and flung it aside, smoothed his jet-black hair with his hands, and drew a long breath. his eyes and expression were inscrutable as he gazed fixedly at myra. "exit mr. antony standish," he said slowly, after a pause. "one chapter of your life is closed, myra. now another opens, the most wonderful chapter of all, in which you will fulfil your destiny." myra suddenly found herself cold and trembling, and to gain time and avoid don carlos's eyes she crossed the room to the radiator and held out her shaking hands to its warmth. "are you frightened, myra mine?" asked don carlos gently crossing to her side. "are you still afraid of love?" "if this is your idea of love, i hate it!" responded myra with sudden passion. "you have humiliated me until i feel that i am less than the dust. what greater humiliation could you inflict on any woman than to prove to her that the man who professed to love her would surrender her to a bandit? you have humiliated me as much as tony standish, and perhaps you have further humiliations in store." "if you have a sense of proportion, you should thank me instead of reproaching me for proving standish to be at heart a knave," don carlos retorted, the hard note creeping into his voice again. "if you tell me you still love him, and prefer him to me, i will send you back to him at once. can you truthfully say that you still love him and would marry him if you were free?" myra shook her red-gold head despairingly, and sank down into a corner of the couch with a sigh. "if he were the only man on earth, i would not marry him now," she answered. "but that does not alter the case or excuse your conduct." "i do not understand, myra," said don carlos. "it was only because you had promised to marry standish that you hardened your heart against love and me. you have surrendered to love now, at last, and----" "i have not," interrupted myra. "i hate you for what has happened." "yet, hating me, you have become my wife," don carlos commented, with an air of perplexity. "i am not your wife," protested myra. "you have fooled me before, but you cannot fool me into believing that the farcical service, gabbled in a language i do not understand by one of your men masquerading as a monk, constitutes a marriage." "padre sancho is an ordained priest. the ceremony was not a farce. you are now my wife--the wife of el diablo cojuelo, the outlaw. later on, when you marry don carlos--if don carlos still desires you--you shall have a more elaborate ceremony, if you wish it, and you will be doubly married without being a bigamist." there came an interruption at that moment. madre dolores appeared, murmuring apologies, with a tall glass of wine in her skinny hand, and seemingly made some appeal to don carlos. "myra, some of my men are holding festival to celebrate our marriage, and they have sent mother dolores to ask us to do them the honour of taking wine with them and allowing them to toast us," don carlos explained. "it would be a gracious act, which will endear you to all my men, to consent." "but i have told you i cannot believe the marriage ceremony was other than a farce," objected myra. "is this another trick to humiliate me and make it appear i have surrendered?" "again you misjudge me," replied don carlos abruptly. "it is a compliment, and should be proof to you that my men know the marriage ceremony was no farce. they will take it as an affront if you refuse their invitation." "what does that matter to me?" exclaimed myra rebelliously. don carlos's brows drew together and he looked chagrined. "tell the men, mother dolores, that the señora is either as lacking in courage as the englishman, or considers them such a gang of cut-throat ruffians, that she cannot be persuaded to nerve herself to face them," he said, addressing the old woman. "tell them she is aware she is affronting them and----" "how dare you suggest i am a coward?" interrupted myra, starting to her feet. "tell them nothing of the sort, dolores. i am not afraid to face them----" "so we will be graciously pleased to accept the invitation," added don carlos as she paused. "yes," said myra. "otherwise, i suppose, you will taunt me with being a coward." "i think i managed that rather cleverly, myra," don carlos said, his face crinkling into a mischievous smile. "i thought you would not notice that i was giving my instructions to mother dolores in english, of which she scarcely understands a word!" myra crimsoned in annoyance, but she made no retort, nor did she offer any protest when don carlos, after a few words of thanks to the puzzled dolores, who scurried away, drew her hand through his arm and led her through the corridors to the great cave. dolores had spread the news of their coming, and every man was on his feet, glass or flagon in hand. myra and don carlos were each handed a tall glass of wine, and the band drank their health with enthusiasm, shouting all sorts of good wishes. don carlos toasted them in turn, drained his glass, and called to myra to follow his example. "drink to me and to love, myra mine," he cried. myra was so confused by the shouting and by the men pressing around with uplifted glasses and flagons that she scarcely knew what she was doing and hurriedly swallowed the wine. "thank you, beloved," said don carlos, drawing her hand into the crook of his arm again. "we will go now." through the corridors they went again, and myra's heart seemed to miss a beat as he paused at her bedroom and opened the door. she looked up at him with dread and appeal in her dilated blue eyes, to see him smiling exultantly. "mine! mine at last, myra!" he said in a low, vibrant voice, as he slipped his arm around her waist and drew her into the room. "the hour for which i have waited and craved." "don carlos, is it useless to appeal to you to let me go?" gasped myra. "surely i have suffered enough without--without--this----?" "darling, why should you fear love now?" responded don carlos tenderly, enfolding her in his arms. "let me fire your heart with the burning ardour of my passion. i have won you, and i swore i would, and i claim my reward. myra, mia, i want you--want you!" his dark eyes were ablaze with ardour, his lean face was flushed, and his breath was coming and going pantingly as he crushed myra to him and kissed her until his kisses seemed to be burning her very soul and her senses were reeling. all power of resistance had gone from her. she felt dazedly as if she were encompassed by flames and no hope of escape. she was conquered.... * * * languidly myra opened her eyes--and sat up with an involuntary cry of consternation, for she could see nothing, and the terrifying thought flashed through her mind that she had gone blind. then she remembered that the rocky apartment was dark as a tomb when the electric lights were not burning, and she groped for the switch. as the lights sprang to life, realisation of what had happened burned its way into her horrified consciousness, and a burning blush stained her pale, lovely face. she was alone in the bedroom, but she knew instinctively that she had not been alone for long. her hands went convulsively to her breast, and she shuddered violently and moaned in anguish. then followed anger--fierce, passionate fury against the man who had imposed his will on her, and with clenched fists she beat the pillow on which she knew his head had rested. the fury of rage speedily exhausted itself, and myra buried her face in her hands and sobbed fearlessly. "he will come back," she thought distractedly. "he will come back to make mock of me, to gloat over me. oh, if only i could get away! if only i could die!" she sprang out of bed and began to dress in frantic haste, starting at every sound. she could not have explained what she intended to do or the reason for her haste. all she knew was that she must get out of the bedroom before don carlos returned. her hurried toilet completed, myra with trembling fingers cautiously opened the bedroom door and peeped out. the rocky corridor was deserted, no sound came from the great cave, and the whole place seemed almost uncannily silent. with an effort of will myra mastered her panic and tiptoed silently along the corridor towards the outer hall. the corridor was lighted, but she found the hall, when she reached it, in darkness, save for one tiny light above the electric switch on the wall near the entrance. myra pressed the switch and at once the apartment was flooded with light. "oh, god, help me to remember!" breathed myra, after a swift glance around, to assure herself the place was untenanted. "help me to get away--if only it is to die among the mountains." she had watched don carlos closely a few hours previously as he manipulated the levers which opened the secret door when giving standish his freedom, and the thought had flashed into her mind that she could manipulate the levers as he had done, and escape into the outer world. her first attempt was a failure, and she bit her lips in chagrin and hurt her delicate hands tugging vainly at various knobs and slides. but again and again she tried, and at last, when she was about to give up in despair, she heard a sudden click and the great door swung open! chapter xviii with a gasp of relief, myra darted out, negotiated the narrow crevice which hid the door from view, and found herself in the open--and in brilliant sunshine. she paused for a moment, to collect herself, fancied she heard a noise behind her, and sped away like a startled doe. there appeared to be no path, and she ran aimlessly and without the slightest sense of direction, clambering over rocks and slithering down slopes, several times narrowly escaping disaster, and once only escaping from plunging headlong over a precipice by clinging frantically to a boulder on the very verge. and the boulder, which must have been balanced like a logan stone, went crashing over the side of the precipice the moment she had released her hold on it and recovered her equilibrium. although she had, as it were, been courting death, myra was so terrified that she could not proceed for several minutes, and she had to muster up all her courage to negotiate the perilous path. after that, she advanced with greater caution, and at last reached a little grassy plateau, a sort of oasis amid the bleak rocks, commanding a magnificent view of the mountain range and the country. far below her, myra could see a twisted white ribbon--so it looked from a distance--which she knew must be a road, and on the white ribbon were ant-like moving objects which she knew must be horses and men--the civil guard and the military, in all probability, seeking for her and for "el diablo cojuelo." "if only i can get to them, i shall be safe," said myra aloud. "oh, if only i knew the easiest and quickest way down! i think i can see other men climbing up as if they had seen me... i wonder if they have seen me? i wonder if they could hear me if i called?" she had lost some of her sense of proportion, forgotten how far away the men must be, and she gathered her breath and shouted as loud as she could: "help! help!" almost instantly there came an answering shout, but to myra's consternation the shout came from somewhere above her, and not from below. she looked round and upwards, but at first could see no one, then she heard the shout again, heard the voice of don carlos cry: "myra, where are you?" saw a head appear over the side of a rocky ledge about fifty feet above her, and panic seized her again. from the little plateau there ran for a distance a sort of natural path, and down this myra fled as fast as her feet would carry her--which was not fast, for already her thin shoes were almost in ribbons, and one foot had been badly cut by a sharp stone. but she was scarcely conscious of the pain in her anxiety to escape. she could hear don carlos shouting to her to stop, and fancied she could hear him in close pursuit as she sped down the steep path. again she came to the edge of a ravine, and she had to creep cautiously along the edge of a rough and treacherous path. glancing over her shoulder after she had crossed the most perilous part, myra saw that don carlos was now close behind her, and that she must inevitably be overtaken. almost she succumbed to a mad impulse to hurl herself to destruction into the ravine, but in the moment of hesitation before taking the fatal plunge she heard the sound of many voices ascending. a great boulder blocked her view of the mountainside immediately below her, but on rounding the rock she saw, within a hundred yards of her, a company of men in uniform advancing in straggling order up the mountain. myra cried out breathlessly, some of the men saw her and shouted excitedly and one who seemed to be an officer came running towards her and reached her side just as don carlos appeared behind her. "myra, myra!" shouted don carlos. "do not----" myra did not hear the rest of his shout. excitedly she clutched the arm of the officer of the guardia civil. "save me! save me!" she gasped. "that man is el diablo cojuelo! don carlos is el diablo cojuelo! do you understand? don't let him take me back." "yes, señorita," said the officer quickly in english. "i understand. you alla right now from el diablo cojuelo." "you do not understand," gasped myra half-frantically, pointing at don carlos, now only a few yards away from her. "that man is el diablo cojuelo. don carlos de ruiz is el diablo cojuelo. arrest him!" it seemed to her that as she spoke the words denouncing don carlos the whole world went suddenly pitch dark, and she felt herself falling, falling through space. what actually happened was that she fainted, and the officer of the civil guard was just in time to catch her ere she fell. she recovered consciousness to find a swarthy, weather-beaten man supporting her head and holding a water-bottle to her lips, and to see many dark eyes regarding her with sympathetic curiosity. until her brain cleared she could not realise where she was and what had been happening, and she felt horribly scared. then she heard the voice of don carlos and she remembered everything. "don't let him take me back!" she cried, sitting up. "i tell you, he is el diablo cojuelo!" "alla right, señorita, you secure from el diablo cojuelo now," said the officer. "yes, you are safe from el diablo cojuelo now, myra," said don carlos, moving nearer, "and explanations can wait until we get to the castle." myra realised that it would be rather absurd to continue to try to make the officer, who had but an imperfect knowledge of english, understand that don carlos and el diablo cojuelo were one man. still feeling faint and shaken, myra was assisted down the mountain-side after a little while, and was eventually lifted on to a mule. the journey to the high road that ran through the heart of the sierras was accomplished without untoward incident, and by great good fortune a motor car, carrying two high officials of the guardia civil, drove up just as the party reached the road. into the car myra and don carlos were invited, after some voluble explanations on the part of their escort, and were speedily conveyed to el castillo de ruiz. "welcome home, myra, my wife," whispered don carlos, as he stepped out of the car and proffered his hand. "when you have recovered, we will discuss the question of taking vengeance on el diablo cojuelo," he added. "he is now entirely at your mercy." "and i shall not spare him!" responded myra. * * * "i am simply aching with curiosity, myra," said lady fermanagh a few hours later. "do, please, tell me everything. tony has been talking strangely, and don carlos is reticent about what happened at the bandit's lair, but i suppose it was he who rescued you." "has he said so?" asked myra. she had collapsed on reaching the castillo de ruiz, but was now feeling better after a long rest, a warm bath, and a dainty meal. "not in so many words," answered lady fermanagh. "he seems desperately worried, and so does tony, who says he will have to return to england to-morrow. i can't make out what has been happening, myra. do tell me." "it is difficult to explain, aunt," said myra slowly, after much hesitation. "el diablo cojuelo professed to have fallen in love with me at first sight, and i was crazy enough to promise to become his wife if tony offered to renounce me. tony did renounce me when he was threatened with torture, and i was married to el diablo cojuelo in his presence last night. tony failed me, and now i hate and despise him." "myra!" gasped lady fermanagh in horrified amazement. "married to the brigand! you--you don't mean actually married?" "i don't believe it could have been a proper marriage, although don--er--cojuelo swore the man who performed the service was an ordained priest," said myra, avoiding her aunt's eyes. "i don't suppose it matters much now whether i am cojuelo's wife--or only his mistress." "his mistress!" lady fermanagh was white to the lips as she repeated the words. "you mean that he----?" the hot colour stained myra's pale face as she met her aunt's eyes, and nodded her red-gold head in shamed assent. "myra, you are ruined!" lady fermanagh almost wailed, wringing her be-ringed hands. "what madness possessed you to offer to marry the brigand?" "he taunted me--and tony failed me," myra answered, oddly reluctant to explain everything. "i wish i were dead." "does don carlos know?" asked her aunt, and again myra flushed as she nodded assent. "yes, he alone knows, aunt," she said, "and he alone knows whether the marriage service was a mockery or not." lady fermanagh, still wringing her hands, rose and paced agitatedly up and down the room, her nimble brain busy trying to think of some way of saving the situation. "i will see don carlos, myra, beg him to keep your secret, beg him to assert that the so-called marriage was a farce and a mockery," she announced suddenly, after a long pause. "he is a chivalrous gentleman, and i know he will lie if necessary, to save your honour.... why do you sneer, child? ... don't you realise that everything depends on don carlos, and how you behave towards tony?" "i have nothing but contempt for tony now. i despise him." "don't be a little fool," snapped lady fermanagh. "your only hope of saving yourself is to forgive tony for his cowardice and marry him. he will be grateful to you all his life. don carlos can tell him that the marriage ceremony was only a farce, and that he arranged with the bandit for your liberation immediately afterwards, or else explain that he helped you to escape. how did you escape, by the way? you have not told me. did don carlos help?" "don carlos showed me the way to open the secret door," answered myra. "aunt clarissa, nothing will induce me to marry tony standish now." "but you must, you must!" insisted her aunt passionately. "it is the only way of saving yourself. think how you are placed, and what a ghastly tragedy it would be if it became known that you had surrendered yourself to a brigand. i will see don carlos at once, beg him, for your sake----" "no! no!" interrupted myra, springing to her feet. "i will not permit it, aunt. on no account must you appeal to don carlos. i will see him myself. you do not understand." "no, i certainly do not understand, and i think you must be crazy," responded her aunt, with an impatient sigh. "oh, myra, don't you realise in what a terrible position you have placed yourself? you lay the blame on tony standish, but now only he can save you." "tony standish has nothing to do with the matter now," retorted myra. "only don carlos can save me. i beg you, aunt clarissa, not to make any appeal to him. leave me to settle the matter myself with him and to decide my own fate, work out my own destiny. shall i see him now or wait till morning?" "i think you had better wait till morning, and take time to consider how you are placed," said lady fermanagh, after a thoughtful pause, regarding myra searchingly. "i fancy your mind must be temporarily deranged. myra, are you keeping something back from me?" "everything depends on don carlos--and cojuelo," myra responded, evading the question. "please say nothing to him, aunt, until i have spoken to him alone." "oh, the whole affair seems a crazy nightmare, and i don't know what to make of it all," said her aunt, with another sigh. "i wish we had never come to this wretched, lawless place. you must have had a premonition of trouble when you at first refused don carlos's invitation for no particular reason. myra, my dear, i am sorry for you!" her feelings got the better of her, and with tears in her eyes she flung her arms around myra and hugged her close to her breast. and myra suddenly broke down, buried her face in her aunt's shoulder, and cried like a hurt child. "better go to bed, dear," said lady fermanagh recovering herself after a few minutes. "we are all suffering from the strain and are not normal.... go to bed, myra, and try to make up your mind to go back to england with tony to-morrow...." chapter xix myra went to bed, but it was a long time before she could compose herself to woo sleep, so full was her mind of disturbing thoughts, so many problems did she find herself called on to solve. "does he love me?" that was the question that she put to herself time and again, and could not answer. "do i love him?" was another. and at heart she knew that if she were certain that the answer to the first question was in the affirmative, she could answer the second in a like manner. "what will it profit me if i denounce him?" she soliloquised. "he says he is at my mercy, but he can claim me, and boast that i offered to marry him, even if i do revenge myself by denouncing him. always he seems to have the advantage of me. to save my 'honour' now, and satisfy aunt clarissa, i shall either have to humble myself to ask him to marry me publicly, or else forgive tony. either course is repugnant." she fell asleep at last, but was wrestling with her problem even in her jumbled dreams. she woke with a start, and with the impression strong upon her that someone or something had touched her face and her breast. scared, she groped for the electric switch and flashed on the light above the bed, and as she did so she remembered having awakened months previously at auchinleven just in the same sort of fright, to find don carlos's note on her pillow. some odd instinct or intuition told her that history had repeated itself, and it came hardly as a surprise to find a half-sheet of notepaper tucked into her nightdress close to her heart. with fingers that trembled slightly, myra unfolded the note and read: "give me your heart and love, my wife, and i will devote my life to you. if you have no love, show no mercy." myra read the words again and again, sorely puzzled to decide what exactly they meant, wondering, incidentally, why don carlos had not awakened her to whisper what he had to say instead of leaving a note on her breast. "is he ashamed or afraid?" she asked herself--and could not answer her own question, nor a score of other questions which she put to herself as she tossed about restlessly for the remainder of the night, unable to sleep. her aunt, in dressing-gown and slippers, came to her room while she was sipping her early morning cup of tea. "i hope you slept well, myra dear, and are feeling better," she said. "i have hardly slept at all, and feel a wreck. have you made up your mind what to do?" "not quite," myra answered. "i must see don carlos first. but i think i have decided to show no mercy to el diablo cojuelo." "i don't know what you mean," commented her aunt. "for heaven's sake be sensible, myra. it isn't a question of showing mercy to the brigand, but of saving yourself and your reputation. i shall be in agonies of anxiety until you have made a decision." "i shall be in agonies myself until i have decided--and perhaps afterwards," replied myra enigmatically. "i shall get up now and get the ordeal over as quickly as possible." she wasted no time over her toilet, and save that she was very pale, she looked her usual lovely self as she left her room and walked towards the staircase. she halted for a moment in indecision as she saw antony standish on the landing, evidently waiting for her, then went on. "i say, myra, don't cut me," exclaimed standish appealingly, nervously fingering his tie. "i've been waiting for you. i--i don't want to try to excuse myself for what happened up in that cursed brigand's den. my nerve deserted me completely." "and you deserted me," interjected myra coldly. "you see, there was don carlos to be thought of as well as you, and--and i thought the only hope of being any help was to get away," standish went on lamely. "myra, i beg of you not to expose me to the world as a coward, and to forgive me. there are officials down below waiting to question you about what happened. they've been questioning me, and i'm afraid i didn't tell them the truth. now they're questioning don carlos. from what i can make of it, someone has suggested that don carlos is in league with the brigand cojuelo." "who suggested that?" asked myra, with a convulsive start. "i don't know, but the officials wanted to know if i saw don carlos at cojuelo's place, and how i got away," standish answered. "i told a lot of lies, and said that cojuelo let me go when i promised to pay a ransom of fifty thousand pounds. myra, you won't give me away and show me up? i'll shoot myself if you do. myra, if you say nothing about my funking things, i'll swear never to breathe a word about your marrying the brigand fellow." "that is indeed kind!" commented myra ironically. "i do not propose to make public what happened if i can avoid it, but possibly el diablo cojuelo may tell." standish drew a breath of relief and wiped his moist brow. "thank you," he said. "i'll come down with you, if i may, and perhaps i may be able to help you through with the officials." "i hardly think i shall need your help," responded myra coldly. for all her outward appearance of self-possession, she was trembling inwardly, and her heart was beating unsteadily as she went down to the hall, to find don carlos and three officers in somewhat elaborate uniforms engaged in earnest conversation around a table, beside which was also seated another officer whom myra recognised as the one who had led the guardia civil who had rescued her. all rose immediately she appeared, and bowed courteously, and the junior officer hastened to place a chair for her. "you will pardon us for troubling you so soon after your ordeal, miss rostrevor, but it is necessary that we ask you some questions in regard to el diablo cojuelo," said one of the officers in excellent english. myra merely inclined her head and seated herself, darting a glance at don carlos. his face was pale and his expression was as impassive and inscrutable as a sphinx. "this officer, who led the company which found you in the mountains yesterday, states that you were then apparently running away from don carlos de ruiz," continued the superior official. "he also states that he understood you to assert positively that don carlos is el diablo cojuelo. is that so, señorita?" "if you have no love, show no mercy." the words of the note she had found on her breast flashed back into myra's mind in the fraction of a second that she hesitated before answering the question on which the fate of don carlos depended. and in that fraction of a second she found the answer to many questions she had put to herself. "what an absurd suggestion!" she exclaimed with scarce a tremor in her voice. "the officer is quite mistaken, but the fault is probably mine. i was so agitated that i did not know what i was saying, and was obsessed with the idea that el diablo cojuelo was close behind me." don carlos sprang to his feet with an exultant laugh. "you hear, señors!" he exclaimed. "i thought it would be more convincing if i left it to miss rostrevor to assure you the fantastic suggestion is without foundation. now i am willing to answer any questions and tell you everything. are you satisfied now? the señor standish has told you that i was flung into the cell in which he was imprisoned after he had tried to kill cojuelo, and that cojuelo afterwards threatened to torture him and shoot me unless we agreed to his terms." "pardon, don carlos, but i am merely carrying out my duty," said the commandante, and turned to myra again. "did you see don carlos as well as cojuelo, señorita, while you were in the outlaw's den?" he inquired. "yes, i saw them both together several times," answered myra. "i heard cojuelo threaten to shoot don carlos. it was don carlos who enabled me to make my escape, but i thought in my panic that it was cojuelo who was trying to overtake me when i cried out to the officer of the civil guards." "is there, then, some resemblance between don carlos and the brigand cojuelo?" asked the commandante. momentarily nonplussed, myra shook her head. "i cannot tell," she answered. "el diablo cojuelo always wore a cowl which disguised him." "yes, that's right, sir," broke in tony standish from the background. "we never saw the blighter without his cowl. i challenged him to be a man and meet me face to face, but he would not remove his disguise. you can take it from me, sir, that the idea that there was any connection between cojuelo and don carlos is all moonshine." "thank you, mr. standish," said don carlos gravely, and glanced round at the faces of the officers. "may i take it, señors, that you are satisfied?" the commandante nodded, tugging at his grey moustache. "certainly, don carlos," he said. "you will understand that it was necessary for us to investigate the report that the english señorita had asserted that you were el diablo cojuelo, and that your refusal to deny the fact or to supply any explanation made this examination necessary. i understand that you may have considered the implication an insult, and now i can only apologise for troubling you and devote my energies to hunting down el diablo cojuelo. can you offer us any assistance in locating his lair in the mountains?" "you need trouble yourself no longer about el diablo cojuelo, señor," replied don carlos. "he is dead." "dead?" "yes, he is dead. señor standish, as he told you, fired at him and thought he had missed, but he had sorely wounded the brigand, and when i tackled cojuelo afterwards, when he was endeavouring to prevent miss rostrevor from escaping, he collapsed and died at my feet. he will trouble us no more, señors, and i intend to claim his greatest treasure as my reward for having made an end to him." "don carlos, but this is news indeed!" cried the commandante excitedly. "el diablo cojuelo dead! ten thousand congratulations, my dear don carlos! congratulations to you, also, señor standish, on ridding my country of such a dangerous pest. to shoot a brigand in his own den was indeed conduct worthy of a gallant englishman!" "oh--er--thanks," stammered tony, avoiding looking at myra. "why the deuce didn't you tell us this before, don carlos?" conclusion the officers had taken their leave after much handshaking and bowing. left alone with don carlos, standish, and with lady fermanagh, who had been a silent and puzzled witness of the proceedings, myra suddenly felt her self-possession deserting her, and fled back to her own room. "why did i lie to save him?" she breathed, as she flung herself down on her knees by the bedside and buried her face. "why?" she did not need to ask the question. her heart had given her the answer. she knew she had lied to save the man she loved. there came a knock at the door, and she started up, hastily dabbing her eyes and trying to control herself. "come in," she called faintly, after a pause, as the knock was repeated. the door opened, and don carlos entered. he was pale, but his dark eyes were shining with happiness. "myra, darling," he said huskily, and stopped, overcome by emotion. he held out his arms.... deep was calling unto deep. love was calling. and myra rostrevor answered the call. she was in the arms of her lover, her conqueror, returning his passionate kisses with a fervour equal to his own. "i love you, carlos, i love you," she whispered between kisses. "i love you although you have been such a brute. if i had denounced you as el diablo cojuelo, what would have happened?" "i should have confessed, then killed myself," carlos answered. "without you, beloved, life meant nothing to me. i staked all in the hope that you would prove you loved me, and i won! i feared that although i had made you mine i had failed to win your heart. say again that you love me, dear heart, and will love me always." "i love you, darling, i love you with all of me," myra murmured, kissing him passionately. "i realise now that i have loved you for a long time, and was only afraid to confess myself conquered because i feared you only wanted to win me to gratify your pride.... am i really your wife, dear?" she added, breathless and blushing, as she disengaged herself at last from his embrace. "you are the wife of cojuelo, or, rather the widow of cojuelo, sweetheart," carlos answered. "but now that poor cojuelo is dead, you are going to marry don carlos de ruiz, who has decided to give up playing at being an outlaw and devote his life to loving the most beautiful, delicious, adorable woman in the world. kiss me again, beloved...." "i don't know how to explain things, carlos, to lady fermanagh, and don't know what she will think of us," said myra, a little later. "and although it was nice of you to give credit to tony for killing el diablo cojuelo, i shall feel dreadful when i have to tell him i am going to marry you." "don't worry, darling," said don carlos. "i have already told lady fermanagh and mr. standish that you promised to marry me if i saved you from el diablo cojuelo. mr. standish is leaving for home immediately, but lady fermanagh will remain for our wedding." "you seem to have taken a great deal for granted, you wretch!" exclaimed myra, dimpling into smiles. "as i know i am the wife of cojuelo, i shall feel i am committing bigamy when i marry you, carlos." "and i shall have the satisfaction of marrying a second time the loveliest girl in the world," laughed don carlos happily, as he drew her unresisting into his arms again. "i don't know what to make of it all, myra, but i suppose it will be best not to ask too many questions," said lady fermanagh. "rather odd, isn't it, that the brigand cojuelo should have married you when he was mortally wounded, and that you should have promised to marry don carlos, yet married the brigand although you were engaged to tony?" "yes, perhaps it does seem rather odd, aunt," admitted myra, her eyes twinkling. "decidedly odd!" her aunt commented, with a wry smile. "i don't think the matter will bear very close investigation, and i suppose it concerns only don carlos and you. incidentally, i don't know how tony will explain matters in england, but i suppose that does not matter much either. have you no regrets, myra?" "yes," answered myra, after a pause. "i think i rather regret losing my first husband. but i feel quite sure carlos will prove a good substitute." the end bandit love by juanita savage juanita savage needs no introduction to american readers; hundreds of thousands have already thrilled to her vigorous romances of love and adventure. in "bandit love" there is the same sultry throb and barbaric drive that characterize all her work. here is the love story of a beautiful irish girl who rode horses like an arizona cowboy, whose hair was red as flame, and whose lover was an english gentleman. but then, there was the spaniard, too! hot-headed, he was, passionate and lawless as a tartar. needless to say the story takes some startling turns. the end is surprising. and the satisfying conclusion it all comes to is this, that the eternal feminine still responds to courage in the male. by the author of the city of desire don lorenzo's bride passion island the spaniard the best of recent fiction adventures of jimmie dale. frank l. packard. adventures of sherlock holmes. a. conan doyle. adventures of the d. c. i. major c. e. russell. affair in duplex b, the. william johnston. affair at the chateau, the. mrs. baillie reynolds. affinities and other stories. mary roberts rinehart. after house, the. mary roberts rinehart. after noon. susan ertz. ah, the delicate passion. elizabeth hall yates. ailsa page. robert w. chambers. alcatraz. max brand. all at sea. carolyn wells. all the way by water. elizabeth stancy payne. altar of friendship, the. blanche upright. amateur gentleman. jeffery farnol. amateur inn, the. albert payson terhune. anabel at sea. samuel merwin. an accidental accomplice. william johnston. ancestor jorico. william j. locke. and they lived happily ever after. meredith nicholson. angel esquire. edgar wallace. angel of terror. edgar wallace. anne of the island. l. m. montgomery. anne's house of dreams. l. m. montgomery. annihilation. isabel ostrander. ann's crime. r. t. m. scott. an ordeal of honor. anthony pryde. anything but the truth. carolyn wells. april and sally june. margaret piper chalmers. are all men alike, and the lost titan. arthur stringer. aristocratic miss brewster, the. joseph c. lincoln. around old chester. margaret deland. arrant rover, the. berta ruck. as a thief in the night. r. austin freeman. a self-made thief. hulbert footner. astounding crime on torrington road, the. william gillette. at sight of gold. cynthia lombard. at the foot of the rainbow. james b. hendryx. at the mercy of tiberius. augusta evans wilson. at the south gate. grace s. richmond. auction block, the. rex beach. aunt jane of kentucky. eliza c. hall. aurelius smith--detective. r. t. m. scott. autocrat, the. pearl doles bell. aw hell! clarke venable. bab: a sub-deb. mary roberts rinehart. babe ruth's own book of baseball. george herman ruth. backwoods princess, a. hulbert footner. bad one, the. john farrow. 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friel. cat's eye, the. r. austin freeman. catspaw, the. terry shannon. cattle. winifred eaton reeve. cattle baron, the. robert ames bennet. cavalier of tennessee. meredith nicholson. celestial city, the. baroness orczy. certain dr. thorndyke. a. r. austin freeman. certain people of importance. kathleen norris. chaffee of roaring horse. ernest haycox. chance--and the woman. ellis middleton. charteris mystery. a. fielding. cherry square. grace s. richmond. cheyne mystery, the. freeman wills crofts. child of the north. ridgwell cullum. child of the wild. edison marshall. children of divorce. owen johnson. chronicles of avonlea. l. m. montgomery. cinema murder, the. e. phillips oppenheim. city of lilies, the. anthony pryde and r. k. weeks. city of peril, the. arthur stringer. city of the sun, the. edwin l. sabin. clair de lune. anthony pryde. clever one, the. edgar wallace. click of triangle t. oscar j. friend. clifford affair, the. a. fielding. clock strikes two, the. henry kitchell webster. clouded pearl, the. berta ruck. cloudy in the west. william patterson white. club of masks, the. allen upward. clue of the new pin, the. edgar wallace. clue of the twisted candle. edgar wallace. coast of enchantment. burton e. stevenson. cock's feather. katherine newlin burt. cold harbour. francis brett young. colorado jim. george goodchild. come home. stella g. s. perry. coming of cassidy, the. clarence e. mulford. coming of cosgrove, the. laurie y. erskine. coming of the law, the. charles a. selzer. communicating door, the. wadsworth camp. concerning him. introduced by the writer of "to m. i. g." confidence man, the. laurie y. erskine. conquest of canaan, the. booth tarkington. conquering lover, the. pamela wynne. conqueror passes, a. larry barretto. constant nymph, the. margaret kennedy. contraband. clarence budington kelland. copper moon. edwin bateman morris. corbin necklace, the. henry kitchell webster. corsican justice. j. g. sarasin. corson of the j. c. clarence e. mulford. cottonwood gulch. clarence e. mulford. court of inquiry, a. grace s. richmond. cow woman, the. george gilbert. crime at red towers. chester k. steele. crime in the crypt, the. carolyn wells. crimson circle, the. edgar wallace. crooked. maximilian foster. crooked cross, the. charles j. dutton. crook's shadow, the. j. jefferson farjeon. cross trails. harold bindloss. cruel fellowship. cyril hume. cryder of the big woods. george c. shedd. cry in the wilderness, a. mary e. waller. crystal cup, the. gertrude atherton. cup of fury, the. rupert hughes. curious quest, the. e. phillips oppenheim, cursed be the treasure. h. b. drake. cytherea. joseph hergesheimer. cy whittaker's place. joseph c. lincoln. daffodil murder, the. edgar wallace. dagger, the. anthony wynne. dalehouse murder, the. francis everton. damsel in distress, a. pelham g. wodehouse. dan barry's daughter. max brand. dance magic. clarence budington kelland. dancers in the dark. dorothy speare. dancing silhouette, the. natalie sumner lincoln. dancing star. berta ruck. danger. ernest poole. danger and other stories. a. conan doyle. dangerous business. edwin balmer. dark duel. marguerite steen. darkest spot, the. lee thayer. dark eyes of london, the. edgar wallace. david strange. nelia gardner white. daughter of the house. carolyn wells. daughter of the sands, a. frances everard. daughter pays, the. mrs. baillie reynolds. david copperfield. charles dickens. deadfall, the. edison marshall. dead men's shoes. lee thayer. dead ride hard, the. louis joseph vance. dear pretender, the. alice ross colver. death maker, the. austin j. small. deeper scar, the. sinclair gluck. deep in the hearts of men. mary e. waller. deep lake mystery. carolyn wells. deep seam, the. jack bethea. defenders, the. stella g. s. perry. delight. mazo de la roche. demon caravan, the. georges surdez. depot master, the. joseph c. lincoln. desert dust. edwin l. sabin. desert healer. e. m. hull. desire. gladys johnson. desire of his life, and other stories. ethel m. dell. destiny. rupert hughes. devil of pei-ling, the. herbert asbury. devil's mantle, the. frank l. packard. devil's paw, the. e. phillips oppenheim. devonshers, the. honore willsie morrow. diamond murders, the. j. s. fletcher. diamond thieves, the. arthur stringer. diana at the bath. elizabeth hall yates. diana of kara-kara. edgar wallace. diane's adventure. ann sumner. dimmest dream, the. alice ross colver. divine event. will n. harben. divots. p. g. wodehouse. dixiana, a novelization. winnie brandon. dr. glazebrook's revenge. andrew cassels brown. dr. nye. joseph c. lincoln. doctor s. o. s. lee thayer. doctor who held hands, the. hulbert footner. don careless. rex beach. door of dread, the. arthur stringer. doors of the night. frank l. packard. door with seven locks. edgar wallace. dope. sax rohmer. double chance, the. j. s. fletcher. double house, the. elizabeth dejeans. double thirteen, the. anthony wynne. double traitor, the. e. phillips oppenheim. downey of the mounted. james b. hendryx. draycott murder mystery. molly thynne. dream detective. sax rohmer. dream kiss. ann sumner. drums of aulone, the. robert w. chambers. drums of doom. robert welles ritchie. duke steps out, the. lucian cary. dust. armine von tempski. dust of the desert. robert welles ritchie. dust to dust. isabel ostrander. eames-erskine case. a. fielding. easy. nina wilcox putnam. eddy and edouard. baroness von hutten. eight panes of glass. robert simpson. ellerby case, the. john rhode. emerald tiger. edgar jepson. emily climbs. l. m. montgomery. emily of new moon. l. m. montgomery. emily's quest. l. m. montgomery. emperor of america, the. sax rohmer. empty hands. arthur stringer. [transcriber's note: this is where the book catalog ended.] [illustration: _the match game._ "_i knelt down, and laid my mallet at her feet. 'beautiful princess!' said i, 'behold your enemies, conquered, await your sentence.'_" (page .)] my wife and i: or, harry henderson's history. by harriet beecher stowe, author of "uncle tom's cabin," "pink and white," etc. [illustration] new-york: j. b. ford and company. . entered according to act of congress in the year by j. w. ford and company, in the office of the librarian of congress, at washington. preface. during the passage of this story through the christian union, it has been repeatedly taken for granted by the public press that certain of the characters are designed as portraits of really existing individuals. they are not. the supposition has its rise in an imperfect consideration of the principles of dramatic composition. the novel-writer does not profess to paint _portraits_ of any individual men and women in his personal acquaintance. certain characters are required for the purposes of his story. he conceives and creates them, and they become to him real living beings, acting and speaking in ways of their own. but on the other hand, he is guided in this creation by his knowledge and experience of men and women, and studies individual instances and incidents only to assure himself of the possibility and probability of the character he creates. if he succeeds in making the character real and natural, people often are led to identify it with some individual of their acquaintance. a slight incident, an anecdote, a paragraph in a paper, often furnishes the foundation of such a character; and the work of drawing it is like the process by which professor agassiz from one bone reconstructs the whole form of an unknown fish. but to apply to any single living person such delineation is a mistake, and might be a great wrong both to the author and to the person designated. for instance, it being the author's purpose to show the embarrassment of the young champion of progressive principles, in meeting the excesses of modern reformers, it came in her way to paint the picture of the modern emancipated young woman of advanced ideas and free behavior. and this character has been mistaken for the portrait of an _individual_, drawn from actual observation. on the contrary, it was not the author's intention to draw an individual, but simply to show the type of a class. facts as to conduct and behavior similar to those she has described are unhappily too familiar to residents of new york. but in this as in other cases the author has simply used isolated facts in the construction of a dramatic character suited to the design of the story. if the readers of to-day will turn back to miss edgeworth's _belinda_, they will find that this style of manners, these assumptions and mode of asserting them, are no new things. in the character of harriet freke, miss edgeworth vividly portrays the manners and sentiments of the modern emancipated women of our times, who think themselves "ne'er so sure our passion to create, as when they touch the brink of all we hate." certainly the author knows no original fully answering to the character of mrs. cerulean, though she has heard such an one described; and, doubtless, there are traits in her equally attributable to all fair enthusiasts who mistake the influence of their own personal charms and fascinations over the other sex, for real superiority of intellect. there are happily several young women whose vigorous self-sustaining career, in opening paths of usefulness alike for themselves and others, are like that of ida van arsdel; and the true experiences of a lovely new york girl first suggested the character of eva; yet both of them are, in execution, strictly imaginary paintings, adapted to the story. in short, some real character, or, in many cases, some two or three, furnish the germs, but the germs only, out of which new characters are developed. in close: the author wishes to dedicate this story to the many dear, bright young girls whom she is so happy as to number among her choicest friends. no matter what the critics say of it, if _they_ like it; and she hopes from them, at least, a favorable judgment. h. b. s. twin-mountain house, n.h. _october, ._ contents: page i. the author defines his position ii. my child-wife iii. our child-eden iv. my shadow-wife v. i start for college vi. my dream-wife vii. the valley of humiliation viii. the blue mists ix. an outlook into life x. cousin caroline xi. why don't you take her? xii. i lay the first stone in my foundation xiii. bachelor chambers xiv. haps and mishaps xv. i meet a vision xvi. the girl of our period xvii. i am introduced into society xviii. the young lady philosopher xix. flirtation xx. i became a family friend xxi. i discover the beauties of friendship xxii. i am introduced to the illuminati xxiii. i receive a moral shower-bath xxiv. aunt maria xxv. a discussion of the women question xxvi. cousin caroline again xxvii. easter lilies xxviii. enchantment and disenchantment xxix. a new opening xxx. perturbations xxxi. the fates xxxii. the game of croquet xxxiii. the match game xxxiv. letter from eva van arsdel xxxv. domestic consultations xxxvi. wealth _versus_ love xxxvii. further consultations xxxviii. making love to one's father-in-law xxxix. accepted and engaged xl. congratulations, etc. xli. the explosion xlii. the talk over the prayer book xliii. bolton xliv. the wedding journey xlv. my wife's wardrobe xlvi. letters from new york xlvii. aunt maria's dictum xlviii. our house xlix. picnicking in new york l. neighbors li. my wife projects hospitalities lii. preparations for our dinner party liii. the house-warming _illustrations._ i. the match game frontispiece. ii. my child-wife iii. matrimonial propositions iv. uncle jacob's advice v. my dream-wife vi. the umbrella vii. the advanced woman of the period viii. bolton's asylum chapter i. the author defines his position. it appears to me that the world is returning to its second childhood, and running mad for stories. stories! stories! stories! everywhere; stories in every paper, in every crevice, crack and corner of the house. stories fall from the pen faster than leaves of autumn, and of as many shades and colorings. stories blow over here in whirlwinds from england. stories are translated from the french, from the danish, from the swedish, from the german, from the russian. there are serial stories for adults in the _atlantic_, in the _overland_, in the _galaxy_, in _harper's_, in _scribner's_. there are serial stories for youthful pilgrims in _our young folks_, the _little corporal_, "_oliver optic_," the _youth's companion_, and very soon we anticipate newspapers with serial stories for the nursery. we shall have those charmingly illustrated magazines, the _cradle_, the _rocking chair_, the _first rattle_, and the _first tooth_, with successive chapters of "goosy goosy gander," and "hickory dickory dock," and "old mother hubbard," extending through twelve, or twenty-four, or forty-eight numbers. i have often questioned what solomon would have said if he had lived in our day. the poor man, it appears, was somewhat _blasé_ with the abundance of literature in his times, and remarked that much study was weariness to the flesh. then, printing was not invented, and "books" were all copied by hand, in those very square hebrew letters where each letter is about as careful a bit of work as a grave-stone. and yet, even with all these restrictions and circumscriptions, solomon rather testily remarked, "of making many books there is no end!" what would he have said had he looked over a modern publisher's catalogue? it is understood now that no paper is complete without its serial story, and the spinning of these stories keeps thousands of wheels and spindles in motion. it is now understood that whoever wishes to gain the public ear, and to propound a new theory, must do it in a serial story. hath any one in our day, as in st. paul's, a psalm, a doctrine, a tongue, a revelation, an interpretation--forthwith he wraps it up in a serial story, and presents it to the public. we have prison discipline, free-trade, labor and capital, woman's rights, the temperance question, in serial stories. we have romanism and protestantism, high church, and low church and no church, contending with each other in serial stories, where each side converts the other, according to the faith of the narrator. we see that this thing is to go on. soon it will be necessary that every leading clergyman should embody in his theology a serial story, to be delivered from the pulpit sunday after sunday. we look forward to announcements in our city papers such as these: the rev. dr. ignatius, of the church of st. mary the virgin, will begin a serial romance, to be entitled "st. sebastian and the arrows," in which he will embody the duties, the trials, and the temptations of the young christians of our day. the rev. dr. boanerges, of plymouth rock church, will begin a serial story, entitled "calvin's daughter," in which he will discuss the distinctive features of protestant theology. the rev. dr. cool shadow will go on with his interesting romance of "christianity a dissolving view,"--designed to show how everything is, in many respects, like everything else, and all things lead somewhere, and everything will finally end somehow, and that therefore it is important that everybody should cultivate general sweetness, and have the very best time possible in this world. by the time all these romances get to going, the system of teaching by parables, and opening one's mouth in dark sayings, will be fully elaborated. _pilgrim's progress_ will be no where. the way to the celestial city will be as plain in everybody's mind as the way up broadway--and so much more interesting! finally all science and all art will be explained, conducted, and directed by serial stories, till the present life and the life to come shall form only one grand romance. this will be about the time of the millennium. meanwhile, i have been furnishing a story for the _christian union_, and i chose the subject which is in everybody's mind and mouth, discussed on every platform, ringing from everybody's tongue, and coming home to every man's business and bosom, to wit: my wife and i. i trust that miss anthony and mrs. stanton, and all the prophetesses of our day, will remark the humility and propriety of my title. it is not i and my wife--oh no! it is my wife and i. what am i, and what is my father's house, that i should go before my wife in anything? "but why specially for the _christian union?_" says mr. chadband. let us in a spirit of love inquire. is it not evident why, o beloved? is not that firm in human nature which stands under the title of my wife and i, the oldest and most venerable form of christian union on record? where, i ask, will you find a better one?--a wiser, a stronger, a sweeter, a more universally popular and agreeable one? to be sure, there have been times and seasons when this ancient and respectable firm has been attacked as a piece of old fogyism, and various substitutes for it proposed. it has been said that "my wife and i" denoted a selfish, close corporation inconsistent with a general, all-sided diffusive, universal benevolence; that my wife and i, in a millennial community, had no particular rights in each other more than any of the thousands of the brethren and sisters of the human race. they have said, too, that my wife and i, instead of an indissoluble unity, were only temporary partners, engaged on time, with the liberty of giving three months' notice, and starting off to a new firm. it is not thus that we understand the matter. my wife and i, as we understand it, is the sign and symbol of more than any earthly partnership or union--of something sacred as religion, indissoluble as the soul, endless as eternity--the symbol chosen by almighty love to represent his redeeming, eternal union with the soul of man. a fountain of eternal youth gushes near the hearth of every household. each man and woman that have loved truly, have had their romance in life--their poetry in existence. so i, in giving my history, disclaim all other sources of interest. look not for trap-doors, or haunted houses, or deadly conspiracies, or murders, or concealed crimes, in this history, for you will not find one. you shall have simply and only the old story--old as the first chapter of genesis--of adam stupid, desolate, and lonely without eve, and how he sought and how he found her. this much, on mature consideration i hold to be about the sum and substance of all the romances that have ever been written, and so long as there are new adams and new eves in each coming generation, it will not want for sympathetic listeners. so i, harry henderson--a plain yankee boy from the mountains of new hampshire, and at present citizen of new york--commence my story. my experiences have three stages. first, my child-wife, or the experiences of childhood. second, my shadow-wife, or the dreamland of the future. third, my real wife, where i saw her, how i sought and found her. in pursuing a story simply and mainly of love and marriage, i am reminded of the saying of a respectable serving man of european experiences, who speaking of his position in a noble family said it was not so much the wages that made it an object as "_the things it enabled a gentleman to pick up_." so in our modern days as we have been observing, it is not so much the story, as the things it gives the author a chance to say. the history of a young american man's progress toward matrimony, of course brings him among the most stirring and exciting topics of the day, where all that relates to the joint interests of man and woman has been thrown into the arena as an open question, and in relating our own experiences, we shall take occasion to keep up with the spirit of this discussing age in all these matters. [illustration: _my child-wife._ "_the big boys quizzed me, made hideous faces at me from behind their spelling-books, and great hulking tom halliday threw a spit-ball that lodged on the wall just over my head, by way of showing his contempt for me; but i looked at susie, and took courage._"] chapter ii. my child-wife. the bible says it is not good for man to be alone. this is a truth that has been borne in on my mind, with peculiar force, from the earliest of my recollection. in fact when i was only seven years old i had selected my wife, and asked the paternal consent. you see, i was an unusually lonesome little fellow, because i belonged to the number of those unlucky waifs who come into this mortal life under circumstances when nobody wants or expects them. my father was a poor country minister in the mountains of new hampshire with a salary of six hundred dollars, with nine children. i was the tenth. i was not expected; my immediate predecessor was five years of age, and the gossips of the neighborhood had already presented congratulations to my mother on having "done up her work in the forenoon," and being ready to sit down to afternoon leisure. her well-worn baby clothes were all given away, the cradle was peaceably consigned to the garret, and my mother was now regarded as without excuse if she did not preside at the weekly prayer-meeting, the monthly maternal association, and the missionary meeting, and perform besides regular pastoral visitations among the good wives of her parish. no one, of course, ever thought of voting her any little extra salary on account of these public duties which absorbed so much time and attention from her perplexing domestic cares--rendered still more severe and onerous by my father's limited salary. my father's six hundred dollars, however, was considered by the farmers of the vicinity as being a princely income, which accounted satisfactorily for everything, and had he not been considered by them as "about the smartest man in the state," they could not have gone up to such a figure. my mother was one of those gentle, soft-spoken, quiet little women who, like oil, permeate every crack and joint of life with smoothness. with a noiseless step, an almost shadowy movement, her hand and eye were every where. her house was a miracle of neatness and order--her children of all ages and sizes under her perfect control, and the accumulations of labor of all descriptions which beset a great family where there are no servants, all melted away under her hands as if by enchantment. she had a divine magic too, that mother of mine; if it be magic to commune daily with the supernatural. she had a little room all her own, where on a stand always lay open the great family bible, and when work pressed hard and children were untoward, when sickness threatened, when the skeins of life were all crossways and tangled, she went quietly to that room, and kneeling over that bible, took hold of a warm, healing, invisible hand, that made the crooked straight, and the rough places plain. "poor mrs. henderson--another boy!" said the gossips on the day that i was born. "what a shame! poor woman. well, i wish her joy!" but she took me to a warm bosom and bade god bless me! all that god sent to her was treasure. "who knows," she said cheerily to my father, "this may be our brightest." "god bless him," said my father, kissing me and my mother, and then he returned to an important treatise which was to reconcile the decrees of god with the free agency of man, and which the event of my entrance into this world had interrupted for some hours. the sermon was a perfect success i am told, and nobody that heard it ever had a moment's further trouble on that subject. as to me, my outfit for this world was of the scantest-a few yellow flannel petticoats and a few slips run up from some of my older sisters cast off white gowns, were deemed sufficient. the first child in a family is its poem--it is a sort of nativity play, and we bend before the young stranger, with gifts, "gold, frankincense and myrrh." but the tenth child in a poor family is _prose_, and gets simply what is due to comfort. there are no superfluities, no fripperies, no idealities about the tenth cradle. as i grew up i found myself rather a solitary little fellow in a great house, full of the bustle and noise and conflicting claims of older brothers and sisters, who had got the floor in the stage of life before me, and who were too busy with their own wants, schemes and plans, to regard me. i was all very well so long as i kept within the limits of babyhood. they said i was the handsomest baby ever pertaining to the family establishment, and as long as that quality and condition lasted i was made a pet of. my sisters curled my golden locks and made me wonderful little frocks, and took me about to show me. but when i grew bigger, and the golden locks were sheared off and replaced by straight light hair, and i was inducted into jacket and pantaloons, cut down by miss abia ferkin from my next brother's last year's suit, outgrown--then i was turned upon the world to shift for myself. babyhood was over, and manhood not begun--i was to run the gauntlet of boyhood. my brothers and sisters were affectionate enough in their way, but had not the least sentiment, and as i said before they had each one their own concerns to look after. my eldest brother was in college, my next brother was fitting for college in a neighboring academy, and used to walk ten miles daily to his lessons and take his dinner with him. one of my older sisters was married, the two next were handsome lively girls, with a retinue of beaux, who of course took up a deal of their time and thoughts. the sister next before me was four years above me on the lists of life, and of course looked down on me as a little boy unworthy of her society. when her two or three chattering girl friends came to see her and they had their dolls and their baby houses to manage, i was always in the way. they laughed at my awkwardness, criticised my nose, my hair, and my ears to my face, with that feminine freedom by which the gentler sex joy to put down the stronger one when they have it at advantage. i used often to retire from their society swelling with impotent wrath, at their free comments. "i won't play with you," i would exclaim. "nobody wants you," would be the rejoinder. "we've been wanting to be rid of you this good while." but as i was a stout little fellow, my elders thought it advisable to devolve on me any such tasks and errands as interfered with their comfort. i was sent to the store when the wind howled and the frost bit, and my brothers and sisters preferred a warm corner. "he's only a boy, he can go, or he can do or he can wait," was always the award of my sisters. my individual pursuits, and my own little stock of interests, were of course of no account. i was required to be in a perfectly free, disengaged state of mind, and ready to drop every thing at a moment's warning from any of my half dozen seniors. "here hal, run down cellar and get me a dozen apples," my brother would say, just as i had half built a block house. "harry, run up stairs and get the book i left on the bed--harry, run out to the barn and get the rake i left there--here, harry, carry this up garret--harry, run out to the tool shop and get that"--were sounds constantly occurring--breaking up my private cherished little enterprises of building cob-houses, making mill dams and bridges, or loading carriages, or driving horses. where is the mature christian who could bear with patience the interruptions and crosses in his daily schemes, that beset a boy? then there were for me dire mortifications and bitter disappointments. if any company came and the family board was filled and the cake and preserves brought out, and gay conversation made my heart bound with special longings to be in at the fun, i heard them say, "no need to set a plate for harry--he can just as well wait till after." i can recollect many a serious deprivation of mature life, that did not bring such bitterness of soul as that sentence of exclusion. then when my sister's admirer, sam richards, was expected, and the best parlor fire lighted, and the hearth swept, how i longed to sit up and hear his funny stories, how i hid in dark corners, and lay off in shadowy places, hoping to escape notice and so avoid the activity of the domestic police. but no, "mamma, mustn't harry go to bed?" was the busy outcry of my sisters, desirous to have the deck cleared for action, and superfluous members finally disposed of. take it for all in all--i felt myself, though not wanting in the supply of any physical necessity, to be somehow, as i said, a very lonesome little fellow in the world. in all that busy, lively, gay, bustling household i had no mate. "i think we must send harry to school," said my mother, gently, to my father, when i had vented this complaint in her maternal bosom. "poor little fellow, he is an odd one!--there isn't exactly any one in the house for him to mate with!" so to school i was sent, with a clean checked apron, drawn up tight in my neck, and a dinner basket, and a brown towel on which i was to be instructed in the wholesome practice of sewing. i went, trembling and blushing, with many an apprehension of the big boys who had promised to thrash me when i came; but the very first day i was made blessed in the vision of my little child-wife, susie morril. such a pretty, neat little figure as she was! i saw her first standing in the school-room door. her cheeks and neck were like wax; her eyes clear blue; and when she smiled, two little dimples flitted in and out on her cheeks, like those in a sunny brook. she was dressed in a pink gingham frock, with a clean white apron fitted trimly about her little round neck. she was her mother's only child, and always daintily dressed. "oh, susie dear," said my mother, who had me by the hand, "i've brought a little boy here to school, and will be a mate for you." how affably and graciously she received me--the little eve--all smiles and obligingness and encouragement for the lumpish, awkward adam. how she made me sit down on a seat by her, and put her little white arm cosily over my neck, as she laid the spelling-book on her knee, saying--"_i_ read in baker. where do you read?" friend, it was webster's spelling-book that was their text-book, and many of you will remember where "baker" is in that literary career. the column of words thus headed was a mile-stone on the path of infant progress. but my mother had been a diligent instructress at home, and i an apt scholar, and my breast swelled as i told little susie that i had gone beyond baker. i saw "respect mingling with surprise" in her great violet eyes; my soul was enlarged--my little frame dilated, as turning over to the picture of the "old man who found a rude boy on one of his trees stealing apples," i answered her that i had read there! "why-_ee!_" said the little maiden; "only think, girls--he reads in readings!" i was set up and glorified in my own esteem; two or three girls looked at me with evident consideration. "don't you want to sit on our side?" said susie, engagingly. "i'll ask miss bessie to let you, 'cause she said the big boys always plague the little ones." and so, as she was a smooth-tongued little favorite, she not only introduced me to the teacher, but got me comfortably niched, beside her dainty self on the hard, backless seat, where i sat swinging my heels, and looking for all the world like a rough little short-tailed robin, just pushed out of the nest, and surveying the world with round, anxious eyes. the big boys quizzed me, made hideous faces at me from behind their spelling-books, and great hulking tom halliday threw a spit ball that lodged on the wall just over my head, by way of showing his contempt for me; but i looked at susie, and took courage. i thought i never saw anything so pretty as she was. i was never tired with following the mazes of her golden curls. i thought how dainty and nice and white her pink dress and white apron were; and she wore a pair of wonderful little red shoes; her tiny hands were so skillful and so busy! she turned the hem of my brown towel, and basted it for me so nicely, and then she took out some delicate ruffling that was her school work, and i admired her bright, fine needle and fine thread, and the waxen little finger crowned with a little brass thimble, as she sewed away with an industrious steadiness. to me the brass was gold, and her hands were pearl, and she was a little fairy princess!--yet every few moments she turned her great blue eyes on me, and smiled and nodded her little head knowingly, as much as to bid me be of good cheer, and i felt a thrill go right to my heart, that beat delightedly under the checked apron. "please, ma'am," said susan, glibly, "mayn't henry go out to play with the girls? the big boys are so rough." and miss bessie smiled, and said i might; and i was a blessed little boy from that moment. in the first recess susie instructed me in playing "tag," and "oats, peas, beans, and barley, o," and in "threading the needle," and "opening the gates as high as high as the sky, to let king george and his court pass by"--in all which she was a proficient, and where i needed a great deal of teaching and encouraging. but when it came to more athletic feats, i could distinguish myself. i dared jump off from a higher fence than she could, and covered myself with glory by climbing to the top of a five-railed gate, and jumping boldly down; and moreover, when a cow appeared on the green before the school-house door, i marched up to her with a stick and ordered her off, with a manly stride and a determined voice, and chased her with the utmost vigor quite out of sight. these proceedings seemed to inspire susie with a certain respect and confidence. i could read in "readings," jump off from high fences, and wasn't afraid of cows! these were manly accomplishments! the school-house was a long distance from my father's, and i used to bring my dinner. susie brought hers also, and many a delightful picnic have we had together. we made ourselves a house under a great button-ball tree, at whose foot the grass was short and green. our house was neither more nor less than a square, marked out on the green turf by stones taken from the wall. i glorified myself in my own eyes and in susie's, by being able to lift stones twice as heavy as she could, and a big flat one, which nearly broke my back, was deposited in the centre of the square, as our table. we used a clean pocket-handkerchief for a table-cloth; and susie was wont to set out our meals with great order, making plates and dishes out of the button-ball leaves. under her direction also, i fitted up our house with a pantry, and a small room where we used to play wash dishes, and set away what was left of our meals. the pantry was a stone cupboard, where we kept chestnuts and apples, and what remained of our cookies and gingerbread. susie was fond of ornamentation, and stuck bouquets of golden rod and aster around in our best room, and there we received company, and had select society come to see us. susie brought her doll to dwell in this establishment, and i made her a bedroom and a little bed of milkweed-silk to lie on. we put her to bed and tucked her up when we went into school--not without apprehension that those savages, the big boys, might visit our eden with devastation. but the girls' recess came first, and we could venture to leave her there taking a nap till our play-time came; and when the girls went in susie rolled her nursling in a napkin and took her safely into school, and laid her away in a corner of her desk, while the dreadful big boys were having their yelling war-whoop and carnival outside. "how nice it is to have harry gone all day to school," i heard one of my sisters saying to the other. "he used to be so in the way, meddling and getting into everything"--"and listening to everything one says," said the other, "children have such horridly quick ears. harry always listens to what we talk about." "i think he is happier now, poor little fellow," said my mother. "he has somebody now to play with." this was the truth of the matter. on saturday afternoons, i used to beg of my mother to let me go and see susie; and my sisters, nothing loth, used to brush my hair and put on me a stiff, clean, checked apron, and send me trotting off, the happiest of young lovers. how bright and fair life seemed to me those saturday afternoons, when the sun, through the picket-fences, made golden-green lines on the turf--and the trees waved and whispered, and i gathered handfuls of golden-rod and asters to ornament our house, under the button-wood tree! then we used to play in the barn together. we hunted for hens' eggs, and i dived under the barn to dark places where she dared not go; and climbed up to high places over the hay-mow, where she trembled to behold me--bringing stores of eggs, which she received in her clean white apron. this daintiness of outfit excited my constant admiration. i wore stiff, heavy jackets and checked aprons, and was constantly, so my sisters said, wearing holes through my knees and elbows for them to patch; but little susie always appeared to me fresh and fine and untumbled; she never dirtied her hands or soiled her dress. like a true little woman, she seemed to have nerves through all her clothes that kept them in order. this nicety of person inspired me with a secret, wondering reverence. how could she always be so clean, so trim, and every way so pretty, i wondered? her golden curls always seemed fresh from the brush, and even when she climbed and ran, and went with me into the barn-yard, or through the swamp and into all sorts of compromising places, she somehow picked her way out bright and unsoiled. but though i admired her ceaselessly for this, she was no less in admiration of my daring strength and prowess. i felt myself a perfect paladin in her defense. i remember that the chip-yard which we used to cross, on our way to the barn, was tyrannized over by a most loud-mouthed and arrogant old turkey-cock, that used to strut and swell and gobble and chitter greatly to her terror. she told me of different times when she had tried to cross the yard alone, how he had jumped upon her and flapped his wings, and thrown her down, to her great distress and horror. the first time he tried the game on me, i marched up to him, and by a dexterous pass, seized his red neck in my hand, and confining his wings down with my arm, walked him ingloriously out of the yard. how triumphant susie was, and how i swelled and exulted to her, telling her what i would do to protect her under every supposable variety of circumstances! susie had confessed to me of being dreadfully afraid of "bears," and i took this occasion to tell her what i would do if a bear should actually attack her. i assured her that i would get father's gun and shoot him without mercy--and she listened and believed. i also dilated on what i would do if robbers should get into the house; i would, i informed her, immediately get up and pour shovelfuls of hot coal down their backs--and wouldn't they have to run? what comfort and security this view of matters gave us both! what bears and robbers were, we had no very precise idea, but it was a comfort to think how strong and adequate to meet them in any event i was. sometimes, of a saturday afternoon, susie was permitted to come and play with me. i always went after her, and solicited the favor humbly at the hands of her mother, who, after many washings and dressings and cautions as to her clothes, delivered her up to me, with the condition that she was to start for home when the sun was half an hour high. susie was very conscientious in watching, but for my part i never agreed with her. i was always sure that the sun was an hour high, when she set her little face dutifully homeward. my sisters used to pet her greatly during these visits. they delighted to twine her curls over their fingers, and try the effects of different articles of costume on her fair complexion. they would ask her, laughing, would she be my little wife, to which she always answered with a grave affirmative. [illustration: _matrimonial propositions._ "_early marriages?" said my mother, stopping her knitting looking at me, while a smile flashed over her thin cheeks: "what's the child thinking of?_"] yes, she was to be my wife; it was all settled between us. but when? i didn't see why we must wait till we grew up. she was lonesome when i was gone, and i was lonesome when she was gone. why not marry her now, and take her home to live with me? i asked her and she said she was willing, but mamma never would spare her. i said i would get my mamma to ask her, and i knew she couldn't refuse, because my papa was the minister. i turned the matter over and over in my mind, and thought sometime when i could find my mother alone, i would introduce the subject. so one evening, as i sat on my little stool at my mother's knees, i thought i would open the subject, and began: "mamma, why do people object to early marriages?" "early marriages?" said my mother, stopping her knitting, looking at me, while a smile flashed over her thin cheeks: "what's the child thinking of?" "i mean, why can't susie and i be married now? i want her here. i'm lonesome without her. nobody wants to play with me in this house, and if she were here we should be together all the time." my father woke up from his meditation on his next sunday's sermon, and looked at my mother, smiling. a gentle laugh rippled her bosom. "why, dear," she said, "don't you know your father is a poor man, and has hard work to support his children now? he couldn't afford to keep another little girl." i thought the matter over, sorrowfully. here was the pecuniary difficulty, that puts off so many desiring lovers, meeting me on the very threshold of life. "mother," i said, after a period of mournful consideration, "i wouldn't eat but just half as much as i do now, and i'd try not to wear out my clothes, and make 'em last longer." my mother had very bright eyes, and there was a mingled flash of tears and laughter in them, as when the sun winks through rain drops. she lifted me gently into her lap and drew my head down on her bosom. "some day, when my little son grows to be a man, i hope god will give him a wife he loves dearly. 'houses and lands are from the fathers; but a good wife is of the lord,' the bible says." "that's true, dear," said my father, looking at her tenderly; "nobody knows that better than i do." my mother rocked gently back and forward with me in the evening shadows, and talked with me and soothed me, and told me stories how one day i should grow to be a good man--a minister, like my father, she hoped--and have a dear little house of my own. "and will susie be in it?" "let's hope so," said my mother. "who knows?" "but, mother, ain't you sure? i want you to say it will be certainly." "my little one, only our dear father could tell us that," said my mother. "but now you must try and learn fast, and become a good strong man, so that you can take care of a little wife." chapter iii. our child-eden. my mother's talk aroused all the enthusiasm of my nature. here was a motive, to be sure. i went to bed and dreamed of it. i thought over all possible ways of growing big and strong rapidly--i had heard the stories of samson from the bible. how did he grow so strong? he was probably once a little boy like me. "did he go for the cows, i wonder," thought i--"and let down very big bars when his hands were little, and learn to ride the old horse bare-back, when his legs were very short?" all these things i was emulous to do; and i resolved to lift very heavy pails full of water, and very many of them, and to climb into the mow, and throw down great armfulls of hay, and in every possible way to grow big and strong. i remember the next day after my talk with my mother was _saturday_, and i had leave to go up and spend it with susie. there was a meadow just back of her mother's house, which we used to call the mowing lot. it was white with daisies, yellow with buttercups, with some moderate share of timothy and herds grass intermixed. but what was specially interesting to us was, that, down low at the roots of the grass, and here and there in moist, rich spots, grew wild strawberries, large and juicy, rising on nice high stalks, with three or four on a cluster. what joy there was in the possession of a whole sunny saturday afternoon to be spent with susie in this meadow! to me the amount of happiness in the survey was greatly in advance of what i now have in the view of a three weeks' summer excursion. when, after multiplied cautions and directions, and careful adjustment of susie's clothing, on the part of her mother, susie was fairly delivered up to me; when we had turned our backs on the house and got beyond call, then our bliss was complete. how carefully and patronizingly i helped her up the loose, mossy, stone wall, all hedged with a wilderness of golden-rod, ferns, raspberry bushes, and asters! down we went through this tangled thicket, into such a secure world of joy, where the daisied meadow received us to her motherly bosom, and we were sure nobody could see us. we could sit down and look upward, and see daisies and grasses nodding and bobbing over our heads, hiding us as completely as two young grass birds; and it was such fun to think that nobody could find out where we were! two bob-o-links, who had a nest somewhere in that lot, used to mount guard in an old apple tree, and sit on tall, bending twigs, and say, "chack! chack! chack!" and flutter their black and white wings up and down, and burst out into most elaborate and complicated babbles of melody. these were our only associates and witnesses. we thought that they knew us, and were glad to see us there, and wouldn't tell anybody where we were for the world. there was an exquisite pleasure to us in this sense of utter isolation--of being hid with each other where nobody could find us. we had worlds of nice secrets peculiar to ourselves. nobody but ourselves knew where the "thick spots" were, where the ripe, scarlet strawberries grew; the big boys never suspected them, we said to one another, nor the big girls; it was our own secret, which we kept between our own little selves. how we searched, and picked, and chatted, and oh'd and ah'd to each other, as we found wonderful places, where the strawberries passed all belief! but profoundest of all our wonderful secrets were our discoveries in the region of animal life. we found, in a tuft of grass overshadowed by wild roses, a grass bird's nest. in vain did the cunning mother creep yards from the cherished spot, and then suddenly fly up in the wrong place; we were not to be deceived. our busy hands parted the lace curtains of fern, and, with whispers of astonishment, we counted the little speckled, bluegreen eggs. how round and fine and exquisite, past all gems polished by art, they seemed; and what a mystery was the little curious smooth-lined nest in which we found them! we talked to the birds encouragingly. "dear little birds," we said, "don't be afraid; nobody but we shall know it;" and then we said to each other, "tom halliday never shall find this out, nor jim fellows." they would carry off the eggs and tear up the nest; and our hearts swelled with such a responsibility for the tender secret, that it was all we could do that week to avoid telling it to everybody we met. we informed all the children at school that we knew something that they didn't--something that we _never_ should tell!--something _so_ wonderful!--something that it would be wicked to tell of--for mother said so; for be it observed that, like good children, we had taken our respective mothers into confidence, and received the strictest and most conscientious charges as to our duty to keep the birds' secret. in that enchanted meadow of ours grew tall, yellow lilies, glowing as the sunset, hanging down their bells, six or seven in number, from high, graceful stalks, like bell towers of fairy land. they were over our heads sometimes, as they rose from the grass and daisies, and we looked up into their golden hearts spotted with black, with a secret, wondering joy. "oh, don't pick them, they look too pretty," said susie to me once when i stretched up my hand to gather one of these. "let's leave them to be here when we come again! i like to see them wave." and so we left the tallest of them; but i was not forbidden to gather handfuls of the less wonderful specimens that grew only one or two on a stalk. our bouquets of flowers increased with our strawberries. through the middle of this meadow chattered a little brook, gurgling and tinkling over many-colored pebbles, and here and there collecting itself into a miniature waterfall, as it pitched over a broken bit of rock. for our height and size, the waterfalls of this little brook were equal to those of trenton, or any of the medium cascades that draw the fashionable crowd of grown-up people; and what was the best of it was, it was _our_ brook, and _our_ waterfall. _we_ found them, and we verily believed nobody else but ourselves knew of them. by this waterfall, as i called it, which was certainly a foot and a half high, we sat and arranged our strawberries when our baskets were full, and i talked with susie about what my mother had told me. i can see her now, the little crumb of womanhood, as she sat, gaily laughing at me. "_she_ didn't care a bit," she said. _she_ had just as lief wait till i grew to be a man. why, we could go to school together, and have saturday afternoons together. "don't you mind it, hazzy dazzy," she said, coming close up to me, and putting her little arms coaxingly round my neck; "we love each other, and it's ever so nice now." i wonder what the reason is that it is one of the first movements of affectionate feeling to change the name of the loved one. give a baby a name, ever so short and ever so musical, where is the mother that does not twist it into some other pet name between herself and her child. so susie, when she was very loving, called me hazzy, and sometimes would play on my name, and call me hazzy dazzy, and sometimes dazzy, and we laughed at this because it was between us; and we amused ourselves with thinking how surprised people would be to hear her say dazzy, and how they would wonder who she meant. in like manner, i used to call her daisy when we were by ourselves, because she seemed to me so neat and trim and pure, and wore a little flat hat on sundays just like a daisy. "i'll tell you, daisy," said i, "just what i'm going to do--i'm going to grow strong as sampson did." "oh, but how can you?" she suggested, doubtfully. "oh, i'm going to run and jump and climb, and carry ever so much water for mother, and i'm to ride on horseback and go to mill, and go all round on errands, and so i shall get to be a man fast, and when i get to be a man i'll build a house all on purpose for you and me--i'll build it all myself; it shall have a parlor and a dining-room and kitchen, and bed-room, and well-room, and chambers"-- "and nice closets to put things in," suggested the little woman. "certainly, ever so many--just where you want them, there i'll put them," said i, with surpassing liberality. "and then, when we live together, i'll take care of you--i'll keep off all the lions and bears and panthers. if a bear should come at _you_, daisy, i should tear him right in two, just as sampson did." at this vivid picture, daisy nestled close to my shoulder, and her eyes grew large and reflective. "we shouldn't leave poor mother alone," said she. "oh, no; she shall come and live with us," said i, with an exalted generosity. "i will make her a nice chamber on purpose, and _my_ mother shall come, too." "but she can't leave your father, you know." "oh, father shall come, too--when he gets old and can't preach any more. i shall take care of them all." and my little daisy looked at me with eyes of approving credulity, and said i was a brave boy; and the bobolinks chittered and chattered applause as they sung and skirmished and whirled up over the meadow grasses; and by and by, when the sun fell low, and looked like a great golden ball, with our hands full of lilies, and our baskets full of strawberries, we climbed over the old wall, and toddled home. after that, i remember many gay and joyous passages in that happiest summer of my life. how, when autumn came, we roved through the woods together, and gathered such stores of glossy brown chestnuts. what joy it was to us to scuff through the painted fallen leaves and send them flying like showers of jewels before us! how i reconnoitered and marked available chestnut trees, and how i gloried in being able to climb like a cat, and get astride high limbs and shake and beat them, and hear the glossy brown nuts fall with a rich, heavy thud below, while susie was busily picking up at the foot of the tree. how she did flatter me with my success and prowess! tom halliday might be a bigger boy, but he could never go up a tree as i could; and as for that great clumsy jim fellows, she laughed to think what a figure he would make, going out on the end of the small limbs, which would be sure to break and send him bundling down. the picture which susie drew of the awkwardness of the big boys often made us laugh till the tears rolled down our cheeks. to this day i observe it as a weakness of my sex that we all take it in extremely good part when the pretty girl of our heart laughs at other fellows in a snug, quiet way, just between one's dear self and herself alone. we encourage our own dear little cat to scratch and claw the sacred memories of jim or tom, and think that she does it in an extremely cunning and diverting way--it being understood between us that there is no malice in it--that "jim and tom are nice fellows enough, you know--only that somebody else is so superior to them," etc. susie and i considered ourselves as an extremely forehanded, well-to-do partnership, in the matter of gathering in our autumn stores. no pair of chipmonks in the neighborhood conducted business with more ability. we had a famous cellar that i dug and stoned, where we stored away our spoils. we had chestnuts and walnuts and butternuts, as we said, to last us all winter, and many an earnest consultation and many a busy hour did the gathering and arranging of these spoils cost us. then, oh, the golden times we had when father's barrels of new cider came home from the press! how i cut and gathered and selected bunches of choice straws, which i took to school and showed to susie, surreptitiously, at intervals, during school exercises, that she might see what a provision of bliss i was making for saturday afternoons. how susie was sent to visit us on these occasions, in leather shoes and checked apron, so that we might go in the cellar; and how, mounted up on logs on either side of a barrel of cider, we plunged our straws through the foamy mass at the bung-hole, and drew out long draughts of sweet cider! i was sure to get myself dirty in my zeal, which she never did; and then she would laugh at me and patronize me, and wipe me up in a motherly sort of way. "how _do_ you always get so dirty, harry?" she would say, in a truly maternal tone of reproof. "how _do_ you keep so clean?" i would say, in wonder; and she would laugh, and call me her dear, dirty boy. she would often laugh at me, the little elf, and make herself distractingly merry at my expense, but the moment she saw that the blood was getting too high in my cheeks, she would stroke me down with praises, as became a wise young daughter of eve. besides all this, she had her little airs of moral superiority, and used occasionally to lecture me in the nicest manner. being an only darling, she herself was brought up in the strictest ways in which little feet could go; and the nicety of her conscience was as unsullied as that of her dress. i was hot tempered and heady, and under stress of great provocation would come as near swearing as a minister's son could possibly do. when the big boys ravaged our house under the tree, or threw sticks at us, i used to stretch every permitted limit, and scream, "darn you!" and "confound you!" with a vigor and emphasis that made it almost equal to something a good deal stronger. on such occasions susie would listen pale and frightened, and, when reason came back to me, gravely lecture me, and bring me into the paths of virtue. she used to rehearse to me the teachings of her mother about all manner of good things. i have her image now in my mind, looking so crisp and composed and neat in her sobriety, repeating, for my edification, the hymn which contained the good child's ideal in those days: "oh, that it were my chief delight to do the things i ought, then let me try with all my might to mind what i am taught. whene'er i'm told, i'll freely bring whatever i have got, and never touch a pretty thing, when mother tells me not. if she permits me, i may tell about my little toys, but if she's busy or unwell, i must not make a noise." i can hear now the delicious lisp of my little saint, and see the gracious gravity of her manner. to my mind, she was unaccountably well established in the ways of virtue, and i listened to her little lectures with a secret reverence. susie was especially careful in the observation of sunday, and as that is a point where children are apt to be particularly weak, she would exhort me to rigorous exactitude. i kept it, first, by thinking that i should see _her_ at church, and by growing very precise about my sunday clothes, whereat my sisters winked at each other and laughed slyly. then at church we sat in great square pews adjoining to each other. it was my pleasure to peep through the slats at susie. she was wonderful to behold then, all in white, with a profusion of blue ribbons and her little flat hat over her curls--and a pair of dainty blue shoes peeping out from her dress. she informed me that little girls never must think about their clothes in meeting, and so i supposed she was trying to be entirely absorbed from earthly vanities, unconscious of the fixed and earnest stare with which i followed every movement. human nature is but partially sanctified, however, in little saints as well as grown up ones, and i noticed that occasionally, probably by accident, the great blue eyes met mine, and a smile, almost amounting to a sinful giggle, was with difficulty choked down. she was, however, a most conscientious little puss and recovered herself in a moment, and looked gravely upward at the minister, not one word of whose sermon could she by any possibility understand, severely devoting herself to her religious duties, till exhausted nature gave way. the little lids would close over the eyes like blue pimpernel before a shower,--the head would drop and nod, till finally the mother would dispense the little christian from further labors, by laying her head on her lap and drawing her feet up comfortably upon the seat, to sleep out to the end of the sermon. when winter came on i beset my older brother to make me a sled. sleds, such as every boy in boston or new york now rejoices in, were blessings in our parts unknown; our sled was of rough, domestic manufacture. my brother, laughing, asked if my sled was intended to draw susie on, and on my earnest response in the affirmative he amused himself with painting it in colors, red and blue, most glorious to behold. my soul was magnified within me when i first started with this stylish establishment to wait on susie. what young fellow does not exult in a smart team when he has a girl whom he wants to dazzle? great was my joy and pride when i first stopped at susie's and told her to hurry on her things, for i had come to draw her to school! what a pretty picture she made in her little blue knit hood and mittens, her bright curls flying and cheeks glowing with the keen winter air! there was a long hill on the way to school, and seated on the sled behind her, i careered gloriously down with exultation in my breast, while a stream of laughter floated on the breeze behind us. that was a winter of much coasting down hill, of red cheeks and red noses, of cold toes, which we never minded, and of abundant jollity. susie, under her mother's careful showing, knit me a pair of red mittens, warming to the heart and delightful to the eyes; and i piled up wood and carried water for mother, and by vigorous economy earned money enough to buy susie a great candy heart as big as my two hands, that had the picture of two doves tied together by a blue ribbon on one side, and on the other two very red hearts skewered together by an arrow. no work of art ever gave greater and more unmingled delight. susie gave it a prominent place in her baby-house,--and though it was undeniably sweet, as certain little nibbling trials on its edges had proved, yet the artistic sense was stronger than the palate, and the candy heart was kept to be looked at and rejoiced in. susie's mother was an intimate and confidential friend of my mother, and a most docile and confiding sheep of my father's flock. she regarded her minister's family, and all that belonged to it, as something set apart and sacred. my mother had imparted to her the little joke of my matrimonial wishes, and the two matrons had laughed over it together, and then sighed, and said, "ah! well, stranger things have happened." susie's mother told how she used to know her husband when he was a little boy, and what if it should be! and then they strayed on to the general truth that this was a world of uncertainty, and we never can tell what a day may bring forth. our little idyl, too, was rather encouraged by my brothers and sisters, who made a pet and plaything of susie, and diverted themselves by the gravity and honesty with which we devoted ourselves to each other. oh! dear ignorant days--sweet little child-eden--why could it not last? but it could not. it was fleeting as the bobolink's song, as the spotted yellow lilies, as the grass and daisies. my little daisy was too dear to the angels to be spared to grow up in our coarse world. the winter passed and spring came, and susie and i rejoiced in the first bluebird, and found blue and white violets together, and went to school together, till the heats of summer came on. then a sad epidemic began to linger around in our mountains, and to be heard of in neighboring villages, and my poor daisy was scorched by its breath. i remember well our last afternoon together in the meadow, where, the year before, we had gathered strawberries. we went down into it in high spirits; the strawberries were abundant, and we chatted and picked together gaily, till daisy began to complain that her head ached and her throat was sore. i sat her down by the brook, and wet her curls with the water, and told her to rest there, and let me pick for her. but pretty soon she called me. she was crying with pain. "oh! hazzy, dear, i must go home," she said. "take me to mother." i hurried to help her, for she cried and moaned so that i was frightened. i began to cry, too, and we came up the steps of her mother's house sobbing together. when her mother came out the little one suppressed her tears and distress for a moment, and turning, threw her arms around my neck and kissed me. "don't cry any more, hazzy," she said; "we'll see each other again." her mother took her up in her arms and carried her in, and i never saw my little baby-wife again on this earth! not where the daisies and buttercups grew; nor where the golden lilies shook their bells, and the bobolinks trilled; not in the school-room, with its many child-voices; not in the old square pew in church--never, never more that trim little maiden form, those violet blue eyes, those golden curls of hair, were to be seen on earth! my daisy's last kisses, with the fever throbbing in her veins, very nearly took me with her. from that time i have only indistinct remembrances of going home crying, of turning with a strange loathing from my supper, of creeping up and getting into bed, shivering and burning, with a thumping and beating pain in my head. the next morning the family doctor pronounced me a case of the epidemic (scarlet fever) which he said was all about among children in the neighborhood. i have dim, hot, hazy recollections of burning, thirsty, head-achey days, when i longed for cold water, and could not get a drop, according to the good old rules of medical practice in those times. i dimly observed different people sitting up with me every night, and putting different medicines in my unresisting mouth; and day crept slowly after day, and i lay idly watching the rays of sunlight and flutter of leaves on the opposite wall. one afternoon, i remember, as i lay thus listless, i heard the village bell strike slowly--six times. the sound wavered and trembled with long and solemn intervals of shivering vibration between. it was the numbering of my daisy's little years on earth,--the announcement that she had gone to the land where time is no more measured by day and night, for there shall be no night there. when i was well again i remember my mother told me that my little daisy was in heaven, and i heard it with a dull, cold chill about my heart, and wondered that i could not cry. i look back now into my little heart as it was then, and remember the paroxysms of silent pain i used to have at times, deep within, while yet i seemed to be like any other boy. i heard my sisters one day discussing whether i cared much for daisy's death. "he don't seem to, much," said one. "oh, children are little animals, they forget what's out of sight," said another. but i did not forget,--i could not bear to go to the meadow where we gathered strawberries,--to the chestnut trees where we had gathered nuts,--and oftentimes, suddenly, in work or play, that smothering sense of a past, forever gone, came over me like a physical sickness. when children grow up among older people and are pushed and jostled, and set aside in the more engrossing interests of their elders, there is an almost incredible amount of timidity and dumbness of nature, with regard to the expression of inward feeling,--and yet, often at this time the instinctive sense of pleasure and pain is fearfully acute. but the child has imperfectly learned language. his stock of words, as yet, consists only in names and attributes of outward and physical objects, and he has no phraseology with which to embody a mere emotional experience. what i felt when i thought of my little playfellow, was a dizzying, choking rush of bitter pain and anguish. children can feel this acutely as men and women,--but even in mature life this experience has no gift of expression. my mother alone, with the divining power of mothers, kept an eye on me. "who knows," she said to my father, "but this death may be a heavenly call to him." she sat down gently by my bed one night and talked with me of heaven, and the brightness and beauty there, and told me that little susie was now a fair white angel. i remember shaking with a tempest of sobs. "but i want her _here_," i said. "i want to see her." my mother went over all the explanations in the premises,--all that can ever be said in such cases, but i only sobbed the more. "_i can't see her!_ oh mother, mother!" that night i sobbed myself to sleep and dreamed a blessed dream. it seemed to me that i was again in our meadow, and that it was fairer than ever before; the sun shone gaily, the sky was blue, and our great, golden lily stocks seemed mysteriously bright and fair, but i was wandering lonesome and solitary. then suddenly my little daisy came running to meet me in her pink dress and white apron, with her golden curls hanging down her neck. "oh daisy, daisy!" said i running up to her. "are you alive?--they told me that you were dead." "no, hazzy, dear, i am not dead,--never you believe that," she said, and i felt the clasp of her soft little arms round my neck. "didn't i tell you we'd see each other again?" "but they told me you were dead," i said in wonder--and i thought i held her off and looked at her,--she laughed gently at me as she often used to, but her lovely eyes had a mysterious power that seemed to thrill all through me. "i am not dead, dear hazzy," she said. "we never die were i am--i shall love you always," and with that my dream wavered and grew misty as when clear water breaks an image into a thousand glassy rings and fragments. i thought i heard lovely music, and felt soft, clasping arms, and i awoke with a sense of being loved and pitied, and comforted. i cannot describe the vivid, penetrating sense of reality which this dream left behind it. it seemed to warm my whole life, and to give back to my poor little heart something that had been rudely torn away from it. perhaps there is no reader that has not had experiences of the wonderful power which a dream often exercises over the waking hours for weeks after--and it will not appear incredible that after that, instead of shunning the meadow where we used to play, it was my delight to wander there alone, to gather the strawberries--tend the birds' nests, and lie down on my back in the grass and look up into the blue sky through an overarching roof of daisies, with a strange sort of feeling of society, as if my little daisy were with me. and is it not perhaps so? right along side of this troublous life, that is seen and temporal, may lie the green pastures and the still waters of the unseen and eternal, and they who know us better than we know them, can at any time step across that little rill that we call death, to minister to our comfort. for what are these child-angels made, that are sent down to this world to bring so much love and rapture, and go from us in such bitterness and mourning? if we believe in almighty love we must believe that they have a merciful and tender mission to our wayward souls. the love wherewith we love them is something the most utterly pure and unworldly of which human experience is capable, and we must hope that every one who goes from us to the world of light, goes holding an invisible chain of love by which to draw us there. sometimes i think i would never have had my little daisy grow older on our earth. the little child dies in growing into womanhood, and often the woman is far less lovely than the little child. it seems to me that lovely and loving childhood, with its truthfulness, its frank sincerity, its pure, simple love, is so sweet and holy an estate that it would be a beautiful thing in heaven to have a band of heavenly children, guileless, gay and forever joyous--tender spring blossoms of the kingdom of light. was it of such whom he had left in his heavenly home our saviour was thinking, when he took little children up in his arms and blessed them, and said, "of such is the kingdom of heaven?" chapter iv. my shadow-wife. my shadow wife! is there then substance in shadow? yea, there may be. a shadow--a spiritual presence--may go with us where mortal footsteps cannot go; walk by our side amid the roar of the city: talk with us amid the sharp clatter of voices; come to us through closed doors, as we sit alone over our evening fire; counsel, bless, inspire us; and though the figure cannot be clasped in mortal arms--though the face be veiled--yet this wife of the future may have a power to bless, to guide, to sustain and console. such was the dream-wife of my youth. whence did she come? she rose like a white, pure mist from that little grave. she formed herself like a cloud-maiden from the rain and dew of those first tears. when we look at the apparent recklessness with which great sorrows seem to be distributed among the children of the earth, there is no way to keep our faith in a fatherly love, except to recognize how invariably the sorrows that spring from love are a means of enlarging and dignifying a human being. nothing great or good comes without birth-pangs, and in just the proportion that natures grow more noble, their capacities of suffering increase. the bitter, silent, irrepressible anguish of that childish bereavement was to me the awakening of a spiritual nature. the little creature who, had she lived, might have grown up perhaps into a common-place woman, became a fixed star in the heaven-land of the ideal, always drawing me to look upward. my memories of her were a spring of refined and tender feeling, through all my early life. i could not then write; but i remember that the overflow of my heart towards her memory required expression, and i taught myself a strange kind of manuscript, by copying the letters of the alphabet. i bought six cents' worth of paper and a tallow candle at the store, which i used to light surreptitiously when i had been put to bed nights, and, sitting up in my little night-gown, i busied myself with writing my remembrances of her. i could not, for the world, have asked my mother to let me have a candle in my bed-room after eight o'clock. i would have died sooner than to explain why i wanted it. my purchase of paper and candle was my first act of independent manliness. the money, i reflected, was mine, because i earned it myself, and the paper was mine, and the candle was mine, so that i was not using my father's property in an unwarrantable manner, and thus i gave myself up to my inspirations. i wrote my remembrances of her, as she stood among the daisies and the golden lilies. i wrote down her little words of wisdom and grave advice, in the queerest manuscript that ever puzzled a wise man of the east. if one imagines that all this was spelt phonetically, and not at all in the unspeakable and astonishing way in which the english language is conventionally spelt, one may truly imagine that it was something rather peculiar in the way of literature. but the heart-comfort, the utter abandonment of soul that went into it, is something that only those can imagine who have tried the like and found the relief of it. my little heart was like the caspian sea, or some other sea which i read about, which had found a secret channel by which its waters could pass off under ground. when i had finished, every evening, i used to extinguish my candle, and put it and my manuscript inside of the straw bed on which i slept, which had a long pocket hole in the centre, secured by buttons, for the purpose of stirring the straw. over this i slept in conscious security, every night; sometimes with blissful dreams of going to brighter meadows, when i saw my daisy playing with whole troops of beautiful children, fair as water lilies on the shore of a blue lake. thus, while i seemed to be like any other boy, thinking of nothing but my sled, and my bat and ball, and my mittens, i began to have a little withdrawing room of my own; another land in which i could walk and take a kind of delight that nothing visible gave me. but one day my oldest sister, in making the bed, with domestic thoroughness, disemboweled my whole store of manuscripts and the half consumed fragment of my candle. there is no poetry in housewifery, and my sister at once took a housewifely view of the proceeding-- "well, now! is there any end to the conjurations of boys?" she said. "he might have set the house on fire and burned us all alive, in our beds!" reader, this is quite possible, as i used to perform my literary labors sitting up in bed, with the candle standing on a narrow ledge on the side of the bedstead. forthwith the whole of my performance was lodged in my mother's hands--i was luckily at school. "now, girls," said my mother, "keep quiet about this; above all, don't say a word to the boy. i will speak to him." accordingly, that night after i had gone up to bed, my mother came into my room and, when she had seen me in bed, she sat down by me and told me the whole discovery. i hid my head under the bed clothes, and felt a sort of burning shame and mortification that was inexpressible; but she had a good store of that mother's wit and wisdom by which i was to be comforted. at last she succeeded in drawing both the bed clothes from my face and the veil from my heart, and i told her all my little story. "dear boy," she said, "you must learn to write, and you need not buy candles, you shall sit by me evenings and i will teach you; it was very nice of you to practice all alone; but it will be a great deal easier to let me teach you the writing letters." now i had begun the usual course of writing copies in school. in those days it was deemed necessary to commence by teaching what was called _coarse hand_; and i had filled many dreary pages with m's and n's of a gigantic size; but it never had yet occurred to me that the writing of these copies was to bear any sort of relation to the expression of thoughts and emotions within me that were clamoring for a vent, while my rude copies of printed letters did bear to my mind this adaptation. but now my mother made me sit by her evenings, with a slate and pencil, and, under her care, i made a cross-cut into the fields of practical handwriting, and was also saved the dangers of going off into a morbid habit of feeling, which might easily have arisen from my solitary reveries. "dear," she said to my father, "i told you this one was to be our brightest. he will make a writer yet," and she showed him my manuscript. "you must look after him, mother," said my father, as he always said, when there arose any exigency about the children, that required delicate handling. my mother was one of that class of women whose power on earth seems to be only the greater for being a spiritual and invisible one. the control of such women over men is like that of the soul over the body. the body is visible, forceful, obtrusive, self-asserting. the soul invisible, sensitive, yet with a subtle and vital power which constantly gains control and holds every inch that it gains. my father was naturally impetuous, though magnanimous, hasty tempered and imperious, though conscientious; my mother united the most exquisite sensibility with the deepest calm--calm resulting from habitual communion with the highest and purest source of all rest--the peace that passeth all understanding. gradually, by this spiritual force, this quietude of soul, she became his leader and guide. he held her hand and looked up to her with a trustful implicitness that increased with every year. "where's your mother?" was always the fond inquiry when he entered the house, after having been off on one of his long preaching tours or clerical counsels. at all hours he would burst from his study with fragments of the sermon or letter he was writing, to read to her and receive her suggestions and criticisms. with her he discussed the plans of his discourses, and at her dictation changed, improved, altered and added; and under the brooding influence of her mind, new and finer traits of tenderness and spirituality pervaded his character and his teachings. in fact, my father once said to me, "she made me by her influence." in these days, we sometimes hear women, who have reared large families on small means, spoken of as victims who had suffered unheard of oppressions. there is a growing materialism that refuses to believe that there can be happiness without the ease and facilities and luxuries of wealth. but my father and mother, though living on a narrow income, were never really poor. the chief evil of poverty is the crushing of ideality out of life--the taking away its poetry and substituting hard prose;--and this with them was impossible. my father loved the work he did, as the artist loves his painting and the sculptor his chisel. a man needs less money when he is doing only what he loves to do--what, in fact, he _must_ do,--pay or no pay. st. paul said, "a necessity is laid upon me, yea, woe is me, if i preach not the gospel." preaching the gospel was his irrepressible instinct, a necessity of his being. my mother, from her deep spiritual nature, was one soul with my father in his life-work. with the moral organization of a prophetess, she stood nearer to heaven than he, and looking in, told him what she saw, and he, holding her hand, felt the thrill of celestial electricity. with such women, life has no prose; their eyes see all things in the light of heaven, and flowers of paradise spring up in paths that to unanointed eyes, seem only paths of toil. i never felt, from anything i saw at home, from any word or action of my mother's, that we were poor, in the sense that poverty was an evil. i was reminded, to be sure, that we were poor in a sense that required constant carefulness, watchfulness over little things, energetic habits, and vigorous industry and self-helpfulness. but we were never poor in any sense that restricted hospitality or made it a burden. in those days, a minister's house was always the home for all the ministers and their families, whenever an exigency required of them to travel, and the spare room of our house never wanted guests of longer or shorter continuance. but the atmosphere of the house was such as always made guests welcome. three or four times a year, the annual clerical gatherings of the church filled our house to overflowing and necessitated an abundant provision and great activity of preparation on the part of the women of our family. yet i never heard an expression of impatience or a suggestion that made me suppose they felt themselves unduly burdened. my mother's cheerful face was a welcome and a benediction at all times, and guests found it good to be with her. in the midst of our large family, of different ages, of vigorous growth, of great individuality and forcefulness of expression, my mother's was the administrative power. my father habitually referred everything to her, and leaned on her advice with a childlike dependence. she read the character of each, she mediated between opposing natures: she translated the dialect of different sorts of spirits, to each other. in a family of young children, there is a chance for every sort and variety of natures; and for natures whose modes of feeling are as foreign to each other, as those of the french and the english. it needs a common interpreter, who understands every dialect of the soul, thus to translate differences of individuality into a common language of love. it has often seemed to me a fair question, on a review of the way my mother ruled in our family, whether the politics of the ideal state in a millennial community, should not be one equally pervaded by mother-influences. the woman question of our day, as i understand it is this.--shall motherhood ever be felt in the public administration of the affairs of state? the state is nothing more nor less than a collection of families, and what would be good or bad for the individual family, would be good or bad for the state. such as our family would have been, ruled only by my father, without my mother, such the political state is, and has been; there have been in it "conscript fathers," but no "conscript mothers;" yet is not a mother's influence needed in acts that relate to the interests of collected families as much as in individual ones? the state, at this very day, needs an influence like what i remember our mother's to have been, in our great, vigorous, growing family,--an influence quiet, calm, warming, purifying, uniting--it needs a womanly economy and thrift in husbanding and applying its material resources--it needs a divining power, by which different sections and different races can be interpreted to each other, and blended together in love--it needs an educating power, by which its immature children may be trained in virtue--it needs a loving and redeeming power, by which its erring and criminal children may be borne with, purified, and led back to virtue. yet, while i thus muse, i remember that such women as my mother are those to whom in an especial manner all noise and publicity and unrestful conflict are peculiarly distasteful. my mother had that delicacy of fibre that made any kind of public exercise of her powers an impossibility. it is not peculiarly a feminine characteristic, but belongs equally to many men of the finest natures. it is characteristic of the poets and philosophers of life. it is ascribed by the sacred writers to jesus of nazareth, in whom an aversion for publicity and a longing for stillness and retirement are specially indicated by many touching incidents. jesus preferred to form around him a family of disciples and to act on the world through them, and it is remarkable that he left no writings directly addressed to the world by himself, but only by those whom he inspired. women of this brooding, quiet, deeply spiritual nature, while they cannot attend caucuses, or pull political wires or mingle in the strife of political life, are yet the most needed force to be for the good of the state. i am persuaded that _it is not till this class of women feel as vital and personal responsibility for the good of the state, as they have hitherto felt for that of the family, that we shall gain the final elements of a perfect society_. the laws of rome, so said the graceful myth, were dictated to numa pompilius, by the nymph, egeria. no mortal eye saw her. she was not in the forum, or the senate. she did not strive, nor cry, nor lift up her voice in the street, but she made the laws by which rome ruled the world. let us hope in a coming day that not egeria, but mary, the mother of jesus, the great archetype of the christian motherhood, shall be felt through all the laws and institutions of society. that mary, who kept all things and pondered them in her heart--the silent poet, the prophetess, the one confidential friend of jesus, sweet and retired as evening dew, yet strong to go forth with christ against the cruel and vulgar mob, and to stand unfainting by the cross where he suffered! from the time that my mother discovered my store of manuscripts, she came into new and more intimate relation with me. she took me from the district school, and kept me constantly with herself, teaching me in the intervals of domestic avocations. i was what is called a mother's-boy, as she taught me to render her all sorts of household services, such as are usually performed by girls. my two older sisters, about this time, left us, to establish a seminary in the neighborhood, and the sister nearest my age went to study under their care, so that my mother said, playfully, she had no resource but to make a girl of me. this association with a womanly nature, and this discipline in womanly ways, i hold to have been an invaluable part of my early training. there is no earthly reason which requires a man, in order to be manly, to be unhandy and clumsy in regard to the minutiæ of domestic life; and there are quantities of occasions occurring in the life of every man, in which he will have occasion to be grateful to his mother, if, like mine, she trains him in woman's arts and the secrets of making domestic life agreeable. but it is not merely in this respect that i felt the value of my early companionship with my mother. the power of such women over our sex is essentially the service rendered us in forming our ideal, and it was by my mother's influence that the ideal guardian, the "shadow wife," was formed, that guided me through my youth. she wisely laid hold of the little idyl of my childhood, as something which gave her the key to my nature, and opened before me the hope in my manhood of such a friend as my little daisy had been to my childhood. this wife of the future she often spoke of as a motive. i was to make myself worthy of her. for her sake i was to be strong, to be efficient, to be manly and true, and above all pure in thought and imagination and in word. the cold mountain air and simple habits of new england country life are largely a preventive of open immorality; but there is another temptation which besets the boy, against which the womanly ideal is the best shield--the temptation to vulgarity and obscenity. it was to my mother's care and teaching i owe it, that there always seemed to be a lady at my elbow, when stories were told such as a pure woman would blush to hear. it was owing to her, that a great deal of what i supposed to be classical literature both in greek and latin and in english was to me and is to me to this day simply repulsive and disgusting. i remember that one time when i was in my twelfth or thirteenth year, one of satan's agents put into my hand one of those stories that are written with an express purpose of demoralizing the young--stories that are sent creeping like vipers and rattle-snakes stealthily and secretly among inexperienced and unguarded boys hiding in secret corners, gliding under their pillows and filling their veins with the fever poison of impurity. how many boys in the most critical period of life are forever ruined, in body and soul, by the silent secret gliding among them of these nests of impure serpents, unless they have a mother, wise, watchful, and never sleeping, with whom they are in habits of unreserved intimacy and communion! i remember that when my mother took from me this book, it was with an expression of fear and horror which made a deep impression on me. then she sat by me that night, when the shadows were deepening, and told me how the reading of such books, or the letting of such ideas into my mind would make me unworthy of the wife she hoped some day i would win. with a voice of solemn awe she spoke of the holy mystery of marriage as something so sacred, that all my life's happiness depended on keeping it pure, and surrounding it only with the holiest thoughts. it was more the thrill of her sympathies, the noble poetry of her nature inspiring mine, than anything she said, that acted upon me and stimulated me to keep my mind and memory pure. in the closeness of my communion with her i seemed to see through her eyes and feel through her nerves, so that at last a passage in a book or a sentiment uttered always suggested the idea of what she would think of it. in our days we have heard much said of the importance of training women to be wives. is there not something to be said on the importance of training men to be husbands? is the wide latitude of thought and reading and expression which has been accorded as a matter of course to the boy and the young man, the conventionally allowed familiarity with coarseness and indelicacy, a fair preparation to enable him to be the intimate companion of a pure woman? for how many ages has it been the doctrine that man and woman were to meet in marriage, the one crystal-pure, the other foul with the permitted garbage of all sorts of uncleansed literature and license? if the man is to be the head of the woman, even as christ is the head of the church, should he not be her equal, at least, in purity? my shadow-wife grew up by my side under my mother's creative touch. it was for her i studied, for her i should toil. the thought of providing for her took the sordid element out of economy and made it unselfish. she was to be to me adviser, friend, inspirer, charmer. she was to be my companion, not alone in one faculty, but through all the range of my being--there should be nothing wherein she and i could not by appreciative sympathy commune together. as i thought of her, she seemed higher than i. i must love up and not down, i said. she must stand on a height and i must climb to her--she must be a princess worthy of many toils and many labors. gradually she became to me a controlling power. the thought, of what she would think, closed for me many a book that i felt she and i could not read together--her fair image barred the way to many a door and avenue, which if a young man enters, he must leave his good angel behind,--for her sake i abjured intimacies that i felt she could not approve, and it was my ambition to keep the inner temple of my heart and thoughts so pure, that it might be a worthy resting place for her at last. chapter v. i start for college and my uncle jacob advises me. the time came at last when the sacred habit of intimacy with my mother was broken, and i was to leave her for college. it was the more painful to her, as only a year before, my father had died, leaving her more than ever dependent on the society of her children. my father died as he had lived, rejoicing in his work and feeling that if he had a hundred lives to live, he would devote them to the same object for which he had spent that one--the preaching of the gospel. he left to my mother the homestead and a small farm, which was under the care of one of my brothers, so that the event of his death made no change in our family home center, and i was to go to college and fulfill the hope of his heart and the desire of my mother's life, in consecrating myself to the work of the christian ministry. my father and mother had always kept sacredly a little fund laid by for the education of their children; it was the result of many small savings and self-denials--but self-denials so cheerfully and hopefully encountered that they had almost changed their nature and become preferences. the family fund for this purpose had been used in turn by two of my older brothers, who, as soon as they gained an independent foothold in life, appropriated each his first earnings to replacing this sum for the use of the next. it was not, however, a fund large enough to dispense with the need of a strict economy, and a supplemental self-helpfulness on our part. the terms in some of our new england colleges are thoughtfully arranged so that the students can teach for three of the winter months, and the resources thus gained help out their college expenses. thus at the same time they educate themselves and help to educate others, and they study with the maturity of mind and the appreciation of the value of what they are gaining, resulting from a habit of measuring themselves with the actual needs of life. the time when the boy goes to college is the time when he feels manhood to begin. he is no longer a boy, but an unfledged, undeveloped man--a creature, half of the past and half of the future. yet every one gives him a good word or a congratulatory shake of the hand on his entrance to this new plateau of life. it is a time when advice is plenty as blackberries in august, and often held quite as cheap--but nevertheless a young fellow may as well look at what his elders tell him at this time, and see what he can make of it. as i was "our minister's son," all the village thought it had something to do with my going. "hallo, harry, so you've got into college! think you'll be as smart a man as your dad?" said one. "wa-al, so i hear you're going to college. stick to it now. i could a made suthin ef i'd a had larnin at your age," said old jerry smith, who rung the meeting-house bell, sawed wood, and took care of miscellaneous gardens for sundry widows in the vicinity. but the sayings that struck me as most to the purpose came from my uncle jacob. uncle jacob was my mother's brother, and the doctor not only of our village, but of all the neighborhood for ten miles round. he was a man celebrated for medical knowledge through the state, and known by his articles in medical journals far beyond. he might have easily commanded a wider and more lucrative sphere of practice by going to any of the large towns and cities, but uncle jacob was a philosopher and preferred to live in a small quiet way in a place whose scenery suited him, and where he could act precisely as he felt disposed, and carry out all his little humors and pet ideas without rubbing against conventionalities. he had a secret adoration for my mother, whom he regarded as the top and crown of all womanhood, and he also enjoyed the society of my father, using him as a sort of whetstone to sharpen his wits on. uncle jacob was a church member in good standing, but in the matter of belief he was somewhat like a high-mettled horse in a pasture,--he enjoyed once in a while having a free argumentative race with my father all round the theological lot. away he would go in full career, dodging definitions, doubling and turning with elastic dexterity, and sometimes ended by leaping over all the fences, with most astounding assertions, after which he would calm down, and gradually suffer the theological saddle and bridle to be put on him and go on with edifying paces, apparently much refreshed by his metaphysical capers. uncle jacob was reported to have a wonderful skill in the healing craft. he compounded certain pills which were stated to have most wonderful effects. he was accustomed to exact that, in order fully to develop their medical properties, they should be taken after a daily bath, and be followed immediately by a brisk walk of a specific duration in the open air. the steady use of these pills had been known to make wonderful changes in the cases of confirmed invalids, a fact which uncle jacob used to notice with a peculiar twinkle in the corner of his eye. it was sometimes whispered that the composition of them was neither more nor less than simple white sugar with a flavor of some harmless essence, but upon this subject my uncle jacob was impenetrable. he used to say, with the afore-mentioned waggish twinkle, that their preparation was his secret. uncle jacob had always had a special favor for me, shown after his own odd and original manner. he would take me in his chaise with him when driving about his business, and keep my mind on a perpetual stretch with his odd questions and droll, suggestive remarks or stories. there was a shrewd keen quality to all that he said, that stimulated like a mental tonic, and none the less so for a stinging flavor of sarcasm and cynicism, that stirred up and provoked one's self-esteem. yet as uncle jacob was companionable and loved a listener, i think he was none the less agreeable to me for this slight touch of his claws. one likes to find power of any kind--and he who shows that he can both scratch and bite effectively, if he holds his talons in sheath, comes in time to be regarded as a sort of benefactor for his forbearance: and so, though i got many a shrewd mental nip and gripe from my uncle jacob, i gave on the whole more heed to his opinion than that of anybody else that i knew. from the time that i had been detected with my self-invented manuscript, up to the period of my going to college, the expression of my thoughts by writing had always been a passion with me, and from year to year my mind had been busy with its own creations, which it was a solace and amusement for me to record. of course there was ever so much crabbed manuscript, and no less confused, immature thought. i wrote poems, essays, stories, tragedies, and comedies. i demonstrated the immortality of the soul. i sustained the future immortality of the souls of animals. i wrote sonnets and odes, in whole or in part on almost everything that could be mentioned in creation. my mother advised me to make uncle jacob my literary mentor, and the best of my productions were laid under his eye. "poor trash!" he was wont to say, with his usual kindly twinkle. "but there must be poor trash in the beginning. we must all eat our peck of dirt, and learn to write sense by writing nonsense." then he would pick out here and there a line or expression which he assured me was "_not bad_." now and then he condescended to tell me that for a boy of my age, so and so was actually hopeful, and that i should make something one of these days, which was to me more encouragement than much more decided praise from any other quarter. [illustration: _uncle jacob's advice._ "_so you are going to college, boy! well, away with you; there's no use advising you; you'll do as all the rest do. in one year you'll know more than your father, your mother, or i, or all your college officers--in fact, than the lord himself._"] we all notice that he who is reluctant to praise, whose commendation is scarce and hard-earned, is he for whose good word everybody is fighting; he comes at last to be the judge in the race. after all, the fact which uncle jacob could not disguise, that he had a certain good opinion of me, in spite of his sharp criticisms and scant praises, made him the one whose dicta on every subject were the most important to me. i went to him in all the glow of satisfaction and the tremble of self-importance that a boy feels who is taking the first step into the land of manhood. i have the image of him now, as he stood with his back to the fire, and the newspaper in his hand, giving me his last counsels. a little wiry, keen-looking man, with a blue, hawk-like eye, a hooked nose, a high forehead, shadowed with grizzled hair, and a cris-cross of deeply lined wrinkles in his face. "so you are going to college, boy! well, away with you; there's no use advising you; you'll do as all the rest do. in one year you'll know more than your father, your mother, or i, or all your college officers--in fact, than the lord himself. you'll have doubts about the bible, and think you could have made a better one. you'll think that if the lord had consulted you he could have laid the foundations of the earth better, and arranged the course of nature to more purpose. in short, you'll be a god, knowing good and evil, and running all over creation measuring everybody and everything in your pint cup. there'll be no living with you. but you'll get over it,--it's only the febrile stage of knowledge. but if you have a good constitution, you'll come through with it." i humbly suggested to him that i should try to keep clear of the febrile stage; that forewarned was forearmed. "oh, tut! tut! you must go through your fooleries. these are the regular diseases, the chicken-pox, measles, and mumps of young manhood; you'll have them all. we only pray that you may have them light, and not break your constitution for all your life through, by them. for instance, you'll fall in love with some baby-faced young thing, with pink cheeks and long eyelashes, and goodness only knows what abominations of sonnets you'll be guilty of. that isn't fatal, however. only don't get engaged. take it as the chicken-pox--keep your pores open, and don't get cold, and it'll pass off and leave you none the worse." "and she!" said i, indignantly. "you talk as if it was no matter what became of her--" "what, the baby? oh, she'll outgrow it, too. the fact is, soberly and seriously, harry, marriage is the thing that makes or mars a man; it's the gate through which he goes up or down, and you shouldn't pledge yourself to it till you come to your full senses. look at your mother, boy; see what a woman may be; see what she was to your father, what she is to me, to you, to every one that knows her. such a woman, to speak reverently, is a pearl of great price; a man might well sell all he had to buy her. but it isn't that kind of woman that flirts with college boys. you don't pick up such pearls every day." of course i declared that nothing was further from my thoughts than anything of that nature. "the fact is, harry, you can't afford fooleries," said my uncle. "you have your own way to make, and nothing to make it with but your own head and hands, and you must begin now to count the cost of everything. you have a healthy, sound body; see that you take care of it. god gives you a body but once. he don't take care of it for you, and whatever of it you lose, you lose for good. many a chap goes into college fresh as you are, and comes out with weak eyes and crooked back, yellow complexion and dyspeptic stomach. he has only himself to thank for it. when you get to college they'll want you to smoke, and you'll want to, just for idleness and good fellowship. now, before you begin, just calculate what it'll cost you. you can't get a good cigar under ten cents, and your smoker wants three a day, at the least. there go thirty cents a day, two dollars and ten cents a week, or a hundred and nine dollars and twenty cents a year. take the next ten years at that rate, and you can invest over a thousand dollars in tobacco smoke. that thousand dollars, invested in a savings bank, would give a permanent income of sixty dollars a year,--a handy thing, as you'll find, just as you are beginning life. now, i know you think all this is prosy; you are amazingly given to figures of rhetoric, but, after all, you've got to get on in a world where things go by the rules of arithmetic." "well, uncle," i said, a little nettled, "i pledge you my word that i won't smoke or drink. i never have done either, and i don't know why i should." "good for you! your hand on that, my boy. you don't need either tobacco or spirits any more than you need water in your shoes. there's no danger in doing without them, and great danger in doing with them; so let's look on that as settled. "now, as to the rest. you have a faculty for stringing words together, and a hankering after it, that may make or spoil you. many a fellow comes to naught because he can string pretty phrases and turn a good line of poetry. he gets the notion that he's to be a poet, or orator, or genius of some sort, and neglects study. now, harry, remember that an empty bag can't stand upright; and that if you are ever to be a writer you must have something to say, and that you've got to dig for knowledge as for hidden treasure. a genius _for hard work_ is the best kind of genius. look at great writers, and see how many had it. what a student milton was, and goethe! great fellows, those!--like trees that grow out in a pasture lot, with branches all round. composition is the flowering out of a man's mind. when he has made growth, all studies and all learning, all that makes woody fibre, go into it. now, study books; observe nature; practice. if you make a good firm mental growth, i hope to see some blossoms and fruits from it one of these days. so go your ways, and god bless you!" the last words were said as uncle jacob slipped into my hand an envelope, containing a sum of money. "you'll need it," he said, "to furnish your room; and hark'e! if you get into any troubles that you don't want to burden your mother with, come to me." there was warmth in the grip with which these last words were said, and a sort of misty moisture came over his keen blue eye,--little signs which meant as much from his shrewd and reticent nature as a caress or an expression of tenderness might from another. my mother's last words, after hours of talk over the evening fire, were these: "i want you to be a _good_ man. a great many have tried to be great men, and failed; but nobody ever sincerely tried to be a _good_ man, and failed." i suppose it is about the happiest era in a young fellow's life, when he goes to college for the first time. the future is all a land of blue distant mists and shadows, radiant as an italian landscape. the boundaries between the possible and the not possible are so charmingly vague! there is a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow forever waiting for each new comer. generations have not exhausted it! de balzac said, of writing his novels, that the dreaming out of them was altogether the best of it. "to imagine," he said, "is to smoke enchanted cigarettes; to bring out one's imaginations into words,--that is _work_!" the same may be said of the romance of one's life. the dream-life is beautiful, but the rendering into reality quite another thing. i believe every boy who has a good father and mother, goes to college meaning, in a general way, to be a good fellow. he will not disappoint them.--no! a thousand times, no! in the main, he will be a good boy,--not that he is going _quite_ to walk according to the counsels of his elders. he is not going to fall over any precipices--not he--but he is going to walk warily and advisedly along the edge of them, and take a dispassionate survey of the prospect, and gather a few botanical specimens here and there. it might be dangerous for a less steady head than his; but he understands himself, and with regard to all things he says, "we shall see." the world is full of possibilities and open questions. up sail, and away; let us test them! as i scaled the mountains and descended the valleys on my way to college, i thought over all that my mother and uncle jacob had said to me, and had my own opinion of it. of course i was not the person to err in the ways he had suggested. i was not to be the dupe of a boy and girl flirtation. my standard of manhood was too exalted, i reflected, and i thought with complacency how little uncle jacob knew of me. to be sure, it is a curious kind of a thought to a young man, that somewhere in this world, unknown to him, and as yet unknowing him, lives the woman that is to be his earthly fate,--to affect, for good or evil, his destiny. we have all read the pretty story about the princess of china and the young prince of tartary, whom a fairy and genius in a freak of caprice showed to each other in an enchanted sleep, and then whisked away again, leaving them to years of vain pursuit and wanderings. such is the ideal image of _somebody_, who must exist _somewhere_, and is to be found _sometime_, and when found, is to be ours. "uncle jacob is all right in the main," i said; "but if i should meet the true woman even in my college days, why that, indeed, would be quite another thing." chapter vi. my dream-wife all things prospered with me in my college life. i had a sunny room commanding a fine prospect, and uncle jacob's parting liberality enabled me to furnish it commodiously. i bought the furniture of a departing senior at a reduced price, and felt quite the spirit of a householder in my possessions. i was well prepared on my studies and did not find my tasks difficult. my stock of interior garnishment included several french lithographs, for the most part of female heads, looking up, with very dark bright eyes, or looking down, with very long dark eyelashes. these heads of dream-women are, after all, not to be laughed at; they show the yearning for womanly influences and womanly society which follows the young man in his enforced monastic seclusion from all family life and family atmosphere. these little fanciful french lithographs, generally, are chosen for quite other than artistic reasons. if we search into it we shall find that one is selected because it is like sister "nell," and another puts one in mind of "bessie," and then again, there is another "like a girl i used to know." now and then one of them has such a piquant, provoking air of individuality, that one is sure it must have been sketched from nature. some teasing, coaxing, "don't-care-what-you-think" sort of a sprite, must have wreathed poppies and blue corn-flowers just so in her hair, and looked gay defiance at the artist who drew it. there was just such a saucy, spirited gipsy over my mantel piece, who seemed to defy me to find her if i searched the world over--with whom i held sometimes airy colloquies--not in the least was she like my dream-wife, but i liked her for all that, and thought i would "give something" to know what she would have to say to me, just for the curiosity of the thing. the college was in a little village, and there was no particular amity between the townspeople and the students. i believe it is the understanding in such cases, that college students are to be regarded and treated as a tribe of bedouin arabs, whose hand is against every man, and they in their turn are not backward to make good the character. public opinion shuts them up together--they are a state within a state--with a public sentiment, laws, manners, and modes of thinking of their own. it is a state, too, without women. when we think of this, and remember that all this experience is gone through in the most gaseous and yeasty period of human existence, we no longer wonder that there are college rows and scrapes, that all sort of grotesque capers become hereditary and traditional; that an apple-cart occasionally appears on top of one of the steeples, that cannon balls are rolled surreptitiously down the college stairs, and that tutors' doors are mysteriously found locked at recitation hours. one simply wonders that the roof is not blown off, and the windows out, by the combined excitability of so many fermenting natures. there is a tendency now in society to open the college course equally to women--to continue through college life that interaction of the comparative influence of the sexes which is begun in the family. to a certain extent this experiment has been always favorably tried in the new england rural academies, where young men are fitted for college in the same classes and studies with women. in these time-honored institutions, young women have kept step with young men in the daily pursuit of science, not only without disorder or unseemly scandal, but with manifestly more quietness and refinement of manner than obtains in institutions where female association ceases altogether. the presence of a couple of dozen of well-bred ladies in the lecture and recitation rooms of a college would probably be a preventive of many of the unseemly and clumsy jokes wherewith it has been customary to diversify the paths of science, to the affliction of the souls of professors. but for us boys, there was no gospel of womanhood except what was to be got from the letters of mothers and sisters, and such imperfect and flitting acquaintance as we could pick up in the streets with the girls of the village. now though there might be profit, could young men and women see each other daily under the responsibility of serious business, keeping step with one another in higher studies, yet it by no means follows that this kind of flitting glimpse-like acquaintance, formed merely in the exchange of a few outside superficialities, can have any particularly good effect. no element of true worthy friendship, of sober appreciation, or manly or womanly good sense, generally enters into these girl-and-boy flirtations, which are the only substitute for family association during the barren years of student life. the students were not often invited into families, and those who gained a character as ladies' men were not favorably looked upon by our elders. now and then by rare and exceptional good luck a college student is made at home in some good family, where there is a nice kind mother and the wholesome atmosphere of human life; or, he forms the acquaintance of some woman, older and wiser than himself, who can talk with him on all the multitude of topics his college studies suggest. but such cases are only exceptions. in general there is no choice between flirtation and monastic isolation. for my part, i posed myself on the exemplary platform, and remembering my uncle jacob's advice, contemplated life with the grim rigidity of a philosopher. i was going to have no trifling, and surveyed the girls at church, on sunday, with a distant and severe air--as gay creatures of an hour, who could hold no place in my serious meditations. plato or aristotle, in person, could not have contemplated life and society from a more serene height of composure. i was favorably known by my teachers, and held rank at the head of my class, and was stigmatized as a "dig," by frisky young gentlemen who enjoyed rolling cannon balls down stairs--taking the tongue out of the chapel bell--greasing the seats, and other thread-bare college jokes, which they had not genius enough to vary, so as to give them a spice of originality. but one bright june sunday--just one of those days that seem made to put all one's philosophy into confusion, when apple-blossoms were bursting their pink shells, and robins singing, and leaves twittering and talking to each other in undertones, there came to me a great revelation. how innocently i brushed my hair and tied my neck tie, on that fateful morning, contemplating my growing moustache and whiskers hopefully in the small square of looking-glass which served for me these useful purposes of self-knowledge. i looked at my lineaments as those of a free young junior, without fear and without anxiety, without even an incipient inquiry what anybody else would think of them--least of all any woman--and marched forth obediently and took my wonted seat in that gallery of the village church which was assigned to the college students of congregational descent; where, like so many sheep in a pen, we joined in the services of the common sheep-fold. i suppose there is moral profit even in the decent self-denial of such weekly recurring religious exercises. to be forced to a certain period of silence, order, quiet, and to have therein a possibility and a suggestion of communion with a higher power, and an out-look into immortality, is something not to be undervalued in education, and justifies the stringency with which our new england colleges preserve and guard this part of their régime. but it was to be confessed in our case, that the number who really seemed to have any spiritual participation or sympathy in the great purposes of the exercises, was not a majority. a general, dull decency of demeanor was the most frequent attainment, and such small recreations were in vogue as could be pursued without drawing the attention of the monitors. there was some telegraphy of eyes between the girls of the village and some of the more society-loving fellows, who had cultivated intimacies in that quarter; there were some novels, stealthily introduced and artfully concealed and read by the owner, while his head, resting on the seat before him, seemed bowed in devotion; and some artistic exercises in sketching caricatures on the part of others. for my own part, having been trained religiously, i gave strict outward and decorous attention; but the fact was that my mind generally sailed off on some cloud of fancy, and wandered through dream-land, so that not a word of anything present reached my ear. this habit of reverie and castle-building, repressed all the week by the severe necessity of definite tasks, came upon me sundays as bunyan describes the hot, sleepy atmosphere of the enchanted ground. our pastor was a good man, who wrote a kind of smooth, elegant, unexceptionable english; whose measured cadences and easy flow, were, to use the scripture language, as a "very lovely song of one that hath a pleasant voice, and can play sweetly upon an instrument." i heard him as one hears murmurs and voices through one's sleep, while my spirit went everywhere under the sun. i traveled in foreign lands, i saw pictures, cathedrals; i had thrilling adventures and hair-breadth escapes; formed strange and exciting acquaintances; in short, was the hero of a romance, whose scenes changed as airily and easily as the sunset clouds of evening. so really and so vividly did this supposititious life excite me that i have actually found myself with tears in my eyes through the pathos of these unsubstantial visions. it was in one of the lulling pauses of such a romance, while i yet heard the voice of our good pastor proving that "selfishness was the essence of moral evil," that i lifted up my eyes, and became for the first time conscious of a new face, in the third pew of the broad aisle below me. it was a new one--one that certainly had never been there before, and was altogether just the face to enter into the most ethereal perceptions of my visionary life. i started with a sort of awakening thrill, such, perhaps, as adam had when he woke from his sleep and saw his eve. there, to be sure, was the face of my dream-wife, incarnate and visible! that face, so refined, so spiritual, so pure! a baptized, christianized greek face! a cross between venus and the virgin mary! the outlines were purely, severely classical, such as i have since seen in the psyche of the naples gallery; but the large, tremulous, pathetic eyes redeemed them from statuesque coldness. they were eyes that _thought_, that looked deep into life, death, and eternity--so i said to myself as i gazed down on her, and held my breath with a kind of religious awe. the vision was all in white, as such visions must be, and the gauzy crape bonnet with its flowers upon her head, dissolved under my eyes into a sort of sacred aureole, such as surrounds the heads of saints. i saw her, and only her, through the remaining hour of church. i studied every movement. the radiant eyes were fixed upon the minister, and with an expression so sadly earnest that i blushed for my own wandering thoughts, and began to endeavor to turn my mind to the truths i was hearing told; but, after all, i thought more about her than the discourse. i saw her search the hymn-book for the hymn, and wished that i were down there to find it for her. i saw her standing up, and looking down at her hymns with the wonderful eyes veiled by long lashes, and singing-- "call me away from earth and sense, one sovereign word can draw me thence, i would obey the voice divine, and all inferior joys resign." how miserably gross, and worldly, and unworthy i felt at that moment! how i longed for an ideal, superhuman spirituality,--something that should make me worthy to touch the hem of her garment! when the blessing was pronounced, i hastened down and stood where i might see her as she passed out of church. i had not been alone in my discoveries: there had been dozens of others that saw the same star, and there were whisperings, and elbowings, and consultings, as a knot of juniors and seniors stationed themselves as i had done, to see her pass out. as she passed by she raised her eyes slowly, and as it were by accident, and they fell like a ray of sunlight on one of our number,--jim fellows--who immediately bowed. a slight pink flush rose in her cheeks as she gracefully returned the salutation, and passed on. jim was instantly the great man of the hour; he knew her, it seems. "it's miss ellery, of portland. haven't you heard of her?" he said, with an air of importance. "she's the great beauty of portland. they call her the 'little divinity.' met her last summer, at mount desert," he added, with the comfortable air of a man in possession of the leading fact of the hour--the fact about which everybody else is inquiring. i walked home behind her in a kind of trance, disdaining to join in what i thought the very flippant and unworthy comments of the boys. i saw the last wave of her white garments as she passed between the two evergreens in front of deacon brown's square white house, which at that moment became to me a mysterious and glorified shrine; there the angel held her tabernacle. at this moment i met miss dotha brown, the deacon's eldest daughter, a rosy-cheeked, pleasant-faced girl, to whom i had been introduced the week before. instantly she was clothed upon with a new interest in my eyes, and i saluted her with _empressement_; if not the rose, she at least was the clay that was imbibing the perfume of the rose; and i don't doubt that my delight at seeing her assumed the appearance of personal admiration. "what a charming sunday," i said, with emphasis. "perfectly charming," said miss brown, sympathetically. "you have an interesting young friend staying with you, i observe," said i. "who, miss ellery? oh, yes. oh! mr. henderson, she is the sweetest girl!" said dotha, with effusion. i didn't doubt it, and listened eagerly to her praises, and was grateful to miss brown for the warm invitation to "call" which followed. miss ellery was to make them a long visit, and she would be _so_ happy to introduce me. that evening miss ellery was a topic of excited discussion in our entry, and jim fellows plumed himself largely on his mount desert experiences, which he related in a way to produce the impression that he had been regarded with a favorable eye by the divinity. i was in a state of silent indignation, at him, at all the rest of the boys, at everybody in general, being fully persuaded that they were utterly incapable of understanding or appreciating this wonderful creature. "hal, why don't you talk?" said one of them to me, when i had sat silent, pretending to read for a long time; "what do you think of her?" "oh, i'm no ladies' man, as you all know," i said, evasively, and actually pretended not to have remarked miss ellery except in a cursory manner. then followed a period of weeks and months, when that one image was never for a moment out of my thoughts. by a strange law of our being, a certain idea can accompany us everywhere, not stopping or interrupting the course of the thought, but going on in a sort of shadowy way with it, as an invisible presence. the man or woman who cherishes an ideal is always liable to this accident, that the spiritual image often descends like a mantle, and invests some very ordinary person, who is, for the time being, transfigured,--"a woman clothed with the sun, and with the moon under her feet." it is not what there is in the person, but what there is in _us_, that gives this passage in life its critical power. it would seem as if there were in some men, and some women, preparation for a grand interior illumination and passion, like that hoard of mystical gums and spices which the phenix was fabled to prepare for its funeral pile; all the aspiration and poetry and romance, the upheaval toward an infinite and eternal good, a divine purity and rest, may be enkindled by the touch of a very ordinary and earthly hand, and, burning itself out, leave only cold ashes of experience. miss ellery was a well-bred young lady, of decorous and proper demeanor, of careful religious education, of no particular strength either of mind or emotion, good tempered, and with an instinctive approbativeness that made her desirous to please every body, which created for her the reputation that miss brown expressed in calling her "a sweet girl." she was always most agreeable to those with whom she was thrown, and for the time being appeared to be, and was sincerely interested in them; but her mind was like a well-polished looking-glass, retaining not a trace of anything absent or distant. she was gifted by nature with wonderful beauty, and beauty of that peculiar style that stirs the senses of the poetical and the ideal; her gentle approbativeness, and the graceful facility of her manner, were such as not at least to destroy the visions which her beauty created. in a quiet way she enjoyed being adored--made love to, but she never overstepped the bounds of strict propriety. she received me with graciousness, and i really think found something in my society which was agreeably stimulating to her. i was somewhat out of the common track of her adorers; my ardor and enthusiasm gave her a new emotion. i wrote poems to her, which she read with a graceful pensiveness and laid away among her trophies in her private writing-desk. i called her my star, my inspiration, my light, and she beamed down on me with a pensive purity. "yes, she was delighted to have me read tennyson to her," and many an hour when i should have been studying, i was lounging in the little front parlor of the brown house, fancying myself sir galahad, and reading with emotion, how his "blade was strong, because his heart was pure;" and miss ellery murmured "how lovely!" and i was in paradise. and then there came wonderful moonlight evenings--evenings when every leaf stirring had a penciled reproduction flickering in light and shade on the turf; and we walked together under arches of elm trees, and i talked and quoted poetry; and she listened and assented in the sweetest manner possible. all my hopes, my plans, my dreams, my speculations, my philosophies, came out to sun themselves under the magic of those lustrous eyes. her replies and utterances were greatly in disproportion to mine; but i received them, and made much of them, as of old the priests of delphi did with those of the inspired maiden. there must be deep meaning in it all, because she was a priestess; and i was not backward to supply it. i have often endeavored to analyze the sources of the illusion cast over men by such characters as that of miss ellery. in their case the instinctive action of approbativeness assumes the semblance of human sympathy, and brings them for the time being into the life-sphere, and under the influence, of any person whom they wish to please, so that they with a temporary sincerity reflect back the ideas and feelings of others. there is just the same illusive sort of charm in this reflection of our own thoughts and emotions from another mind, as there is in the reflection of objects in a placid lake. there is no warmth and no reality to it; and yet, for the time being, it is often the most entrancing thing in the world, and gives back to you the glow of your own heart, the fervor of your imagination, and even every little flower of fancy, and twig of feeling, with a wonderful faithfulness of reproduction. it is not real sympathy, because, like the image in the lake, it is only there when you are present; and when you are away, reflects with equal facility the next comer. but men always have been, and to the end of time always will be, fascinated by such women, and will suppose this mere reflecting power of a highly polished surface to be the sympathetic response for which the heart longs. so i had no doubt that miss ellery was a woman of all sorts of high literary tastes and moral heroisms, for there was nothing so high or so deep in the aspirations of poets or sages in my readings to her, that could not be reflected and glorified in those wonderful eyes. neither are such women hypocrites, as they are often called. what they give back to you is for the time being a sincere reflection, and if there is no depth to it, if it passes away with the passing hour, it is simply because their natures--smooth, shallow, and cold--have no deeper power of retention. the fault lies in expecting more of a thing than there is in its nature--a fault we shall more or less all go on committing till the great curtain falls. i wrote all about her to my mother; and received the usual cautionary maternal epistle, reminding me that i was yet far from that goal in life when i was warranted in asking any woman to be my wife; and suggesting that my taste might later with maturity; warning me against premature commitments--in short, saying all that good, anxious mothers usually say to young juniors in college in similar circumstances. in reply, i told my mother that i had found a woman worthy the devotion of a life--a woman who would be inspiration and motive and reward. i extolled her purity and saintliness. i told my mother that she was forming and leading me to all that was holy and noble. in short i meant to win her though the seven labors of hercules were to be performed seven times over to reach her. now the fact is, my mother might have saved herself her anxiety. miss ellery was perfectly willing to be my guiding star, my inspiration, my light, within reasonable limits, while making a visit in an otherwise rather dull town. she liked to be read to; she liked the consciousness of being incessantly admired, and would have made a very good image for some church of the perpetual adoration; but after all, miss ellery was as incapable of forming an ineligible engagement of marriage with a poor college student, as the most sensible and collected of walter scott's heroines. looking back upon this part of my life, i can pity myself with as quiet and dispassionate a perception as if i were a third person. the illusion, for the time being, was so real, the feelings called up by it so honest and earnest and sacred; and supposing there had been a tangible reality to it--what might not such a woman have made of me, or of any man? and suppose it pleased god to send forth an army of such women, as i thought her to be, among the lost children of men, women armed not only with the outward and visible sign of beauty, but with that inward and spiritual grace which beauty typifies, one might believe that the golden age would soon be back upon us. miss ellery adroitly avoided all occasions of any critical commitment on my part or on her's. women soon learn a vast amount of tact and diplomacy on that subject: but she gave me to understand that i was peculiarly congenial to her, and encouraged the outflow of all my romance with the gentlest atmosphere of indulgence. to be sure, i was not the only one whom she thus held with bonds of golden gossamer. she reigned a queen, and had a court at her feet, and the deacon's square, white, prosaic house bristled with the activity and vivacity of miss ellery's adorers. among them. will marshall was especially distinguished. will was a senior, immensely rich, good-natured as the longest summer day is long, but so idle and utterly incapable of culture that only the liberality of the extra sum paid to a professor who held him in guardianship secured his stay in college classes. it has been my observation that money will secure a great variety of things in this lower world, and among others, will carry a very stupid fellow through college. will was a sort of favorite with us all. his good nature was without limit, and he scattered his money with a free hand, and so we generally spoke of him as "poor will;" a nice fellow, if he couldn't write a decent note, and blundered through all his recitations. will laid himself, so to speak, at miss ellery's feet. he was flush of bouquets and confectionery. he caused the village livery stable to import forthwith a turnout worthy to be a car of venus herself. i saw all this, but it never entered my head that miss ellery would cast a moment's thought other than those of the gentlest womanly compassion on poor will marshall. the time of the summer vacation drew nigh, and with the close of the term closed the vision of my idyllic experiences with miss ellery. to the last, she was so gentle and easy to be entreated. her lovely eyes cast on me such bright encouraging glances; and she accorded me a farewell moonlight ramble, wherein i walked not on earth, but in the seventh heaven of felicity. of course there was nothing definite. i told her that i was a poor soldier of fortune, but might i only wear her name in my bosom, it would be a sacred talisman, and give strength to my arm, and she sighed, and looked lovely, and she did not say me nay. i went home to my mother, and wearied that much-enduring woman, all through the vacation, with the hot and cold fits of my fever. blessed souls! these mothers, who bear and watch and rear the restless creatures, who by and by come to them with the very heart gone out of them for love of another woman--some idle girl, perhaps, that never knew what it was either to love or care, and that plays with hearts as kittens do with pinballs! i wrote to miss ellery letters long, overflowing, and got back little neatly-worded notes on scented paper, speaking in a general way of the charms of friendship. but the first news that met me on my return to college broke my soap-bubble at one touch. [illustration: _my dream-wife._ "_i told her that i was a poor soldier of fortune, but might i only wear her name in my bosom, it would be a sacred talisman, and give strength to my arm; and she sighed and looked lovely, and she did not say me nay._"] "hurrah! hal--who do you guess is engaged?" "i don't know." "guess." "i couldn't guess." "why, miss ellery--engaged to bill marshall." alnaschar, in the arabian tale, could not have been more astonished when his basket of glass-ware fell in glittering nothingness. i stood stupid with astonishment. "_she_ engaged to will marshall!--why, boys, he's a fool!" "but you see he's rich. oh, it's all arranged; they are to be married next month, and go to europe for their wedding tour," said jim fellows. and so my idol fell from its pedestal--and my first dream dissolved. chapter vii. the valley of humiliation. miss ellery was sufficiently mistress of herself, and of circumstances, to close our little pastoral in the most graceful and amiable manner possible. i received a beautiful rose-scented note from her, saying that the very kind interest in her happiness which i always had expressed, and the extremely pleasant friendship which had arisen between us, made her desirous of informing me, &c., &c. thereupon followed the announcement of her engagement, terminating with the assurance that whatever new ties she might form, or scenes she might visit, she should ever cherish a pleasant remembrance of the delightful hours spent beneath the elms of x., and indulge the kindest wishes for my future success and happiness. i, of course, crushed the rose-scented missive in my hand, in the most approved tragical style, and felt that i had been deceived, betrayed and undone. i passed forthwith into that cynical state of young manhood, in which one learns for the first time what a mere unimportant drop his own most terribly earnest and excited feelings may be in the tumbling ocean of the existing world. this is a valley of humiliation, which lies, in very many cases, just a day's walk beyond the palace, beautiful with all its fascinations. the moral geographer, john bunyan, to whom we are indebted for much wholesome information, tells us that while it is extremely difficult to descend gracefully into this valley, and pilgrims generally accomplish it at the expense of many a sore trip and stumble, yet when once they are fairly down, it presents many advantages of climate and soil not other where found. the shivering to pieces of the first ideal, while it breaks ruthlessly and scatters much that is really and honestly good and worthy, breaks up no less a certain stock of unconscious self conceit, which young people are none the worse for having lessened. the very assumption, so common in the early days of life, that we have feelings of a peculiar sacredness above the comprehension of the common herd, and for which only the selectest sympathy is possible, is one savoring a little too much of the unregenerate natural man, to be safely let alone to grow and thrive. natures, in particular, where ideality is largely in the ascendant, are apt to begin life with the scheme of building a high and thick stone wall of reticence around themselves, and enthroning therein an idol, whose rites and service are to be performed with a contemptuous indifference to all the rest of mankind. when this idol is suddenly disenchanted by some stroke of inevitable reality, and we discern that the image which we had supposed to be the shrine of a divinity, is only a very earthly doll, stuffed with saw-dust, one's pinnacles and battlements--the whole temple in short, that we have prided ourselves on, comes tumbling down about us like the walls of jericho, not without a certain sense of the ridiculous. though, like other afflictions, this is not for the present joyous, still the space thus cleared in our mind may be so cultivated as afterwards to bring forth peaceable fruits of righteousness. in my case, my idol was utterly defaced and destroyed in my eyes, because i could not conceal from myself that she was making a marriage wholly without the one element that above all others marriage requires. miss ellery was perfectly well aware of the mental inferiority of poor bill marshall, and had listened unreprovingly to the half-contemptuous pity with which it was customary among us to speak of him. i remembered how patronizingly i had often talked of him to her, "really not a bad fellow--only a little weak, you see;" and the pretty, graceful drollery in her eyes. i remembered things that these same eyes had looked at me, when he blundered and miscalled words in conversation, and a thousand sayings and intimations, each by itself indefinite as the boundary between two tints of the rainbow, by which she showed a superior sense of pleasure in my conversation and society. and was all this acting and insincerity? i thought not. i was and am fully convinced that had i only been possessed of the wealth of bill marshall, miss ellery would infinitely have preferred me as a life companion; and it was no very serious amount of youthful vanity to imagine that i should have proved a more entertaining one. i can easily imagine that she made the decision with some gentle regret at first,--regret dried up like morning dew in the full sunlight of wedding diamonds, and capable of being put completely to sleep upon a couch of cashmere shawls. with what indignant bitterness did i listen to all the details of the impending wedding from fluent jim fellows, who, being from portland and well posted in all the gossip of the circle in which she moved, enlightened our entry with daily and weekly bulletins of the grandeur and splendors that were being, and to be. "boys, only think! her wedding present from him is a set of diamonds valued at twenty-five thousand dollars. bob rivers saw them on exhibition at tiffany's. then she has three of the most splendid cashmere shawls that ever were imported into maine. captain sautelle got them from an indian prince, and there's no saying what they would have cost at usual rates. i tell you bill is going it in style, and they are going to be married with drums and trumpets, cymbals and dances; such a wedding as will make old portland stare; and then off they are going to travel no end of time in europe, and see all the kingdoms of the world, and the glory of them." now, i suppose none of us doubted that could miss ellery have attained the diamonds and the cashmeres and the fortune, with all its possibilities of luxury and self-indulgence, without the addition of the husband, nothing would have been wanting to complete her good fortune; but it is a condition in the way of a woman's making a fortune by marriage, as it was with faust's compact with an unmentionable party, that it can only be ratified by the sacrifice of herself--herself, and for life! a sacrifice most awful and holy when made in pure love, and most fearful when made for any other consideration. the fact that miss ellery could make it was immediate and complete disenchantment to me. mine is not, i suppose, the only case where the ideal which has been formed under the brooding influence of a noble mother is shattered by the hand of a woman. some woman, armed with the sacramental power of beauty, enkindles the highest manliness of the youth, and is, in his eyes, the incarnate form of purity and unworldly virtue, the high prize and incitement to valor, patience, constancy and courage, in the great life-battle. but she sells herself before his eyes, for diamonds and laces, and trinkets and perfumes; for the liberty of walking on soft carpets and singing in gilded cages; and all the world laughs at his simplicity in supposing that, a fair chance given, any woman would ever do otherwise. is not beauty woman's capital in trade, the price put into her hand to get whatever she needs; and are not the most beautiful, as a matter of course, destined prizes of the richest? miss ellery's marriage was to me a great awakening, a coming out of a life of pure ideas and sentiment into one of external realities. hitherto, i had lived only with people all whose measures and valuations had been those relating to the character--the intellect and the heart. never in my father's house had i heard the gaining of money spoken of as success in life, except as far as money was needed to advance education, and education was a means for doing good. my father had his zeal, his earnestness, his exultations, but they all related to things _to be done_ in his life-work; the saving of souls, the conversion of sinners, the gathering of churches, the repression of intemperance and immorality, the advancement of education. my elder brothers had successfully entered the ministry under his influence, and in counsels with them where to settle, i had never heard the question of salary or worldly support even discussed. the first, the only question i ever heard considered, was _what work was needed to be done_, and what fitness for the doing of it; taking for granted the record, that where the kingdom of god and its righteousness were first sought, all things would be added. thus all my visions of future life had in them something of the innocent verdancy of the golden age, when noble men strove for the favor of fair women, by pureness, by knowledge, by heroism,--and the bravest won the crown from the hand of the most beautiful. and suddenly to my awakened eyes the whole rushing cavalcade of fashionable life swept by, bearing my princess, amid waving feathers and flashing jewels and dazzling robes and merry laughs and jests, leaving me by the way-side dazed and covered with dust, to plod on alone. now first i felt the shame which comes over a young man, that he has not known the world as old wordlings know it. in the discussions among the boys, relating to this marriage, i first learned the power of that temptation which comes upon every young man to look on wealth as the first object in a life race. woman is by order of nature the conservator of the ideal. formed of finer clay, with nicer perceptions, and refined fiber, she is the appointed priestess to guard the poetry of life from sacrilege; but if she be bribed to betray the shrine, what hope for us? "if the salt have lost its savor, wherewith shall it be salted?" my acquaintance with miss ellery had brought me out of my scholastic retirement, and made me an acquaintance of the whole bevy of the girls of x. miss ellery had been invited and fêted in all the families, and her special train of adorers had followed her, and thus i was "_au courant_" of all the existing girl-world of our little town. it was curious to remark what a silken flutter of wings, what an endless volubility of tongues there was, about this engagement and marriage, and how, on the whole, it was treated as the height of splendor and good fortune. my rosy-faced friend, miss dotha, was invited to the festival as bridesmaid, and returned thereafter "trailing clouds of glory" into the primitive circles of x; and my cynical bitterness of soul took a sort of perverse pleasure in the amplifications and discussions that i constantly heard in the tea-drinking circles of the town. "oh, girls, you've no idea about those diamonds," said miss dotha; "great big diamonds as large as peas, and just as clear as water! bill marshall made them send orders to europe specially for the purpose; then she had a pearl set that his mother gave, and his sister gave an amethyst set for a breakfast suit! and you ought to have seen the presents! it was a perfect bazar! the marshalls are an enormously rich family, and they all came down splendidly: old uncle tom marshall gave a solid silver dining set embossed with gold, and old aunt tabitha marshall gave a real sévres china tea-set, that was taken out of one of the royal palaces in france, at the time of the french revolution. captain atkins was in france about the time they were sacking palaces, and doing all such things, and he brought away quite a number of things that found their way into some of these rich old portland families. her wedding veil was given by old grandmamma marshall, and was said to have been one that belonged to queen marie antoinette, taken by some of those horrid women when they sacked the tuilleries, and sold to captain atkins; at any rate, it was the most wonderful point lace, just like an old picture." fancy the drawing of breaths, the exclamations, the groans of delight, from a knot of pretty, well-dressed, nice country girls, at these wonderful glimpses into paradise. "after all," i said, "i think this custom of loading down a woman with finery just at her marriage hour, is giving it when she is least able to appreciate it. why distract her with gew-gaws at the very moment when her heart must be so full of a new affection that she cares for nothing else? miss ellery is probably so lost in her love for mr. marshall, that she scarcely gives a thought to these things, and really forgets that she has them. it would be much more in point to give them to some girl that hasn't a lover." i spoke with a simple, serious air, as if i had most perfect faith in my words, and a general gentle smile of amusement went round the circle, rippling into a laugh out-right, on the faces of some of the gayer girls. miss dotha said: "oh, come, now, mr. henderson, you are too severe." "severe!" said i; "i can't understand what you mean, miss dotha. you don't mean, of course, to intimate that miss ellery is _not_ in love with the man she has married?" "oh, now!" said miss dotha, laughing, "you know perfectly, mr. henderson--we all know--it's pretty well understood, that this wasn't _exactly_ what you call a love-match; in fact, i know," she added with the assurance of a confidant, "that she had great difficulty in _making up her mind_; but her family were very anxious for the match, and his family thought it would be such a good thing for him to marry and settle down, you know, so one way and another she concluded to take him." "and, after all, will marshall is a good-natured creature," said miss smith. "and going to europe is such a temptation," said miss brown. "and she must marry some time," said miss jones, "and one can't have _every_ thing, you know. will is certain to be kind to her, and let her have her own way." "for my part," said pretty miss green, "i'm free to say that i don't blame any girl that has a chance to get such a fortune, for doing it as miss ellery has. i've always been poor, and pinched and plagued; never can go any where, or see anything, or dress as i want to; and if i had a chance, such as miss ellery had, i think i should be a fool not to take it." "well," said miss black, reflectively, "the only question is, couldn't miss ellery have waited and found a man who had more intellect, and more culture, whom she could respect and love, and who had money, too? she had such extraordinary beauty and such popular manners, i should have thought she might." "oh, well," said miss dotha, "she was getting on--she was three-and-twenty already--and nobody of just the right sort had turned up--'a bird in the hand'--you know. after all, i dare say she can love will marshall well enough." _well enough!_ the cool philosophic tone of this phrase smote on my ear curiously. "and pray, fair ladies, how much is 'well enough?'" said i. "well enough to keep the peace," said miss green, "and each let the other alone, to go their own ways and have no fighting." miss green was a pretty, spicy little body, with a pair of provoking hazel eyes; who talked like an unprincipled little pirate, though she generally acted like a nice woman. in less than a year after, by the by, she married a home missionary, in maine, and has been a devoted wife and mother in a little parish somewhere in the region of skowhegan, ever since. but i returned to my room gloriously misanthropic, and for some time my thoughts, like bees, were busy gathering bitter honey. i gave up visiting in the tea-drinking circles of x. i got myself a dark sombrero hat, which i slouched down over my eyes in bandit style when i walked the street and met with any of my former gentle acquaintances. i wrote my mother most sublime and awful letters on the inconceivable vanity and nothingness of human life. i read plato and Æschylus, and emerson's essays, and began to think myself an old philosopher risen from the dead. there was a melancholy gravity about all my college exercises, and i began to look down on young freshmen and sophomores with a serene compassion, as a sage who has passed through the vale of years and learned that all is vanity. the valley of humiliation may have its charms--it is said that there are many flowers that grow there, and nowhere else, but for all that, a young fellow, so far as i know, generally walks through the first part of it in rather a surly and unamiable state. to be sure, had i been wise, i should have been ready to return thanks on my knees for my disappointment. true, the doll was stuffed with saw-dust, but it was not _my_ doll. i had not learned the cheat when it was forever too late to help myself, and was not condemned to spend life in vain attempts to make a warm, living friend of a cold marble statue. many a man has succeeded in getting his first ideal, and been a miserable man always thereafter, and therefore. i have lived to hear very tranquilly of mrs. will marshall's soirées and parties, as she reigns in the aristocratic circles of new york; and to see her, still like a polished looking-glass, gracefully reflecting every one's whims and tastes and opinions with charming suavity, and forgetting them when their backs are turned; and to think that she is the right thing in the right place--a crowned queen of vanity fair. i have become, too, very tolerant and indulgent to the women who do as she did,--use their own charms as the coin wherewith to buy the riches and honors of the world. the world has been busy for some centuries in shutting and locking every door through which a woman could step into wealth, except the door of marriage. all vigor and energy, such as men put forth to get this golden key of life, is condemned and scouted as unfeminine; and a woman belonging to the upper classes, who undertakes to get wealth by honest exertion and independent industry, loses caste, and is condemned by a thousand voices as an oddity and a deranged person. a woman gifted with beauty, who sells it to buy wealth, is far more leniently handled. that way of getting money is not called unwomanly; and so long as the whole force of the world goes that way, such marriages as miss ellery's and bill marshall's will be considered _en régle_. chapter viii. the blue mists. my college course was at last finished satisfactorily to my mother and friends. what joy there is to be got in college honors was mine. i studied faithfully and graduated with the valedictory. nevertheless i came back home again a sadder if not a wiser man than i went. in fact a tendency to fits of despondency and dejection had been growing upon me in these last two years of my college life. with all the self-confidence and conceit that is usually attributed to young men, and of which they have their share undoubtedly, they still have their times of walking through troubled waters, and sinking in deep mire where there is no standing. during my last year, the question "what are you good for?" had often borne down like a nightmare upon me. when i entered college all was distant, golden, indefinite, and i was sure that i was good for almost anything that could be named. nothing that ever had been attained by man looked to me impossible. riches, honor, fame, any thing that any other man unassisted had wrought out for himself with his own right arm, i could work out also. but as i measured myself with real tasks, and as i rubbed and grated against other minds and whirled round and round in the various experiences of college life, i grew smaller and smaller in my own esteem, and oftener and oftener in my lonely hours it seemed as if some evil genius delighted to lord it over me and sitting at my bed-side or fire-side to say "what are you good for, to what purpose all the pains and money that have been thrown away on you? you'll never be anything; you'll only mortify your poor mother that has set her heart on you, and make your uncle jacob ashamed of you." can any anguish equal the depths of those blues in which a man's whole self hangs in suspense before his own eyes, and he doubts whether he himself, with his entire outfit and apparatus, body, soul, and spirit, isn't to be, after all, a complete failure? better, he thinks never to have been born, than to be born to no purpose. then first he wrestles with the question, what is life for, and what am i to do or seek in it? it seems to be not without purpose, that the active life-work of the great representative man of men was ushered in by a forty days dreary wandering in the wilderness hungry, faint, and tempted of the devil; for certainly, after education has pretty thoroughly waked up all there is in a man, and the time is at hand that he is to make the decision what to do with it, there often comes a wandering, darkened, unsettled, tempted passage in his life. in christ's temptations we may see all that besets the young man. the daily bread question, or how to get a living,--the ambitious heavings, or the kingdoms of the world and the glory of them, all to be got by some yielding to satan,--the ostentatious impulse to come down on the world with a rush and a sensation,--these are mirrored in a young man's smaller life just as they were in that great life. the whole heavens can be reflected in the little pool as in the broad ocean! all these elements of unrest had been boiling in my mind during the last year. who wants to be nothing in the great world? no _young_ man at this time of his course. the wisdom of becoming nothing that he may possess all things is too high for this stage of immaturity. i came into college as simple, and contented, and satisfied, as a huckleberry bush in a sweet-fern pasture. i felt rich enough for all i wanted to do, and my path of life lay before me defined with great simplicity. but my intimacy with miss ellery, her marriage and all that pertained to it, had brought before my eyes the world of wealth and fashion, a world which a young collegian may try to despise, and about which he may write the most disparaging moral reflections, but which has, after all, its power to trouble his soul. the consciousness of being gloveless, and threadbare in toilet, comes over one in certain atmospheres, as the consciousness of nakedness to adam and eve. it is true that in the institution where i attended, as in many other rural colleges in new england, i was backed up by a majority of healthy-minded, hardy men, of real mark and worth, children of honest toil and self-respecting poverty, who were bravely working their way up through education to the prizes and attainments of life. simple economies were therefore well understood and respected in the college. nevertheless there is something not altogether vulgar in the attractions which wealth enables one to throw around himself. i was a social favorite in college, and took a stand among my fellows as a writer and speaker, and so had a considerable share of that sincere sort of flattery which college boys lavish on each other. i was invited and made much of by some whose means were ample, whose apartments were luxuriously and tastefully furnished, but who were none the less good scholars and high-minded gentlemanly fellows. in their vacations i had been invited to their houses, and had seen all the refinement, the repose, the ease and the quietude that comes from the possession of wealth in the hands of those who know how to use it. wealth in such hands gives opportunities of the broadest culture, ability to live in the wisest manner, freedom to choose the healthiest surroundings both for mind and body, not restricted by considerations of expense; and how could i think it anything else than an object ardently to be sought? it is true, my rich friends seemed equally to enjoy the vacations in my little, plain, mountain home. people generally are insensible to advantages they have always enjoyed, and have an appetite for something new; so the homely rusticity of our house, the perfect freedom from conventionalities, the wild, mountain scenery, the wholesome detail of farm life, the barn with its sweet stores of hay, and its nooks and corners and hiding places, the gathering in of our apples, and the making of cider, the corn-huskings and thanksgiving frolics, seemed to have their interest and delights to them, and they often told me i was a lucky fellow to be born to such pleasant surroundings. but i thought within myself, it is easy to say this when you feel the control of thousands in your pocket, when if you are tired you can go to any land or country of the earth for change of scene. in fact we see in history that the crusade of st. francis in favor of poverty was not begun by a poor man, but by a young nobleman who had known nothing hitherto but wealth and luxury. it is from the rich, if from any, that our grasping age must learn renunciation and simplicity. it is easier to renounce a good which one has tried and of which one knows all the attendant thorns and stings than to renounce one that has been only painted by the imagination, and whose want has been keenly felt. when i came to the college i came from the controlling power of home influences. at an early age i had felt the strength of that sphere of spirituality that encircled the lives of my parents, and, being very receptive and sympathetic, had reflected in my childish nature all their feelings. i had renounced the world before i knew what the world was. i had joined my father's church and was looked upon as one destined in time to take up my father's work of the ministry. four years had passed and i came back to my mother, weakened and doubting, indisposed to take up the holy work to which in my early days i looked forward with enthusiasm, yet with all the sadness which comes from indecision as to one's life-object. to be a minister is to embrace a life of poverty, of toil, of self-denial. to do this, not only with cheerfulness but with an enthusiasm which shall bear down all before it, which shall elevate it into the region of moral poetry and ideality, requires a fervid, unshaken faith. the man must feel the power of an endless life, be lifted above things material and temporal to things sublime and eternal. now it is one peculiarity of the professors of the christian religion that they have not, at least of late years, arranged their system of education with any wise adaptation to having their young men come out of it _christians_. in this they differ from many other religionists. the brahmins educate their sons so that they shall infallibly become brahmins; the jews so that they shall infallibly be jews; the mohammedans so that they shall be mohammedans; but the christians educate their sons so that nearly half of them turn out unbelievers--professors of no religion at all. there is a book which the christian world unite in declaring to be an infallible revelation from heaven. it has been the judgment of critics that the various writings in this volume excel other writings in point of mere literary merit as much as they do in purity and elevation of the moral sentiment. yet it is remarkable that the critical study of these sacred writings in their original tongues is not in most of our christian colleges considered as an essential part of the education of a christian gentleman, while the heathen literature of greece and rome is treated as something indispensable, and to be gained at all hazards. it is a fact that from the time that the boy begins to fit for college, his mind is so driven and pressed with the effort to acquire the classical literature, that there is no time to acquire the literature of the bible, neither is it associated in his mind with the dignity and respect of a classical attainment. he _must_ be familiar with horace and ovid, with cicero and plato, Æschylus and homer in their original tongues, but the majestic poetry of the old testament, and its sages and seers and prophets, become with every advancing year more unintelligible to him. a thoroughly educated graduate of most of our colleges is unprepared to read intelligently many parts of isaiah or ezekiel or paul's epistles. the scripture lessons of the church service often strike on his ear as a strange quaint babble of peculiar sounds, without rhyme or reason. uncultured and uneducated in all that should enable him to understand them, he is only preserved by a sort of educational awe from regarding them as the jargon of barbarians. meanwhile, this literature of the bible, strange, weird, sibylline, and full of unfulfilled needs and requirements of study, is being assailed in detail through all the courses of a boy's college life. the objections to it as a divine revelation relate to critical questions in languages of which he is ignorant, and yet they are everywhere; they are in the air he breathes, they permeate all literature, they enter into modern science, they disintegrate and wear away, bit by bit, his reverence and his confidence. this work had been going on insensibly in my head during my college life, notwithstanding the loyalty of my heart. during those years i had learned to associate the bible with the most sacred memories of home, with the dearest loves of home life. it was woven with remembrances of daily gatherings around the family altar, with scenes of deepest emotion when i had seen my father and mother fly to its shelter and rest upon its promises. there were passages that never recurred to me except with the sound of my father's vibrating voice, penetrating their words with a never dying power. the bible was to me like a father and a mother, and the doubts, and queries, the respectful suggestions of incredulity, the mildly suggestive abatements of its authority, which met me, now here and now there, in all the course of my readings and studies, were as painful to me as reflections cast on my father's probity or my mother's honor. i would not listen to them, i would not give them voice, i smothered them in the deepest recesses of my heart, while meantime the daily pressure that came on me in the studies and requirements of college life left me neither leisure nor inclination to pursue the researches that should clear them up. to be sure, nothing is so important as the soul--nothing is of so much moment as religion, and the question "is this god's book or is it not?" is the question of questions. it underlies all things, and he who is wise would drop all other things and undergo any toil and make any studies that should fit him to judge understandingly on this point. but i speak from experience when i say that the course of study in christian america is so arranged that a boy, from the grammar school upward till he graduates, is so fully pressed and overladen with all other studies that there is no probability that he will find the time or the inclination for such investigation. in most cases he will do just what i did, throw himself upon the studies proposed to him, work enough to meet the demands of the hour, and put off the acquisition of that more important knowledge to an indefinite future, and sigh, and go backward in his faith. but without faith or with a faith trembling and uncertain, how is a man to turn his back on the world that is before him--the world that he can see, hear, touch and taste--to work for the world that is unseen and eternal? i will not repeat the flattering words that often fell on my ear and said to me, "you can make your way anywhere; you can be anything you please." and then there were voices that said in my heart, "i may have wealth, and with it means of power, of culture, of taste, of luxury. if i only set out for that, i may get it." and then, in contrast, came that life i had seen my father live, in its grand simplicity, in its enthusiastic sincerity, in its exulting sense of joy in what he was doing, down to the last mortal moment, and i wished, oh, how fervently! that i could believe as he did. but to be a minister merely from a sense of duty--to bear the burden of poverty with no perception of the unspeakable riches which christ hath placed therein--who would not shrink from a life so grating and so cold? to choose the ministry as a pedestal for oratory and self-display and poetic religious sentiment, and thus to attain distinction and easy position, and the command of fashionable luxury, seemed to me a temptation to desecration still more terrible, and i dreaded the hour which should close my college life and make a decision inevitable. it was with a sober and sad heart that i closed my college course and parted from class-mates--jolly fellows with whom had rolled away the four best years of my life--years that as one goes on afterwards in age look brighter and brighter in the distance. it was a lonesome and pokerish operation to dismantle the room that had long been my home, to bargain away my furniture, pack my books, and bid a final farewell to all the old quiddities and oddities that i had grown attached to in the quaint little village. the parting from alma mater is a second leaving of home--and this time for the great world. there is no staving off the battle of life now--the tents are struck, the camp-fires put out, and one must be on the march. chapter ix. an outlook into life. my coming back to my native town was an event of public notoriety. i had won laurels, and as i was the village property, my laurels were duly commented on and properly appreciated. highland was one of those thrifty yankee settlements where every house seems to speak the people so well-to-do, and so careful, and progressive in all the means of material comfort. there was not a house in it that was not in a sort of healthy, growing state, receiving, from time to time, some accession that showed that the yankee aspiration was busy, stretching and enlarging. this had a new bay-window, and that had a new veranda; the other, new, tight, white picket fences all round the yard. others rejoiced in a fresh coat of paint. but all were alive, and apparently self-repairing. there was to every house the thrifty wood-pile, seasoning for winter; the clean garden, with its wealth of fruit and its gay borders of flowers; and every new kind of flower, and every choice new fruit, found somewhere a patron who was trying a hand at it. highland was a place worth living in just for its scenery. it was at that precise point of the country where the hills are inspiriting, vivacious, reminding one of the psalm,--"the little hills rejoice on every side!" mountains are grand, but they also are dreary. for a near prospect they overpower too much, they shut out the sun, they have savage propensities, untamable by man, shown once in a while in land-slides and freshets; but these half-grown hills uplift one like waves of the sea. in summer they are wonderful in all possible shades of greenness; in autumn they are like a mystical rainbow--an ocean of waves, flamboyant with every wonderful device of color; and even when the leaves are gone, in november, and nothing left but the bristling steel-blue outlines of trees, there is a wonderful purple haze, a veil of dreamy softness, around them, that makes you think you never saw them so beautiful. so i said to myself, as i came rambling over hill and dale back to the old homestead, and met my mother's bright face of welcome at the door. i was the hero of the hour at home, and everything had been prepared to make me welcome. my brother, who kept the homestead, had relinquished the prospect of a college life, and devoted himself to farming, but looked on me as the most favored of mortals in the attainments i had made. his young wife and growing family of children clustered around my mother and leaned on her experience; and as every one in the little village knew and loved her, there was a general felicitation and congratulation on the event of my return and my honors. "see him in his father's pulpit afore long," said deacon manning, who called the first evening to pay his respects; "better try his hand at the weekly prayer meeting, and stir us up a bit." "i think, deacon," said i, "i shall have to be one of those that learn in silence, awhile longer. i may come to be taught, but i certainly cannot teach." "well, now, that's modest for a young fellow that's just been through college! they commonly are as feathery and highflying as a this year's rooster, and ready to crow whether their voice breaks or not," said the deacon. "'learn in silence!' well, that 'ere beats all for a young man!" i thought to myself that the good deacon little knew the lack of faith that was covered by my humility. since my father's death, my mother had made her home with my uncle jacob, her health was delicate, and she preferred to enjoy the honors of a grandmother at a little distance. my uncle jacob had no children. aunt polly, his wife, was just the softest, sleekest, most domestic dove of a woman whose wings were ever covered with silver. i always think of her in some soft, pearly silk, with a filmy cap, and a half-handkerchief crossed over a gentle, motherly bosom, soft moving, soft speaking, but with a pair of bright, hazel eyes, keen as arrows to send their glances into every place in her dominions. let anybody try sending in a false account to aunt polly, and they will see that the brightness of her eyes was not merely for ornament. yet everything she put her hand to went so exactly, so easily, you would have said those eyes were made for nothing but reading, for which aunt polly had a great taste, and for which she found abundance of leisure. my mother and she were enjoying together a long and quiet saturday afternoon of life, reading to each other, and quietly and leisurely discussing all that they read,--not merely the last novel, as the fashion of women in towns and cities is apt to be, but all the solid works of philosophy and literature that marked the times. my uncle's house was like a bookseller's stall,--it was overrunning with books. the cases covered the walls; they crowded the corners and angles; and still every noteworthy book was ordered, to swell the stock. my mother and aunt had read together lecky, and buckle, and herbert spencer, with the keen critical interest of fresh minds. had it troubled their faith? not in the least; no more than it would that of mary on the morning after the resurrection! there is a certain moral altitude where faith becomes knowledge, and the bat-wings of doubt cannot fly so high. my mother was dwelling in that land of beulah, where the sun always shineth, and the bells of the heavenly city are heard, and the shining ones walk. all was clear to her, all bright, all real, in "the beyond;" but that kind of evidence is above the realm of heavy-footed reason. the "joy unspeakable," the "peace that passeth understanding," are things that cannot be passed from hand to hand. else i am quite sure my mother would have taken the crown of joy from her head and the peace from her bosom, and given them to me. but the "white stone with the new name" is christ's gift to each for himself, and "no man knoweth it save he that receiveth it." but these witnesses who stand gazing into heaven are not without their power on us who stand lower. it steadied my moral nerves, so to speak, that my mother had read and weighed the words that were making so much doubt and shaking; that she fully comprehended them, and that she smiled without fear. she listened without distress, without anxiety, to all my doubts and falterings. "you must pass through this; you will be led; it will all come right," she said; "and then perhaps you will be the guide of others." i had feared to tell her that i had abandoned the purpose of the ministry, but i found it easy. "i would not have you embrace the ministry for anything but a true love," she said, "any more than i would that you should marry a wife for any other reason. if ever the time comes that you feel you _must_ be that, it will be your call; but you can be god's minister otherwise than through the pulpit." "talk over your plans with your uncle," she said; "he is in your father's place now." in fact, my uncle, having no children of his own, had set his heart on me, and was disposed to make me heir, not only to his very modest personal estate, but also to his harvest of ideas and opinions,--all that backwater of thoughts and ideas that accumulate on the mind of a man who thinks and reads a great deal in a lonely neighborhood. so he took me up as a companion in his daily rides over the country. "well, harry, where next?" he said to me the day after my return, as we were driving together. "what are you about? going to try the ministry?" "i dare not; i am not fit. i know father wanted it, and prayed for it, and nothing would be such a joy to mother, but----" my uncle gave a shrewd, sidelong glance on me. "i suppose you are like a good many fellows; an education gives them a general shaking up, and all their beliefs break from their lashings and go rolling and tumbling about like spars and oil-casks in a storm on ship-board." "i can't say that is true of all my beliefs; but yet a great many things that i tried to regard as certain are untied. i have too many doubts for a teacher." "who hasn't? i don't know anything in heaven or earth that forty unanswerable questions can't be asked about." "you know," answered i, "tennyson says, 'there lives more faith in honest doubt, believe me, than in half the creeds.'" "h'm! that depends. doubt is very well as a sort of constitutional crisis in the beginning of one's life; but if it runs on and gets to be chronic, it breaks a fellow up, and makes him morally spindling and sickly. men that _do_ anything in the world must be men of strong convictions; it won't do to go through life like a hen, craw-crawing and lifting up one foot, and not knowing where to set it down next." "but," said i, "while i am passing through the constitutional crisis, as you call it, is the very time i must make up my mind to teach others on the most awful of all subjects. i cannot and dare not. i must be a learner for some years to come, and i must be a learner without any pledges, expressed or implied, to find the truth this way or that." "well," said my uncle; "i'm not so greatly concerned about that--the lord needs other ministers besides those in the pulpit. why, man, the sermons on the evidences of christianity that have come home to me most have been preached by lay preachers in poor houses and lonely churches, by ignorant men and women, and little children." "there's old aunt sarah there," he said, pointing with his whip to a brown house in the distance, "that woman is dying of a cancer, that slowly eats away her life in lingering agony, and all her dependence is the work of a sickly, consumptive daughter, and yet she is more than resigned to her lot, she is so cheerful, so thankful, so hopeful, there is such a blessed calm peace, and rest, and sweetness in that house, that i love to go there. the influence of that woman is felt all through the village--_she_ preaches to some purpose." "because she _knows_ what she believes," i said. "it was the same with your father, harry. now my boy," he added, turning to me with the old controversial twinkle in his eye, and speaking in a confidential tone--"the fact is, i never agreed with your father doctrinally, there were weak spots in his system all along, and i always told him so. i could trip him and floor him in an argument, and have done it a hundred times," he said, giving a touch to his horse. i thought to myself that it was well enough that my father wasn't there to hear that statement, otherwise there would have been an immediate tilting match, and the whole ground to be gone over. "yes," he said; "it wasn't mainly in your father's theology that his strength lay--it was the christ in him--the great warm heart--his crystal purity and simplicity--his unworldly earnestness and honesty. he was a godly man and a manly man both, and he sowed seed all over this state that came up good men and good women. yes, there are hundreds and hundreds in this state to-day that are good men and good women, mainly because he lived. _that's_ what i call success in life, harry, when a man carries himself so that he turns into seed-corn and makes a harvest of good people. you may upset a man's reasonings, and his theology may go to the dogs, but a brave christian life you can't upset, it will tell. now, harry, are you going to try for that?" "god helping me, i will," i said. "you see, as to the theologies," he added, "i think it has been well said that the christian world just now is like a ship that's tacking, it has lost the wind on one side and not quite got it on the other. the growth of society, the development of new physical laws, and this modern scientific rush of the human mind is going to modify the man-made theologies and creeds; some of them will drop away just as the blossom does when the fruit forms, but christ's religion will be just the same as ever--his words will not pass away." "but then," i said "there are a whole labyrinth of perplexing questions about this bible. what is inspiration? what ground does it cover? how much of all these books is inspired? what is their history? how came we by them? what evidence have we that the record gives us christ's words uncorrupted?" "if you had been brought up in justin martyr's time or the days of the primitive christians you would have been put to study all these things first and foremost in your education, but we modern christians, teach young men everything else except what we profess to think the most important; and so you come out of college ignorant, just where knowledge is most vital." "well, that is past praying for now," said i. "yes; but even now there is a way out--just as going through a bog you plant your foot hard on what land there is, and then take your bearings--so you must do here. the way to get rid of doubts in religion, is to go to work with all our might and _practice_ what we _don't_ doubt, and that you can do whatever your calling or profession." "i shall certainly try," said i. "for example," said my uncle, "there's the sermon on the mount. nobody has any doubt about that, there it lies--plain enough, and enough of it--not a bit of what's called theology in it. not a word of information to settle the mooted questions men wrangle over, but with a direct answer to just the questions any thoughtful man must want to have answered when he looks at life. is there a father in the heavens? will he help us if we ask? may the troubles of life be our discipline? is there a better life beyond? and how are we to get that? there is christ's philosophy of life in that sermon, and christ's mode of dealing with actual existing society; and he who undertakes in good faith to square his heart and life by it will have his hands full. the world has been traveling eighteen hundred years and not come fully into the light of its meaning. there has never been a christian state or a christian nation, according to that. that document is in modern society just like a lump of soda in a tumbler of vinegar, it keeps up a constant commotion, and will do so till every particle of life is adjusted on its principles. the man who works out christ's teachings into a palpable life-form, preaches christianity, no matter what his trade or calling. he may be a coal heaver or he may be a merchant, or a lawyer, or an editor--he preaches all the same. men always know it when they meet a bit of christ's sermons walking out bodily in good deeds; they're not like worldly wisdom, and have a smack of something a good deal higher than common sense, but when people see it they say, "yes--that's the true thing." now one of our presidents, general harrison, found out on a certain day that through a flaw in the title deeds he was owner to half the city of cincinnati. what does he do? why, simply he says to himself, 'these people have paid their money in good faith, and i'll do by them as i'd be done by,' and he goes to a lawyer and has fresh deeds drawn out for the whole of 'em, and lived and died a poor, honest man. that action was a preaching of christ's doctrine as i take it, and if you'll do as much whenever you get a chance, its no matter what calling you take for a pulpit. so now tell me what are you thinking of setting yourself about?" "i intend to devote myself to literature," said i. "i always had a facility for writing, while i never felt the call or impulse toward public speaking; and i think the field of current literature opens a wide scope. i have had already some success in having articles accepted and well spoken of, and have now some promising offers. i have an opportunity to travel in europe as correspondent of two papers, and i shall study to improve myself. in time i may become an editor, and then perhaps at last proprietor of a paper. so runs my scheme of life, and i hope i shall be true to myself and my religion in it. i shall certainly try to. current literature--the literature of newspapers and magazines, is certainly a power." "a very great power, harry," said my uncle; "and getting to be in our day a tremendous power, a power far outgoing that of the pulpit, and that of books. this constant daily self-asserting literature of newspapers and periodicals is acting on us tremendously for good or for ill. it has access to us at all hours and gets itself heard as a preacher cannot, and gets itself read as scarcely any book does. it ought to be entered into as solemnly as the pulpit, for it is using a great power. yet just now it is power without responsibility. it is in the hands of men who come under no pledge, pass no examination, give no vouchers, though they hold a power more than that of all other professions or books united. one cannot be a doctor, or a lawyer, or a minister, unless some body of his fellows looks into his fitness to serve society in these ways; but one may be turned loose to talk in every family twice a day, on every subject, sacred and profane, and say anything he chooses without even the safeguard of a personal responsibility. he shall speak from behind a screen and not be known. now you know old dante says that the souls in the other world were divided into three classes, those who were for god and those who were for the devil, and those who were for neither, but for themselves. it seems to me that there's a vast many of these latter at work in our press--smart literary adventurers, who don't care a copper what they write up or what they write down, wholly indifferent which side of a question they sustain, so they do it smartly, and ready to sell their wit, their genius and their rhetoric to the highest bidder. now, harry, i'd rather see you a poor, threadbare, hard-worked, country minister than the smartest and brightest fellow that ever kept his talents on sale in vanity fair." "well," said i, "isn't it just here that your principle of living out a gospel should come? must there not be writers for the press who believe in the sermon on the mount, and who are pledged to get its principles into life-forms as fast as they can?" "yea, verily," said my uncle; "but do you mean to keep faithful to that? you have, say, a good knack at english; you can write stories, and poems, and essays; you have a turn for humor; and now comes the devil to you and says, show me up the weak points of those reformers; raise a laugh at those temperance men,--those religionists, who, like all us poor human trash, are running religion, and morals, and progress into the ground.' you can succeed; you can carry your world with you. you see, if virtue came straight down from heaven with her white wings and glistening robes, and always conducted herself just like an angel, our trial in life wouldn't be so great as it is. but she doesn't. human virtue is more apt to appear like a bewildered, unprotected female, encumbered with all sorts of irregular bandboxes, dusty, disheveled, out of fashion, and elbowing her way with ungainly haste and ungraceful postures. you know there are stories of powerful fairies who have appeared in this way among men, to try their hearts; and those who protect them when they are feeble and dishonored, they reward when they are glorious. now, your smart, flippant, second-rate wits never have the grace to honor truth when she loses her way, and gets bewildered and dusty, and they drive a flourishing business in laughing down the world's poor efforts to grow better." "i think," said i, "that we americans have one brilliant example of a man who had keen humor, and used it on the christian side. the animus of the "biglow papers" is the spirit of the sermon on the mount translated into the language of yankee life, and defended with wit and drollery." "you say truth, harry, and it was no small thing to do it; for the anti-slavery cause then was just in that chaotic state in which every strange bird and beast, every shaggy, irregular, unkempt reformer, male and female, were flocking to it, and there was capital scope for caricature and ridicule; and all the fastidious, and conservative, and soft-handed, and even-stepping people were measureless in their contempt for this shocking rabble. lowell stood between them and the world, and fought the battle with weapons that the world could understand. there was a gospel truth in 'john p. robinson, he,' and it did what no sermon could; this is the more remarkable because he used for the purpose a harlequin faculty, that has so often been read out of meeting and excommunicated that the world had come to look at it as ex-officio of the devil. whittier and longfellow made valiant music of the solemn sort, but lowell evangelized wit." "the fortunate man," said i, "to have used a great opportunity!" "harry, the only way to be a real man, is to have a cause you care for more than yourself. that made your father--that made your new england fathers--that raises literature above some child's play, and makes it manly--but if you would do it you must count on one thing--that the devil will tempt you in the outset with the bread question as he did the lord. "command that these stones be made bread;" is the first onset--you'll want money, and money will be offered for what you ought not to write. there's the sensational novel, the blood and murder and adultery story, of which modern literature is full--you can produce it--do it perhaps as well as anybody--it will sell. will you be barkeeper to the public, and when the public call for hot brandy sling give it to them, and help them make brutes of themselves? will you help to vulgarize and demoralize literature if it will pay?" "no;" said i, "not if i know myself." "then you've got to begin life with some motive higher than to make money, or get a living, and you'll have sometimes to choose between poisonous nonsense that brings pay, and honest truth that nobody wants." "and i must tell the devil that there is a higher life than the bread-life?" said i. "yes; get above that, to begin with. remember the story of general marion, who invited some british officers to dine with him and gave them nothing but roasted potatoes. they went away and said it was in vain to try to conquer a people when their officers would live on such fare rather than give up the cause. do you know, harry, what is my greatest hope for this state? it's this: two or three years ago there was urgent need to carry this state in an election, and there was no end of hard money sent up to buy votes among our poor farmers: but they couldn't be bought. they had learned, 'man shall not live by bread alone,' to some purpose. the state went all straight for liberty. what i ask of any man who wants to do a life-work is ability to be happy on a little." "well," said i, "i have been brought up to that. i have no expensive habits. i neither drink nor smoke. i am used to thinking definitely as to figures, and i am willing to work hard, and begin at the bottom of the ladder, but i mean to keep my conscience and my religion, and lend a helping hand to the good cause wherever i can." "well, now, my boy, there're only two aids that you need for this--one is god, and the other is a true, good woman. god you will have, but the woman--she must be found." i felt the touch on a sore spot, and so answered, purposely misunderstanding his meaning. "yes, i have not to go far for her--my mother." "oh yes, my boy--thank god for her; but harry, you can't take her away from this place; her roots have spread here; they are matted and twined with the very soil; they run under every homestead and embrace every grave. she is so interwoven with this village that she could not take root elsewhere, beside that, harry, look at the clock of life--count the years, sixty-five, sixty-six, sixty-seven, and the clock never stops! her hair is all white now, and that snow will melt by and by, and she will be gone upward. god grant i may go first, harry." "and i, too," said i, fervently. "i could not live without her." "you must find one like her, harry. it is not good for man to be alone; we all need the motherly, and we must find it in a wife. do you know what i think the prettiest story of courtship i ever read? its the account of jacob's marriage with rebecca, away back in the simple old times. you remember the ending of it,--'and isaac brought her into her mother sarah's tent, and took rebecca and she became his wife, and isaac was comforted for his mother's death.' there's the philosophy of it," he added; "it's the mother living again in the wife. the motherly instinct is in the hearts of all true women, and sooner or later the true wife becomes a mother to her husband; she guides him, cares for him, teaches him, and catechises him all in the nicest way possible. why i'm sure i never should know how to get along a day without polly to teach me the requirings and forbiddens of the commandments; to lecture me for going out without my muffler, and see that i put on my flannels in the right time; to insist that i shall take something for my cough, and raise a rebellion to my going out when there's a north-easter. so much for the body, and as for the soul-life, i believe it is woman who holds faith in the world--it is woman behind the wall, casting oil on the fire that burns brighter and brighter, while the devil pours on water; and you'll never get christianity out of the earth while there's a woman in it. i'd rather have my wife's and your mother's opinion on the meaning of a text of scripture than all the doctors of divinity, and their faith is an anchor that always holds. some jackanapes or other i read once, said every woman wanted a master, and was as forlorn without a husband as a masterless dog. its a great, deal truer that every man wants a mother; men are more forlorn than masterless dogs, a great deal, when no woman cares for them. look at the homes single women make for themselves; how neat, how cosy, how bright with the oil of gladness, and then look at old bachelor dens! the fact is, women are born comfort-makers, and can get along by themselves a great deal better than we can." "well," said i, "i don't think i shall ever marry. of course if i could find a woman like my mother, it would be another thing. but times are altered--the women of this day are all for flash and ambition, and money. there are no more such as you used to find in the old days." "oh, nonsense, harry; don't come to me with that sort of talk. bad sort for a young man--very. what i want to see in a young fellow is a resolution to have a good wife and a home of his own as quick as he can find it. the roman catholics weren't so far out of the way when they said marriage was a sacrament. it is the greatest sacrament of life, and that old church does yeoman service to humanity in the stand she takes for christian marriage. i should call that the most prosperous state when all the young men and women were well mated and helping one another according to god's ordinances. you may be sure, harry, that you can never be a whole man without a wife." "well," i said; "there's time enough for that by and by; if i'm predestinated i suppose it'll come along when i have my fortune made." "don't wait to be rich, harry. find a faithful, heroic friend that will strike hands with you, poor, and begin to build up your nest together,--that's the way your father and mother did, and who enjoyed more? that's the way your aunt polly and i did, and a good time we have had of it. there has always been the handful of meal in the barrel and the little oil in the cruse, and if the way we have always lived is poverty, all i have to say is, poverty is a pretty nice thing." "but," said i, bitterly, "you talk of golden ages. there are no such women now as you found, the women now are mere effeminate dolls of fashion--all they want is ease and show, and luxury, and they care nothing who gives it--one man is as good as another if he is only rich." "tut, tut, boy! don't you read your bible? away back in solomon's time, it's written, 'who can find a virtuous woman? her price is above rubies.' are rubies found without looking for them, and do diamonds lie about the street? now, just attend to my words--brave men make noble women, and noble women make brave men. be a true man first, and some day a true woman will be given you. yes, a woman whose opinion of you will hold you up if all the world were against you, and whose 'well done!' will be a better thing to come home to, than the senseless shouting of the world who scream for this thing to-day and that to-morrow." by this time the horse had turned up the lane, and my mother stood smiling in the door. i marked the soft white hair that shone like a moonlight glory round her head, and prayed inwardly that the heavens would spare her yet a little longer. chapter x cousin caroline. "you must go and see your cousin caroline," said my mother, the first evening after i got home; "you've no idea how pretty she's grown." "she's what i call a pattern girl," said my uncle jacob, "a girl that can make the most of life." "she is a model housekeeper and manager," said aunt polly. now if aunt polly called a girl a model house-keeper, it was the same for her that it would be for a man to receive a doctorate from a college; in fact it would be a good deal more, as aunt polly was one who always measured her words, and never said anything _pro forma_, or without having narrowly examined the premises. elderly people who live in happy matrimony are in a gentle way disposed to be match-makers. if they have sense, as my elders did, they do not show this disposition in any very pronounced way. they never advise a young man directly to try his fortune with "so and so," knowing that that would, in nine cases out of ten, be the direct way to defeat their purpose. so my mother's gentle suggestion, and my uncle jacob's praise, and aunt polly's endorsement, were simply in the line of the most natural remarks. cousin caroline was the daughter of uncle jacob's brother, the only daughter in the family. her father was one of those men most useful and necessary in society, composed of virtues and properties wholly masculine. he was strong, energetic, shrewd, acridly conscientious, and with an intensity of self-will and love of domination. this rugged rock, all granite, had won a tender woman to nestle and flower in some crevice of his heart and she had clothed him with a garland of sons and one flower of a daughter. within a year or two her death had left this daughter the mistress of her father's family. i remembered caroline of old, as my school companion; the leading scholar, in every study, always good natured, steady, and clear-headed, ready to help me when i faltered in a translation, or the solution of an algebraic problem. in those days i never thought of her as pretty. there were the outlines and rudiments, which might bloom into beauty, but thin, pale, colorless, and deficient in roundness and grace. i had seen very little of caroline through my college life; we had exchanged occasionally a cousinly letter, but in my last vacation she was away upon a visit. i was not, therefore, prepared for the vision which bloomed out upon me from the singer's seat, when i looked up on sunday and saw her, standing in a shaft of sunlight that lit up her whole form with a kind of glory. i rubbed my eyes with astonishment, as i saw there a very beautiful woman, and beautiful in quite an uncommon style, one which promised a more lasting continuance of personal attraction than is usual with our new england girls. i own, that a head and bust of the venus de milo type; a figure at once graceful, yet ample in its proportions; a rich, glowing bloom, speaking of health and vigor,--gave a new radiance to eyes that i had always admired, in days when i never had thought of even raising the question of caroline's beauty. these charms were set off, too, by a native talent for dress,--that sort of instinctive gift that some women have of arranging their toilet so as exactly to suit their own peculiar style. there was nothing fussy, or furbelowed, or gaudy, as one often sees in the dress of a country beauty, but a grand and severe simplicity, which in her case was the very perfection of art. my uncle ebenezer simmons lived at a distance of nearly two miles from our house, but that evening, after tea, i announced to my mother that i was going to take a walk over to see cousin caroline. i perceived that the movement was extremely popular and satisfactory in the eyes of all the domestic circle. whose thoughts do not travel in this direction, i wonder, in a small country neighborhood? here comes harry henderson home from college, with his laurels on his brow, and here is the handsomest girl in the neighborhood, a pattern of all the virtues. what is there to be done, except that they should straightway fall in love with each other, and taking hold of hands walk up the hill difficulty together? i presume that no good gossip in our native village saw any other arrangement of our destiny as possible or probable. i may just as well tell my readers first as last, that we did not fall in love with each other, though we were the very best friends possible, and i spent nearly half my time at my uncle's house, besetting her at all hours, and having the best possible time in her society; but our relations were as frankly and clearly those of brother and sister as if we had been children of one mother. for a beautiful woman, caroline had the least of what one may call legitimate coquetry, of any person i ever saw. there are some women, and women of a high class too, who seem to take a natural and innocent pleasure in the power which their sex enables them to exercise over men, and who instinctively do a thousand things to captivate and charm one of the opposite sex, even when they would greatly regret winning his whole heart. if well principled and instructed they try to keep themselves under control, but they still do a thousand ensnaring things, for no other reason, that i can see, than that it is their nature, and they cannot help it. if they have less principle this faculty becomes then available power, by which they can take possession of all that a man has, and use it to carry their own plans and purposes. of this power, whatever it may be, caroline had nothing; nay, more, she despised it, and received the admiration and attentions which her beauty drew from the opposite sex, with a coldness, in some instances amounting to incivility. with me she had been from the first so frankly, cheerfully and undisguisedly affectionate and kind, and with such a straightforward air of comradeship and a literal ignoring of everything sentimental, that the very ground of anything like love-making did not seem to exist between us. the last evening before i was to leave for my voyage to europe, i spent with her, and she gave me a curiously-wrought traveling-case, in which there was a pocket for any imaginable thing that a bachelor might be supposed to want on his travels. "i wish i could go with you," she said to me, with an energy quite out of her usual line. "i am sure i wish you could," said i; and what with the natural softness of heart that a young man feels, when he is plunging off from the safe ground of home into the world and partly from the unwonted glow of feeling that came over caroline's face, as she spoke, i felt quite a rush of emotion, and said, as i kissed her hand, "why didn't we think of this before, caroline?" "oh, nonsense, henry; don't you be sentimental, of all things," she replied briskly, withdrawing her hand. "of course, i didn't mean anything more than that i wished i was a young fellow like you, free to take my staff and bundle, and make my way in the great world. why couldn't i be?" "_you_," said i, "caroline, you, with your beauty and your talents,--i think you might be satisfied with a woman's lot in life." "a woman's lot! and what is that, pray? to sit with folded hands and see life drifting by--to be a mere nullity, and endure to have my good friends pat me on the back, and think i am a bright and shining light of contentment in woman's sphere?" "but," said i, "you know, caroline, that there is always a possibility in woman's destiny, especially a woman so beautiful as you are." "you mean marriage. well, perhaps if i could do as you can, go all over the world, examine and search for the one i want, and find him, the case would be somewhat equal; but my chances are only among those who propose to me. now, i have read in the arabian nights of princesses so beautiful that men came in regiments, to seek the honor of their hand; but such things don't occur in our times in new england villages. my list for selection must be confined to such of the eligible men in this neighborhood as are in want of wives; men who want wives as they do cooking-stoves, and make up their minds that i may suit them. by the by, i have been informed already of one who has had me under consideration, and concluded _not_ to take me. silas boardman, i understand, has made up his mind, and informed his sisters of the fact, that i am altogether too dressy in my taste for his limited means, and besides that i am too free and independent; so that door is closed to me, you'll observe. silas won't have me!" "the conceited puppy!" said i. "well, isn't that the common understanding among men--that all the marriageable girls in their neighborhood are on exhibition for their convenience? if the very first idea of marriage with any one of them were not so intensely disagreeable to me, i would almost be willing to let some of them ask me, just to hear what i could tell them. now you know, harry, i put _you_ out of the case, because you are my cousin, and i no more think of you in that way than if you were my brother, but, frankly, i never yet saw the man that i could by any stretch of imagination conceive of my wanting, or being willing to marry; i know no man that it wouldn't be an untold honor to me to be doomed to marry. i would rather scrub floors on my knees for a living." "but you do see happy marriages." "oh, yes, dear souls, of course i do, and am glad of it, and wonder and admire; yes, i see some happy marriages. there's uncle jacob and his wife, kind old souls, two dear old pigeons of the sanctuary!--how charmingly they get along! and your father and mother--they seemed one soul; it really was encouraging to see that people could live so." "but you musn't be too ideal, caroline; you musn't demand too much of a man." "demand? i don't demand anything of any man, i only want to be let alone. i don't want to wait for a husband to make me a position, i want to make one for myself; i don't want to take a husband's money, i want my own. you have individual ideas of life, you want to work them out; so have i: you are expected and encouraged to work them out independently, while i am forbidden. now, what would you say if somebody told you to sit down quietly in the domestic circle and read to your mother, and keep the wood split and piled, and the hearth swept, and diffuse a sweet perfume of domestic goodness, like the violet amid its leaves, till by and by some woman should come and give you a fortune and position, and develop your affections,--how would you like that? now the case with me is just here, i am, if you choose to say it, so ideal and peculiar in my views that there is no reasonable prospect that i shall ever marry, but i want a position, a house and home of my own, and a sphere of independent action, and everybody thinks this absurd and nobody helps me. as long as mother was alive, there was some consolation in feeling that i was everything to her. poor soul! she had a hard life, and i was her greatest pride and comfort, but now she is gone, there is nothing i do for my father that a good, smart housekeeper could not be hired to do; but you see that would cost money, and the money that i thus save is invested without consulting me: it goes to buy more rocky land, when we have already more than we know what to do with. i sacrifice all my tastes, i stunt my growth mentally and intellectually to this daily tread-mill of house and dairy, and yet i have not a cent that i can call my own, i am a servant working for board and clothes, and because i am a daughter i am expected to do it cheerfully; my only escape from this position is to take a similar one in the family of some man to whom, in addition to the superintendence of his household, i shall owe the personal duties of a wife, and _that_ way out you may know i shall never take. so you are sure to find me ten or twenty years hence a fixture in this neighborhood, spoken of familiarly as 'old miss caroline simmons,' a cross-pious old maid, held up as a warning to contumacious young beauties how they neglect their first gracious offer. 'caroline was a handsome gal in her time,' they'll say, 'but she was too perticklar, and now her day is over and she's left an old maid. she held her head too high and said "no" a little too often; ye see, gals better take their fust chances.'" "after all, cousin," i said, "though we men are all unworthy sinners, yet sometimes you women do yield to much persuasion, and take some one out of pity." "i can't do that; in fact i have tried to do it, and can't. this desperate dullness, and restraint, and utter paralysis of progress that lies like a nightmare on one, is a dreadful temptation; when a man offers you a fortune, which will give you ease, leisure, and power to follow all your tastes and a certain independent stand, such as unmarried women cannot take, it is a great temptation." "but you resisted it!" "well, i was sorely tried; there were things i wanted desperately--a splendid house in boston, pictures, carriages, servants,--oh, i did want them; i wanted the éclat, too, of a rich marriage, but i couldn't; the man was too good a man to be trifled with; if he would only have been a good uncle or grandpa i would have loved him dearly, and been ever so devoted, kept his house beautifully, waited on him like a dutiful daughter, read to him, sung to him, nursed him, been the best friend in the world to him, but his _wife_ i could not be; the very idea of it made the worthy creature perfectly repulsive and hateful to me." "did you ever try to tell your father how you feel?" "of what earthly use? there are people in this world who don't understand each other's vernacular. papa and i could no more discuss any question of the inner life together than if he spoke chickasaw and i spoke french. papa has a respect for my practical efficiency and business talent, and in a certain range of ideas we get on well together. he thinks i have made a great mistake, and that there is a crack in my head somewhere, but he says nothing; his idea is that i have let slip the only chance of my life, but still, as i am a great convenience at home, he is reconciled. i suppose all my friends mourn in secret places over me, and i should have been applauded and commended on all hands if i had done it; but, after all, wouldn't it be a great deal more honest, more womanly, more like a reasonable creature, for me to do just what you are doing, fit myself to make my own way, and make an independence for myself? really it isn't honest to take a position where you know you can't give the main thing asked for, and keep out somebody perhaps who can. my friend has made himself happy with a woman who perfectly adores him, and ought to be much obliged to me that i didn't take him at his word; good, silly soul that he was." "but, after all, the prince may come--the fated knight--caroline." "and deliver the distressed damsel?" she said, laughing. "well, when he comes i'll show him my 'swan's nest among the reeds.' soberly, the fact is, cousin," she said, "you men don't know us women. in the first place they say that there are more of us born than there are of you: and that doesn't happen merely to give you a good number to choose from, and enable every widower to find a supernumerary; it is because it was meant that some women should lead a life different from the domestic one. the womanly nature can be of use otherwhere besides in marriage, in our world. to be sure, for the largest class of women there is nothing like marriage, and i suppose the usages of society are made for the majority, and exceptional people mustn't grumble if they don't find things comfortable; but i am persuaded that there is a work and a way for those who cannot marry." "well, there's uncle jacob has just been preaching to me that no _man_ can be developed fully without a wife," said i. "uncle jacob has matrimony on the brain! it's lucky he isn't a despotic czar or, i believe, he'd marry all the men and women, _wille nille_. i grant that the rare, real marriage, that occurs one time in a hundred, is the true ideal state for man and woman, but it doesn't follow that all and everything that brings man and woman together in marriage is blessed, and i take my stand on st. paul's doctrine that there are both men and women called to some higher state; now, it seems to me that the number of these increases with the advancement of society. marriage requires so close an intimacy that there must be perfect agreement and sympathy; the lower down in the scale of being one is, the fewer distinctive points there are of difference or agreement. it is easier for john and patrick, and bridget and katy, to find comfortable sympathy and agreement than it is for those far up in the scale of life where education has developed a thousand individual tastes and peculiarities. we read in history of the rape of the sabines, and how the women thus carried off at hap-hazard took so kindly to their husbands that they wouldn't be taken back again. such things are only possible in the barbarous stages of society, when characters are very rudimentary and simple. if a similar experiment were made on women of the cultivated classes in our times i fancy some of the men would be killed; i know _one_ would,"--she said with an energetic grasp of her little fist and a flash out of her eyes. "but the ideal marriage is the thing to be sought," said i. "for you, who are born with the right to seek, it _is_ the thing to be sought," she said; "for me, who am born to wait till i am sought by exactly the right one, the chances are so infinitesimal that they ought not to be considered; i may have a fortune left me, and die a millionaire; there is no actual impossibility in _that_ thing's happening--it is a thing that has happened to people who expected it as little as i do--but it would be the height of absurdity to base any calculation upon it and yet all the arrangements that are made about me and for me, are made on the presumption that i am to marry. i went to uncle jacob and tried to get him to take me through a course of medical study, to fit me for a professional life, and it was impossible to get him to take any serious view of it, or to believe what i said; he seemed really to think i was plotting to upset the bible and the constitution, in planning for an independent life." "after all, caroline, you must pardon me if i say that it does not seem possible that a woman like you will be allowed--that is you know--you will--well--find somebody--that is, you will be less exacting by and by." "exacting! why do you use that word, when i don't exact anything? i am not so very ideal in my tastes, i am only _individual_; i must have in myself a certain feeling towards this possible individual, and i don't find it. in one case certainly i asked myself why i didn't? the man was all he should be, i didn't object to him in the slightest degree as a man; but looked on respecting the marriage relation, he was simply intolerable. it must be that i have no vocation to marry, and yet i want what any live woman wants; i want something of my own; i want a life-work worth doing; i want a home of my own; i want money that i can use as i please, that i can give and withhold, and dispose of as absolutely _mine_, and not another's; and the world seems all arranged so as to hinder my getting it. if a man wants to get an education there are colleges with rich foundations, where endowments have been heaped up, and scholarships founded, to enable him to prepare for life at reasonable expense. there are no such for women, and their schools, such as they are, infinitely poorer than those given to men, involve double the expense. if you ask a professional man to teach you privately, he laughs at you, compliments you, and sends you away with the feeling that he considers you a silly, cracked-brain girl, or perhaps an unsuccessful angler in matrimonial waters; he seems to think that there is no use teaching you, because you will throw down all, and run for the first man that beckons to you. that sort of presumption is insufferable to me." "oh, well, carrie, you know those old doctors, they get a certain jog-trot way of arranging human life; and then men that are happily married are in such bliss, and such women-worshipers that they cannot make up their mind that anybody they care about should not enter their paradise." "i do not despise their paradise," said caroline; "i think everybody most happy that can enter it. i am thankful to see that they can. i am delighted and astonished every day at beholding the bliss and satisfaction with which really nice, pretty girls take up with the men they do, and i think it all very delightful; but it's rather hard on me that, since i can't have that, i mustn't have anything else." "after all, caroline, is not your dissatisfaction with the laws of nature?" "not exactly; i won't quarrel with the will that made me a woman, not in my deepest heart. neither being a woman do i want to be unwomanly. i would not, if i could, do as georges sand did, put on men's clothes and live a man's life. anything of that sort in a woman is very repulsive and disgusting to me. at the same time, i do think that the customs and laws of society might be modified so as to give to women who do not choose to marry, independent position and means of securing home and fortune. marriage never ought to be entered on as a means of support. it seems to me that our sex are enough weighted by nature, and that therefore all the laws and institutions of society ought to act in just the contrary direction, and tend to hold us up--to widen our way, to encourage our efforts, because we are the weaker party, and need it most. the world is now arranged for the strong, and i think it ought to be re-arranged for the weak." i paused, and pondered all that she had been saying. "my mother--" i began. "now, please don't quote your mother to me. i know what she would say. if two angels were sent down from heaven, the one to govern an empire, and the other to sweep the streets, they would not wish to change with each other; it is perhaps true. "but then, you see, that is only possible because they are angels. your mother has got up somewhere into that region, but i am down in the low lands, and must do the best i can on my plane. i can conceive of those moral heights where one thing is just as agreeable as another, but i have not yet reached them. besides, you know jacob wrestled with his angel, and was commended for it; and i think we ought to satisfy ourselves by good, strong effort that our lot _is_ of god. if we really cannot help ourselves, we may be resigned to it as his will." "caroline," i said, "if you might have exactly what you want, what would it have been?" "in the first place, then, exactly the same education with my brothers. i hear of colleges now, somewhere far out west, where a brother and sister may go through the same course together; that would have suited me. i am impatient of half-education. i am by nature very thorough and exact. i want to be sure of doing whatever i undertake as well as it can be done. i don't want to be flattered and petted for pretty ignorance. i don't want to be tolerated in any half way, slovenly work of any kind because i am a woman. when i have a thorough general education, i then want to make professional studies. i have a great aptitude for medicine. i have a natural turn for the care of sick, and am now sent for far and near as one of the best advisers and watchers in case of sickness. in that profession i don't doubt i might do great good, be very happy, have a cheerful home of own, and a pleasant life-work; but i don't want to enter it half taught. i want to be able to do as good work as any man's; to be held to the same account, and receive only what i can fairly win." "but, caroline, a man's life includes so much drudgery." "and does not mine? do you suppose that the care of all the house and dairy, the oversight of all my father's home affairs, is no drudgery? much of it is done with my own hands, because no other work than mine can content me. but when you and i went to school together, it was just so: you know i worked out my own problems and made my own investigations. now all that is laid aside; at least, all my efforts are so hap-hazard and painfully incomplete, that it is discouraging to me." "but would not your father consent?" "my father is a man wedded to the past, and set against every change in ideas. i have tried to get his consent to let me go and study, and prepare myself to do something worth doing, but he is perfectly immovable. he says i know more now than half the women, and a great deal too much for my good, and that he cannot spare me. at twenty-one he makes no further claim on any of my brothers; their minority comes to an end at a certain period--mine, never." we were walking in the moonlight up and down under the trees by the house. caroline suddenly stopped. "cousin," she said, "if you succeed; if you get to be what i hope you will--high in the world, a prosperous editor--speak for the dumb, for us whose lives burn themselves out into white ashes in silence and repression." "i _will_," i said. "you will write to me; i shall rejoice to hear of the world through you--and i shall rejoice in your success," she added. "caroline," i said, "do you give up entirely wrestling with the angel?" "no; if i did, i should not keep up. i have hope from year to year that something may happen to bring things to my wishes; that i may obtain a hearing with papa; that his sense of justice may be aroused; that i may get uncle jacob to do something besides recite verses and compliment me; that your mother may speak for me." "you have never told your heart to my mother?" "no; i am very reticent, and these adoring wives have but one recipe for all our troubles." "i think, caroline, that her's is a wide, free nature, that takes views above the ordinary level of things, and that she would understand and might work for you. tell her what you have been telling me." "you may, if you please. i will talk with her afterward perhaps she will do something for me." chapter xi. why don't you take her? the next day i spoke to my uncle jacob of caroline's desire to study, and said that some way ought to be provided for taking her out of her present confined limits. he looked at me with a shrewd, quizzical expression, and said: "providence generally opens a way out for girls as handsome as she is. caroline is a little restless just at present, and so is getting some of these modern strong-minded notions into her head. the fact is, that our region is a little too much out of the world; there is nobody around here, probably, that she would think a suitable match for her. caroline ought to visit, now, and cruise about a little in some of the watering-places next summer, and be seen. there are few girls with a finer air, or more sure to make a sensation. i fancy she would soon find the right sphere under these circumstances." "but does it not occur to you, uncle, that the very idea of going out into the world, seeking to attract and fall in the way of offers of marriage, is one from which such a spirit as caroline's must revolt? is there not something essentially unwomanly in it--something humiliating? i know, myself, that she is too proud, too justly self-respecting, to do it. and why should a superior woman be condemned to smother her whole nature, to bind down all her faculties, and _wait_ for occupation in a sphere which it is unwomanly to seek directly, and unwomanly to accept when offered to her, unless offered by the one of a thousand for whom she can have a certain feeling?" "to tell the truth," said my uncle, looking at me again, "i always thought in my heart that caroline was just the proper person for _you_--just the woman you need--brave, strong, and yet lovely; and i don't see any objection in the way of _your_ taking her." elderly people of a benevolent turn often get a matter-of-fact way of arranging the affairs of their juniors that is sufficiently amusing. my uncle spoke with a confidential air of good faith of my taking caroline as if she had been a lot of land up for sale. seeing my look of blank embarrassment, he went on: "you perhaps think the relationship an objection, but i have my own views on that subject. the only objection to the intermarriage of cousins is one that depends entirely on similarity of race peculiarities. sometimes cousins inheriting each from different races, are physiologically as much of diverse blood as if their parents had not been related, and in that case there isn't the slightest objection to marriage. now, caroline, though her father is your mother's brother, inherits evidently the selwyn blood. she's all her mother, or rather her grandmother, who was a celebrated beauty. caroline is a selwyn, every inch, and you are as free to marry her as any woman you can meet." "you talk as if she were a golden apple, that i had nothing to do but reach forth my hand to pick," said i. "did it never occur to you that i _couldn't_ take her if i were to try?" "well, i don't know," said uncle jacob, looking me over in a manner which indicated a complimentary opinion. "i'm not so sure of that. she's not in the way of seeing many men superior to you." "and suppose that she were that sort of woman who did not wish to marry at all?" said i. my uncle looked quizzical, and said, "i doubt the existence of that species." "it appears to me," said i, "that caroline is by nature so much more fitted for the life of a scholar than that of an ordinary domestic woman, that nothing but a most absorbing and extraordinary amount of personal affection would ever make the routine of domestic life agreeable to her. she is very fastidious and individual in her tastes, too, and the probabilities of her finding the person whom she could love in this manner are very small. now it appears to me that the taking for granted that all women, without respect to taste or temperament, must have no sphere or opening for their faculties except domestic life, is as great an absurdity in our modern civilization as the stupid custom of half-civilized nations, by which every son, no matter what his character, is obliged to confine himself to the trade of his father. i should have felt it a hardship to be condemned always to be a shoemaker if my father had been one." "nay," said my uncle, "the cases are not parallel. the domestic sphere of wife and mother to which woman is called, is divine and god-like; it is sacred, and solemn, and no woman can go higher than that, and anything else to which she devotes herself, falls infinitely below it." "well, then," said i, "let me use another simile. my father was a minister, and i reverence and almost adore the ideal of such a minister, and such a ministry as his was. yet it would be an oppression on me to constrain me to enter into it. i am not adapted to it, or fitted for it. i should make a failure in it, while i might succeed in a lower sphere. now it seems to me that just as no one should enter the ministry as a means of support or worldly position, but wholly from a divine enthusiasm, so no woman should enter marriage for provision, or station, or support; but simply and only from the most purely personal affection. and my theory of life would be, to have society so arranged that independent woman shall have every facility for developing her mind and perfecting herself that independent man has, and every opportunity in society for acquiring and holding property, for securing influence, and position, and fame, just as man can. if laws are to make any difference between the two sexes, they ought to help, and not to hinder the weaker party. then, i think, a man might feel that his wife came to him from the purest and highest kind of love--not driven to him as a refuge, not compelled to take him as a _dernier resort_, not struggling and striving to bring her mind to him, because she _must_ marry somebody,--but choosing him intelligently and freely, because he is _the one_ more to her than all the world beside." "well," said my uncle, regretfully, "of course i don't want to be a matchmaker, but i did hope that you and caroline would be so agreed; and i think now, that if you would try, you might put these notions out of her head, and put yourself in their place." "and what if i had tried, and become certain that it was of no use?" "you don't say she has refused you!" said my uncle, with a start. "no, indeed!" said i. "caroline is one of those women whose whole manner keeps off entirely all approaches of that kind. you may rely upon it, uncle, that while she loves me as frankly and truly and honestly as ever sister loved a brother, yet i am perfectly convinced that it is mainly because i have kept myself clear of any misunderstanding of her noble frankness, or any presumption founded upon it. her love to me is honest comradeship, just such as i might have from a college mate, and there is not the least danger of its sliding into anything else. there may be an endymion to this diana, but it certainly won't be harry henderson." "h'm!" said my uncle. "well, i'm afraid then that she never will marry, and you certainly must grant that a woman unmarried remains forever undeveloped and incomplete." "no more than a man," said i. "a man who never becomes a father is incomplete in one great resemblance to the divine being. yet there have been men with the element of fatherhood more largely developed in celibacy than most are in marriage. there was fénelon, for instance, who was married to humanity. every human being that he met held the place of a child in his heart. no individual experience of fatherhood could make such men as he more fatherly. and in like manner there are women with more natural motherhood than many mothers. such are to be found in the sisterhoods that gather together lost and orphan children, and are their mothers in god. there are natures who do not need the development of marriage; they know instinctively all it can teach them. but they are found only in the rarest and highest regions." "well," said my uncle, "for every kind of existence in creation god has made a mate, and the eagles that live on mountain tops, and fly toward the sun, have still their kindred eagles. now, i think, for my part, that if fénelon had married madame guyon, he would have had a richer and a happier life of it, and she would have gone off into fewer vagaries, and they would have left the church some splendid children, who might, perhaps, have been born without total depravity. you see these perfected specimens owe it to humanity to perpetuate their kind." "well," said i, "let them do it by spiritual fatherhood and motherhood. st. paul speaks often of his converts as those begotten of him--the children of his soul; a thousand-fold more of them there were, than there could have been if he had weighted himself with the care of an individual family. think of the spiritual children of plato and st. augustine!" "this may be all very fine, youngster," said, my uncle, "but very exceptional; yet for all that, i should be sorry to see a fine woman like caroline withering into an old maid." "she certainly will," said i, "unless you and mother stretch forth your hands and give her liberty to seek her destiny in the mode in which nature inclines her. you will never get _her_ to go husband-hunting. the mere idea suggested to her of exhibiting her charms in places of resort, in the vague hope of being chosen, would be sufficient to keep her out of society. she has one of those independent natures to which it is just as necessary for happiness that she should make her own way, and just as irksome to depend on others, as it is for most young men. she has a fine philosophic mind, great powers of acquisition, a curiosity for scientific research; and her desire is to fit herself for a physician,--a sphere perfectly womanly, and in which the motherly nature of woman can be most beautifully developed. now, help her with your knowledge through the introductory stages of study, and use your influence afterward to get her father to give her wider advantages." "well, the fact is," said my uncle, "caroline _is_ a splendid nurse; she has great physical strength and endurance, great courage and presence of mind, and a wonderful power of consoling and comforting sick people. she has borrowed some of my books, and seemed to show a considerable acuteness in her remarks on them. but somehow the idea that a lovely young woman should devote herself to medicine, has seemed to me a great waste, and i never seriously encouraged it." "depend upon it," said i, "caroline is a woman who will become more charming in proportion as she moves more thoroughly and perfectly in the sphere for which nature has adapted her. keep a great, stately, white swan shut up in a barn-yard and she has an ungainly gait, becomes morose, and loses her beautiful feathers; but set her free to glide off into her native element and all is harmonious and beautiful. a superior woman, gifted with personal attractions, who is forgetting herself in the enthusiasm of some high calling or profession, never becomes an old maid; she does not wither; she advances as life goes on, and often keeps her charms longer than the matron exhausted by family cares and motherhood. a charming woman, fully and happily settled and employed in a life-work which is all in all to her, is far more likely to be attractive and to be sought than one who enters the ranks of the fashionable waiters on providence." "well, well," said my uncle, "i'll think of it. the fact is, we fellows of three-score ought to be knocked on the head peaceably. we have the bother of being progressive all through our youth, and by the time we get something settled, up comes your next generation and begins kicking it all over. it's too bad to demolish the house we spend our youth in building just when we want rest, and don't want the fatigue of building over." "for that matter," said i, "the modern ideas of woman's sphere were all thought out and expressed in the greek mythology ages and ages ago. the greeks didn't fit every woman to one type. there was their pretty, plump little aphrodite, and their godlike venus de milo; there was diana--the woman of cold, bright, pure physical organization,--independent, free, vigorous. there was minerva, the impersonation of the purely intellectual woman, who neither wished nor sought marriage. there was juno, the house-keeper and domestic queen, and ceres, the bread-giver and provider. in short, the greeks conceived a variety of spheres of womanhood; but we, in modern times, have reduced all to one--the vine that twines, and the violet hid in the leaves; as if the victoria regia hadn't as good a right to grow as the daisy, and as if there were not female oaks and pines as well as male!" "well, after all," he said, "the prevalent type of sex through nature, is that of strength for man and dependence for woman." "nay," said i; "if you appeal to nature in this matter of sex, there is the female element in grand and powerful forms, as well as in gentle and dependent ones. the she-lion and tiger are more terrible and untamable than the male. the greek mythology was a perfect reflection of nature, and clothed woman with majesty and power as well as with grace; how splendid those descriptions of homer are, where minerva, clad in celestial armor, leads the forces of the greeks to battle! what vigor there is in their impersonation of the diana; the woman strong in herself, scorning physical passion, and terrible to approach in the radiant majesty of her beauty, striking with death the vulgar curiosity that dared to profane her sanctuary! that was the ideal of a woman, self-sufficient, victorious, and capable of a grand, free, proud life of her own, not needing to depend upon man. the greeks never would have imagined such goddesses if they had not seen such women, and our modern civilization is imperfect if it does not provide a place and sphere for such types of womanhood. it takes all sorts of people to make up a world, and there ought to be provision, toleration, and free course for all sorts." "well, youngster," said my uncle, "i think you'll write tolerable leaders for some radical paper, one of these days, but you fellows that want to get into the chariot of the sun and drive it, had better think a little before you set the world on fire. as for your diana, i thank heaven she isn't _my_ wife, and i think it would be pretty cold picking with your minerva." "permit me to say, uncle, that in this 'latter day glory' that is coming, men have got to learn to judge women by some other standard than what would make good wives _for them_, and acknowledge sometimes a femininity existing in and for itself. as there is a possible manhood complete without woman, so there is a possible womanhood complete without man." "that's not the christian idea," said my uncle. "pardon me," i replied, "but i believe it is exactly what st. paul meant when he spoke of the state of celibacy, in devotion to the higher spiritual life, as being a higher state for some men and women than marriage." "you are on dangerous ground there," said my uncle, "you will run right into monastic absurdity." "high grounds are always dangerous grounds," said i, "full of pitfalls and precipices, yet the lord has persisted in making mountains, precipices, pitfalls, and all, and being made they may as well be explored, even at the risk of breaking one's neck. we may as well look every question in the face, and run every inquiry to its ultimate." "go it then," said my uncle, "and joy go with you; the chariot of the sun is the place for a prospect! up with you into it, my boy, that kind of driving is interesting; in fact, when i was young, i should have liked it myself, but if you don't want to kick up as great a bobbery as phæton did, you'd better mind his father's advice: spare the whip, and use the reins with those fiery horses of the future." "but, now," said i, "as the final result of all this, will you help caroline?" "yes, i will; soberly and seriously, i will. i'll drive over there and have a little talk with the girl, as soon as you're gone." "and, uncle," said i, "if you wish to gain influence with her, don't flatter nor compliment; examine her, and appoint her tasks exactly as you would those of a young man in similar circumstances. you will please her best so; she is ready to do work, and make serious studies; she is of a thorough, earnest nature, and will do credit to your teaching." "what a pity she wasn't born a boy," said my uncle, under his breath. "well, let you and me do what we can," said i, "to bring in such a state of things in this world that it shall no longer be said of any woman that it was a pity not to have been born a man." subsequently i spoke to my mother on the same subject and gave her an account of my interview with caroline. i think that my mother, in her own secret heart, had cherished very much the same hopes for me that had been expressed by uncle jacob. caroline was an uncommon person, the star of the little secluded neighborhood, and my mother had seen enough of her to know that, though principally absorbed in the requirements of a very hard domestic sphere she possessed an uncommon character and great capabilities. between her and my mother, however, there had been that silence which often exists between two natures, both sensitive and both reticent, who seem to act as non-conductors to each other. caroline stood a little in awe of the moral and religious force of my mother, and my mother was a little chilled by the keen intellectualism of caroline. there are people that cannot understand each other without an interpreter, and it is not unfrequently easier for men and women to speak confidentially to each other than to their own sex. there are certain aspects in which each sex is sure of more comprehension than from its own. i served, in this case, as the connecting wire of the galvanic battery to pass the spark of sympathetic comprehension between these two natures. my mother was one of those women naturally timid, reticent, retiring, encompassed by physical diffidence as with a mantle--so sensitive that, even in an argument with me, the blood would flush into her cheeks--yet, she had withal that deep, brooding, philosophical nature, which revolves all things silently, and with intensest interest, and comes to perfectly independent conclusions in the irresponsible liberty of solitude. how many times has this great noisy world been looked out on, and silently judged by these quiet thoughtful women of the virgin mary type, who have never uttered their magnificat till they uttered it beyond the veil! my mother seemed to be a woman in whom religious faith had risen to that amount of certainty and security, that she feared no kind of investigation or discussion, and had no prejudices or passionate preferences. thus she read the works of the modern physical philosophical school with a tranquil curiosity, and a patient analysis, apparently enjoying every well-turned expression, and receiving with interest, and weighing with deliberation every record of experiments, and every investigation of facts. her faith in her religion was so perfect that she could afford all these explorations, no more expecting her christian hopes to fall, through any discoveries of modern science, than she expected the sun to cease shining on account of the contradictory theories of astronomers. they who have lived in communion with god have a mode of evidence unknown to philosophers; a knowledge at first hand. in the same manner, the wideness of christian charity gave my mother a most catholic tolerance for natures unlike her own. "i have always believed in the doctrine of vocations," she said, as she listened to me; "it is one of those points where the romish church has shown a superior good sense in discovering and making a place for every kind of nature." "caroline has been afraid to confide in you, lest you should think her struggles to rise above her destiny, and her dissatisfaction with it, irreligious." "far from it," said my mother; "i wholly sympathize with her; people don't realize what it is to starve faculties; they understand physical starvation, but the slow fainting and dying of desires and capabilities for want of anything to feed upon, the withering of powers for want of exercise, is what they do not understand. this is what caroline is condemned to, by the fixed will of her father, and whether any mortal can prevail with him, i don't know." "_you_ might, dear mother, i am sure." "i doubt it; he has a manner that freezes me. i think in his hard, silent, interior way, he loves me, but any argument addressed to him, any direct attempt to change his opinions and purpose only makes him harder." "would it not, then, be her right to choose her course without his consent--and against it?" my mother sat with her blue eyes looking thoughtfully before her. "there is no point," she said slowly, "that requires more careful handling, to discriminate right from wrong, than the limits of self-sacrifice. to a certain extent it is a virtue, and the noblest one, but there are rights of the individual that ought not to be sacrificed; our own happiness has its _just_ place, and i cannot see it to be more right to suffer injustice to one's self than to another, if one can help it. the individual right of self-assertion of child against parent is like the right of revolution in the state, a difficult one to define, yet a real one. it seems to me that one owes it to god, and to the world, to become all that one can be, and to do all that one can do, and that a blind, unreasoning authority that forbids this is to be resisted by a higher law. if i would help _another_ person to escape from an unreasoning tyranny, i ought to do as much for myself." "and don't you think," said i, "that the silent self-abnegation of some fine natures has done harm by increasing in those around them the habits of tyranny and selfishness?" "undoubtedly," said my mother, "many wives make their husbands bad christians, and really stand in the way of their salvation, by a weak, fond submission, and a sort of morbid passion for self-sacrifice--really generous and noble men are often tempted to fatal habits of selfishness in this way." "then would it not be better for caroline to summon courage to tell her father exactly how she feels and views his course and hers?" "he has a habit," said my mother, "of cutting short any communication from his children that doesn't please him by bringing down his hand abruptly and saying, 'no more of that, i don't want to hear it.' with me he accomplishes the same by abruptly leaving the room. the fact is," said my mother, after a pause, "i more than suspect that he set his foot on something really vital to caroline's life, years ago, when she was quite young." "you mean an attachment?" "yes. i had hoped that it had been outgrown or superseded, probably it may be, but i think she is one of the sort in which such an experience often destroys all chance for any other to come after it." "were you told of this?" "i discovered it by an accident, no matter how. i was not told, and i know very little, yet enough to enable me to admire the vigor with which she has made the most of life, the cheerfulness and thoroughness with which she has accepted hard duties. well," she added, after a pause, "i will talk with caroline, and we will see what can be done, and then," she added, "we can carry the matter to a higher one, who understands all, and holds all in his hands." my mother spoke with a bright assured force of this resort, sacred in every emergency. this was the last night of my stay at home, the next day i was to start for my ship to go to europe. i sat up late writing to caroline, and left the letter in my mother's hands. chapter xii. i lay the first stone in my foundation. my story now opens in new york, whither i am come to seek my fortune as a maker and seller of the invisible fabrics of the brain. during my year in europe i had done my best to make myself known at the workshops of different literary periodicals, as a fabricator of these airy wares. i tried all sorts and sizes of articles, from grave to gay, from lively to severe, sowing them broadcast in various papers, without regard to pecuniary profit, and the consequence was that i came back to new york as a writer favorably known, who had made something of a position. to be sure my foot was on the lowest round of the ladder, but it was _on_ the ladder, and i meant to climb. "to climb--to what?" in the answer a man gives to that question lies the whole character of his life-work. if to climb be merely to gain a name, and a competence, a home, a wife, and children, with the means of keeping them in ease and comfort, the question, though beset with difficulties of practical performance, is comparatively simple. but if in addition to this a man is to build himself up after an ideal standard, as carefully as if he were a temple to stand for eternity; if he is to lend a hand to help that great living temple which god is perfecting in human society, the question becomes more complicated still. i fear some of my fair readers are by this time impatient to see something of "my wife." let me tell them for their comfort that at this moment, when i entered new york on a drizzly, lonesome december evening she was there, fair as a star, though i knew it not. the same may be true of you, young man. if you are ever to be married, your wife is probably now in the world; some house holds her, and there are mortal eyes at this hour to whom her lineaments are as familiar as they are unknown to you. so much for the doctrine of predestination. but at this hour that i speak of, though the lady in question was a living and blessed fact, and though she looked on the same stars, and breathed the same air, and trod daily the same sidewalk with myself, i was not, as i perceive, any the wiser or better for it at this particular period of my existence. in fact, though she was in a large part the unperceived spring and motive of all that i did, yet at this particular time i was so busy in adjusting the material foundations of my life that the ideas of marrying and giving in marriage were never less immediately in my thoughts. i came into new york a stranger. i knew nobody personally, and i had no time for visiting. i had been, in the course of my wanderings, in many cities. i had lingered in paris, rome, florence, and naples, and, with the exception of london, i never found a place so difficult to breathe the breath of any ideality, or any enthusiasm, or exaltation of any description, as new york. london, with its ponderous gloom, its sullen, mammoth, aristocratic shadows, seems to benumb, and chill, and freeze the soul; but new york impressed me like a great hot furnace, where twig, spray, and flower wither in a moment, and the little birds flying over, drop down dead. my first impulse in life there was to cover, and conceal, and hide in the deepest and most remote caverns of my heart anything that was sacred, and delicate, and tender, lest the flame should scorch it. balzac in his epigrammatic manner has characterized new york as the city where there is "neither faith, hope, nor charity," and, as he never came here, i suppose he must have taken his impressions from the descriptions of unfortunate compatriots, who have landed strangers and been precipitated into the very rush and whirl of its grinding selfishness, and its desperate don't-care manner of doing things. there is abundance of selfishness and hardness in paris, but it is concealed under a veil of ideality. the city wooes you like a home, it gives you picture-galleries, fountains, gardens, and grottoes, and a good natured lounging population, who have nothing to do but make themselves agreeable. i must confess that my first emotion in making my way about the streets of new york, before i had associated them with any intimacy or acquaintances, was a vague sort of terror, such as one would feel at being jostled among cannibals, who on a reasonable provocation wouldn't hesitate to skin him and pick his bones. there was such a driving, merciless, fierce "take-care-of-yourself, and devil take the hindmost" air, even to the drays and omnibuses, and hackmen, that i had somewhat the feeling of being in an unregulated menagerie, not knowing at what moment some wild beast might spring upon me. as i became more acquainted in the circles centering around the different publications, i felt an acrid, eager, nipping air, in which it appeared to me that everybody had put on defensive armor in regard to his own innermost and most precious feelings, and like the lobster, armed himself with claws to seize and to tear that which came in his way. the rivalry between great literary organs was so intense, and the competition so vivid, that the offering of any flower of fancy or feeling to any of them, seemed about as absurd as if a man should offer a tea-rose bud to the bawling, shouting hackman that shake their whips and scream at the landing. everything in life and death, and time and eternity, whether high as heaven, or deep as hell, seemed to be looked upon only as subject matter for advertisement, and material for running a paper. hand out your wares! advertise them and see what they will bring, seemed to be the only law of production, at whose behest the most delicate webs and traceries of fancy, the most solemn and tender mysteries of feeling, the most awful of religious emotions came to have a trademark and market value! in short, new york is the great business mart, the vanity fair of the world, where everything is pushed by advertising and competition, not even excepting the great moral enterprise of bringing in the millennium; and in the first blast and blare of its busy, noisy publicity and activity, i felt my inner spirits shrink and tremble with dismay. even the religion of this modern century bears the deep impress of the trade-mark, which calendars its financial value. i could not but think what the sweet and retiring galilean, who in the old days was weary and worn with the rush of crowds in simple old palestine, must think if he looks down now, on the way in which his religion is advertised and pushed in modern society. certain it is, if it be the kingdom of god that is coming in our times, it is coming with very great observation, and people have long since forgot the idea that they are not to say "lo, here!" and "lo, there!" since that is precisely what a large part of the world are getting their living by doing. these ideas i must confess bore with great weight on my mind, as i had just parted from my mother, whose last words were that whatever else i did, and whether i gained anything for this life or not, she trusted that i would live an humble, self-denying, christian life. i must own that for the first few weeks of looking into the interior management of literary life in new york, the idea at times often seemed to me really ludicrous. to be humble, yet to seek success in society where it is the first duty to crow from morning till night, and to praise, and vaunt, and glorify, at the top of one's lungs, one's own party, or paper, or magazine, seemed to me sufficiently amusing. however, in conformity with a solemn promise made to my mother, i lost no time in uniting myself with a christian body, of my father's own denomination, and presented a letter from the church in highland to the brethren of the bethany church. and here i will say that for a young man who wants shelter, and nourishment and shade for the development of his fine moral sensibilities, a breakwater to keep the waves of materialism from dashing over and drowning his higher life, there is nothing better, as yet to be found, than a union with some one of the many bodies of differing names and denominations calling themselves christian churches. a christian church, according to the very best definition of the name ever yet given, is a congregation of faithful men in which the pure word of god is preached, and the sacraments duly ministered according to christ's ordinance; and making due allowance for all the ignorance, and prejudice, and mistakes, and even the willful hypocrisy, which, as human nature is, must always exist in such connections, i must say that i think these churches are the best form of social moral culture yet invented, and not to be dispensed with till something more fully answering the purpose has been tested for as long a time as they. these are caravans that cross the hot and weary sands of life, and while there may be wrangling and undesirable administration at times within them, yet, after all, the pilgrim that undertakes alone is but a speck in the wide desert, too often blown away, and withering like the leaf before the wind. the great congregation of the bethany on sabbath days, all standing up together and joining in mighty hymn-singing, though all were outwardly unknown to me, seemed to thrill my heart with a sense of solemn companionship, in my earliest and most sacred religious associations. it was a congregation largely made up of young men, who like myself were strangers, away from home and friends, and whose hearts, touched and warmed by the familiar sounds, seemed to send forth magnetic odors like the interlocked pine trees under the warm sunshine of a june day. i have long felt that he who would work his brain for a living, without premature wear upon the organ, must have sunday placed as a sacred barrier of entire oblivion, so far as possible, of the course of his week-day cares. and what oblivion can be more complete than to rise on the wings of religious ordinance into the region of those diviner faculties by which man recognizes his heirship to all that is in god? in like manner i found an oasis in the hot and hurried course of my week-day life, by dropping in to the weekly prayer-meeting. the large, bright, pleasant room seemed so social and home-like, the rows of cheerful, well-dressed, thoughtful people, seemed, even before i knew one of them, fatherly, motherly, brotherly, and sisterly, as they joined with the piano in familiar hymn-singing, while the pastor sat among them as a father in his family, and easy social conversation went on with regard to the various methods and aspects of the practical religious life. to me, a stranger, and naturally shy and undemonstrative, this socialism was in the highest degree warming and inspiring. i do not mean to set the praise of this church above that of a hundred others, with which i might have become connected, but i will say that here i met the types of some of those good old-fashioned christians that hawthorne celebrates in his "celestial railroad," under the name of messrs. "stick to the right," and "foot it to heaven," men better known among the poor and afflicted than in fashionable or literary circles, men who, without troubling their heads about much speculation, are footing it to heaven on the old, time-worn, narrow way, and carrying with them as many as they can induce to go. having thus provided against being drawn down and utterly swamped in the bread-and-subsistence struggle that was before me, i sought to gain a position in connection with some paper in new york. i had offers under consideration from several of them. the conductors of "_the moral spouting horn_" had conversed with me touching their projects, and i had also been furnishing letters for the "_great democracy_," and one of the proprietors had invited me to a private dinner, i suppose for the purpose of looking me over and trying my paces before he concluded to purchase me. mr. goldstick was a florid, middle-aged man, with a slightly bald head, an easy portliness of manner, and that air of comfortable patronage which men who are up in the world sometimes carry towards young aspirants. it was his policy and his way to put himself at once on a footing of equality with them, easy, jolly, and free; justly thinking that thereby he gained a more unguarded insight into the inner citadel of their nature, and could see in the easy play of their faculties just about how much they could be made to answer his purposes. i had a chatty, merry dinner of it, and found all my native shyness melting away under his charming affability. in fact, during the latter part of the time, i almost felt that i could have told him anything that i could have told my own mother. what did we not talk about that is of interest in these stirring times? philosophy, history, science, religion, life, death, and immortality--all received the most graceful off-hand treatment, and were discussed with a singular unanimity of sentiment--that unanimity which always takes place when the partner in a discussion has the controlling purpose to be of the same mind as yourself. when, under the warm and sunny air of this genial nature, i had fully expanded, and confidence was in full blossom, came the immediate business conversation in relation to the paper. "i am rejoiced," said mr. goldstick, "in these days of skepticism to come across a young man with real religious convictions. i am not, i regret to say, a religious professor myself, but i appreciate it, mr. henderson, as the element most wanting in our modern life." here mr. goldstick sighed and rolled up his eyes, and took a glass of wine. i felt encouraged in this sympathetic atmosphere to unfold to him my somewhat idealized views of what might be accomplished by the daily press, by editors as truly under moral vows and consecrations, as the clergymen who ministered at the altar. he caught the idea from me with enthusiasm, and went on to expand it with a vigor and richness of imagery, and to illustrate it with a profusion of incidents, which left me far behind him, gazing after him with reverential admiration. "mr. henderson," said he, "_the great democracy_ is not primarily a money-making enterprise--it is a great moral engine; it is for the great american people, and it contemplates results which look to the complete regeneration of society." i ventured here to remark that the same object had been stated to me by the _moral spouting horn_. his countenance assumed at once an expression of intense disgust. "is it possible," he said, "that the charlatan has been trying to get hold of you? my dear fellow," he added, drawing near to me with a confidential air, "of course i would be the last man to infringe on the courtesies due to my brethren of the press, and you must be aware that our present conversation is to be considered strictly confidential." i assured him with fervor that i should consider it so. "well, then," he said, "between ourselves, i may say that _the moral spouting horn_ is a humbug. on mature reflection," he added, "i don't know but duty requires me to go farther, and say, in the strictest confidence, you understand, that i consider _the moral spouting horn_ a swindle." here it occurred to me that the same communication had been made in equal confidence, by the proprietor of _the moral spouting horn_ in relation to _the great democracy_. but, much as i was warmed into confidence by the genial atmosphere of my friend, i had still enough prudence to forbear making this statement. "now," said he, "my young friend, in devoting yourself to the service of _the great democracy_ you may consider yourself as serving the cause of god and mankind in ways that no clergyman has an equal chance of doing. beside the press, sir, the pulpit is effete. it is, so to speak," he added, with a sweep of the right hand, "nowhere. of course the responsibilities of conducting such an organ are tremendous, tremendous," he added, reflectively, as i looked at him with awe; "and that is why i require in my writers, above all things, the clearest and firmest moral convictions. sir, it is a critical period in our history; there is an amount of corruption in this nation that threatens its dissolution; the church and the pulpit have proved entirely inadequate to stem it. it rests with the press." there was a solemn pause, in which nothing was heard but the clink of the decanter on the glass, as he poured out another glass of wine. "it is a great responsibility," i remarked, with a sigh. "enormous!" he added, with almost a groan, eyeing me sternly. "consider," he went on, "the evils of the tremendously corrupted literature which is now being poured upon the community. sir, we are fast drifting to destruction, it is a solemn fact. the public mind must be aroused and strengthened to resist; they must be taught to discriminate; there must be a just standard of moral criticism no less than of intellectual, and that must be attended to in our paper." i was delighted to find his views in such accordance with my own, and assured him i should be only too happy to do what i could to forward them. "we have been charmed and delighted," he said, "with your contributions hitherto; they have a high moral tone and have been deservedly popular, and it is our desire to secure you as a stated contributor in a semi-editorial capacity, looking towards future developments. we wish that it were in our power to pay a more liberal sum than we can offer, but you must be aware, mr. henderson, that great moral enterprises must always depend, in a certain degree, on the element of self-sacrifice in its promoters." i reflected, at this moment, on my father's life, and assented with enthusiasm--remarking that "if i could only get enough to furnish me with the necessaries of life i should be delighted to go into the glorious work with him, and give to it the whole enthusiasm of my soul." "you have the right spirit, young man," he said. "it is delightful to witness this freshness of moral feeling." and thus, before our interview was closed, i had signed a contract of service to mr. goldstick, at very moderate wages, but my heart was filled with exulting joy at the idea of the possibilities of the situation. i was young, and ardent; i did _not_, at this moment, want to make money so much as to make myself felt in the great world. it was the very spirit of phæton; i wanted to have a hand on the reins, and a touch of the whip, and guide the fiery horses of progress. i had written stories, and sung songs, but i was not quite content with those; i wanted the anonymous pulpit of the editor to speak in, the opportunity of being the daily invisible companion and counselor of thousands about their daily paths. the offer of mr. goldstick, as i understood it, looked that way, and i resolved to deserve so well of him by unlimited devotion to the interests of the paper, that he should open my way before me. chapter xiii. bachelor comrades. i soon became well acquainted with my collaborators on the paper. it was a pleasant surprise to be greeted in the foreground by the familiar face of jim fellows, my old college class-mate. jim was an agreeable creature, born with a decided genius for gossip. he had in perfection the faculty which phrenologists call individuality. he was statistical in the very marrow of his bones, apparently imbibing all the external facts of every person and everything around him, by a kind of rapid instinct. in college, jim always knew all about every student; he knew all about everybody in the little town where the college was situated, their name, history, character, business, their front door and their back door affairs. no birth, marriage, or death ever took jim by surprise; he always knew all about it long ago. now, as a newspaper is a gossip market on a large scale, this species of talent often goes farther in our modern literary life than the deepest reflection or the highest culture. jim was the best-natured fellow breathing; it was impossible to ruffle or disturb the easy, rattling, chattering flow of his animal spirits. he was like a frenchman in his power of bright, airy adaptation to circumstances, and determination and ability to make the most of them. "how lucky!" he said, the morning i first shook hands with him at the office of the _great democracy_; "you are just on the minute; the very lodging you want has been vacated this morning by old styles; sunny room--south windows--close by here--water, gas, and so on, all correct; and, best of all, _me_ for your opposite neighbor." i went round with him, looked, approved, and was settled at once, jim helping me with all the good-natured handiness and activity of old college days. we had a rattling, gay morning, plunging round into auction-rooms, bargaining for second-hand furniture, and with so much zeal did we drive our enterprise, seconded by the co-labors of a whom jim patronized, that by night i found myself actually settled in a home of my own, making tea in jim's patent bachelor tea-kettle, and talking over his and my affairs with the freedom of old cronies. jim made no scruple in inquiring in the most direct manner as to the terms of my agreement with mr. goldstick, and opened the subject succinctly, as follows: "now, my son, you must let your old grandfather advise you a little about your temporalities. in the first place; what's old soapy going to give you?" "if you mean mr. goldstick," said i---- "yes," said he, "call him 'soapy' for short. did he come down handsomely on the terms?" "his offers were not as large as i should have liked; but then, as he said, this paper is not a money-making affair, but a moral enterprise, and i am willing to work for less." "moral grandmother!" said jim, in a tone of unlimited disgust. "he be--choked, as it were. why, harry henderson, are your eye-teeth in such a retrograde state as that? why, this paper is a fortune to that man; he lives in a palace, owns a picture gallery, and rolls about in his own carriage." "i understood him," said i, "that the paper was not immediately profitable in a pecuniary point of view." "soapy calls everything unprofitable that does not yield him fifty per cent. on the money invested. talk of moral enterprise! what did he engage you for?" i stated the terms. "for how long?" "for one year." "well, the best you can do is to work it out now. never make another bargain without asking your grandfather. why, he pays me just double; and you know, harry, i am nothing at all of a writer compared to you. but then, to be sure, i fill a place you've really no talent for." "what is that?" "general professor of humbug," said jim. "no sort of business gets on in this world without that, and i'm a real genius in that line. i made old soapy come down, by threatening to 'rat,' and go to the _spouting horn_, and they couldn't afford to let me do that. you see, i've been up their back stairs, and know all their little family secrets. the _spouting horn_ would give their eye-teeth for me. it's too funny," he said, throwing himself back and laughing. "are these papers rivals?" said i. "well, i should 'rayther' think they were," said he, eyeing me with an air of superiority amounting almost to contempt. "why, man, the thing that i'm particularly valuable for is, that i always know just what will plague the _spouting horn_ folks the most. i know precisely where to stick a pin or a needle into them; and one great object of our paper is to show that the _spouting horn_ is always in the wrong. no matter what topic is uppermost, i attend to that, and get off something on them. for you see, they are popular, and make money like thunder, and, of course, that isn't to be allowed. now," he added, pointing with his thumb upward, "overhead, there is really our best fellow--bolton. bolton is said to be the best writer of english in our day; he's an a no. , and no mistake; tremendously educated, and all that, and he knows exactly to a shaving what's what everywhere; he's a gentleman, too; we call him the dominie. well, bolton writes the great leaders, and fires off on all the awful and solemn topics, and lays off the politics of europe and the world generally. when there's a row over there in europe, bolton is magnificent on editorials. you see, he has the run of all the rows they have had there, and every bobbery that has been kicked up since the christian era. he'll tell you what the french did in this, and the germans in that, and of course he prophesies splendidly on what's to turn up next." "i suppose they give him large pay," said i. "well, you see, bolton's a quiet fellow and a gentleman--one that hates to jaw--and is modest, and so they keep him along steady on about half what _i_ would get out of them if i were in his skin. bolton is perfectly satisfied. if i were he, i shouldn't be, you see. i say, harry, i know you'd like him. let me bring him down and introduce him," and before i could either consent or refuse, jim rattled up stairs, and i heard him in an earnest, persuasive treaty, and soon he came down with his captive. i saw a man of thirty-three or thereabouts, tall, well formed, with bright, dark eyes, strongly-marked features, a finely-turned head, and closely-cropped black hair. he had what i should call _presence_--something that impressed me, as he entered the room, with the idea of a superior kind of individuality, though he was simple in his manners, with a slight air of shyness and constraint. the blood flushed in his cheeks as he was introduced to me, and there was a tremulous motion about his finely-cut lips, betokening suppressed sensitiveness. the first sound of his voice, as he spoke, struck on my ear agreeably, like the tones of a fine instrument, and, reticent and retiring as he seemed, i felt myself singularly attracted toward him. what impressed me most, as he joined in the conversation with my rattling, free and easy, good-natured neighbor, was an air of patient, amused tolerance. he struck me as a man who had made up his mind to expect nothing and ask nothing of life, and who was sitting it out patiently, as one sits out a dull play at the theater. he was disappointed with nobody, and angry with nobody, while he seemed to have no confidence in anybody. with all this apparent reserve, he was simply and frankly cordial to me, as a new-comer and a fellow-worker on the same paper. "mr. henderson," he said, "i shall be glad to extend to you the hospitalities of my den, such as they are. if i can at any time render you any assistance, don't hesitate to use me. perhaps you would like to walk up and look at my books? i shall be only too happy to put them at your disposal." we went up into a little attic room whose walls were literally lined with books on all sides, only allowing space for the two southerly windows which overlooked the city. "i like to be high in the world, you see," he said, with a smile. the room was not a large one, and the center was occupied by a large table, covered with books and papers. a cheerful coal-fire was burning in the little grate, a large leather arm-chair stood before it, and, with one or two other chairs, completed the furniture of the apartment. a small, lighted closet, whose door stood open on the room, displayed a pallet bed of monastic simplicity. there were two occupants of the apartment who seemed established there by right of possession. a large maltese cat, with great, golden eyes, like two full moons, sat gravely looking into the fire, in one corner, and a very plebeian, scrubby mongrel, who appeared to have known the hard side of life in former days, was dozing in the other. apparently, these _genii loci_ were so strong in their sense of possession that our entrance gave them no disturbance. the dog unclosed his eyes with a sleepy wink as we came in, and then shut them again, dreamily, as satisfied that all was right. bolton invited us to sit down, and did the honors of his room with a quiet elegance, as if it had been a palace instead of an attic. as soon as we were seated, the cat sprang familiarly on the table and sat down cosily by bolton, rubbing her head against his coat-sleeve. "let me introduce you to my wife," said bolton, stroking her head. "eh, jenny, what now?" he added, as she seized his hands playfully in her teeth and claws. "you see, she has the connubial weapons," he said, "and insists on being treated with attention; but she's capital company. i read all my articles to her, and she never makes an unjust criticism." puss soon stepped from her perch on the table and ensconced herself in his lap, while i went round examining his books. the library showed varied and curious tastes. the books were almost all rare. "i have always made a rule," he said, "never to buy a book that i could borrow." i was amused, in the course of the conversation, at the relations which apparently existed between him and jim fellows, which appeared to me to be very like what might be supposed to exist between a philosopher and a lively pet squirrel--it was the perfection of quiet, amused tolerance. jim seemed to be not in the slightest degree under constraint in his presence, and rattled on with a free and easy slang familiarity, precisely as he had done with me. "what do you think old soapy has engaged hal for?" he said. "why, he only offers him--" here followed the statement of terms. i was annoyed at this matter-of-fact way of handling my private affairs, but on meeting the eyes of my new friend i discerned a glance of quiet humor which re-assured me. he seemed to regard jim only as another form of the inevitable. "don't you think it is a confounded take-in?" said jim. "of course," said mr. bolton, with a smile, "but he will survive it. the place is only one of the stepping-stones. meanwhile," he said, "i think mr. henderson can find other markets for his literary wares, and more profitable ones. i think," he added, while the blood again rose in his cheeks, "that i have some influence in certain literary quarters, and i shall be happy to do all that i can to secure to him that which he ought to receive for such careful work as this. your labor on the paper will not by any means take up your whole power or time." "well," said jim, "the fact is the same all the world over--the people that grow a thing are those that get the least for it. it isn't your farmers, that work early and late, that get rich by what they raise out of the earth, it's the middlemen and the hucksters. and just so it is in literature; and the better a fellow writes, and the more work he puts into it, the less he gets paid for it. why, now, look at me," he said, perching himself astride the arm of a chair, "i'm a genuine literary humbug, but i'll bet you i'll make more money than either of you, because, you see, i've no modesty and no conscience. confound it all, those are luxuries that a poor fellow can't afford to keep. i'm a sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal, but i'm just the sort of fellow the world wants, and, hang it, they shall pay me for being that sort of fellow. i mean to make it shell out, and you see if i don't. i'll bet you, now, that i'd write a book that you wouldn't, either of you, be hired to write, and sell one hundred thousand copies of it, and put the money in my pocket, marry the handsomest, richest, and best educated girl in new york, while you are trudging on, doing good, careful work, as you call it." "remember us in your will," said i. "oh, yes, i will," he said. "i'll found an asylum for decayed authors of merit--a sort of literary 'hotel des invalides.'" we had a hearty laugh over this idea, and, on the whole, our evening passed off very merrily. when i shook hands with bolton for the night, it was with a silent conviction of an interior affinity between us. it is a charming thing in one's rambles to come across a tree, or a flower, or a fine bit of landscape that one can think of afterward, and feel richer for their its in the world. but it is more when one is in a strange place, to come across a man that you feel thoroughly persuaded is, somehow or other, morally and intellectually worth exploring. our lives tend to become so hopelessly commonplace, and the human beings we meet are generally so much one just like another, that the possibility of a new and peculiar style of character in an acquaintance is a most enlivening one. there was something about bolton both stimulating and winning, and i lay down less a stranger that night than i had been since i came to new york. chapter xiv. haps and mishaps. i entered upon my new duties with enthusiasm, and produced some editorials, for which i was complimented by mr. goldstick. "that's the kind of thing wanted!" he said; "a firm, moral tone, and steady religious convictions; that pleases the old standards." emboldened by this i proceeded to attack a specific abuse in new york administration, which had struck me as needing to be at once righted. if ever a moral trumpet ought to have its voice, it was on this subject. i read my article to bolton; in fact i had gradually fallen into the habit of referring myself to his judgment. "it is all perfectly true," he remarked, when i had finished, while he leaned back in his chair and stroked his cat, "but they never will put _that_ into the paper, in the world." "why!" said i, "if ever there was an abuse that required exposing, it is this." "precisely!" he replied. "and what is the use," i went on, "of general moral preaching that is never applied to any particular case?" "the use," he replied calmly, "is that that kind of preaching pleases everybody, and increases subscribers, while the other kind makes enemies, and decreases them." "and you really think that they won't put this article in?" said i. "i'm certain they won't," he replied. "the fact is this paper is bought up on the other side. messrs. goldstick and co. have intimate connection with messrs. bunkam and chaffem, who are part and parcel of this very affair." i opened my mouth with astonishment. "then goldstick is a hypocrite," i said. "not consciously," he answered, calmly. "why!" said i, "you would have thought by the way he talked to me that he had nothing so much at heart as the moral progress of society, and was ready to sacrifice everything to it." "well," said bolton, quietly, "did you never see a woman who thought she was handsome, when she was not? did you never see a man who thought he was witty, when he was only scurrilous and impudent? did you never see people who flattered themselves they were frank, because they were obtuse and impertinent? and cannot you imagine that a man may think himself a philanthropist, when he is only a worshiper of the golden calf? that same calf," he continued, stroking his cat till she purred aloud, "has the largest church of any on earth." "well," said i, "at any rate i'll hand it in." "you can do so," he replied, "and that will be the last you will hear of it. you see, i've been this way before you, and i have learned to save myself time and trouble on these subjects." the result was precisely as bolton predicted. "we must be a little careful, my young friend," said mr. goldstick, "how we handle specific matters of this kind; they have extended relations that a young man cannot be expected to appreciate, and i would advise you to confine yourself to abstract moral principles; keep up a high moral standard, sir, and things will come right of themselves. now, sir, if you could expose the corruptions in england it would have an admirable moral effect, and our general line of policy now is down on england." a day or two after, however, i fell into serious disgrace. a part of my duties consisted in reviewing the current literature of the day; bolton, jim, and i, took that department among us, and i soon learned to sympathize with the tea-tasters, who are said to ruin their digestion by an incessant tasting of the different qualities of tea. the enormous quantity and variety of magazines and books that i had to "sample" in a few days brought me into such a state of mental dyspepsia, that i began to wish every book in the red sea. i really was brought to consider the usual pleas and tone of book notices in america to be evidence of a high degree of christian forbearance. in looking over my share, however, i fell upon a novel of the modern, hot, sensuous school, in which glowing coloring and a sort of religious sentimentalism were thrown around actions and principles which tended directly to the dissolution of society. here was exactly the opportunity to stem that tide of corruption against which mr. goldstick so solemnly had warned me. i made the analysis of the book a text for exposing the whole class of principles and practices it inculcated, and uttering my warning against corrupt literature; i sent it to the paper, and in it went. a day or two after mr. goldstick came into the office in great disorder, with an open letter in his hand. "what's all this?" he said; "here's sillery and peacham, blowing us up for being down on their books, and threatening to take away their advertising from us." nobody seemed to know anything about it, till finally the matter was traced back to me. "it was a corrupt book, mr. goldstick," said i, with firmness, "and the very object you stated to me was to establish a just moral criticism." "go to thunder! young man," said mr. goldstick, in a tone i had never heard before. "have you no discrimination? are you going to blow us up? the _great democracy_, sir, is a great moral engine, and the advertising of this publishing house gives thousands of dollars yearly towards its support. it's an understood thing that sillery and peacham's books are to be treated handsomely." "i say, captain," said jim, who came up behind us at this time, "let me manage this matter; i'll straighten it out; sillery and peacham know me, and i'll fix it with them." "come! hal, my boy!" he said, hooking me by the arm, and leading me out. we walked to our lodgings together. i was gloriously indignant all the way, but jim laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks. "you sweet babe of eden," said he, as we entered my room, "do get quiet! i'll sit right down and write a letter from the boston correspondent on that book, saying that your article has created a most immense sensation in the literary circles of boston, in regard to its moral character, and exhort everybody to rush to the book-store and see for themselves. now, 'hush, my dear, lie still and slumber,' while i do it." "why, do you mean to go to boston?" said i. "only in spirit, my dear. bless you! did you suppose that the boston correspondents, or any other correspondents, are there, or anywhere else in fact, that they profess to be? i told you that i was the professor of humbug. this little affair lies strictly in my department." "jim!" said i, solemnly, "i don't want to be in such a network of chicanery." "oh, come, hal, nobody else wants to be just where they are, and after all, it's none of your business; you and bolton are great moral forty-pounders. when we get you pointed the right way for the paper you can roar and fire away at your leisure, and the moral effect will be prodigious. i'm your flying-artillery--all over the field everywhere, pop, and off again; and what is it to you what i do? now you see, hal, you must just have some general lines about your work; the fact is, i ought to have told you before. there's sillery and peacham's books have got to be put straight along: you see there is no mistake about that; and when you and bolton find one you can't praise honestly, turn it over to me. then, again, there's burill and bangem's books have got to be put down. they had a row with us last year, and turned over their advertising to the _spouting horn_. now, if you happen to find a bad novel among _their_ books show it up, cut into it without mercy; it will give you just as good a chance to preach, with your muzzle pointed the right way, and do exactly as much good. you see there's everything with you fellows in getting you pointed right." "but," said i, "jim, this course is utterly subversive of all just criticism. it makes book notices good for nothing." "well, they are not good for much," said jim reflectively. "i sometimes pity a poor devil whose first book has been all cut up, just because goldstick's had a row with his publishers. but then there's this comfort--what we run down, the _spouting horn_ will run up, so it is about as broad as it is long. then there's our magazines. we're in with the _rocky mountains_ now--we've been out with them for a year or two and cut up all their articles. now you see we are in, and the rule is, to begin at the beginning and praise them all straight through, so you'll have plain sailing there. then there's the _pacific_--you are to pick on that all you can. i think you had better leave that to me. i have a talent for saying little provoking things that gall people, and that they can't answer. the fact is, the _pacific_ has got to come down a little, and come to our terms, before we are civil to it." "jim fellows"--i began, "come, come, go and let off to bolton, if you have got anything more to say;" he added, "i want to write my boston letter. you see, hal, i shall bring you out with flying colors, and get a better sale for the book than if you hadn't written." "jim," said i, "i'm going to get out of this paper." "and pray, my dear sir, what will you get into?" "i'll get into one of the religious papers." jim upon this leaned back, kicked up his heels, and laughed aloud. "i could help you there," he said. "i do the literary for three religious newspapers now. these solemn old dons are so busy about their tweedle-dums and tweedle-dees of justification and election, baptism and church government, that they don't know anything about current literature, and get us fellows to write their book notices. i rather think that they'd stare if they should read some of the books that we puff up. i tell you, christy's minstrels are nothing to it. think of it, hal,--the solemn _holy sentinel_ with a laudatory criticism of dante rosetti's "jenny" in it--and the _trumpet of zion_ with a commendatory notice of georges sand's novels." here jim laughed with a fresh impulse. "you see the dear, good souls are altogether too pious to know anything about it, and so we liberalize the papers, and the publishers make us a little consideration for getting their books started in religious circles." "well, jim," said i, "i want to just ask you, do you think this sort of thing is right?" "bless your soul now!" said jim, "if you are going to begin with that, here in new york, where are you going to end--'where do you 'spect to die when you go to?'--as the old darkey said." "well," said i, "would you like to have dante rosetti's "_jenny_" put into the hands of _your_ sister or younger brother, recommended by a religious newspaper?" "well, to tell the truth, hal, i didn't write those notices. bill jones wrote them. bill's up to anything. you know every person in england and this country have praised dante rosetti, and particularly "jenny," and religious papers may as well be out of the world as out of fashion,--and so mother she bought a copy for a christmas present to sister nell. and i tell you if i didn't get a going over about it!" "i showed her the article in the _holy sentinel_, but it didn't do a bit of good. she made me promise i wouldn't write it up, and i never have. she said it was a shame. you see mother isn't up to the talk about high art, that's got up now a days about dante rosetti and swinburne, and those. i thought myself that "jenny" was coming it pretty strong,--and honest now, i never could see the sense in it. but then you see i am not artistic. if a fellow should tell a story of that kind to my sister, i should horsewhip him, and kick him down the front steps. but he dresses it up in poetry, and it lies around on pious people's tables, and nobody dares to say a word because it's "artistic." people are so afraid they shall not be supposed to understand what high art is, that they'll knuckle down under most anything. that's the kind of world we live in. well! i didn't make the world and i don't govern it. but the world owes me a living, and hang it! it shall give me one. so you go up to bolton, and leave me to do my work; i've got to write columns, and then tramp out to that confounded water-color exhibition, because i promised snooks a puff,--i shan't get to bed till twelve or one. i tell you it's steep on a fellow now." i went up to bolton, boiling, and bubbling and seething, with the spirit of sixteen reformers in my veins. the scene, as i opened the door, was sufficiently tranquilizing. bolton sat reading by the side of his shaded study-lamp, with his cat asleep in his lap; the ill-favored dog, before mentioned, was planted by his side, with his nose upturned, surveying him with a fullness of doggish adoration and complacency, which made his rubbishly shop-worn figure quite an affecting item in the picture. crouched down on the floor in the corner, was a ragged, unkempt, freckled-faced little boy, busy doing a sum on a slate. "ah! old fellow," he said, as he looked up and saw me. "come in; there, there, snubby," he said to the dog, pushing him gently into his corner; "let the gentleman sit down. you see you find me surrounded by my family," he said. "wait one minute," he added, turning to the boy in the corner, and taking his slate out of his hand, and running over the sum. "all right, bill. now here's your book." he took a volume of the _arabian nights_ from the table, and handed it to him, and bill settled himself on the floor, and was soon lost in "sinbad the sailor." he watched him a minute or two, and then looked round at me, with a smile. "i wouldn't be afraid to bet that you might shout in that fellow's ear and he wouldn't hear you, now he is fairly in upon that book. isn't it worth while to be able to give such perfect bliss in this world at so small an expense? i've lost the power of reading the _arabian nights_, but i comfort my self in seeing this chap." "who is he?" said i. "oh, he's my washerwoman's boy. poor fellow. he has hard times. i've set him up in selling newspapers. you see, i try now and then to pick up one grain out of the heap of misery, and put it into the heap of happiness, as john newton said." i was still bubbling with the unrest of my spirit, and finally overflowed upon him with the whole history of my day's misadventures, and all the troubled thoughts and burning indignations that i had with reference to it. "my dear fellow," he said, "take it easy. we have to accept this world as a _fait accompli_. it takes some time for us to learn how little we can do to help or to hinder. you cannot take a step in the business of life anywhere without meeting just this kind of thing; and one part of the science of living is to learn just what our own responsibility is, and to let other people's alone. the fact is," he said, "the growth of current literature in our times has been so sudden and so enormous that things are in a sort of revolutionary state with regard to it, in which it is very difficult to ascertain the exact right. for example, i am connected with a paper which is simply and purely, at bottom, a financial speculation; its owners must make money. now, they are not bad men as the world goes--they are well-meaning men--amiable, patriotic, philanthropic--some of them are religious; they, all of them, would rather virtue would prevail than vice, and good than evil; they, all of them, would desire every kind of abuse to be reformed, and every good cause to be forwarded, that could be forwarded without a sacrifice of their main object. as for me, i am not a holder or proprietor. i am simply a servant engaged by these people for a certain sum. if i should sell myself to say what i do not think, or to praise what i consider harmful, to propitiate their favor, i should be a dastard. they understand perfectly that i never do it, and they never ask me to. meanwhile, they employ persons who will do these things. i am not responsible for it any more than i am for anything else which goes on in the city of new york. i am allowed my choice among notices, and i never write them without saying, to the best of my ability, the exact truth, whether literary or in a moral point of view. now, that is just my stand, and if it satisfies you, you can take the same." "but," said i, "it makes me indignant, to have goldstick talk to me as he did about a great self-denying moral enterprise--why, that man must know he's a liar." "do you think so?" said he. "i don't imagine he does. goldstick has considerable sentiment. it's quite easy to get him excited on moral subjects, and he dearly loves to hear himself talk--he is sincerely interested in a good number of moral reforms, so long as they cost him nothing; and when a man is working his good faculties, he is generally delighted with himself, and it is the most natural thing in the world, to think that there is more of him than there is. i am often put in mind of that enthusiastic young ruler that came to the saviour, who had kept all the commandments, and seemed determined to be on the high road to saintship. the saviour just touched him on this financial question, and he wilted in a minute. i consider that to be still the test question, and there are a good many young rulers like him, who _don't_ keep all the commandments." "your way of talking," said i, "seems to do away with all moral indignation." he smiled, and then looked sadly into the fire--"god help us all," he said. "we are all struggling in the water together and pulling one another under--our best virtues are such a miserable muddle--and then--there's the beam in our own eye." there was a depth of pathos in his dark eyes as he spoke, and suddenly a smile flashed over his features, and looking around, he said-- "so, what do you think of that, my cat, and what do you think of that, my dog." chapter xv. i meet a vision. "i say, hal, do you want to get acquainted with any of the p. g.'s here in new york? if you do, i can put you on the track." "p. g.'s?" said i, innocently. "yes; you know that's what plato calls pretty girls. i don't believe you remember your greek. i'm going out this evening where there's a lot of 'em--splendid house on fifth avenue--lots of tin--girls gracious. don't know which of 'em i shall take yet. don't you want to go with me and see?" jim stood at the looking-glass brushing his hair and arranging his necktie. "jim fellows, you are a coxcomb," said i. "i don't know why i shouldn't be," said he. "the girls fairly throw themselves at one's head. they are up to all that sort of thing. besides, i'm on the lookout for my fortune, and it all comes in the way of business. come, now, don't sit there writing all the evening. come out, and let me show you new york by gaslight." "no," said i; "i've got to finish up this article for the _milky way_. the fact is, a fellow must be industrious to make anything, and my time for seeing girls isn't come yet. i must have something to support a wife on before i look round in that direction." "the idea, harry, of a good-looking fellow like you, not making the most of his advantages! why, there are nice girls in this city that could help you up faster than all the writing you can do these ten years. and you sitting, moiling and toiling, when you ought to be making some lovely woman happy!" "i shall never marry for money, jim, you may depend upon that." "bah, bah, black sheep," said jim. "who is talking about marrying for money? a fine girl is none the worse for fifty thousand dollars, and i can give you a list of twenty that you can go round among until you fall in love, and not come amiss anywhere, if it's falling in love that you want to do." "oh, come, jim," said i, "do finish your toilet and be off with yourself if you are going. i don't blame a _woman_ who marries for money, since the whole world has always agreed to shut her out of any other way of gaining an independence. but for a man, with every other avenue open to him, to mouse about for a rich wife, i think is too dastardly for anything." "that would make a fine point for a paragraph," said jim, turning round to me, with perfect good humor. "so i advise you to save it for the moral part of the paper. you see, if you waste too much of that sort of thing on me, your mill may run low. it's a deuced hard thing to keep the moral agoing the whole year, you'll find." "well," said i, "i am going to try to make a home for a wife, by good, thorough work, done just as work ought to be done; and i have no time to waste on society in the meanwhile." "and when you are ready for her," said jim, "i suppose you expect to receive her per 'divine providence' express, ticketed and labeled, and expenses paid. or, may be she'll be brought to you some time by genii, as the princess of china was brought to the prince of tartary, when he was asleep. i used to read about that in the arabian tales." i give this little passage of my conversation with jim, because it is a pretty good illustration of the axiom, that "it is not in man that walketh to direct his steps." when we have announced any settled purpose or sublime intention, in regard to our future course of life, it seems to be the delight of fortune to throw us directly into circumstances in which we shall be tempted to do what we have just declared we never will do, and the fortunes of our lives turn upon the most inconsiderable hinges. mine turned upon an umbrella. the next morning i had business in the very lowermost part of the city, and started off without my umbrella; but being weather-wise, and discerning the face of the sky, i went back to my room and took it. it was one of those little pet objects of _vertu_, to which a bachelor sometimes treats himself in lieu of domestic luxuries. it had a finely-carved handle, which i bought in dieppe, and which caused it to be peculiar among all the umbrellas in new york. it was one of those uncertain, capricious days that mark the coming in of april, when nature, like a nervous beauty, doesn't seem to know her own mind, and laughs one moment and cries the next with a perplexing uncertainty. the first part of the morning the amiable and smiling predominated, and i began to regret that i had encumbered myself with the troublesome precaution of an umbrella while tramping around down town. in this mood of mind i sat at fulton ferry waiting the starting of the bleecker street car, when suddenly the scene was enlivened to my view by the entrance of a young lady, who happened to seat herself exactly opposite to me. now, as a writer, an observer of life and manners, i had often made quiet studies of the fair flowers of modern new york society as i rode up and down in the cars. in no other country in the world, perhaps, has a man the opportunity of being _vis-à-vis_ with the best and most cultured class of young women in the public conveyances. in england, this class are veiled and secluded from gaze by all the ordinances and arrangements of society. they go out only in their own carriage; they travel in reserved compartments of the railway carriages; they pass from these to reserved apartments in the hotels, where they are served apart in family privacy as much as in their own dwellings. so that the stranger traveling in the country, unless he have introductions to the personal hospitality of these circles, has almost no way of forming any opinion even as to the external appearance of its younger women. in france, a still stricter _régime_ watches over the young, unmarried girl, who is kept in the shade of an almost conventual seclusion till marriage opens the doors of her prison. the young american girl, however, of the better and of the best classes, is to be met and observed everywhere. she moves through life with the assured step of a princess, too certain of her position and familiar with her power even to dream of a fear. she looks on her surroundings from above with the eye of a mistress, and expects, of course, to see all things give way before her, as in our republican society they generally do. during the few months i had spent in new york i had diligently kept out of society. the permitted silent acquaintance with my fair countrywomen which i gained while riding up and down the street conveyances, became, therefore, a favorite and harmless source of amusement. not an item in the study escaped me, not a feather in that rustling and wonderful plumage of fashion that bore them up, was unnoted. i mused on styles, and characteristics, and silently wove in my own mind histories to correspond with the various physiognomies i studied. let not the reader imagine me staring point blank, with my mouth open, at all i met. the art of noting without appealing to note, of seeing without seeming to see, was one that i cultivated with assiduity. therefore, without any impertinent scrutiny, satisfied myself of the fact that a feminine presence of an unusual kind and quality was opposite to me. it was, at first glance, one of the new york princesses of the blood, accustomed to treading on clouds and breathing incense. there was a quiet _savoir faire_ and self-possession as she sat down on her seat, as if it were a throne; and there was a species of repressed vitality and decision in all her little involuntary movements that interested me as live things always do interest, in proportion to their quantum of life. we all are familiar with the fact that there are some people, who, let them sit still as they may, and conduct themselves never so quietly, nevertheless impress their personality on those around them, and make their presence felt. an attraction of this sort drew my eyes toward my neighbor. she was a young lady of medium height, slender and elastic figure, features less regularly beautiful than piquant and expressive. i remarked a pair of fine dark eyes the more from the contrast with a golden crêpe of hair. the combination of dark eyes and lashes with fair hair, always produces effect of a striking character. she was attired as became a fifth avenue princess, who has the world of fashion at her feet,--yet, to my thinking, as one who had chosen and adapted her material with an eye of taste. a delicate cashmere was folded carelessly round her shoulders, and her little hands were gloved with a careful nicety of fit; and dangling from one finger was a toy purse of gold and pearl, in which she began searching for the change to pay her fare. i saw, too, as she investigated, an expression of perplexity, slightly tinged with the ludicrous, upon her face. i perceived at a glance the matter. she was surveying a ten-dollar note with a glance of amused vexation, and vainly turning over her little purse for the smaller change or tickets available in the situation. i leaned forward and offered, as gentlemen generally do, to take her fare and pass it forward. with a smile of apology she handed me the bill, and showed the little empty purse. "allow me to arrange it," i said. she smiled and blushed. i passed up the ticket necessary for the occasion, returned her bill, bowed, and immediately looked another way with sedulous care. it requires an extra amount of discretion and delicacy to make it tolerable to a true lady to become in the smallest degree indebted to a gentleman who is a stranger. i was aware that my fair _vis-à-vis_ was inwardly disturbed at having inadvertently been obliged to accept from me even so small an obligation as a fare ticket; but as matters were, there was no help for it. on the whole, though i was sorry for her, i could not but regard the incident as a species of good luck for myself. we rode along--perhaps each of us conscious at times of being attentively considered by the other, until the cars turned up park row before the astor house; she signalled the conductor to stop, and got out. here it was that the beneficent intentions of the fates, in causing me to bring my umbrella, were made manifest. [illustration: _the umbrella._ "_before a very elegant house in fifth avenue my unknown alighted, and the rain still continuing, there was an excuse for my still attending her up the steps._"] just as the car started again, came one of those sudden gushes of rain with which perverse april delights to ruffle and discompose unwary passengers. it was less a decent, decorous shower, than a dash of water by the bucketful. immediately i jumped out and stepped to the side of my gentle neighbor, begging her to allow me to hold my umbrella over her, and see her in safety across broadway. she meant to have stopped at one or two places, she said, but it rained so she would thank me to put her into a fifth avenue stage. so we went together, threading our way through rushing and trampling carriages, horses, and cars,--a driving storm above, below, and around, which seemed to throw my fair princess entirely upon my protection for a few moments, till i had her safe in the up-town omnibus. as it was my route, also, i, too, entered, and by this time feeling a sort of privilege of acquaintance, arranged the fare for her, and again received a courteous and apologetic acknowledgment. before a very elegant house in fifth avenue my unknown alighted, and the rain still continuing, there was an excuse for my attending her up the steps, and ringing the door-bell for her. we were kept waiting in this position several minutes, when she very gracefully expressed her thanks for my kindness, and begged that i would walk in. surprised and pleased, i excused myself on plea of engagements, but presented her with my card, and said i would do myself the pleasure of calling at another time. with a little laugh and blush she handed me a card from the tiny pearl and gold case, on which was engraved "eva van arsdel," and in the corner, "_wednesdays_." "we receive on wednesdays, mr. henderson," she said, "and mamma will be so happy to make your acquaintance." here the door opened, and my fairy princess vanished from view, with a parting vision of a blush, smile, and bow, and i was left outside with the rain and the mud and the dull, commonplace grind of my daily work. the house, as i noted it, was palatial in its aspect. clear, large windows, which seemed a single sheet of crystal, gave a view of banks of flowering hyacinths, daffodils, crocuses, and roses, curtained in by misty falls of lace drapery. evidently it was one of those circean regions of retreat, where the lovely daughters of fashionable wealth in new york keep guard over an eternal lotus-eater's paradise; where they tread on enchanted carpets, move to the sound of music, and live among flowers and odors a life of blissful ignorance of toil or care. "to what purpose," i thought to myself, "should i call there, or pursue the vision into its own regions? Æneas might as well try to follow venus to the scented regions above idalia, where her hundred altars forever burn, and her flowers never die." but yet i was no wiser and no older than other men at three-and-twenty, and the little card which i had placed in my vest pocket seemed to diffuse an agreeable, electric warmth, which constantly reminded me of its presence there. i took it out and looked at it. i spelled the name over, and dwelt on every letter. there was so much positive _character_ in the little lady,--such a sort of spicy, racy individuality, that the little i had seen of her was like reading the first page of an enchanting romance, and i could not repress a curiosity to go on with it. to-day was monday; the reception day was wednesday. should i go? prudence said, "no; you are a young man with your way to make; you are self-dependent; you are poor; you have no time to spend in helping rich idle people to hunt butterflies, and string rose-leaves, and make dandelion-chains. if you set your foot over one of those enchanted thresholds, where wealth and idleness rule together, you will be bewildered, enervated, and spoiled for any really high or severe task-work; you will become an idler, a dangler; the power of sustained labor and self-denial will depart from you, and you will run like a breathless lackey after the chariot of wealth and fashion." on the other hand, as the little bit of enchanted pasteboard gently burned in my vest pocket, it said: "why should you be rude? it is incumbent on you as a gentleman to respond to the invitation so frankly given. besides, the writer who aspires to influence society must know society; and how can one know society unless one studies it? a hermit in his cell is no judge of what is going on in the world. besides, he does not overcome the world who runs away from it, but he who meets it bravely. it is the part of a coward to be afraid of meeting wealth and luxury and indolence on their own grounds. he really conquers who can keep awake, walking straight through the enchanted ground; not he who makes a detour to get round it." all which i had arrayed in good set terms as i rode back to my room, and went up to bolton to look up in his library the authorities for an article i was getting out on the domestic life of the ancient greeks. bolton had succeeded in making me feel so thoroughly at home in his library that it was to all intents and purposes as if it were my own. as i was tumbling over the books that filled every corner, there fell out from a little niche a photograph, or rather ambrotype, such as were in use in the infancy of the art. it fell directly into my hand, so that taking it up it was impossible not to perceive what it was, and i recognized in an instant the person. it was the head of my cousin caroline, not as i knew her now, but as i remembered her years ago, when she and i went to the academy together. it is almost an involuntary thing, on such occasions, to exclaim, "who is this?" but bolton was so very reticent a being that i found it extremely difficult to ask him a personal question. there are individuals who unite a great winning and sympathetic faculty with great reticence. they make _you_ talk, they win your confidence, they are interested in you, but they ask nothing from you, and they tell you nothing. bolton was all the while doing obliging things for me and for jim, but he asked nothing from us; and while we felt safe in saying anything in the world before him, and while we never felt at the moment that conversation flagged, or that there was any deficiency in sympathy and good fellowship on his part, yet upon reflection we could never recall anything which let us into the interior of his own life-history. the finding of this little memento impressed me, therefore, oddly,--as if a door had suddenly been opened into a private cabinet where i had no right to look, or an open letter which i had no right to read had been inadvertently put into my hands. i looked round on bolton, as he sat quietly bending over a book that he was consulting, with his pen in hand and his cat at his elbow; but the question i longed to ask stuck fast in my throat, and i silently put back the picture in its place, keeping the incident to ponder in my heart. what with the one pertaining to myself, and with the thoughts suggested by this, i found myself in a disturbed state that i determined to resist by setting myself a definite task of so many pages of my article. in the evening, when jim came in, i recounted my adventure and showed him the card. he surveyed it with a prolonged whistle. "good now!" he said; "the ticket sent by the providence express. i see--" "who are these van arsdels, jim?" "upper tens," said jim, decisively. "not the oldest tens, but the second batch. not the old knickerbocker vanderhoof, and vanderhyde, and vanderhorn set that washy irving tells about,--but the modern nobs. old van arsdel does a smashing importing business--is worth his millions--has five girls, all handsome--two out--two more to come out, and one strong-minded sister who has retired from the world, and isn't seen out anywhere. the one you saw was eva; they say she's to marry wat sydney,--the greatest match there is going in new york. how do you say--shall you go, wednesday?" "do you know them?" "oh, yes. alice van arsdel is a splendid girl, and we are good friends, and i look in on them sometimes just to give them the light of my countenance. they are always after me to lead the german in their parties; but i've given that up. hang it all! it's too steep on a fellow that has to work all day, with no let up, to be kept dancing till daylight with those girls. it don't pay!" "i should think not," said i. "you see," pursued jim, "these girls have nothing under heaven to do, and when they've danced all night, _they_ go to bed and sleep till eleven or twelve o'clock the next day and get their rest; while we fellows have to be up and in our offices at eight o'clock next morning. the fact is, it may do for once or twice, but it knocks a fellow up pretty fast. it's a bad thing for the fellows; they get to taking wine and brandy and one thing or another to keep up, and the devil only knows what comes of it." "and are these van arsdels in that frivolous set?" said i. "well, you see they are not really frivolous, either; they are nice girls, well educated, graduated at the universal thingumbob college, where they teach girls everything that ever has been heard of, before they are seventeen. and then they have lived in paris, and lived in germany, and lived in italy, and picked up all the languages; so that when they have anything to say they have a choice of four languages to say it in." "and have they anything to say worth hearing in any of the four?" said i. "well, yes, now, honor bright. there's alice van arsdel: she's ambitious as the devil, but, after all, a good, warm-hearted girl under it--and smart! there's no doubt of that." "and _this_ lady?" said i, fingering the card. "eva? well, she's had a great run; she's killing, as they say, and she's pretty--no denying that; and, really, there's a good deal to her,--like the sponge cake at the bottom of the trifle, you know, with a good smart flavor of wine and spice." "and she's engaged to--whom did you say?" "wat sydney." "and what sort of a man is he?" "what sort? why, he's a _rich_ man; owns all sorts of things,--gold mines in california, and copper mines in lake superior, and salt works, and railroads. in fact, the thing is to say what he doesn't own. immense head for business,--regular steel-trap to deal with,--has the snap of a pike." "pleasing prospect for a domestic companion," said i. "oh, as to that, i believe wat is good-hearted enough to his own folks. they say he is very devoted to his old mother and a parcel of old maid aunts, and as he's rich, it's thought a great virtue. nobody sings _my_ praises, i notice, because i mind my mammy and aunt sarah. you see it takes a million-power solar microscope to bring out fellows' virtues." "is the gentleman handsome?" "well, if he was poor, nobody would think much of his looks. if he had, say, a hundred thousand or two, he would be called fair to middling in looks. as it is, the girls rave about him. he's been after eva now for six months, and the other girls are ready to tear her eyes out. but the engagement hasn't come out yet. i think she's making up her mind to him." "not in love, then?" "well, she's been queen so long she's _blasée_ and difficult, and likes to play with her fish before she lands him. but of course she _must_ have him. girls like that must have money to keep 'em up; that's the first requisite. i tell you the purple and fine linen of these princesses come to something. now, as _rich_ men go, she'd find ten worse than wat where there's one better. then she's been out three seasons. there's alice just come out, and alice is a stunner, and takes tremendously! and then there's angeline, a handsome, spicy little witch, smarter than either, that is just fluttering, and scratching, and tearing her hair with impatience to have her turn. and behind angeline there's marie--she's got a confounded pair of eyes. so you see there's no help for it; miss eva _must_ abdicate and make room for the next comer." "well," said i, "about this reception?" "oh! go, by all means," said jim. "it will be fun. i'll go with you. you see it's lent now, thank the stars! and so there's no dancing,--only quiet evenings and lobster salad; because, you see, we're all repenting of our sins and getting ready to go at it again after easter. a fellow now can go to receptions, and get away in time to have a night's rest, and the girls now and then talk a little sense between whiles. they _can_ talk sense when they like, though one wouldn't believe it of 'em. well, take care of yourself, my son, and i'll take you round there on wednesday evening." and jim went whistling down the stairs, leaving me to finish my article on the domestic manners of the greeks. i remember that very frequently that evening, while stopping to consider how i should begin the next sentence, i unconsciously embellished the margin of my manuscript by writing "eva, eva, eva van arsdel" in an absent-minded, mechanical way. in fact, from that time, that name began often to obtrude itself on every bit of paper when i tried my pen. the question of going to the wednesday evening reception was settled in the affirmative. what was to hinder my taking a look at fairy land in a purely philosophical spirit? nothing, certainly. if she were engaged she was nothing to me,--never would be. so, clearly there was no danger. chapter xvi. the girl of our period. [letter from eva van arsdel to mrs. courtney.] my dear friend and teacher:--i scarcely dare trust myself to look at the date of your kind letter. can it really be that i have let it lie almost a year, hoping, meaning, sincerely intending to answer it, and yet doing nothing about it? oh! my dear friend, i was a better girl while i was under your care than i am now; in those times i really _did_ my duties; i never put off things, and i came _somewhere_ near satisfying myself. now, i live in a constant whirl--a whirl that never ceases. i am carried on from day to day, from week to week, from month to month, with nothing to show for it except a succession of what girls call "good times." i don't read any thing but stories; i don't study; i don't write; i don't sew; i don't draw, or play, or sing, to any real purpose. i just "go into society," as they call it. i am an idler, and the only thing i am good for is that i help to adorn a house for the entertainment of idlers; that is about all. now lent has come, and i am thankful for the rest from parties and dancing; but yet lent makes me blue, because it gives me some time to _think_; and besides that, when all this whirligig stops awhile, i feel how dizzy and tired it has made me. and then i think of all that you used to tell me about the real object of life, and all that i so sincerely resolved in my school-days that i would do and be, and i am quite in despair about myself. it is three years since i really "came out," as the phrase goes. up to that time i was far happier than i have been since, because i satisfied myself better. you always said, dear friend, that i was a good scholar, and faithful to every duty; and those days, when i had a definite duty for each hour, and did it well, were days when i liked myself better than now. i did _enjoy_ study. i enjoyed our three years in europe, too, for then, with much variety and many pleasures, i had regular studies; i was learning something, and did not feel that i was a mere do-nothing. but since i have been going into company i am perfectly sick of myself. for the first year it was new to me, and i was light-headed and thought it glorious fun. it was excitement all the time--dressing, and going, and seeing, and being admired, and, well--flirting. i confess i liked it, and went into it with all my might,--parties, balls, opera, concerts all the winter in new york, and parties, balls, etc. at newport and saratoga in summer. it was a sort of prolonged delirium. i didn't stop to think about anything, and lived like a butterfly, by the hour. oh! the silly things i have said and done! i find myself blushing hot when i think of them, because, you see, i am so excitable, and sometimes am so carried away, that afterward i don't know what i may have said or done! and now all this is coming to some end or other. this going into company can't last forever. we must be married--that's what we are for, they say; that's what all this dressing, and dancing, and flying about has got to end in. and so mamma and aunt maria are on thorns, to get me off their hands and well established. i have been out three seasons. i am twenty-three, and alice has just come out, and it is expected, of course, that i retire with honor. i will not stop to tell you that i have rejected about the usual number of offers that young ladies in my position get, and i haven't seen anybody that i care a copper for. well, now, in this crisis, comes this mr. sidney, who proposed to me last fall, and i refused point-blank, simply and only because i didn't love him, which seemed to me at that time reason enough. then mamma and aunt maria took up the case, and told me that i was a foolish girl to throw away such an offer: a man of good character and standing, an excellent business man, and so immensely rich--with such a splendid place at newport, and another in new york, and a fortune like aladdin's lamp! i said i didn't love him, and they said i hadn't tried; that i _could_ love him if i only made up my mind to, and why wouldn't i try? then papa turned in, who very seldom has anything to say to us girls, or about any family matters, and said how delighted _he_ should be to see me married to a man so capable of taking care of me. so, among them all, i agreed that i would receive his visits and attentions _as a friend_, with a view to trying to love him; and ever since i have been banked up in flowers and confectionery, and daily drifting into relations of closer and closer intimacy. do i find myself in love? not a bit. frankly, dear friend, to tell the awful truth, the thing that weighs down my heart is, that if this man were not so _rich_, i _know_ i shouldn't think of him. if he were a poor young man, just beginning business, i know i should not give him a second thought; neither would mother, nor aunt maria, nor any of us. but here are all these worldly advantages! i confess i am dazzled by them. i am silly, i am weak, i am ambitious. i like to feel that i may have the prize of the season--the greatest offer in the market. i know i am envied and, oh, dear me! though it's naughty, yet one does like to be envied. besides, to tell the truth, though i am not in love with him, i am not in love with anybody else. i respect him, and esteem him, and all that, in a quiet, negative sort of way, and mother and aunt maria say everything else will come--after marriage. will it? is it right? is this the way i ought to marry? but then, you know, i must marry somebody--that, they say, is a fixed fact. it seems to be understood that i am a sort of helpless affair, to be taken care of, and that now is my time to be disposed of; and they tell me every day that if i let this chance go, i shall regret it all my life. do you know i wish there were convents that one could go out of the world into? cousin sophia sewell has joined the sisters of st. john, and says she never was so happy. she does look so cheerful, and she is so busy from morning till night, and has the comfort of doing so much good to a lot of those poor little children, that i envy her. but i cannot become a sister. what would mamma say if she knew i even thought of it? everybody would think me crazy. nobody would believe how much there is in me that never comes to light, nor how miserable it makes me to be the poor, half-hearted thing that i am. you know, dear friend, about sister ida's peculiar course, and how very much it has vexed mamma. yet, really and truly, i can't help respecting ida. it seems to me she shows a real strength of principle that i lack. she went into gay society only a little while before she gave it up, and her reasons, i think, were good ones. she said it weakened her health, weakened her mind; that there was no use in it, and that it was just making her physically and morally helpless, and that she wanted to live for a purpose of her own. she wanted to go to paris, and study for the medical profession; but neither papa, nor mamma, nor any of the family would hear of it. but ida persisted that she would do something, and finally papa took her into his business, to manage the foreign correspondence, which she does admirably, putting all her knowledge of languages to account. he gives her the salary of a confidential clerk, and she lays it up, with the intention finally of carrying her purpose. ida is a good, noble woman, of a strength and independence perfectly incomprehensible to me. i can desire, but i cannot do; i am weak and irresolute. people can talk me round, and do anything with me, and i cannot help myself. another thing makes me unhappy. ida refused to be confirmed when i was, because, she said, confirmation was only a sham; that the girls were just as wholly worldly after as before, and that it did no earthly good. well, you see, i was confirmed; and, oh dear me! i was sincere, god knows. i wanted to be good--to live a higher, purer, nobler life than i have lived; and yet, after all, it is i, the child of the church, that am living a life of folly, and show, and self-indulgence; and it is ida, who doubts the church, that is living a life of industry, and energy, and self-denial. why is it? the world that we promise to renounce, that our sponsors promised that we should renounce--what is it, and where is it? do those vows mean anything? if so, what? i mean to do all that i ought to; but how to know what? there's aunt maria, my god-mother, she did the renouncing for me at my baptism, and promised solemnly that i should abjure "the vain pomp and glory of the world, with all covetous desires of the same; that i should not follow, or be led by them;" yet she has never, that i can see, had one thought of anything else but how to secure to me just exactly those very things. that i should be first in society, be admired, followed, flattered, and make a rich, splendid marriage, has been her very heart's desire and prayer; and if i _should_ renounce the vain pomp and glory of the world, really and truly, she would be utterly heart-broken. so would mamma. i don't mean to lay all the blame on them, either. _i_ have been worldly, too, and ambitious, and wanted to shine, and been only too willing to fall in with all their views. but it really is hard for a person like me to stand alone, against my own heart, and all my relatives, particularly when i don't know exactly, in each case, what to do, and what not; where to begin to resist, and where to yield. ida says that it is a sin to spend nights in dancing, so that one has to lie in bed like an invalid all the next day. she says it is a sin to run down one's health for no good purpose; and yet we girls all do it--everybody does it. we all go from party to party, from concert to ball, and from ball to something else. we dance the german three or four nights a week; and then, when sunday comes, sometimes i find that there is the holy communion--and then i am afraid to go. i am like the man that had not on the wedding garment. it seems to me that our church services were made for _real_ christians--people like the primitive christians, who made a real thing of it; they gave up everything and went down and worshiped in the catacombs, for instance. i remember seeing those catacombs where they held their church far down under ground, when i was in rome. there would be some meaning in _such_ people's using our service, but when i try to go through with it i fear to take such words on my lips. i wonder that nobody seems to feel how awful those words are, and how much they must mean, if they mean anything. it seems to me so solemn to say to god, as we do say in the communion service, "here we offer and present unto thee, o, lord, _ourselves_, our souls and bodies, to be a reasonable, holy, and living sacrifice unto thee"---- i see so many saying this who never seem to think of it again; and, oh, my dear friend, i have said it myself, and been no better afterward, and now, alas, i too often turn away from the holy ordinance because i feel that it is only a mockery to utter them, living as i do. about this marriage. mr. sydney is not at all a religious man; he is all for this world, and i don't think i shall grow much better by it. i wish there were somebody that could strengthen me, and help me to be my better self. i have dreams of a sort of man like king arthur, and the knights of the holy grail--a man, noble, holy, and religious. such an one i would follow if i broke away from everyone else; but, alas, no such are in our society, at least i never have met any. yet i have it in me to love, even to death, if i found a real hero. i marked a place in a book the other day, which said: "there is not so much difficulty in being willing to die for one, as finding one worth dying for." i haven't, and they laugh at me as a romantic girl when i tell them what i would do if i found my ideal. well, i suppose you see how it's all likely to end. we drift, and drift and drift, and i shouldn't wonder if i drifted at last into this marriage. i see it all before me, just what it will be,--a wonderful wedding, that turns all new york topsy turvy--diamonds, laces, cashmeres, infinite flowers, and tuberoses of course, till one's head aches,--clang and ding, and bang and buzz;--triumphal processions to all the watering-places; tour in europe, and then society life in new york, _ad infinitum_. oh, dear, if i only could get up some _enthusiasm_ for him! he likes me, but he don't like the things that i like, and it is terribly slow work entertaining him--but when we are married we shan't see so much of each other, i suppose, and shall get on as other folks do. papa and mamma hardly ever see much of each other, but i suppose they are all right. aunt maria says, love or no love at the beginning, it all comes to this sort of jog-trot at the end. the husband is the man that settles the bills, and takes care of the family, that's all. ida says--but i won't tell you what ida says--she always makes me feel blue. do write me a good scolding letter; rouse me up; shame me, scold me, talk hard to me, and see if you can't make something of me. perhaps it isn't too late. your affectionate bad girl, eva. * * * * * [letter from mrs. courtney to eva van arsdel.] _my dear child_:--you place me in an embarrassing position in asking me to speak on a subject, when your parents have already declared their wishes. nevertheless, my dear, i can but remind you that you are the child of an higher than any earthly mother, and in an affair of this moment you should take counsel of our holy church. take your prayer-book and read her solemn service, and see what those marriage vows are that you think of taking. are these to be taken lightly and unadvisedly? i recollect, when i was a young girl, we used to read sir charles grandison, and one passage in the model harriet byron's letters i copied into my scrap-book. speaking of one who had proposed to her, she says: "he seems to want the mind that i would have the man blessed with that i am to vow to love and honor. i purpose whenever i marry to make a very good, and even dutiful wife; must i not vow obedience, and shall i break my marriage vow? i would not, therefore, on any consideration, marry a man whose want of knowledge might make me stagger in the performance of my duty to him; who would, perhaps, command from caprice or want of understanding what i think unreasonable to be complied with." i quote this because i think it is old fashioned good sense, in a respectable old english novel, worth a dozen of the modern school. to me, there is indicated in your description of mr. sydney, just that lack of what you would need in a husband, which would make difficult, perhaps impossible, the performance of your marriage vows. it is evident that his mind does not impress yours or control yours, and that there are no mental sympathies between you. that a man is a good business man; that he is fitted to secure the rent or taxes of the house one lives in, and to pay one's bills, is not all. think, my child, that this man, for whom you can "get up no enthusiasm," whose company wearies you, is the one whom you are proposing to take by the hand before god's altar, and solemnly promise that _forsaking all others_, you will _keep only unto_ him, so long as you both shall live, to love, to honor, and to obey. can you do it? you say you can get up no enthusiasm for this man, yet you have a conception of a man for whom you could leave all things; whom you _could_ love unto the death. it is out of just such marriages, made by girls with just such hearts as yours, that come all these troubles that are bringing holy marriage into disrepute in our times. a woman marries, thoughtlessly and unadvisedly, a man whom she consciously does not love, hoping that she _shall_ love him, or that she shall do as well as others do; then by accident or chance she is thrown into the society of the very one whom she could have loved with enthusiasm, and married, for himself alone. the modern school of novels are full of these wretched stories, and people now are clamoring for free divorce, to get out of marriages that they never ought to have fallen into. amid all this confusion the church stands from age to age and teaches. she shows you exactly what you are to promise; she warns you against promising lightly, or unadvisedly, and i can only refer my dear child to her mother's lessons. marriage vows, like confirmation vows, are recorded in heaven, and must not be broken. the time for reflection is before they are made. instead of clamoring for free divorce, as a purifier of marriage, all christians should purify it as the church recommends, by the great care with which they enter into it. that is my doctrine, my love. i am a good old english church-woman, and don't believe in any modern theories. the teachings of the prayer-book are enough for me. i know that, in spite of them all, there are thoughtless confirmation vows and marriage vows daily uttered in our church, but it is not for want of clear and solemn instruction. but you, my love, with your conscientiousness, and good sense, and really noble nature, will i am sure act worthily of yourself in this matter. another consideration i suggest to you. this man, whom i suppose to be a worthy and excellent man, has his rights. he has the right to the whole heart of the woman he marries--to whom at the altar he gives himself and all which he possesses. a woman who has what you call an enthusiasm for a man, can do much with him. she can bear with his faults; she can inspire and lead him; she can raise him in the scale of being. but without this enthusiasm, this real love, she can do nothing of the kind; it is a thing that cannot be dissembled, or affected. and after marriage, the man who does not find this in his wife, has the best reason to think himself defrauded. now, if for the sake of possessing a man's worldly goods, his advantages of fortune and station, you take that relation when you really are unable to give him your heart, you act dishonestly. you take and enjoy what you cannot pay for. not only that, but you deprive him through all his life of the blessing of being really loved, which he might obtain with some other woman. the fact is, you have been highly cultivated in certain departments; your tastes would lead you into the world of art and literature. he has been devoted to business, and in that way has amassed a fortune, but he has no knowledge, and no habits that would prepare him to sympathise with you. i am not here undervaluing the worth of those strong, sterling qualities which belong to an upright and vigorous man. there are many women who are impressed by just that sort of power, and admire it in men, as they do physical strength and courage; it dazzles their imagination, and they fall in love accordingly. you happen to have another kind of fancy--he is not of your sort. but there are doubtless women whom he would fully satisfy; who would find him a delightful companion who, in short, would be exactly what you are not, in love with him. my dear, men need wives who are _in love_ with them. simple tolerance is not enough to stand the strain of married life, and to marry when you cannot truly love is to commit an act of dishonesty and injustice. remembering, therefore, that you are about to do what never can be undone, and what must make or mar your whole future, i speak this in all sincere plainness, because i am, and ever must be, your affectionate and true friend, m. courtney. [ida van arsdel to mrs. courtney.] _my dear friend_:--i am glad you have written as you have to eva. it is perfectly inexplicable to me that a girl of her general strength of character can be so undecided. eva has been deteriorating ever since she came from europe. this fashionable life is to mind and body just like a hotbed to tender plants in summer, it wilts everything down. eva was a good scholar and i had great hopes of her. she had a warm heart; she has really high and noble aspirations, but for two or three years past she has done nothing but run down her health and fritter away her mind on trifles. she is not half the girl she was at school, either mentally or physically, and i am grieved and indignant at the waste. her only chance of escape and salvation is to marry a true man. but when people set out as a first requisite that the man _must_ be rich, how many are the chances of finding that? the rich men of america are either rich men's sons, who, from all i have seen of them, are poor trash enough, or business men, who have made wealth by their own exertions. but how few there are who make money, who do not sacrifice their spiritual and nobler natures to do it? how few with whom the making of money is not the beginning, middle, and end of life, and how little can such men do to uphold and elevate the moral nature of a wife! mr. sydney is a man, heart, soul, and strength, interested in that mighty game of chance and skill by which, in america, money is made. he is a railroad king--a prince of stocks--a man going with a forty thousand steam power through new york waters. he wants a wife--a brilliant, attractive, showy, dressy wife, to keep his house and ornament his home; and he is at eva's feet, because she is, on the whole, the belle of his circle. he chooses _en grand seigneur_, and undoubtedly he is as much in love with her as such a kind of man can be. but, in fact, he knows nothing about eva; he does not even know enough to know the dangers of marrying such a woman. with all her fire, and all her softness, all her restless enthusiasms, her longings and aspirations and inconsistencies, what could he do with her? the man who marries eva ought to know her better than she knows herself, but this man never would know her, if they lived together an age. he has no traits by which to estimate her, and the very best result of the marriage will be a mutual _laisser aller_ of two people who agree not to quarrel, and to go their own separate ways, he to his world, and she to hers; and this sort of thing is what is called in our times a good marriage. i am out of patience with eva for her very virtues. it is her instinct to want to please and to comply, and because mamma and aunt maria have set their heart on this match, and because she is empty-hearted and tired, and _ennuyeuse_, she has no strength to stand up for herself. her very conscientiousness weakens her; she doubts, but does not decide. she has just enough of everything in her nature to get her into trouble, and not enough to get her out. a phrenologist told her she needed destructiveness. well, she does. the pain-giving power is a most necessary part of a well organized human being. nobody can ever do anything without the courage to be disagreeable at times, which i have plenty of. they do not try to control me, or enslave me. why? because i made my declaration of independence, and planted my guns, and got ready for war. this is dreadfully unamiable, but it did the thing; it secured peace; i am let alone. i am allowed my freedom, but everybody interferes with eva. she is conquered territory--has no rights that anybody is bound to respect. it provokes me. as to the religious part of your letter, dear friend, i thank you for it. i cannot see things as you do, however. to me it appears that in our day everything has got to be brought to the simple test of, what good does it do? if baptism, confirmation and eucharist make unworldly, self-denying, self-sacrificing people just as certainly as petunia-seed make petunias, why, then, nobody will have any doubt of their necessity, and the church will have its throngs. i don't see now that they do. go into a fashionable party i have been in, and watch the girls, and see if you can tell who have been baptized and confirmed, and who have not. the first christians carried christianity over all the pomp and power of the world simply by the unworldly life they lived. nobody doubted where the true church was in those days. christians were a set of people like nobody else in the world, and whenever and wherever and by whatever means that _kind of character_ that they had is created, it will have power. i like the episcopal church, but i cannot call it _the_ church till i see evidences that it answers practically the purpose of a church better than any other. for my part i go to hear a dreadfully heretical preacher on sunday, who lectures in a black-coat in a hall, simply because he talks to me on points of duty, which i am anxious to hear discussed. eva, poor child, wears down her health and strength with night after night in society, and spends all her money on dress; doing no earthly thing for any living creature, except in the pleasure-giving way, like a bird or a flower, and then is shocked and worried about me because i read scientific works on sunday. i make conscience of good health, early hours, thick shoes, and mental and bodily drill, and subjection. please god, i mean to do something worthy a christian woman before i die, and to open a path through which weaker women shall walk out of this morass of fashion-slavery, and subjection, where they flounder now. i take for my motto that sentence from one of dr. johnson's allegories you once read to us: "no life pleasing to god that is not useful to man." i hope, my dear friend, i shall keep the spirit of christ, though i wander from the letter. such words as you have spoken to me, however, can never come amiss. perhaps when i am old and wiser, like many another self-confident wanderer, i may be glad to come back to my mother's house, and then, perhaps, i shall be a stiff little church-woman. at all events i shall always be your loving and grateful pupil. ida. [eva van arsdel to isabel convers.] _my dear belle_: thanks for your kind letter with all its congratulations and inquiries,--for though as yet i have no occasion for congratulation, and nothing to answer to inquiry, i appreciate these all the same. no--belle, the "old sixpence" is not gone yet,--you will have to keep to your friend a while longer. i am not engaged, and you have full liberty to contradict that report everywhere and anywhere. mr. sydney is, of course, very polite, and very devoted, very much a friend of the family and all that, but i am _not_ engaged to him, and you need never believe any such thing of me till you hear it directly, under my own hand and seal. there have been a lot of engagements in our set lately. lottie trevillian is going to marry sim carrington, and bessie somers has at last decided to take old watkins--though he is twenty-five years older than she,--and then there's cousin maria elmore has just turned a splendid affair with young livingstone, really the most brilliant match of the winter. i am positively ashamed of myself, under these circumstances, to be sitting still, and unable to report progress. my old infelicity in making up my mind seems to haunt me, and i dare say i shall live to be a dreadful example. by the by, i have had a curious sort of an adventure lately. you know when i was up at englewood visiting you last summer, i was just raving over those sonnets on italy, which appeared in the "_milky way_" over the signature of "x." you remember those verses on "fra angelico" and the "campanile," don't you? well, i have found out who this x is. it's a mr. henderson that is now in new york, engaged on the staff of "_the great democracy_." we girls have noticed him once or twice walking with jim fellows--(you remember jim;) jim says he is a perfect hermit, devoted to study and writing, and never goes into society. well, wasn't it odd that the fates should have thrown this hermit just in my way? the other morning i came over from brooklyn, where i had been spending three days with sophia, and when i got into the car who should i see but this identical mr. henderson right opposite to me. i took a quiet note of him, between whiles thinking of one or two lines in his sonnet. he is nice-looking, manly, that is, and has fine dark eyes. well, do you know, the most provoking thing, when i came to pay my fare i found that i had no tickets nor small change--what could have possessed me to come so i can't imagine, and mamma makes it all the worse by saying it's just like me. however, he interposed and arranged it for me in the nicest and quietest way in the world. i was going up to call at jennings', the other side of the astor house, to see about my laces, but by the time we got there, there came on such a rain as was perfectly dreadful. my dear, it was one of those shocking affairs peculiar to new york, which really come down by the bucketful, and i had nothing for it but to cross broadway as quick as i could to catch a fifth avenue omnibus, and let my lace go till a more convenient season. well, as i stepped out into the storm, who should i find quite beside me but this gentleman, with his umbrella over my head. i could see at the moment that it had one of those quaint handles that they carve in dieppe. we were among cars, and policemen, and trampling horses, and so on, but he got me safe into an up-town omnibus, and i felt so much obliged to him. i supposed, of course, that there it might end, but, would you believe it, quite to my surprise, he got into the omnibus too! "after all," i said to myself, "perhaps his route lies up town like mine." he wasn't in the least presuming, and sat there very quietly, only saying, "permit me," as he passed up a ticket for me when the fare was to be paid, so saving me that odious necessity of making change with my great awkward bill. i was mortified enough--but knowing who it was, had a sort of internal hope that one day i could apologize and make it all right, for, my dear, i determined on the spot that we would invite him to our receptions, and get jim fellows to make him come. i think there is no test of a gentleman like the manner in which he does a favor for a stranger lady whom the fates cast upon his protection. so many would be insufferably presuming and assuming--he was just right, so quiet, so simple, so unpretentious, yet so considerate. he rode on very quietly till we were opposite our house, and then was on duty again with his umbrella, up to the very door of the house, and holding it over me while we were waiting. i couldn't help expressing my thanks, and asking him to walk in; but he excused himself, giving his card, and saying he would be happy to call and inquire after my health, etc.; and i gave him mine, with our wednesday receptions on it, and told him how pleased mamma would be to have him call. it was all i could do to avoid calling him by his name, and letting him see how much i knew about him; but i didn't. it was rather awkward, wasn't it? now, i wonder if he will call on wednesdays. jim fellows says he is so shy, and never goes out; and you know if there is anything that can't be had, that is the thing one is wild to get; so mamma and all of us are quite excited, and wondering if he will come. mamma is all anxiety to apologize, and all that, for the trouble i have given him. it's rather funny, isn't it--an adventure in prosaic old new york? i dare say, now, he has forgotten all about it, and never will think of coming into such a trifling set as we girls are. well, i will let you know if he comes. ever your affectionate eva. chapter xvii. i am introduced into society. bolton and i were sitting, up to our ears in new books which had been accumulating for notice for days past, and which i was turning over and dipping into here and there with the jaded, half-disgusted air of a child worn out by the profusion of a thanksgiving dinner. "i feel perfectly savage," i said. "what a never-ending harvest of trash! two, or at the most, three tolerable ideas, turned and twisted in some novel device, got up in large print, with wide margins--and, behold, a modern book! i would like to be a black frost and nip them all in a night!" "your dinner didn't agree with you, apparently," said bolton, as he looked up from a new scientific work he was patiently analyzing, making careful notes along the margin; "however, turn those books over to jim, who understands the hop, skip, and jump style of criticism. jim has about a dozen or two of blank forms that only need the name of the book and publisher inserted, and the work is done." "what a perfect farce," said i. "the notices are as good as the books," said bolton. "something has to be said to satisfy the publishers and do the handsome thing by them; and the usual string of commendatory phrases and trite criticism, which mean nothing in particular, i presume imposes upon nobody. it is merely a form of announcing that such and such wares are in the market. i fancy they have very little influence on public opinion." "but do you think," said i, "that there is any hope of a just school of book criticism--something that should be a real guide to buyers and readers, and a real instruction to writers?" "that is a large question," said bolton, "and a matter beset with serious difficulties. while books are a matter of commerce and trade; while magazines which criticise books are the property of booksellers, and newspapers depend on them for advertising patronage, it is too much to expect of human nature, that we should always get wholly honest, unbiassed opinions. then, again, there is the haste, and rush, and hurry of our times, the amount of literary drift-wood that is all the while accumulating! editors and critics are but mortal men, and men kept, as a general thing, in the last agonies of weariness and boredom. there is not, for the most part, sensibility enough left to enable them to read through or enter into the purport of one book in a hundred; yet, for all this, you do observe here and there in the columns of our best papers carefully studied and seriously written critiques on books; these are hopeful signs. they show a conscientious effort on the part of the writers to enter into the spirit of the work, and to give their readers a fair account of it; and, if i mistake not, the number of such is on the increase." "well," said i, "do you suppose there is any prospect or possibility of a _constructive_ school of criticism--honest, yet kindly and sympathetic, that shall lead young authors into right methods of perfecting themselves?" "we have a long while to wait before that comes," said bolton. "who is appreciative and many-sided enough to guide the first efforts of genius just coming to consciousness? how many could profitably have advised hawthorne when his peculiar rembrandt style was just forming? as a race, we anglo saxons are so self-sphered that we lack the power to enter into the individuality of another mind, and give profitable advice for its direction. "english criticism has generally been unappreciative and brutal; it has dissected butterflies and humming-birds with mallet and cleaver--witness the review that murdered keats, and witness in the letters of charlotte bronté the perplexity into which sensitive, conscientious genius was thrown by obstreperous, conflicting criticism. the most helpful, because most appreciative reviews, she says, came to her from france." "i suppose," said i, "that it is the dramatic element in the french character that fits them to be good literary critics. they can enter into another individuality. one would think it a matter of mere common sense, that in order to criticise justly you must put yourself for the time being as nearly as possible at the author's point of sight; form a sympathetic estimate of what he is striving to do, and then you can tell how nearly he attains his purpose. of this delicate constructive criticism, we have as yet, it seems to me, almost no specimens in the english language. st. beuve has left models in french, in this respect, which we should do well to imitate. we americans are a good-natured set, and our criticism inclines to comity and good-fellowship far more than to the rude bluntness of our english neighbors; and if we could make this discriminating, as well as urbane, we should get about the right thing." our conversation was interrupted here by jim fellows, who came thundering up-stairs, singing at the top of his lungs-- "if an engine meet an engine coming round a curve,-- if it smash both train and tender, what does it deserve? not a penny--paid to any, so far as i observe--" "gracious, jim! what a noise!" said i, as he entered the room with a perfect war-whoop on the chorus. "bless my soul, man, why arn't you dressing? arn't you going up to the garden of eden with me to night, to see the woman, and the serpent, and all that?" he said, collaring me without ceremony. "come away to your bower, and curl your nut-brown hair; for time roils along, nor waits for mortal care or bliss, we'll take our staff and travel on, till we arrive where the pretty gals is." and thus singing, jim whirled me down the stairs, and tumbled me into my room, and went into his, where i heard him accompanying his toilet operations with very loud selections from the last comic opera, beating time with his hair-brush in a bewildering manner. jim was certainly a natural curiosity in respect to the eternal, unceasing vivacity of his animal spirits, which were in a state of effervesence from morning to night, frothing out in some odd freak of drollery or buffoonery. there was not the smallest use in trying remonstrance or putting on a sober face; his persistence, and the endless variety of his queer conceits, would have overcome the gravity of the saddest hermit that ever wore sackcloth and ashes. bolton had become accustomed to see him bursting into his room at all hours, with a breeze which fluttered all his papers; and generally sat back resignedly in his chair, and laughed in helpless good-nature, no matter how untimely the interruption. "oh, it's jim!" he would say, in tones of comic resignation. "it's no use; he must have his fling!" "time's up," said jim, drumming on my door with his hair-brush when his toilet was completed. "come on, my boy, 'let us haste to kelvyn grove.'" i opened my door, and jim took a paternal survey of me from neck-cloth to boot-toe, turning me round and inspecting me on all sides, as if i had been a sunday-school boy, dressed for an exhibition. "those girls have such confounded sharp eyes," he remarked, "a fellow needs to be well got up. yes, you'll do; and you're not bad looking, hal, either, all things considered," he added, encouragingly. "come along. i've got lots of things to make a sensation with among the girls to-night." "what, for example?" "oh, i've been investigating round, and know sundry little interesting particulars as to the new engagement just declared. i know when the engagement ring was got, and what it cost, and where the bride's jewels are making up, and what they are to be--all secrets, you understand, of the very deadest door-nail kind. but jim knows them! oh, yes!--you'll see the flutter i'll make in the roost to-night! i say, if you want to cultivate your acquaintance with miss eva there, i'll draw all the rest off, and keep 'em so wide awake round me that they'll never think what becomes of you." i must confess to feeling not a little nervous in the prospect of my initiation into society, and regarding with a secret envy the dashing, easy assurance of jim. i called him in my heart something of a coxcomb, but it was with a half-amused tolerance that i allowed him to patronize me. the experience of a young man who feels that he has his own way in life to make, and all whose surroundings must necessarily be of the most rigid economy, when he enters the modern sphere of young ladyhood, is like a sudden change from nova zembla to the tropics. his is a world of patient toil, of hard effort, of dry drudgery, of severe economies; while our young american princesses, his social equals, whose society fascinates him, to whose acquaintance he aspires, live like the fowls of the air or the lilies of the field, without a thought of labor, or a care, or serious responsibility of any kind. they are "gay creatures of the element," living to enjoy and to amuse themselves, to be fostered, sheltered, dressed, petted, and made to have "good times" generally. in england, there are _men_ born to just this life and position,--hereditary possessors of wealth, ease, and leisure, and therefore able to be hereditary idlers and triflers--to live simply to spend and to enjoy. but in america, where there are no laws to keep fortunes in certain families, fortunes, as a general rule, must be _made_ by their possessors, and young men must make them. the young, unmarried women, therefore, remain the only aristocracy privileged to live in idleness, and wait for their duties to come to them. the house to which i was introduced that night was one of those new york palaces that are furnished with eclectic taste, after a survey of all that europe has to give. the suites of rooms opened into each other in charming vista, and the walls were hung with the choicest paintings. it was evident that cultured skill and appreciation had presided over the collection of the endless objects of artistic elegance and _vertu_ which adorned every apartment: it was no vulgar display of wealth, but a selection which must have been the result of study and care. jim, acting the part of master of ceremonies, duly presented me to mr. and mrs. van arsdel, and the bevy of young ladies, whose eyes twinkled with dangerous merriment as i made my bow to them. mr. van arsdel was what one so often sees in these palaces, a simple, quiet, silent man, not knowing or caring a bodle about any of the wonders of art and luxury with which his womankind have surrounded him, and not pretending in the least to comprehend them; but quietly indulgent to the tastes and whims of wife and daughters, of whose superior culture he is secretly not a little proud. in wall street mr. van arsdel held up his head, and found much to say; his air was napoleonic; in short, _there_ his foot was on his native heath. but in his own house, among cuyps, and frères, and rembrandts, and fra angelicos, with a set of polyglot daughters who spake with tongues, he walked softly, and expressed himself with humility, like a sensible man. mrs. van arsdel had been a beauty from her youth; had come of a family renowned for belles, and was still a very handsome woman, and, of course, versed in all those gentle diplomacies, and ineffable arts and crafts, by which the sons of adam are immediately swayed and governed. never was stately swan sailing at the head of a brood of fair young cygnets more competent to leadership than she to marshal her troop of bright, handsome daughters through the straits of girlhood to the high places of matrimony. she read, and classified, and ticketed, at a glance, every young man presented to her, yet there was not a shade of the scrutiny dimming the bland cordiality of her reception. she was winning, warming, and charming; fully alive to the éclat of a train of admirers, and to the desirableness of keeping up a brilliant court. "mr. henderson," she said, with a rich mellow laugh, "i tell eva there is some advantage, first or last, in almost everything. one of her scatter-brained tricks has brought us the pleasure of your acquaintance." "mamma has such a shocking way of generalizing about us girls," said eva; "if we once are caught doing a thing she talks as if we made a regular habit of it. now, i have come over from brooklyn hundreds of times, and never failed to have the proper change in my purse till this once." "i am to regard it, then, as a special piece of good fortune, sent to _me_?" said i, drawing somewhat nearer, as mrs. van arsdel turned to receive some new arrivals. i had occasion this evening to admire the facility with which jim fulfilled his promise of absorbing to himself the attention of the young hostesses, and leaving me the advantage of a tête-à-tête with my new acquaintance. i could see him at this moment, seated by miss alice, a splendid, brilliant brunette, while the two pretty younger sisters, not yet supposed to be out, were seated on ottomans, and all in various stages of intense excitement. i could hear: "oh, mr. fellows, now, you _must_ tell us! indeed i am quite wild to know! how _could_ you find it out?" in various, eager tones. jim, of course, was as fully aware of the importance of a dramatic mystery as a modern novel-writer, and pursued a course of most obdurate provocation, letting out only such glimpses and sparkles of the desired intelligence as served to inflame curiosity, and hold the attention of the circle concentrated upon himself. "i think you are perfectly dreadful! oh, mr. fellows, it really is a shame that you don't tell us, really now i shall break friendship with you,"--the tones here became threatening. then jim struck a tragic attitude, and laid his hand on his heart, and declared that he was a martyr, and there was more laughing and such a chatter, and confusion of tongues, that nothing definite could be made out. the length of time that young people, from eighteen to twenty, and even upward, can keep themselves in ecstacies of excitement with such small stock of real things of any sort to say, is something that invariably astonishes old and sober people, who have forgotten that they once were in this happy age, when everything made them laugh. there was soon noise enough, and absorption enough, in the little circle,--widened by the coming in of one or two other young men--to leave me quite unnoticed, and in the background. this was not to be regretted, as miss eva assumed with a charming ease and self-possession that rôle of hospitality and entertainment, for which i fancy our young american princess has an especial talent. "do you know, mr. henderson," she said, "we scarcely expected you, as we hear you never go out." "indeed!" said i. "oh, yes! your friend, mr. fellows there, has presented you to us in most formidable aspects--such a diogenes! so devoted to your tub! no getting you out on any terms!" "i'm sure," i answered, laughing, "i wasn't aware that i had ever had the honor of being discussed in your circle at all." "oh, indeed, mr. henderson, you gentlemen who make confidants of the public are often known much better than you know. i have felt acquainted with many of your thoughts for a long while." what writer is insensible to such flattery as this? especially from the prettiest of lips. i confess i took to this sort of thing kindly, and was ready if possible for a little more of it. i began to say to myself how charming it was to find beauty and fashion united with correct literary taste. "now," she said, as the rooms were rapidly filling, "let me show you if i have not been able to read aright some of your tastes. come into what i call my 'italy.'" she lifted a _portiére_ and we stepped into a charming little boudoir, furnished in blue satin, whose walls were finished in compartments, in each of which hung a copy of one of fra angelico's angels. over the white marble mantel was a superb copy of "the paradise." "there," she said, turning to me, with a frank smile, "am i not right?" "you are, indeed, miss van arsdel. what beautiful copies! they take me back to florence." "see here," she added, opening a velvet case, "here is something that i know you noticed, for i read what you thought of it." it was an exquisite copy of that rarest little gem of fra angelico's painting, "the death-bed of the virgin mary,"--in time past the theme of some of my verses, which miss van arsdel thus graciously recalled. "do you know," she said, "the only drawback when one reads poems that exactly express what one would like to say, is that it makes us envious; one thinks, why couldn't _i_ have said it thus?" "miss van arsdel," said i, "do you remember the lines of longfellow: 'i shot an arrow through the air?'" "what are they?" she said. i repeated: "i shot an arrow into the air, it fell to earth, i knew not where; for, so swiftly it flew, the sight could not follow it in its flight. "i breathed a song into the air, it fell to earth, i knew not where; for who has sight so keen and strong, that it can follow the flight of song? "long, long afterward, in an oak i found the arrow, still unbroke; and the song, from beginning to end, i found again in the heart of a friend." "do you know," i said, "that this expresses exactly what a poet wants? it is not admiration, it is sympathy. poems are test papers, put in the atmosphere of life to detect this property; we can find by them who really _feel_ with us; and those who do, whether near or far, are _friends_. the making of friends is the most precious gift for which poetic utterance is given." "i don't think," said she, "you should say '_make_ friends'--friends are _discovered_, rather than made. there are people who are in their own nature friends, only they don't know each other; but certain things like poetry, music, and painting, are like the free-mason's signs--they reveal the initiated to each other." and so on we went, deliciously talking and ranging through portfolios of engravings that took us through past days; rambling through all our sunny italian life, up the campanile, through the old duomo; sauntering through the ilexes of the boboli garden; comparing notes on the pictures in the pitti and the belle arte--in short, we had one of that blessed kind of times which come when two enthusiasts go back together over the brightest and sunniest passages of their experience. my head swam; a golden haze was around me, and i was not quite certain whether i was in the body or not. it seemed to me that we two must always have known each other, so very simple and natural did it seem for us to talk together, and to understand one another. "but," she said, suddenly checking herself, "if we get to going on all these things there is no end to it, and i promised sister ida that i would present you in her study to-night." "seems to me it is so _very_ delightful here!" said i, deprecatingly, not well pleased to come out of my dream. "ah, but you don't know, mr. henderson, this proposed presentation is a special honor. i assure you that this is a distinction that is almost never accorded to any of our callers; you must know sister ida has retired from the world, and given herself up to the pursuit of wisdom, and it is the rarest thing on earth that she vouchsafes to care for seeing any one." "i should be only too much flattered," said i, as i followed my guide across a hall, and into a little plainly furnished study, whose air of rigid simplicity contrasted with the luxury of all the other parts of the house. chapter xviii. the young lady philosopher. seated, reading by a shaded study-lamp, was a young woman of what i should call the jeanie deans order--one whose whole personal appearance indicated that sort of compact, efficient union of energy and simplicity characteristic of the scottish heroine. her hair, of a pretty curly brown, was cut short, _à la_ rosa bonheur; her complexion glowed with a sort of a wholesome firmness, indicative of high health; her large, serious grey eyes had an expression of quiet resolution, united with careful observation. her figure inclined to the short, stout and well-compacted order, which gave promise of vitality and power of endurance--without pretensions to beauty. there was a wholesome, thoughtful cheerfulness and good humor in the expression of the face that made it decidedly prepossessing and attractive. the furniture of the room, too, was in contrast with all the other appointments of the house. it was old and worn, and of that primitive kind that betokened honest and respectable mediocrity. there was a quaint, old-fashioned writing-desk, with its array of drawers and pigeon-holes; there were old slippery wooden arm-chairs, unrelieved by cushions; while the floor was bare, excepting in front of the fire, where it was covered by a large square of what new england housekeepers call rag-carpet. the room, in fact, was furnished like the sitting-room of an old new england farm-house. a cheerful, bountiful wood-fire, burning on a pair of old-fashioned brass andirons, added to the resemblance. "you see, mr. henderson," said miss eva, when i had been introduced and seated, "you are now in the presence of miss van arsdel proper. this room is papa's and ida's joint territory, where their own tastes and notions have supreme sway; and so you see it is sacred to the memories of the past. there is all the old furniture that belonged to papa when he was married. poor man! he has been pushed out into grandeur, step by step, till this was all that remained, and ida opened an asylum for it. do you know, this is the only room in the house papa cares much for. you see, he was born on a farm, dear gentleman, and he has an inveterate yearning after primitive simplicity--huckleberries and milk, you know, and all that. don't this look like the old 'keeping-room' style?" "yes," said i, "it looks like _home_. i know rooms just like it." "but i _like_ these old primitive things," said ida. "i like hardness and simplicity. i am sick to death of softness and perfumed cushions and ease. we women are sweltered under down beds, and smothered with luxuries, in our modern day, till all the life dies out of us. _i_ want to live while i live, and to keep myself in such trim that i can _do_ something--and i won't pet myself nor _be_ petted." "there," said eva, laughing, "blood will tell; there's the old puritan broken loose in ida. she don't believe any of their doctrines, but she goes on their track. she's just like a st. bernard dog that she brought home once. as soon as snow came, he was wild to run out and search in it, and used to run off whole days in the woods, just because his ancestors were trained to hunt travelers. ida is as bent on testifying and going against the world as any old covenanter." "the world needs going against," said ida. "by the by, mr. henderson, you must allow me to thank you for your article on the 'woman of our times,' in the _milky way_. it is bracing, and will do good." "and i," said eva, kindling with a sort of flame-like vivacity, "have been perfectly dying to tell you that you don't _know_ us fashionable girls, and that we are not, after all, such poor trash as you seem to think. all the out-of-jointness of society is not our fault." "i protest, miss eva," said i, astonished at the eagerness of her manner. "i'm sure i don't know what i have said to give that impression." "oh, i dare say not. you have only used the good stock phrases and said the usual things. you reformers and moralists, and all that have got a way of setting us girls down as sinners as a matter of course, so that you never think when you do it. the 'dolls of fashion,' the 'butterflies,' &c., &c., are used to point the moral and adorn the tale. the girl of the period is the scapegoat for all the naughty things going. now, i say the girl of the period isn't a particle worse than the boy of the period; and i think reformers had better turn their attention to him." "but i don't remember," said i, astonished and confused at the sudden vivacity of this attack, "that i said anything." "oh, yes, but i do. you see it's the party that's hit that knows when a blow is struck. you see, mr. henderson, it isn't merely you, but everybody, from the london _spectator_ down, when they get on their preaching-caps, and come forth to right the wrongs of society, begin about _us_--our dressiness, our expensiveness, our idleness, our extravagance, our heartlessness. the men, poor, dear creatures, are led astray and ruined by _us_. it's the old story of adam: 'the woman beguiled me.'" "you see," said ida, laughing, "eva's conscience troubles her; that's why she's so sensitive." "well, that's the truth," said eva. "i'm _in_ the world, and ida has gone out of it; and so she can sit by, all serene, when hits are made at us, and say, 'i told you so.' but, you see, _i_ am _in_, and am all the while sure that about half what they say of us is true, and that makes me sensitive when they say too much. but, i insist upon it, it isn't _all_ true; and if it is, it isn't our fault. we are in the world just as we are in a railroad-car, and we can't help its carrying us on, even if we don't like the places it takes us through." "unless you get out of it," said ida. "yes, but it takes courage to get out alone, at some desolate way station, and set up your tent, and make your way, and have everybody in the cars screaming remonstrances or laughing at you. ida has the courage to do it, but i haven't. i don't believe in myself enough to do it, so i stay in the car, and wish i didn't, and wish we were all going a better way than we do." "no," said ida; "women are brought up in a way to smother all the life out of them. all literature from the earliest ages teaches them that it is graceful to be pretty and helpless; they aspire to be superficial and showy. they are directed to look on themselves as flowers-- gay without toil, and lovely without art, they spring to cheer the sense, and warm the heart; nor blush, my fair, to be compared to these-- your best, your noblest mission, is _to please_." "well," said eva, flushing, "wasn't it a _man_ that wrote that? and don't they always misunderstand us? we _are_ soft--we _are_ weak--we _do_ love beauty, and ease, and comfort; but there is a something in us more than they give us credit for. where is that place in carlyle?" she said, rising with a hasty impulse, and taking down a volume, and running rapidly over the leaves--"oh, here it is!" and she read with energy from carlyle's _hero worship_: 'it is a calumny to say that men are nerved to heroic action by ease, hope of pleasure, recompense--sugar-plums of any kind--in this world or the next. in the meanest mortal there is something nobler. the poor, swearing soldier, hired to be shot, has his honor of a soldier different from drill, regulations, and the shilling a day. it is not to taste sweet things, but to _do_ noble and true things, and vindicate himself under god's heaven as a god-made man, that the poorest son of adam dimly longs. show him the way of doing that, and the dullest drudge kindles into a hero. 'they wrong man greatly who say he is to be seduced by ease. difficulty, abnegation, martyrdom, death, are _allurements_ that act on the heart of man. kindle the inner genial life of him, and you have a flame that burns up all lower considerations.' "now," she said, her face glowing, and bringing down her little fist with emphasis, "_that_ is true of _women_ as well as men. they wrong woman greatly who say she is to be seduced by ease. difficulty, abnegation, martyrdom, death, are _allurements_ that act on the heart of woman. now, mr. henderson, every woman that _is_ a woman, feels this in the depths of her heart, and it is this feeling suppressed that is at the bottom of a great deal of unhappiness in woman's life. you men have your chance to express it--that is your great good fortune. you are called to be heroes--your hour comes--but we are buried under eternal common-places and trifles." "yet, miss eva," said i, "i don't think we are so very much better off than you. the life of the great body of _men_ is a succession of mere ignoble drudgeries, with nothing great or inspiring. unless we learn to ennoble the common-place by a heroic spirit, most of us must pass through life with no expression of this aspiration; and i think that more women succeed in doing this than men--in fact, i think it is the distinctive prerogative of woman to idealize life by shedding an ennobling spirit upon its very trifles." "that is true," she said, frankly; "but i confess it never occurred to me; yet don't you think it harder to be heroic in every-day affairs?" "certainly; but those that can inspire common-place drudgery with noble and heroic meanings are the true heroes. there was a carpenter once in nazareth who worked thirty years quietly at his bench; but who doubts that every stroke of that work was inspired and heroic, as much as the three public years that followed? and there are women, like him, toiling in poverty--hard-working wives, long-suffering mothers, whose every breath is heroic. there _can_ be no common-place where such noble creatures live and suffer." "yes, mr. henderson," said ida, "heroism can be in any life that is a _work_-life--any life which includes energy and self-denial. but fashionable life is based on mere love of ease. all it seeks is pleasurable sensation and absence of care and trouble, and it starves this heroic capability; and that is the reason, as eva says, why there is so much repressed unhappiness in women. it is the hunger of starving faculties. what are all these girls and women looking for? amusement, excitement. what do they dread more than anything? effort, industry, self-denial. not one of them can read a serious book through--not because they are not able, but because it takes an effort. they read nothing but serial stories, and if there is much thought in them, they skip it, to get at the story. all the education they get in schools lies idle; they do nothing with it, as a general thing. they neither read, write, nor speak their french, italian, or german--and what is the use of having got them? men study languages as a key to literature, and use literature for some purpose; women study only to forget. it does not take four languages and all the ologies to enable them to dance the german and compose new styles of trimming. they might do all they do equally as well without these expensive educations as with----" "there now, you have got sister ida on her pet topic," said eva, with heightened color; "she will take up her prophecy now, and give it to us wicked daughters of zion; but, after all, it only makes one feel worried and bad, and one doesn't know what to do. we don't make the world; we are born into and find it ready made. we find certain things are customs--certain things are expected of us--and we begin to say a, and then we must say b, and so on through the whole alphabet. we don't want to say b, but we must because we have said a. it isn't every one that is brave and strong enough to know where to stop, and face the world, and say, 'no, i will not do it.' we must keep step with our neighbors." "well," said ida, "who is it that says, 'be not conformed to the world'?" "yes--i know," said eva; "there's the bible--there are all the lessons and prayers and hymns of the church all going one way, and our lives all going the other--_all_ our lives--everybody's life--even nice people's lives--all go the other way; except now and then one. there's our new rector, now, he is beginning to try to bring us up to live as the church directs; but mamma and aunt maria, and all of them, cry out that he is high church, and going to popery, and all that; they say that if one is to live as he says, and go out to prayers morning and evening, and to holy communion every sunday, it will just upset our whole plan of life, that one might as well go into a convent--and so it will. one can't be in parties all night, and go to prayers every morning; one can't go through that awful holy communion every sunday, and live as we generally do through the week. all our rector is trying to do, is simply to make a _reality_ of our profession; he wants us to carry out in good faith what is laid down in the prayer-book; but you see we can't do it without giving up the world as we have it arranged now. for my part, i'm going to the daily services in lent, if i don't any other time, and though it does make me feel dreadfully wicked and uncomfortable." "oh, you poor child!" said ida; "why haven't you strength to do as you please?" "why haven't i the arm of a blacksmith? why can't i walk ten miles? there are differences of power in mind as well as body," said eva. the conversation was interrupted at this moment by mr. van arsdel, who entered quietly, with his spectacles and newspapers. "the children are having lively times in there," he said, "and i thought i'd just come here and sit where it's quiet, and read my papers." "papa says that every evening," said eva. "well, the fact is, mr. henderson," said he, with a confiding sort of simplicity, "ida and i feel at home in here, because it's just the little old place wife and i had when we began. you see, these are all my old things that we first went to housekeeping with, and i like them. i didn't want to have them sent off to auction, if they are old and clumsy." "and he should have them, so he should, pa-sey dear," said eva, caressingly, putting her arm round his neck. "but come, mr. henderson, i suppose the gay world outside will expect us." i had risen and was looking over the library. it was largely composed of modern scientific and physiological works. "you see my light reading," said ida, with a smile. "ida's books are a constant reproach to me," said eva; "but i dip in now and then, and fish up some wonderful pearl out of them; however, i confess to just the fatal laziness she reprobates--i don't go _through_ anything." "well, mr. henderson, we won't keep you from the world of the parlors," said ida; "but consider you have the _entrée_ here whenever you want a quiet talk; and we will be friends," she said, stretching out her hand with the air of a queen. "you honor me too much, miss van arsdel," said i. "come now, mr. henderson, we can't allow our principal literary lion to be kept in secret places," said miss eva. "you are expected to walk up and down and show yourself; there are half a dozen girls to whom i have promised to present you." and in a moment i found myself standing in a brilliant circle of gay tropical birds of fashion, where beauty, or the equivalent of beauty, charmingness, was the rule, and not the exception. in foreign lands, my patriotic pride had often been fed by the enthusiasm excited by my countrywomen. the beauty and grace of american women their success in foreign circles, has passed into a proverb; and in a new york company of young girls one is really dazzled by prettiness. it is not the grave, grand, noble type of the madonna and the venus de milo, but the delicate, brilliant, distracting prettiness of young birds, kittens, lambs, and flowers--something airy and fairy--belonging to youth and youthful feeling. you see few that promise to ripen and wax fairer in middle life; but almost all are like delicate, perfectly-blossomed flowers--fair, brilliant and graceful, with a fragile and evanescent beauty. the manners of our girls have been criticised, from the foreign standpoint, somewhat severely. it is the very nature of republican institutions to give a sort of unconventional freedom to its women. there is no upper world of court and aristocracy to make laws for them, or press down a framework of etiquette upon them. individual freedom of opinion and action pervades every school; it is breathed in the very air, and each one is, in a great degree, a law unto herself. every american girl feels herself in the nobility; she feels adequate to the situation, and perfectly poised in it. she dares do many things not permitted in foreign lands, because she feels strong in herself, and perfectly sure of her power. yet he who should presume on this frank generosity of manner, will find that diana has her arrows; and that her step is free only because she knows her strength, and understands herself perfectly, and is competent to any situation. at present, the room was full of that battledore-and-shuttlecock conversation, in which everything in heaven above or earth beneath is bantered to and fro, flitting and flying here and there from one bright lip to another. "now, really and truly, girls, are you going to the early services this lent? oh, mr. selwyn is such a good man! and wasn't his pastoral letter beautiful? we really ought to go. but, girls, i can't get up--indeed, i can't; do you know, it's dreadful--seven o'clock--only think of it. you won't go, eva?" "yes, i shall." "i lay you a pair of gloves you won't, now," quoth a mouth, adorned with a long pair of waxed moustaches of a true imperial type. "see if i don't." "oh, mamma says i mustn't try," said another; "i haven't the strength." "and i tell eva she can't do it," said mrs. van arsdel. "eva is always over-doing; she worked herself to death in a mission class last year. the fact is, one can't do these things, and go into society." "but what's the use of society, mamma?" said eva. "oh, well; we can't all turn into monks and nuns, you know; and that's what these modern high church doings would bring us to. i'm a good, old-fashioned episcopalian; i believe in going to church on sundays--and that's all we used to hear about." "do you know, mr. fellows, i saw you at st. alban's," said miss alice. "on your knees, too," said miss eva. "do you believe in bowing to the altar?" said a third; "i think it's quite popish." "girls, what are going to be worn for hats this spring? have you been to madame de tullerigs? i declare it's a shame! but lent is just the busiest time about one's clothes, one must have everything ready for easter, you know. how do you like the new colors, mr. fellows?" "what! the hell-fire colors?" said jim. "oh, horrors! you dreadful creature, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" screamed in four or five voices. "am ashamed--sackcloth and ashes, and all that; eat nothing but codfish," said jim. "but that's what they call 'em, any way--hell-fire colors." "i never did hear such a profane creature. girls, isn't he dreadful?" "i say, miss alice," said jim, "do you go to confession up there? 'cause, you see, if that thing is getting about, i think i'll turn priest." "i think _you_ ought to go to confession," said she. "i shall in the good times coming, when we have lady priests." "oh, mr. henderson, do you believe in women's rights?" "certainly." "well, for my part, i have all the rights i want," said miss alice. "i should think you did," said jim fellows; "but it's hard on us." "well, i think that is all infidelity," said another--"goes against the bible. _do_ you think women ought to speak in public?" "ristori and fanny kemble, for instance," said i. "oh, well--they are speaking other people's words; but their own?" "why not as well as in private?" "oh, because--why, i think it's dreadful; don't you?" "i can't perceive why. i am perfectly charmed to hear women speak, in public or private, who have anything good or agreeable to say." "but the publicity is so shocking!" "is it any more public than waltzing at the great public balls?" "oh, well, i think lecturing is dreadful; you'll never convince me. i hate all those dreadful, raving, tearing, stramming women." in which very logical and consecutive way the leading topics of the age were elegantly disposed of; and at eleven o'clock i found myself out on the pavement with the inexhaustible jim, who went singing and whistling by my side as fresh as a morning blackbird. my head was in a pretty thorough whirl; but i was initiated into society,--to what purpose shall hereafter appear. chapter xix. flirtation. "look there," said jim fellows, throwing down a pair of jouvin's gloves. "there's from the divine alice." "a present?" "a philopena." "seems to me, jim, you are pushing your fortunes in that quarter?" "yes; having a gay time! adoring at the shrine and all that," said jim. "the lovely alice is like one of the madonna pictures--to be knelt to, sworn to, vowed to--but i can't be the possessor. in the meanwhile, let's have as good a time as possible. we have the very best mutual understanding. i am her sworn knight, and wear her colors--behold!" and jim opened his coat, and showed a pretty knot of carnation-colored ribbon. "but, i thought, jim, you talked the other night as if you could get any of them you wanted?" "who says i couldn't, man? does not the immortal shakespeare say, 'she is a woman; therefore to be won'? you don't go to doubting shakespeare at this time of day, i hope?" "well, then--" "well, then; you see hal, we get wiser every day--that is, i do--and it begins to be borne in on my mind that these rich girls won't pay, if you could get them. the game isn't worth the candle." "but there is real thought and feeling and cultivation among them," said i, taking up the gauntlet with energy. "so there is real juice in hot-house grapes; but if i should have a present of a hot-house to-morrow, what should i have to run it with? these girls have the education of royal princesses, and all the habits and wants of them; and what could a fellow do with them if he got them? we haven't any parliament to vote dowries to keep them up on. i declare, i wish you had heard those girls the other night go on about that engagement, and what they expected when their time comes. do you know the steps of getting engaged?" "i cannot say i have that happiness," said i. "well, first, there's the engagement-ring, not a sign of love, you understand, but a thing to be discussed and compared with all the engagement-rings, past, present, and to come, with tom's ring, and dick's ring, and harry's ring. if you could have heard the girls tell over the prices of the different engagement-rings for the last six months, and bring up with rivington's, which, it seems, is a solitaire worth a thousand! henceforth nothing less is to be thought of. then the wedding present to your wife. rivington gives $ , worth of diamonds. wedding fees, wedding journey to every expensive place that can be thought of, you ought to have a little fortune to begin with. the lovely creatures are perfectly rapacious in their demands under these heads. i heard full lists of where they were going and what they wanted to have. then comes a house, in a fashionable quarter, to the tune of fifty thousand dollars; then furniture, carriages, horses, opera-boxes. the short of the matter is, old van arsdel's family are having a jolly time on the income of a million. there are six of them, and every one wants to set up in life on the same income. so, you see, the sum is how to divide a million so as to make six millions out of it. the way to do it is plain. each son and daughter must marry a million, and get as much of a man or woman with it as pleases heaven." "and suppose some of them should love some _man_, or woman, more than gold or silver, and choose love in place of money?" said i. "well," said jim, "that's quite supposable; any of these girls is capable of it. but after all, it would be rough on a poor girl to take her at her word. what do they know about it? the only domestic qualification the most practical of them ever think of attaining, is how to make sponge-cake. i believe, when they are thinking of getting married, they generally make a little sponge-cake, and mix a salad dressing, that fits them for the solemn and awful position of wife and mother, which you hear so much about. now, the queenly alice is a splendid girl, and can talk french and german and italian; but her knowledge of natural history is limited. i imagine she thinks gloves grow in packs on the trees, and artificial flowers are raised from seed, and dresses develop by uniform laws of nature at the rate of three or four a month. if you could get the darling to fly to your arms, and the old gentleman should come 'round, and give her what he could afford, how could you console her when she finds out the price of gloves and gaiter-boots, and all the ordinary comforts? i'm afraid the dear child will be ready to murder you for helping her to her own way. so you see, _jim_ doesn't invest in engagement-rings this year." thereupon i sung: "a sly old fox one day did spy, a bunch of grapes that hung so high," &c. "sing away, my good fellow," said jim. "maybe i am the fox; but i'm a fox that has cut his eye-teeth. i'm too cute to put my neck in that noose, you see. no, sir; you can mention to queen victoria that if she wants jim fellows to marry one of her daughters, why parliament has got to come down handsomely with dowry to keep her on. they are worth keeping, these splendid creations of nature and art; but it takes as much as to run a first-class steamer. they go exactly in the line of fine pictures and statuary, and all that. they may be adorable and inspiring, and exalting and refining and purifying, the very poetry of existence, the altogether lovely; but, after all, it is only the rich that can afford to keep them. a wife costs more in our day than a carriage or a conscience, and both those are luxuries too expensive for jim." "jim! jim!! jim!!!" i exclaimed, in tones of expostulation; but the impracticable jim cut a tall pirouette, and sung, "my old massa told me so, best looking nigger in the country, o! i looked in the glass and i found it so--_o_--o--o--_o_." the crescendo here made the papers flutter, and created a lively breeze in the apartment. "and now, farewell, divinest alice, jim must go to work. let's see. oh! i've promised a rip-staving skinner on tom brown in that custom house affair." "what _is_ that business? what has brown done? if all is true that is alleged he ought to be turned out of decent society." "oh pshaw! you don't understand; its nothing but a dust we're kicking up because its a dry time. brown's a good fellow enough, i dare say, but you know we want to sell our papers and these folks want hot hash with their breakfast every morning, and somebody has got to be served up. you see the _seven stars_ started this story, and sold immensely, and we come in on the wave; the word to our paper is 'pitch in' and so i'm pitching in." "but, jim, is it the fair thing to do when you don't know the truth of the story?" "the truth! well, my dear fellow, who knows or cares anything about truth in our days? we want to sell our papers." "and to sell your papers you will sell your honor as a man and a gentleman." "oh! bother, hal, with your preaching." "but, jim, you ought to examine both sides and know the truth." "i do examine; generally write on both sides when these rows come on. i'm going to defend brown in the _forum_; you see they sent round yesterday for an article, so you see jim makes his little peculium both ways." "jim, is that the square thing?" "why not? it would puzzle the devil himself to make out what the truth is in one of our real double and twisted new york newspaper rows. i don't pretend to do it, but i'll show up either side or both sides if i'm paid for it. we young men must live! if the public must have spicery we must get it up for them. we only serve out what they order. i tell you, now, what this great american people wants is a semi-occasional _row_ about something, no matter what; a murder, or a revival, or a great preacher, or the black crook; the lord or the devil, anything to make matters lively, and break up the confounded dull times round in the country." "and so you get up little personal legends, myths, about this or that man?" "exactly, that's what public men are good for. they are our drums and tamborines; we beat on 'em to amuse the people and make a variety; nobody cares for anything more than a day; they forget it to-morrow, and something else turns up." "and you think it right," said i, "to use up character just as you do boot-blacking to make your boots shine? how would you like to be treated so yourself?" "shouldn't mind it a bit--bless your buttons--it don't hurt anybody. nobody thinks the worse of them. why, you could prove conclusively that any of our public men break the whole ten commandments at a smash--break 'em for breakfast, dinner and supper, and it wouldn't hurt 'em. people only oh and ah and roll up their eyes and say "terrible!" and go out and meet him, and it's "my dear fellow how are you? why haven't you been round to our house lately?" by and by they say, "look here, we're tired of this about brown, give us more variety." then jones turns up and off go the whole pack after jones. that keeps matters lively, you see." i laughed and jim was perfectly satisfied. all that he ever wanted in an argument was to raise a laugh, and he was triumphant, and went scratching on with his work with untiring industry. he always left me with an uneasy feeling, that by laughing and letting him alone i was but half doing my duty, and yet it seemed about as feasible to present moral considerations to a bob-o-link. "there," he said, after half an hour of scribbling, "there's so much for old mam." "who's old 'mam'?" "haven't heard! why, your mistress and mine, the old mammon of unrighteousness; she is mistress of all things here below. you can't even carry on religion in this world but through her. you must court old mam, or your churches, and your missions, and all the rest go under, and jim works hard for her, and she owes him a living." "there have been men in our day who prevailed in spite of her." "who, for example?" "garrison." "well, he's top of the heap now, sure enough, but i tell you that was a long investment. jim has to run on ready cash and sell what's asked for now. i stand at my counter, "walk up, gentlemen, what'll you take; orders taken and executed with promptness and despatch. religion? yes sir. here's the account of the work of divine grace in skowhegan; fifty awakened and thirty-nine indulging in hope. here's criticism on boanerges' orthodoxy, showing how he departs from the great vital doctrines of grace, giving up hell and all the other consolations of our holy religion. we'll serve you out orthodoxy red hot. anything in this line? here's the latest about sweet little dame aux camelias, and lovely little kitty blondine. 'oh! kitty is my darling, my darling, my darling, etc.' and here's the reformatory, red hot, hit or miss, here's for the niggers and the paddies and the women and all the enslaved classes. jim will go it for any of them, only give him his price." i think of getting up a show bill with list of prices affixed. jim will run anybody up or run anybody down to order." i put my hand over his mouth. "come, you born magpie," said i, "you shan't make yourself out so much worse than you are." * * * * * [eva van arsdel to isabel convers.] _my dear belle_:--i told you i would write the end of my little adventure, and whether the "hermit" comes or not. yes, my dear, sure enough, he did come, and mamma and we all like him immensely; he had really quite a success among us. even ida, who never receives calls, was gracious and allowed him to come into her sanctum because he is a champion of the modern idea about women. have you seen an article in the "_milky way_" on the "women of our times," taking the modern radical ground? well, it was by him; it suited ida to a hair, but some little things in it vexed me because there was a phrase or two about the "fashionable butterflies," and all that; that comes a great deal too near the truth to be altogether agreeable. i don't care when ida says such things, because she's another woman, and between ourselves we know there _is_ a deal of nonsense current among us, and if we have a mind to talk about it among ourselves, why its like abusing one's own relations in the bosom of the family, one of the sweetest domestic privileges, you know; but, when lordly man begins to come to judgment and call over the roll of our sins, i am inclined to tell him to look at home, and to say, "pray, what do you know about us sir?" i stand up for my sex, right or wrong; so you see we had a spicy little controversy, and i made the hermit open his eyes, (and, between us, he has handsome eyes to open). he looked innocently astonished at first to be taken up so briskly, and called to account for his sayings. you see the way these men have of going on and talking without book about us quite blinds them; they can set us down conclusively in the abstract when they don't see us or hear us, but when a real live girl meets them and asks an account of their sayings they begin to be puzzled. however, i must say my lord _can_ talk when he fairly is put up to it. he is a true, serious, earnest-hearted man, and does talk beautifully, and his eyes speak when he is silent. the forepart of the evening, you see we were in a state of most charming agreement; he was in our little "italy," and we had the nicest of times going over all the pictures and portfolios and the dear old italian life; it seems as if we had both of us seen, and thought of, and liked the same things--it was really curious! well, like enough, that's all there is to it. ten to one he never will call again. mamma invited him to be here every wednesday, quite urged it upon him, but he said his time was so filled up with _work_. there you see is where men have the advantage of girls! they have something definite to fill up their time, thought and hearts; we _nothing_, so we think of them from sheer idleness, and they forget us through press of business. ten to one he never calls here again. why should he? i shouldn't think he would. _i_ wouldn't if i were he. he isn't a dancing man, nor an idler, but one that takes life earnestly, and after all i dare say he thinks us fashionable girls a sad set. but i'm sure he must admire ida; and she was wonderfully gracious _for her_, and gave him the entrée of her sanctum, where there never are any but rational sayings and doings. well, we shall see. i am provoked with what you tell me about the reports of my engagement to mr. sydney, and i tell you now once again "no, no." i told you in my last that i was not engaged, and i now tell you what is more that i never _can_, _shall_ or _will_ be engaged to him; _my mind is made up_, but how to get out of the net that is closing round me i don't see. i think all these things are "perplexing and disagreeable." if a girl wants to do the fair thing it is hard to know how. first you refuse outright, and then my lord comes as a friend. will you only allow him the liberty to try and alter your feelings, and all that? you shall not be forced; he only wants you to get more acquainted, and the result is you go on getting webbed and meshed in day after day more and more. you can't refuse flowers and attentions offered by a friend; if you take them you may be quite sure they will be made to mean more. mamma and aunt maria have a provoking way of talking about it constantly as a settled thing, and one can't protest from morning till night, apropos to every word. at first they urged me to receive his attentions; now they are saying that i have accepted so many i can't honorably withdraw. and so he doesn't really give me an opportunity to bring the matter to a crisis; he has a silent taking-for-granted air, that is provoking. but the law that binds our sex is the law of all ghosts and spirits; we can't speak till we are spoken to; meanwhile reports spread, and people say hateful things as if you were trying and failing. how angry that makes me! one is almost tempted sometimes to accept just to show that one can; but, seriously, dear belle, this is wicked trifling. marriage is an awful, a tremendous thing, and we of the church are without excuse if we go into it lightly or unadvisedly, and i never shall marry till i see the man that is my fate. i have what mamma calls domestic ideas, and _i'm going to have them_, and when i marry it shall be for the man alone, not a pieced up affair of carriages, horses, diamonds, opera boxes, cashmeres _with_ a man, but a _man_ for whom all the world were well lost; then i shall not be afraid of the church service which now stands between me and mr. sydney. i cannot, i dare not lie to god and swear falsely at the altar, to gain the whole world. i wish you could hear our new rector. he is making a sensation among us. if the life he is calling on us all to live is the real and true one, we shall soon have to choose between what is called society, and the church; for if being a church-woman means all he says, one cannot be in it without really making religion the life's business--which, you know, we none of us do or have. dear man, when i see him tugging and straining to get our old, sleepy, rich families into heavenly ways, i think of pegasus yoked to a stone cart. he is all life and energy and enthusiasm, he breathes fire, and his wings are spread heavenward, but there's the old dead, lumbering cart at his heels! poor man!--and poor cart too--for i am in it with the rest of the lumber! we are in all the usual spring agonies now about clothes. the house reverberates with the discussion of hats and bonnets, and feathers and flowers, and overskirts and underskirts, and all the paraphernalia--and what an absurd combination it makes with the daily services in lent. absurd? no--_dreadful!_ for at church we are reading of our saviour's poverty and fasting and agonies--what a contrast between his life and ours! was it to make us such as we are that he thus lived and died? cousin sophia is happy in her duties in the sisterhood. her church life and daily life are all of a piece--one part is not a mockery of the other. there's ida too--out of the church, making no profession of churchly religion, but living wholly out of this bustling, worldly sphere, devoted to a noble life purpose--fitting herself to make new and better paths for women. ida has none of these dress troubles; she has cut loose from all. her simple black dress costs incredibly less than our outfit--it is all arranged _with a purpose_--yet she always has the air of a lady, and she has besides a real _repose_, which we never do. this matter of dress has a thousand jars and worries and vexations to a fastidious nature; one wishes one were out of it. i have heard that nuns often say they are more blessed than ever they were in the world, and i can conceive why,--it is a perfect and blissful rest from all that troubles ordinary women. in the first place, the marriage question. they know that they are not to be married, and it is a comfort to have a _definite_ settlement of that matter. then all agitations and fluctuations about _that_ are over. in the next place, the dress question. they have a dress provided, put it on, and wear it without thought or inquiry; there is no room for thought, or use for inquiry. in the third place, the question of sphere and work is settled for them; they know their duties exactly; and if they don't, there is a director to tell them; they have only to obey. this must be rest--blissful rest. i think of it sometimes, and wonder why it is that this dress question must smother us women and wear us out, and take our whole life and breath as it does! in our family it is perfectly fearful. if one had only one's self to please, it is hard enough--what with one's own fastidious taste, with dressmakers who never keep their word, and push you off at the last moment with abominable things; but when one has pleased one's self, then comes mamma, and then all the girls, every one with an opinion; and then when this gauntlet is run, comes aunt maria, more solemn and dictatorial than the whole--so that by the time anything gets really settled, one is so fatigued that life doesn't seem really worth having. i told mr. henderson, in our little discussion last night, that i envied _men_ because they had a chance to live a real, grand, heroic life, while we were smothered under trifles and common-places, and he said, in reply, that the men had no more chances in this way than we; that theirs was a life of drudgeries and detail; and that the only way for man or woman was to animate ordinary duties by a heroic spirit. he said that woman's speciality was to idealize life by shedding a noble spirit upon its ordinary trifles. i don't think he is altogether right. i still think the opportunities for a noble life are ten to one in the hands of men; but still there is a great deal in what he says. he spoke beautifully of the noble spirit shown by some women in domestic life. i thought perhaps it was his mother he was thinking of. he must have known some noble woman, for his eye kindled when he spoke about it. how i have run on--and what a medley this letter is. i dare not look it over, for i should be sure to toss it into the fire. write to me soon, dearest bella, and tell me what you think of matters so far. your ever loving eva. chapter xx. i become a family friend. i have often had occasion to admire the philosophical justice of popular phrases. the ordinary cant phraseology of life generally represents a homely truth because it has grown upon reality like a lichen upon a rock. "falling in love" is a phrase of this kind; it represents just that phenomenon which is all the time happening among the sons and daughters of adam in most unforeseen times and seasons, and often when the subject least intends it, and even intends something quite the contrary. the popular phrase "falling in love" denotes something that comes unexpectedly. one may walk into love preparedly, advisedly, with the eyes of one's understanding open; but one _falls in_ love as one falls down stairs in a dark entry, simply because the foot is set where there is nothing for it to stand on, which i take to be a simile of most philosophical good resolutions. i flattered myself at this period of my existence, that i was a thorough-paced philosopher; a man that had outlived the snares and illusions of youth, and held himself and all his passions and affections under most perfect control. the time had not yet come marked out in my supreme wisdom for me to meditate matrimonial ideas: in the mean while, i resolved to make the most of that pleasant and convenient arbor on the hill difficulty which is commonly called friendship. concerning this arbor i have certain observations to make. it is most commodiously situated, and commands charming prospects. we are informed of some, that on a clear day one can see from it quite plainly as far as to the delectable mountains. from my own experience i have no doubt of this fact. for a young man of five-and-twenty or thereabouts, not at present in circumstances to marry, what is more charming than to become the intimate friend in a circle of vivacious and interesting young ladies, in easy circumstances, who live in a palace surrounded by all the elegancies, refinements, and comforts of life? more blissful still, if he be welcomed to these bowers of beauty by a charming and courteous mamma who hopes he will make himself at home, and assures him that they will treat him quite as one of the family. this means, of course, that perfect confidence is reposed in his discretion. he is labeled--"safe." he is to gaze on all these charms, with a disinterested spirit, without a thought of personal appropriation. of course he is not to stand in the way of eligible establishments that may offer, but meanwhile he can make himself generally agreeable and useful. he may advise the fair charmers as to their reading and superintend the cultivation of their minds; he may be on hand whenever an escort is needed to a party, he may brighten up dull evenings by reading aloud, and in short may be that useful individual that is looked on "quite as a brother, you know." young men who glide into this position in families, generally, i believe, enjoy it quite as much as the moth-millers who seem to derive such pleasure from the light and beat of the evening lamp, and with somewhat similar results. but though thousands of these unsophisticated insects singe their wings every evening, the thousand-and-first one comes to the charge with a light heart in his bosom, and quite as satisfied of his good fortune as i was when mrs. van arsdel with the sweetest and most motherly tones said to me, "i know, mr. henderson, the lonely life you young men must lead when you first come to cities; you have been accustomed to the home circle, to mother and sisters, and it must be very dreary. pray, make this a sort of home; drop in at any time, our parlors are always open, and some of us about; or if not, why, there are the pictures and the books, you know, and there is the library where you can write." surely it was impossible for a young man to turn away from all this allurement. it was the old classic story:-- "the mother circe with the syrens three, among the flowery kirtled naïdes." mrs. van arsdel, as i said, was one of three fair sisters who had attained a great celebrity, in the small provincial town where they were born, for their personal charms. they were known far and near as the beautiful miss askotts. their father was a man rather in the lower walks of life, and the fortunes of the family were made solely by the personal attractions of the daughters. the oldest of these, maria askott, married into one of the so-called first new york families. the match was deemed in the day of it a very brilliant one. tom wouverman was rich, showy, and dissipated; and in a very few years ran through both with his property and constitution, and left his wife the task of maintaining a genteel standing on very limited means. the second sister, ellen, married mr. van arsdel when he was in quite modest circumstances, and had been carried up steadily by his business ability to the higher circles of new york life. the third had married a rich southern planter whose fortunes have nothing to do with my story. the van arsdel household, like most american families, was substantially under feminine rule. mr. van arsdel was a quiet, silent man, whose whole soul was absorbed in business, and who left to his wife the whole charge of all that concerned the household and his children. mrs. van arsdel, however, was under the control of her elder sister. there are born dictators as well as born poets. certain people come into the world with the instinct and talent for ruling and teaching, and certain others with the desire and instinct of being taught and ruled over. there are people born with such a superfluous talent for management and dictation that they always, instinctively and as a matter of course, arrange not only their own affairs but those of their friends and relations, in the most efficient and complete manner possible. such is the tendency of things to adaptation and harmony, that where such persons exist we are sure to find them surrounded by those who take delight in being guided, who like to learn and to look up. such a domestic ruler was mrs. maria wouverman, commonly known in the van arsdel circle as "aunt maria," a name of might and authority anxiously interrogated and quoted in all passages of family history. now the fact is quite striking that the persons who hold this position in domestic policy are often not particularly strong or wise. the governing mind of many a circle is not by any means the mind best fitted either mentally or morally to govern. it is neither the best nor the cleverest individual of a given number who influences their opinions and conduct, but the person the most perseveringly self-asserting. it is amusing in looking at the world to see how much people are taken at their own valuation. the persons who always have an opinion on every possible subject ready made, and put up and labeled for immediate use, concerning which they have no shadow of a doubt or hesitation, are from that very quality born rulers. this positiveness, and preparedness, and readiness may spring from a universal shallowness of nature, but it is none the less efficient. while people of deeper perceptions and more insight are wavering in delicate distresses, balancing testimony and praying for light, this common-place obtuseness comes in and leads all captive, by mere force of knowing exactly what it wants, and being incapable of seeing beyond the issues of the moment. mrs. maria wouverman was all this. she always believed in herself, from the cradle. the watchwords of her conversation were always of a positive nature. "to be sure," "certainly," "of course," "i see," and "i told you so." correspondingly to this, mrs. van arsdel, her next sister, was one who said habitually, "what would you do, and how would you do it?" and so the domestic duet was complete. mrs. wouverman did not succeed in governing or reclaiming her husband, but she was none the less self-confident for that; and having seen him comfortably into his grave, she had nothing to do but get together the small remains of the estate and devote herself to "dear ellen and her children." mrs. wouverman managed her own house, where everything was arranged with the strictest attention and economy, and to the making a genteel appearance on a small sum, and yet found abundance of time to direct sister ellen and her children. she was a good natured, pleasant-mannered woman, fond of her nieces and nephews; and her perfect faith in herself, the decision of all her announcements, and the habitual attitude of consultation in which the mother of the family stood towards her, led the van arsdel children as they grew up to consider "aunt maria," like the bible or civil government, as one of the great ready-made facts of society, to be accepted without dispute or injury. mrs. wouverman had her own idea of the _summum bonum_, that great obscure point about which philosophers have groped in vain. had plato or anaxagoras or any of those ancient worthies appealed to her, she would have smiled on them benignantly and said: "why yes, of course, don't you see? the thing is very simple. you must keep the best society and make a good appearance." mrs. van arsdel had been steadily guided by her in the paths of fashionable progression. having married into a rich old family, aunt maria was believed to have mysterious and incommunicable secrets of gentility at her command. she was always supposed to have an early insight into the secret counsels of that sublime, awful, mysterious "_they_," who give the law in fashionable life. "_they_ don't wear bonnets that way, now!" "my love, _they_ wear gloves sewed with colored silks, now!" or, "_they_ have done with hoops and flowing sleeves," or, "_they_ are beginning to wear hoops again! _they_ are going to wear long trains," or, "_they_ have done with silver powder now!" all which announcements were made with a calm solemnity of manner calculated to impress the youthful mind with a sense of their profound importance. mr. van arsdel followed aunt maria's lead with that unquestioning meekness which is so edifying a trait in our american gentlemen. in fact he considered the household and all its works and ways as an insoluble mystery which he was well pleased to leave to his wife; and if his wife chose to be guided by "maria" he had no objection. so long as his business talent continued yearly to enlarge his means of satisfying the desires and aspirations of his family, so long he was content quietly and silently to ascend in the scale of luxurious living, to have his house moved from quarter to quarter until he reached a fifth avenue palace, to fill it with pictures and statuary, of which he knew little and cared less. under aunt maria's directions mrs. van arsdel aspired to be a leader in fashionable society. no house was to be so attractive as her's, no parties so brilliant, no daughters in greater demand. nature had generously seconded her desires. her daughters were all gifted with fine personal points as well as a more than common share of that spicy genial originality of mind which is as a general thing rather a characteristic of young american girls. mr. van arsdel had had his say about the education of his sons and daughters. no expense had been spared. they had been sent to the very best schools that money could procure, and had improved their advantages. the consequences of education had been as usual to increase the difficulties of controlling the subject. the horror and dismay of mrs. van arsdel and of aunt maria cannot be imagined when they discovered almost immediately on the introduction of ida van arsdel into society that they had on their hands an actual specimen of the strong minded young woman of the period; a person who looked beyond shows, who did her own thinking, and who despised or approved with full vigor without consulting accepted standards, and was resolutely resolved not to walk in the ways her pastors or masters had hitherto considered the only appointed ones for young ladies of good condition. to work embroidery, go to parties, entertain idlers and wait to be chosen in marriage, seemed to a girl who had spent six years in earnest study a most lame and impotent conclusion to all that effort; and when ida van arsdel declared her resolution to devote herself to professional studies, aunt maria's indignation and disgust is not to be described. "so shocking and indelicate! for my part i can't imagine how anybody can want to think on such subjects! i'm sure it gives me a turn just to look into a work on physiology, and all those dreadful pictures of what is inside of us! i think the less we know about such subjects the better; women were made to be wives and mothers, and not to trouble their heads about such matters; and to think of ida, of all things, whose father is rich enough to keep her like a princess whether she ever does a thing or not! why should _she_ go into it? why, ida is not bad looking. she is quite pretty, in fact; there are a dozen girls with not half her advantages that have made good matches, but it's no use talking to her. that girl is obstinate as the everlasting hills, and her father backs her up in it. well, we must let her go, and take care of the others. eva is my god-child, and we must at any rate secure something for her." _something_, meant of course a splendid establishment. the time of my introduction into the family circle was a critical one. in the race for fashionable leadership mrs. van arsdel had one rival whose successes were as stimulating and as vexatious to her as the good fortune of mordecai the jew was to haman in old testament times. all her good fortune and successes were spoiled by the good fortune and successes of another woman, who was sure to be a little ahead of her in everything that she attempted; and this was the more trying as this individual began life with her, and was a sort of family connection. in days of her youth there was one polly sanders, a remote cousin of the askotts, who was reputed a beauty by some. polly was what is called in new england "smart." she was one who never lost an opportunity, and, as the vulgar saying is, could make every edge cut. her charms were far less than those of the misses askott, and she was in far more straitened circumstances; but she went at the problem of life in a sort of tooth-and-nail fashion, which often is extremely successful. she worked first in a factory, till she made a little money, with which she put herself to school--acquired showy accomplishments, and went up like a balloon; married a man with much the same talent for getting along in the world as herself; went to paris and returned a traveled, accomplished woman, and the pair set up for first society people in new york; and to the infinite astonishment of mrs. wouverman, were soon in a position to patronize her, and to run a race, neck and neck, with the van arsdels. what woman's christian principles are adequate to support her under such trials? nothing ever impressed aunt maria with such a sense of the evils of worldliness as polly elmore's career. she was fond of speaking of her familiarly as "polly;" and recalling the time when she was only a factory-girl. according to aunt maria, such grasping, unscrupulous devotion to things seen and temporal, had never been known in anybody as in the case of polly. aunt maria, of course, did not consider herself as worldly. nobody ever does. you do not, i presume, my dear madam. when your minister preaches about worldly people, your mind immediately reverts to the joneses and the simpsons round the corner, and you rather wonder how they take it. in the same manner aunt maria's eyes were always being rolled up, and she was always in a shocked state at something these dreadful, worldly, dressy elmores were doing. but still they went on from conquering to conquer. mrs. elmore was a dashing leader of fashion--spoke french like a book--was credibly reported to have skated with the emperor at the bois de boulogne--and, in short, there was no saying what feathers she didn't wear in her cap. the van arsdels no sooner did a thing than the elmores did more. the van arsdels had a house in fifth avenue; the elmores set up a french chateau on the park. the van arsdels piqued themselves on _recherché_ society. the elmores made it a point to court all the _literati_ and distinguished people. hence, rising young men were of great value as ornaments to the _salons_ of the respective houses--if they had brought with them a name in the literary world, so much the more was their value--it was important to attach them to _our salon_, lest they should go to swell the triumphs of the enemy. the crowning, culminating triumph of the elmores was the engagement, just declared, of maria, the eldest daughter, to young rivington, of rivington manor, concerning which aunt maria and mrs. van arsdel were greatly moved. the engagement was declared, and brilliant wedding preparations on foot that should eclipse all former new york grandeurs; and what luminary was there in the van arsdel horizon to draw attention to that quarter? "positively, ellen," said aunt maria, "the engagement between eva and wat sydney _must come out_. it provokes me to see the absurd and indelicate airs the elmores gives themselves about this rivington match. it's really in shocking taste. i'm sure _i_ don't envy them sam rivington. there are shocking stories told about him. they say he is a perfect _roué_--has been taken home by the police night after night. how polly, with all her worldliness, can make such an utter sacrifice of her daughter is what _i_ can't see. now sydney everybody knows is a strictly correct man. ellen, this thing ought to come out." "but, dear me, maria, eva is such a strange child. she won't admit that there is any engagement." "she _must_ admit it, ellen--of course she must. it's ida that puts her up to all her strange ideas, and will end by making her as odd as she is herself. there's that new young man, that henderson--why don't we turn him to account? ida has taken a fancy to him, i hear, and it's exactly the thing. only get ida's thoughts running that way and she'll let eva alone, and stop putting notions into her head. henderson is a gentleman, and would be a very proper match for ida. he is literary, and she is literary. he is for all the modern ideas, and so is she. i'm sure, i go with all my heart for encouraging him. it's exactly the thing." and aunt maria "shook her ambrosial curls and gave the nod," with a magnificence equal to jupiter in the old homeric days. chapter xxi. i discover the beauties of friendship. much has been written lately concerning the doctrine of friendship between men and women. it is thought and said by some that there lies an unexplored territory in our american life, and we have the example of madame récamier set before us to show how perfectly intimate and devoted a whole circle of manly friends may be with one fair woman, without detriment or disadvantage to their domestic ties or hers. the adorable juliet is the intimate friend at once of matthew montmorenci, the saint, of chateaubriand, the poet, and of an indefinite number of artists and men of letters, all of whom address her in language of adoration and devotion, and receive from her affectionate messages in return. chateaubriand spends every afternoon with juliet, and every evening with his invalid wife, like a devoted and dutiful husband, and this state of things goes on from year to year without trouble and without scandal. it was with some such sublimated precedent in my head that i allowed myself to yield to the charming temptation opened to me by my acquaintance with eva van arsdel. supposing by jim's account that she was already engaged, looking on myself as yet far off from the place where i could think of marriage, what was there to hinder my enjoying her society? of course, there was no possible danger to myself, and it would be absolute coxcombry to think that there would be any to her. she, who had been a queen of fashion, and who had the world under her feet, if she deigned to think kindly of a poor _littérateur_, it could surely lead to nothing dangerous. i might have been warned, if i were wise, by the fact that the night after my first presentation i lay awake and thought over all she had said, and counted the days that should intervene before next wednesday evening. i would not for the world have had jim fellows divine what was going on within me; in fact i took as much pains to cajole and pacify and take myself in as if i had been a third party. i woke about six o'clock in the dim grey of the next morning, from a dream in which eva and i were talking together, when she seemed so vivid that i started up almost feeling that i saw her face in the air. suddenly i heard the bell of a neighboring church strike the hour, and thought of what she had said the evening before about attending morning services. what was to hinder my going to the church and seeing her again? there was a brisk morning walk, that was a good thing, and certainly morning devotion was something so altogether right and reasonable that i wondered i never had thought of it before. i dressed myself and turned out into the streets to seek the little church of the holy sepulcher where the new rector of whom eva had spoken held early lenten services. there was something quaint and rather exciting to my imagination to be one of a small band who sought the church at this early hour. the sunlight of the rising day streamed through the painted window and touched with a sort of glory the white dress of the priest; the organ played softly in subdued melody, and the words of the morning service had a sort of touching lovely sound. "where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am i in the midst of them" seemed to come to my thoughts with new force as i looked on the small number, two or three in a pew, who were scattered up and down through the church. she was there in a seat not far from me, shrouded in a simple black dress and veil, and seemed wholly and entirely absorbed by her prayer-book and devotions. as the little company dispersed at the close of the services, i stood in the door and joined her as she passed out. "good morning, miss van arsdel," i said. she started and looked surprised, and a bright color flushed in her cheeks. "mr. henderson! you quite astonish me." "why so?" "there are so very few who get out at this hour; and you, i believe, are not of the church." "i don't know what you mean by _the_ church, exactly," said i. "oh," said she, looking at me with a conscious smile, "i know what everybody means that says _the_ church--it generally means _our_ church--the one that is _the_ church for us; but you, i think, belong to the bethany," she added. "i do," said i, "but i have large sympathies for all others, particularly for yours, which seems to me in some points more worthily to represent what a church should be, than any other." she looked pleased, and said with warmth, "mr. henderson, you must not judge our church by such very imperfect specimens as you see among us. we are very unworthy children of a noble mother; our church has everything in it to call us to the highest and best life, only we fall far below her teaching." "i think i can see," i said, "that if the scheme of living set forth by the episcopal church were carried out with warmth and devotion, it would make an ideal sort of society." "it would be a really consecrated life," she said, with warmth. "if all would agree to unite in daily morning and evening prayers for instance," she said, "how beautiful it would be." "i never enjoy reading my bible alone in my room as i do to have it read to me here in church; somehow to me there is a sacred charm about it when i hear it read there, and then to have friends, neighbors and families meet and pray together as one, every day, would be beautiful. i often think i should like to live close by one of those beautiful english cathedrals where they have choral services every day, and i would go morning and evening, but here, in this dreadful, flashy, busy, bustling new york, there is no such thing, i suppose, as getting any number of people to agree to daily worship." "in that respect," said i, "we modern christians seem to be less devout than the ancient heathen or the mohammedans; you recollect huju buba sums up the difference between the englishman and the persian by saying, 'we persians pray seven times a day, and they, never.'" "i like to come to church," she said, "it seems a shelter and a refuge. nowadays there are so many things said that one doesn't know what to think of; so many things disputed that one has always supposed to be true; such a perfectly fatiguing rush of ideas and assertions and new ways that for my part i am glad to fall back upon something old and established, that i feel sure isn't going to melt away into mist before to-morrow." "i can well appreciate that feeling," i said, "for i have it myself." "do you? oh, mr. henderson, you don't know how it perplexes one. there's sister ida, now! she has a circle of friends--the very nicest sort of people they seem to be!--but, dear me! when i am with them a little while, i get perfectly bewildered. no two of them seem to believe alike on any subject; and if you quote the bible to them, they just open their eyes and look amazed at you, as if _that_ was something quite behind the age; and as there is no standard with them, of course there is nothing settled. you feel as if life was built on water, and everything was rocking and tilting till you are quite dizzy. now, i know i am a poor sort of a specimen of a christian; but _i_ couldn't live so! i fly back from this sort of thing, like a frightened bird, and take refuge in the church--_there_ is something fixed, positive, and definite, that has stood the test of time; it is noble and dignified, and i abide by that." "there is all that about it," said i; "and so very much that is attractive and charming in the forms of your church, that i think if you would only open your arms wide, and be liberal as the spirit of this age, you would indeed be _the_ church of the world." "you think we are not liberal?" she said. "when you call yourselves _the_ church, and make no account of all that true, pure, good souls--true followers of the same saviour--are doing, it seems to me you are not." "ah, well, mr. henderson, perhaps we are wrong there--i cannot say. i know there are many churches and many dear, good souls in all; it is only to _me_ that mine is _the_ church; if that is an illusion, it is a happy one." "now," said i, "what a dreary picture should we have of new york christianity, if we judged it by the few morning worshipers at lenten services!" "yes, indeed," she said. "i am often sorry for our rector--he is so earnest, and so few care to come; and yet he told us in his sermon, last sunday, that these lenten services were an act of union with our saviour's self-denials and sufferings." "well, miss van arsdel," said i, "i doubt not there are hundreds of thousands in this city who do really, in spirit, unite with the saviour in self-denials and sufferings, daily, who do not express it in this form. if all who really love the saviour, and are living in his spirit, _should_ make a point of early morning service in lent, i verily believe the churches would be crowded to overflowing." "you do really think so?" "i do. in spite of all that appears, i think ours is really, at heart, a religious age--it is only that we do not agree in the same external forms of expression." "but how beautiful! oh, how beautiful it would be if we could!" she said. "oh, it would be lovely if all the good and true could see each other, and stand side by side! i long for _visible_ unity--and do you think, mr. henderson, we could unite in _more_ beautiful forms than ours?" "no; i do not," said i; "for me, for you, for many like us, these are the true forms, and the best; but we must remember that others have just as sacred associations, and are as dearly attached to other modes of worship as we to these." "then you really do prefer them yourself?" "well, miss van arsdel, i unite with the church of my father and mother, because i was brought up in it; yet if i were to choose another, it would be yours." she looked pleased, and i added: "it seems to me one of the most beautiful things about it is a daily service." "yes," she said, "and it is pleasant to have churches where you feel that worship is daily offered, whether people attend or not. there was something sacred and beautiful about the church of st. peter's in rome--to think that at every hour of day or night worship was going on in it. i used to like to think of it when i awoke nights--that they were praying and adoring there--in this cold, dreary world; it seems as if it was like a father's house, always light, and warm, and open." "there is a beauty and use in all these forms and images," i said; "and i think if we are wise, we may take comfort in them all, without being enslaved by any." here our interview closed, as with a graceful salutation she left me at the door of her house. the smile she gave me was so bright and heart-warm, that it lightened all my work through the day; a subtle sense of a new and charming companionship began to shed itself through all my labors, and, unconsciously and unwatched, commenced that process of double thought which made everything i read or wrote suggest something i wanted to say to her. the reader will not, therefore, wonder that i proved my sense of the beauty of a daily morning service by going with great regularity after this, and as regularly walking home with my enchanting companion. i was innocently surprised to find how interesting the morning scenery in prosaic old new york had become. it was april, and the buds in the park were swelling, and the green grass springing in the cracks of the pavement, and little sparrows twittered and nestled in the ivy that embowered the church--and all these things had a strange, new charm for me. i told myself, every day, that i was not in love with eva van arsdel, or going to be; i took myself to witness that all our conversation was on the most correct and dispassionate subjects, and not in the slightest degree inclining to any vanity of that nature. since then, i have learned that eva was the kind of woman with whom it made no difference what the subject matter of conversation was. it might be religion, or politics, or conic sections, but the animus of it was sure to be the same thing. it was her vital magnetism that gave the interest. it was, in fact, hardly any matter what we talked about, or whether we talked at all, it was the charm of being together that made these morning interviews so delightful; though i believe we discussed nearly everything under the sun, with the most astonishing unanimity of sentiment. i was very careful to keep the knowledge of my increasing intimacy from jim fellows. early rising was not his forte, and i, very improperly, congratulated myself on the fewness of the worshipers at early service. by and by, i grew so conscious that i got a way of stealing out at an opposite door, appearing to walk off another way, and joining eva at the next corner--lest haply my invariable constancy should attract attention. she noticed all these things with a droll, amused, little, half-conscious look. true daughter of eve as she was, she had probably seen many a shy fish before, swimming around her golden net as artlessly as i was doing. i soon became her obedient slave and servant, interpreting all her motions and intimations with humble assiduity. of course i presented myself duly with jim in the wednesday evening receptions, where, as the rooms were filled with other company, we already began to practice an involuntary hypocrisy, keeping up our friendly intimacy by that kind of intuitive and undemonstrative communication natural to those who know each other by sympathy, and learn to understand each other without words. i was a great deal in ida's studio, probably much to the satisfaction of aunt maria and mrs. van arsdel--while eva glanced and twinkled in and out like a fire-fly in a meadow, taking my heart with her as she came and went, yet awing me with a dutiful reticence, lest "people should talk." ida was one of those calm, quiet, essentially self-poised women, with whom it would be quite possible for a man to have a very intimate friendship, without its toning off into anything warm, either on her part or on his. everything with her was so positive and definite, that there was no possibility of going over the limits. i think that she really had a very warm esteem for me; but she looked at me and judged me solely in relation to eva, and with a quiet persistency favored the intimacy that she saw growing between us. her plans of life were laid far ahead; she was wedded to a purpose which she would not have renounced for any man on earth; but eva was the very apple of her eye, and i think she had her own plans as to the settling of her life's destiny; in short, ida was from the start the best friend i could have. chapter xxii. i am introduced to the illuminati. a young man who commences life as a reformer, and a leader in the party of progress, while saying the best and most reasonable things in the world, and advocating what appear to him the most needed reforms, often finds himself, in consequence, in the condition of one who has pulled the string of a very large shower-bath. he wanted cold water, and he gets a deal more than he bargained for; in fact, often catches his breath, and wonders when this sort of thing is going to stop. my articles on the "modern woman," in the _milky way_, had brought me into notice in certain enthusiastic circles, and i soon found myself deluged with letters, appeals, pamphlets, newspapers, all calling for the most urgent and immediate attention, and all charging me on my allegiance to "the cause," immediately, and without loss of time, to write articles for said papers gratuitously, to circulate said pamphlets, to give favorable notices of said books, and instantly to find lucrative situations for hosts of distressed women who were tired of the humdrum treadmill of home-life, and who wished to have situations provided where there was no drudgery and no labor, but _very_ liberal compensation. the whole large army of the _incapables_,--the blind, the halt, the lame, the weary, and the forlorn,--all seemed inclined to choose me as their captain, and to train under my banner. because i had got into a subordinate position on the _great democracy_, they seemed to consider that it was my immediate business to make the _great democracy_ serve their wants, or to perish in the attempt. my friend, ida van arsdel, was a serious, large-minded, large-brained woman, who had laid a deep and comprehensive plan of life, and was adhering to it with a patient and silent perseverance. still she had no sympathy in that class of society where her lot was cast. her mother and her aunt maria were women who lived and breathed merely in the opinions of their set and circle, and were as incapable of considering any higher ideal of life, or any unworldly purpose, as two canary-birds. mr. van arsdel, a quiet, silent man, possessed a vein of good sense which led him to appreciate his eldest daughter at her real worth; and he was not insensible to the pleasure of having one feminine companion who, as he phrased it, "understood business," and with whom he could talk and advise understandingly. but even he had no sympathy with those larger views of the wants and needs of womanhood, in view of which ida was acting. it followed very naturally that as ida got no sympathy in her own circle, she was led to seek it in the widening sphere of modern reformers--a circle in which so much that is fine and excellent and practical, is inevitably mixed with a great deal that is crude and excessive. at her request i accompanied her and eva one evening to a sort of new-dispensation _salon_, which was held weekly at the house of mrs. stella cerulean. mrs. stella cerulean was a brilliant woman--beautiful in person, full of genius, full of enthusiasm, full of self-confidence, the most charming of talkers, and the most fascinating of women. her career from early life had been one of those dazzling successes which always fall to the lot of beauty, seconded by a certain amount of tact and genius. of both these gifts mrs. cerulean had just enough to bewilder the head of any gentleman who made her acquaintance. she had in her girlhood made the tour of europe, shone as a star in the courts of france and russia, and might be excused for a more than ordinary share of complacency in her successes. in common with handsome women generally, she had, during the greater part of her life, never heard anything but flattery from gentlemen, and it always agreed with her remarkably well. but mrs. cerulean was one of those women, with just intellect and genius enough to render her impatient of the mere common-place triumphs of beauty. she felt the intoxicating power of the personal influence which she possessed, and aspired to reign in the region of the mind as well as to charm the senses. she felt herself called to the modern work of society regeneration, and went into it with all the enthusiasm of her nature, and with all that certainty of success which comes from an utter want of practical experience. problems which old statesmen contemplated with perplexity, which had been the despair of ages, she took up with a cheerful alacrity. she had one simple remedy for the reconstruction of society about whose immediate application she saw not the slightest difficulty. it was simply and only to be done by giving the affairs of the world into the hands of women, forthwith. those who only claim _equality_ for women were, in mrs. cerulean's view, far behind the age. woman was the superior sex, the divine sex. had not every gentleman of her acquaintance, since she could remember, told her this with regard to herself? had they not always told her that she could know everything without study, simply by the divine intuitions of womanhood; that she could flash to conclusions without reasoning, simply by the brilliancy of her eyes; that her purity was incorruptible in its very nature; that all her impulses were heavenly and god-given? naturally enough, then, it was her deduction that all that was wanting to heal the woes and wants of society was that she and other such inspired beings should immediately take to themselves their power, and _reign_. such is a general sketch of mrs. cerulean's view of the proper method of introducing the millennium. meanwhile, she did her part in it by holding _salons_ once a week, in which people entertaining similar views met for the purpose, apparently, of a general generation of gas, without any particular agreement as to the method in which it should be applied. this was the company of people to whom eva rather pathetically alluded in one of her conversations once, as such nice people, who were so very puzzling to her, because no two of them ever seemed to think alike on any subject; and all agreed in opening their eyes very wide in astonishment if anybody quoted the bible to them as an authority in faith and practice. ida was much courted and petted by this circle. and sensible, good girl as she was, she was not wholly without pleasure in the admiration they showed for her. then, again, there were, every evening, ventilated in this company quantities of the most splendid and heroic ideas possible to human beings. the whole set seemed to be inspired with the spirit of martyrdom, without any very precise idea of how to get martyred effectually. it was only agreed that _everything_ in the present state of society was _wrong_, and was to be pulled down forthwith. but as to what was to come after this demolition, there were as many opinions in the circle as there were persons, and all held with a wonderful degree of tenacity. a portion of them were of opinion that a new dispensation fresh from the heavenly realms was being inaugurated by means of spiritualistic communications daily and hourly conveyed to privileged individuals. it was, however, unfortunate that these communications were, very many of them, in point-blank opposition to each other; so that the introduction of revelations from the invisible world seemed only likely to make the confusion worse confounded. then again, as to all the existing relations of life, there was the same charming variety of opinion. but one thing seemed to be pretty generally conceded among the whole circle, that in the good time coming, nobody was ever to do anything that he did not want to do, or feel at the moment just like doing. the great object of existence apparently was to get rid of everything that was disagreeable and painful. thus, quite a party of them maintained that all marriage relations ought to drop, from the moment that either party ceased to take pleasure in them, without any regard to the interest of the other party or the children; because the fundamental law of existence was happiness--and nothing could make people happy but liberty to do just as they had a mind to. i must confess that i found my evening at mrs. cerulean's _salon_ a very agreeable one; the conversation of thoroughly emancipated people has a sparkling variety to it which is exactly the thing to give one a lively, pleasant evening. everybody was full of enthusiasm, and in the very best of spirits. and there appeared to be nothing that anybody was afraid to say. nobody was startled by anything. there was not a question, as it appeared, that had been agitated since the creation of the world, that was not still open to discussion. as we were walking home after spending an evening, ida asked me: "now, mr. henderson, what do you think of it?" "well, miss ida," said i, "after all, i'm a believer in the old-fashioned bible." "what, _really_, mr. henderson?" "really and squarely, miss ida. and never more so than when i associate with very clever people who have given it up. there is, to my mind, a want of common sense about all theories of life that are not built on that." "well," said ida, "i have long since made up my mind, for my own part, that if the cause of woman is to be advanced in this world, it is not so much by meeting together and talking about it, as by each individual woman proposing to herself some good work for the sex, and setting about it patiently, and doing it quietly. that is rather my idea; at the same time, i like to hear these people talk, and they certainly are a great contrast to the vapid people that are called good society. there is a freshness and earnestness of mind about some of them that is really very interesting; and i get a great many new ideas." "for my part," said eva, "to be sure i have been a sad idler, but if i were going to devote myself to any work for women, it should be in the church, and under the guidance of the church. i am sure there is something we can do there. and then, one's sure of not running into all sorts of vagaries." "now," said ida, "all i want is that women should do _something_; that the lives of girls, from the time they leave school till the time they are married, should not be such a perfect waste as they now are. i do not profess to be certain about any of these theories that i hear; but one thing i do know: we women will bear being made a great deal more self-sustaining and self-supporting than we have been. we _can_ be more efficient in the world, and we ought to be. i have chosen my way, and mean to keep to it. and my idea is that a woman who really does accomplish a life-work is just like one that cuts the first path through a wood. she makes a way where others can walk." "that's you, ida," said eva; "but i am not strong enough to cut first paths." i felt a little nervous flutter of her hand on my arm as she said this. it was in the dark, and involuntarily, i suppose, my hand went upon hers, and before i thought of it i felt the little warm thing in my own as if it had been a young bird. it was one of those things that people sometimes do before they know it. but i noticed that she did not withdraw her hand, and so i held it, querying in my own mind whether this little arrangement was one of the privileges of friendship. before i quite resolved this question we parted at the house-door. chapter xxiii. i receive a moral shower-bath. a day or two after, as i was sitting in my room, busy writing, i heard a light footstep on the stairs, and a voice saying, "oh yes! this is mr. henderson's room--thank you," and the next moment a jaunty, dashing young woman, with bold blue eyes, and curling brown hair, with a little wicked looking cap with nodding cock's-feather set askew on her head, came marching up and seated herself at my writing-table. i gazed in blank amazement. the apparition burst out laughing, and seizing me frankly by the hand, said-- "look here, hal! don't you know me? well, my dear fellow, if you don't it's time you did! i read your last 'thingumajig' in the _milky way_, and came round to make your acquaintance." i gazed in dumb amazement while she went on, "my dear fellow, i have come to enlighten you,"--and as she said this she drew somewhat near to me, and laid her arm confidingly on my shoulder, and looked coaxingly in my face. the look of amazement which i gave, under these circumstances, seemed to cause her great amusement. "ha! ha!" she said, "didn't i tell 'em so? you ain't half out of the shell yet. you ain't really hatched. you go for the emancipation of woman; but bless you, boy, you haven't the least idea what it means--not a bit of it, sonny, have you now? confess!" she said, stroking my shoulder caressingly. "really, madam--i confess," i said, hesitatingly, "i haven't the honor"-- [illustration: _the advanced woman of the period._ _"'you go for the emancipation of woman; but bless you, boy, you haven't the least idea what it means--not a bit of it, sonny, have you now? confess?' she said, stroking my shoulder caressingly."_] "not the honor of my acquaintance, you was going to say; well, that's exactly what you're getting now. i read your piece in the _milky way_, and, said i, that boy's in heathen darkness yet, and i'm going round to enlighten him. you mean well, hal! but this is a great subject. you haven't seen through it. lord bless you, child! you ain't a woman, and i am--that's just the difference." now, i ask any of my readers, what is a modest young man, in this nineteenth century,--having been brought up to adore and reverence woman as a goddess--to do, when he finds himself suddenly _vis-à-vis_ with her, in such embarrassing relations as mine were becoming? i had heard before of miss audacia dangyereyes, as a somewhat noted character in new york circles, but did not expect to be brought so unceremoniously, and without the least preparation of mind, into such very intimate relations with her. "now, look here, bub!" she said, "i'm just a-going to prove to you, in five minutes, that you've been writing about what you don't know anything about. you've been asserting, in your blind way, the rights of woman to liberty and equality; the rights of women, in short, to do anything that men do. well, here comes a woman to your room who _takes_ her rights, practically, and does just what a man would do. i claim my right to smoke, if i please, and to drink if i please; and to come up into your room and make you a call, and have a good time with you, if i please, and tell you that i like your looks, as i do. furthermore, to invite you to come and call on me at my room. here's my card. you may call me 'dacia, if you like--i don't go on ceremony. come round and take a smoke with me, this evening, won't you? i've got the nicest little chamber that ever you saw. what rent do you pay for yours? say, will you come round?" "indeed--thank you, miss--" "call me 'dacia for short. i don't stand on ceremony. just look on me as another fellow. and now confess that you've been tied and fettered by those vapid conventionalities which bind down women till there is no strength in 'em. you visit in those false, artificial circles, where women are slaves, kept like canary birds in gilded cages. and you are afraid of your own principles when you see them carried out in a real free woman. now, i'm a woman that not only dares say, but i dare _do_. why hasn't a woman as much a right to go round and make herself agreeable to men, as to sit still at home and wait for men to come and make themselves agreeable to her? i know you don't like this, i can see you don't, but it's only because you are a slave to old prejudices. but i'm going to _make_ you like me in spite of yourself. come, now, be consistent with your principles; allow me my equality as a woman, a human being." i was in such a state of blank amazement by this time as seemed to deprive me of all power of self-possession. at this moment the door opened, and jim fellows appeared. a most ludicrous grimace passed over his face as he saw the position and he cut a silent pirouette in the air, behind her. she turned her head, and he advanced. "fairest of the sex! (with some slight exceptions)--to what happy accident are we to attribute this meeting?" "hallo, jim! is this you?" she replied. "oh, certainly, it's me," said jim, seating himself familiarly. "how is the brightest star of womanhood--the northern light; the aurora borealis; the fairest of the fair? bless its little heart, has it got its rights yet? did it want to drink and smoke? come along with jim, now, and let's have a social cocktail." "keep your distance, sir," said she, giving him a slight box on his ear. "i prefer to do my own courting. i have been trying to show your friend here how little he knows of the true equality of women, and of the good time coming, when we shall have our rights, and do just as we darn please, as you do. i'll bet now there aint one of those van arsdel girls that would dare to do as i'm doing. but we're opening the way sir, we're opening the way. the time will come when all women will be just as free to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, as men." "good heavens!" said i, under my breath. "my beloved audacia," said jim, "allow me to remark one little thing, and that is, that _men also_ must be left free to the pursuit of happiness, and also, as the scripture says, new wine must _not_ be put into old bottles. now my friend hal--begging his pardon--is an old bottle, and i think you have already put as much new wine into him as his constitution will bear. and as he and i both have got to make our living by scratching, and _tempus fugit_, and we've got articles to write, and there is always, so to speak, _the devil_ after us folks that write for the press, may i humbly request that you will withdraw the confusing light of your bright eyes from us for the present, and, in short, take your divine self somewhere else?" as jim spoke these words, he passed his arm round miss audacia's waist, and drew her to the door of the apartment, which he threw open, and handed her out, bowing with great ceremony. "stop!" she cried, "i aint going to be put out that way. i haven't done what i came for. you both of you have got to subscribe for my paper, _the emancipated woman_." "couldn't do it, divinest charmer," said jim, "couldn't do it; too poor; mill runs low; no water; modest merit not rewarded. wait till my ship comes in, and i'll subscribe for anything you like." "well, now, you don't get rid of me that way. i tell you i came in to get a subscription, and i am going to stay till i get one," said miss audacia. "come, hal," she said, crossing once more to me, and sitting down by me and taking my hand, "write your name there, there's a good fellow." i wrote my name in desperation, while jim stood by, laughing. "jim," i said, "come, put yours down quick, and let's have it over." "well, now," said she, "fork out the stamps--five dollars each." we both obeyed mechanically. "well, well," said she, good naturally, "that'll do for this time, good morning," and she vanished from the apartment with a jaunty toss of the head and a nod of the cock's feathers in her hat. jim closed the door smartly after her. "mercy upon us! jim," said i, "who, and what is this creature?" "oh, one of the harbingers of the new millennium," said jim. "won't it be jolly when all the girls are like her? but we shall have to keep our doors locked then." "but," said i, "is it possible, jim, that this is a respectable woman?" "she's precisely what you see," said jim; "whether that's respectable, is a matter of opinion. there's a woman that's undertaken, in good faith, to run and jostle in all the ways that men run in. her principle is, that whatever a young fellow in new york could do, she'll do." "good heavens!" said i, "what _would_ the van arsdels think of us, if they should know that she had been in our company?" "it's lucky that they don't, and can't," said jim. "but you see what you get for belonging to the new dispensation." "boys, what's all this fuss?" said bolton, coming in at this moment. "oh, nothing, only dacia dangyeeyes has been here," said jim, "and poor hal is ready to faint away and sink through the floor. he isn't up to snuff yet, for all he writes such magnificent articles about the nineteenth century." "well," said i, "it was woman _as_ woman that i was speaking of, and not this kind of creature. if i believed that granting larger liberty and wider opportunities was going to change the women we reverence to things like these, you would never find me advocating it." "well, my dear hal," said bolton, "be comforted; you're not the first reformer that has had to cry out, 'deliver me from my friends.' always when the waters of any noble, generous enthusiasm rise and overflow their banks, there must come down the drift-wood--the wood, hay, and stubble. luther had more trouble with the fanatics of his day, who ran his principles into the ground, as they say, than he had with the pope and the emperor, both together. as to this miss audacia, she is one of the phenomenal creations of our times; this time, when every kind of practical experiment in life has got to be tried, and stand or fall on its own merits. so don't be ashamed of having spoken the truth, because crazy people and fools caricature it. it is true, as you have said, that women ought to be allowed a freer, stronger, and more generous education and scope for their faculties. it is true that they ought, everywhere, to have equal privileges with men; and because some crack-brained women draw false inferences from this, it is none the less true. for my part, i always said that one must have a strong conviction for a cause, if he could stand the things its friends say for it, or read a weekly paper devoted to it. if i could have been made a pro-slavery man, it would have been by reading anti-slavery papers, and _vice versa_. i had to keep myself on a good diet of pro-slavery papers, to keep my zeal up." "but," said i, anxiously, to jim, "do you suppose that we're going to be exposed to the visits of this young woman?" "well," said jim, "as you've subscribed for her paper, perhaps she'll let us alone till she has some other point to carry." "subscribe!" said i; "i did it from compulsion, to get her out of the office; i didn't think the situation respectable; and yet i don't want her paper, and i don't want my name on her subscription list. what if the van arsdels should find it out? people are apt enough to think that our doctrines lead to all sorts of _outré_ consequences; and if mrs. wouverman, their aunt maria, should once get hold of this, and it should get all through the circle in which they move, how disagreeable it would be." "oh, never fear," said jim; "i guess we can manage to keep our own secrets; and as to any of them ever knowing, or seeing, anything about that paper, it's out of the question. bless you! they wouldn't touch it with a pair of tongs!" chapter xxiv. aunt maria. aunt maria came into the parlor where eva and alice were chatting over their embroidery. a glance showed that she had been occupied in that sensible and time-honored method of keeping up the social virtues, which is called making calls. she was all plumed and rustling in flowers and laces, and had on her calling manners. she had evidently been smiling and bowing and inquiring after people's health, and saying pretty and obliging things, till the very soul within her was quite dried up and exhausted. for it must be admitted that to be obliged to remember and inquire for every uncle, aunt and grandmother, every baby, and young master and miss in a circle of one's three hundred particular friends, is an exercise of christian benevolence very fatiguing. aunt maria, however, always went through with it with exhaustive thoroughness, so that everybody said, what a kind-hearted, pleasant woman that mrs. wouverman is. "well, there!" she said, throwing herself into an arm-chair, "i've nearly cleared my list, thank heaven! i think lent is a grand good season to get these matters off your mind. you know mr. selwyn said last sunday, that it was the time to bring ourselves up to the disagreeable duties." "how many have you made, aunty?" said eva. "just three dozen, my dear. you see i chose a nice day when a good many are sure to be out. that shortens matters a good deal. well, girls, i've been to the elmore's. you ought to see what a state they are in! in all my experience i never saw people so perfectly tipped over, and beside themselves with delight. i'm sure if i were they i wouldn't show it quite so plain." "i suppose," said alice, "they are quite benignant and patronizing to us now." "patronizing! well, i wish you could have seen poll elmore and her airs! you would have thought her a duchess from the faubourg st. germain, and no less! she was so very sweet and engaging! dear me, she patronized me within an inch of my life; and 'how are your dear girls?' she said. 'all the world is expecting to hear some news of miss eva, _should_ we soon have an opportunity of returning congratulations?'" "oh, pshaw! aunt," said eva uneasily, "what did you say?" "oh! i told her that eva was in no hurry, that she was very reticent of her private affairs, and did not think it in good taste to proclaim them. 'ah, then, there really is something in it,' said she. i was telling my girls perhaps after all it is mere report; people say so many things. 'the thing was reported about maria,' she said, 'long before there was any truth in it'; and then she went on to tell me how much maria had been admired, and how many offers she had rejected, and among other things she said that mr. sidney had been at her disposal,--only she couldn't fancy him. 'you know,' she said with a sentimental air, that 'the _heart_ is all in such cases.'" "how perfectly absurd of her," said eva. "i know," said alice eagerly, "that wat sidney doesn't like maria elmore. she was perfectly wild after him, and used to behave so that it really disgusted him." "oh, well," said eva, "all these things are excessively disagreeable to me; it seems to me where such matters are handled and talked about and bandied about, they become like shop-worn goods, utterly disgusting. who wants every fool and fop and every gossip who has nothing better to do talking over what ought to be the most private and delicate affairs of one's own heart!" "well, dear, you can't help it in society. why, every person where i have called inquired about your engagement to wat sidney. you see you _can't_ keep a thing of this sort private. of course you can't. you are in the world, and the world will have you do as others do. of course i didn't announce it, because i have no authority; but the thing is just as much _out_ as if i had. there was old mrs. ellis, dear old soul, said to me, 'give my love to dear eva, and tell her i hope she'll be happy. i suppose,' she added, 'i may send congratulations, though it isn't announced.' oh, said i, eva doesn't like to have matters of this sort talked about." "but aunty," said eva, who had been coloring with vexation, "this is all gratuitous--you are all engaging and marrying me in spite of my screams as appears. i am not engaged to mr. sidney, and never expect to be; he is gone off on a long southern tour, and i hope out of sight will be out of mind, and people will stop talking." "but my dear eva, really now you ought not to treat a nice man like him in that way." "treat him in what way?" said eva. "why, keep him along in this undecided manner without giving him a definite answer." "he might have had a definite answer any time in the last three months if he had asked for it. it isn't my business to speak till i'm spoken to." "you don't mean, eva, that he has gone off without saying anything definite--bringing matters to a point." "i do mean just that, aunty, and what's more i'm glad he's gone, and i hope before he comes back he'll see somebody that he likes better, and then it'll be all off; and, aunty, if any one speaks to you about it you'll oblige me by saying decidedly there is nothing in it." "well, i shan't say there never has been anything in it. i shall say you refused him." "and why so? i am not anxious to have the credit of it, and besides i think it is indelicate when a man has paid a lady the highest possible compliment he can pay, to make a public parade of it. its sufficient to say there is nothing in it and never will be; its nobody's business how it happened." "oh, come eva, don't say there never will be anything in it. that is a subject on which girls are licensed to change their minds." "for my part," said alice, "i only wish it were i. i'd have him in a minute. aunty, _did_ you see that nobby phæton he was driving the last day he was on the park; those horses, and that white fur lap-robe, with the long pluffy hair like silver? i must say, eva, i think you are a little goose." "i've no objection to the park phæton, or horses or lap-robe; but it isn't those i'm to marry, you see." "but eva," said aunt maria, "if you wouldn't fancy such a match as wat sidney, who would you? he is a man of correct and temperate habits, and that's more than you can say of half the men." "but a woman doesn't necessarily want to make her most intimate and personal friend of a man merely because he doesn't drink," said eva. "but he's good looking." "so they say, but not to me, not my style. in short, aunty, _i don't love him_, and never should; and if i were tied too close to him might end by hating him. as it is, he and i are the best friends possible. i hope we always shall stay so." "well, i should like to know whoever will suit you eva," said aunt maria. "oh, he will come along, aunty, never fear! i shall know him when i see him, and i dare say everybody will wonder what in the world possessed me, but _i_ shall be content. i know exactly what i want, i'm like the old party in the ancient mariner. i shall know when i see him 'the man that must have me,' and then i shall 'hold him with my glittering eye.'" "well, eva, you must remember one thing. there are not many men able to keep you in the way you always have lived." "then, when the right one comes i shall live as he is able to keep me." "go to housekeeping in three rooms, perhaps. you look like it." "yes; and do my own cooking. i'm rather fond of cooking; i have decided genius that way too. ask jane down in the kitchen if i don't make splendid fritters. the fact is, aunty, i have so much superfluous activity and energy that i should be quite thrown away on a rich man. a poor country rector, very devout, with dark eyes like longfellow's kavanah is rather my ideal. i would get up his surplices myself, and make him such lovely frontals and altar cloths! why doesn't somebody of that sort come after me? i'm quite impatient to have a sphere and show what i can do." "well," said alice, "you don't catch me marrying a poor man. not i. no home missionaries, nor poor rectors, nor distressed artists need apply at this office." "now, girls," said aunt maria, "let me tell you it's all very pretty at your turn of life to dream about love in a cottage and all that, but when you have seen all of life that i have, you will know the worth of the solid; when one has been used to a certain way of living, for example, one can't change; and if you married the angel gabriel without money, you would soon repent it." "well," said eva, "i'd risk it if gabriel would have me, and i'd even try it with some man a little lower than the angels; so prepare your mind to endure it, aunty, for one of these days everybody will be holding up their hands and saying, what, eva van arsdel engaged to _him!_ why, what _could_ have possessed her? that's just the way i heard lottie simmons talking last week about belle st. john's engagement. she is going to marry a college professor in new haven on one of those very homoeopathic doses of salary that people give to really fine men that have talent and education, and she's just as happy as she can be about it, and the girls are all scraping their throats, 'oh-ing and ah-ing' and wondering what _could_ have led her to it. no engagement ring _to show_! private wedding! and just going off together up to his mother's in vermont instead of making the bridal tour of all the watering places! it must be so charming, you see, to be exhibited as a new bride, along with all the other new brides at trenton and niagara and the white mountains, so that everybody may have a chance to compare your finery with everybody else's, also to see how you conduct yourself in new circumstances. for my part i shall be very glad if my poor rector can't afford it." "by the by, speaking of that girl," said aunt maria, "what are you going to wear to the wedding. it's quite time you were attending to that. i called in at tullegig's, and of course she was all in a whirl, but i put in for you. 'now, madame,' said i, 'you must leave a place in your mind for my girls,' and of course she went on with her usual french rodomontade, but i assure you you'll have to look after her. tullegig has no conscience, and will put you off with anything she can make you take, unless you give your mind to it and follow her up." "well, i'm sure, aunty, i don't feel equal to getting a new dress out of tullegig," said eva, with a sigh, "and i have dresses enough, any one of which will do. i am _blasée_ with dresses, and i think weddings are a drug. if there's anything that i think downright vulgar and disagreeable it's this style of blaring, flaring, noisy, crowded disagreeable modern weddings. it is a crush of finery; a smash of china; a confusion of voices; and everybody has the headache after it; it's a perfect infliction to think of being obliged to go to another. for my part i believe i am going to leave all those cares to alice; she is come out now, and i am only queen dowager." "oh pshaw, eva, don't talk so," said aunt maria, "and now i think of it you don't look well, you ought to take a tonic in the spring. let me see, calisaya bark and iron is just the thing. i'll send you in a bottleful from jennings as i go home, and you must take a tablespoonful three times a day after eating, and be very particular not to fatigue yourself." "i think," said alice, "that eva gets tired going to all those early services." "oh my dear child, yes; how can you think of such a thing? it's very inconsiderate in mr. selwyn, i think, to have so many services when he must know many weddings and things are coming off just after easter. people will be all fagged out, just as eva is. now i believe in the church as much as anybody, but in our day i think there is danger in running religion to extremes." "ah!" said eva, "i suppose there is no danger of one running to extremes in anything but religion--in dress or parties for instance?" "but you know one has these things to attend to, my dear; one must keep up a certain style; and of course, there is a proper medium that i hold to as much as anybody. nobody is more particular about religion in its place than i am. i keep sunday strictly; very few people more so. i never ride in the park sundays, nor write a letter, though i have seen people who called themselves religious that would. no. i believe in giving full observance to the lord's day, but then i think one ought to have the week clear for action. that belongs to us, as i view it, and our old rector was very easy with us about all the saint's days, and week-day services, and things in the prayer-book. to be sure there are ash wednesday and good friday. one, of course, should attend to these, that is no more than is proper, but the way mr. selwyn goes on! why, one wouldn't be able to think of much else than religion if he had his way." "what a dreadful state of society that would bring on!" said eva. "but come, aunty," said alice, "don't talk theology, tell us what discoveries you made at the elmore's. i know they showed you everything." "oh, of course they did. well there's the wedding veil, cost two thousand dollars; for my part i thought it looked ordinary after all; it's so thick and stiff with embroidery, you see, no lightness to it." "i wouldn't take it as a gift," said eva. "i think such expensive things are simply vulgar." "go on, aunty," said alice, "what next?" "well, then the dress has a new style of trimming, and really is very elegant. i must do it the justice to say that it's something quite _recherché_. and then they took me up stairs to see the _trousseau_, and there was a perfect bazar! all her things laid out by dozens and tied up with pink ribbons,--you would have thought it got for the empress. those elmores are the most worldly family i ever did hear of; all for dash and show! they seemed to be perfectly transported with these things,--and that reminds me, eva, i noticed last sunday at church your new poplin suit was made with quillings; now they are not going to wear quillings any more. i noticed none of those paris dresses had it. you should have jacobs alter yours at once, and substitute fringes; fringes is the style now." "and, aunty, what do you suppose would happen to me if i should wear quillings when they don't?" said eva. "well, of course, you don't want to be odd, child. there is a certain propriety in all these things. i will speak to jacobs about it, and send him up here. shall i?" "well, aunty, anything to suit you. you may take off quillings, or put on fringe, if you won't insist on marrying me to anybody," said eva; "only i do wish any one fashion would last long enough to give one time to breathe and turn round before it has to be altered, but the bible says the fashion of this world passeth quickly away, and so i suppose one must put up with it." "eva, do you correspond with mr. sydney?" said aunt maria, after a moment's reflection. "correspond? no, to be sure i don't. what should i do that for?" "he writes to mamma, though," said alice, laughing. "it's his own affair, if he does," said eva. "i told him, before he went, i never corresponded with gentlemen. i believe that is the correct thing to say. i never mean to, either, unless it's with one whose letters are particularly interesting to me." "how do you like that young henderson?" "what, ida's admirer?" said eva, coloring. "oh, we think him nice enough. don't we alice?--rather jolly, in fact." "and does ida continue gracious?" "certainly. they are the best of friends," said eva. "the fact is, he is quite a fine fellow; and he reads things to ida, and she advises him about his style, you know." "he and jim fellows always come together," said alice; "and i think they are both nice--in fact, rather better than the average. he isn't quite such a rattle-cap as jim, but one trusts him more." "well," said eva, "i don't like a professed joker. a man that never is in earnest ought to wear the cap and bells, as the court fools used to do in old times." "o, bless you, child," said alice, "that's what jim is for; he always makes me laugh, and i like to laugh." "don't you think that mr. henderson would do nicely for ida," said aunt maria. "oh, as to that," said alice, "neither he nor jim fellows are marrying men. you see they haven't anything, and of course that they can't be thinking of such things." "but," said aunt maria, "ida is just the wife for a poor man. she has a turn for economy, and doesn't care for dress and show; and could rub and scrub along, and help to support the family. i really think she likes work for the sake of it. i wish to mercy she could be engaged, and get all these dreadful queer plans and notions out of her head. i am always so puzzled what in the world to tell people when they ask why she doesn't visit and go into society." "why not tell the truth," said eva, "that she prefers to help papa in his business." "because, love, that's so odd. people can't understand it." "they can't understand," said eva, "that a woman may be tired of leading a lazy life, and want to use her faculties. well, i'm sure _i_ can understand it. i'd give all the world to feel that i was of as much real use to anybody as ida is to papa; and i think papa likes it too. poor, dear old papa, with his lovely old white head, who just toils and slaves for us. i wish i could help him too." "well, dear, i can tell you how you can help him." "how?" "marry wat sydney." "nonsense, aunt, what has that to do with papa?" "it would have more to do than you think," said aunt maria, shaking her head, mysteriously. chapter xxv. a discussion of the woman question from all points. the bold intrusion of miss audacia dangereyes into my apartment had left a most disagreeable impression on my mind. this was not lessened by the reception of her paper, which came to hand in due course of next mail; and which i found to be an exposition of all the wildest principles of modern french communism. it consisted of attacks directed about equally against christianity, marriage, the family state, and all human laws and standing order, whatsoever. it was much the same kind of writing with which the populace of france was indoctrinated and leavened in the era preceding the first revolution, and which in time bore fruit in blood. in those days, as now, such doctrines were toyed with in literary _salons_ and aristocratic circles, where their novelty formed an agreeable stimulus in the vapid common-place of fashionable life. they were then, as now, embraced with enthusiasm by fair illuminati, who fancied that they saw in them a dawn of some millennial glory; and were awakened from their dream, like madame roland, at the foot of the guillotine, bowing their heads to death and crying, "o liberty, what things are done in thy name!" the principal difference between the writers on the _emancipated woman_, and those of the french illuminati, was that the french prototypes were men and women of elegance, culture, and education; whereas their american imitators, though not wanting in a certain vigor and cleverness, were both coarse in expression, narrow in education, and wholly devoid of common decency in their manner of putting things. it was a paper that a man who reverenced his mother and sisters could scarcely read alone in his own apartments without blushing with indignation and vexation. every holy secret of human nature, all those subjects of which the grace and the power consists in their exquisite delicacy and tender refinement, were here handled with coarse fingers. society assumed the aspect of a pack of breeding animals, and all its laws and institutions were to return to the mere animal basis. it was particularly annoying to me that this paper, with all its coarseness and grossness, set itself up to be the head leader of woman's rights; and to give its harsh clamors as the voice of woman. neither was i at all satisfied with the manner in which i had been dragooned into taking it, and thus giving my name and money to its circulation. i had actually been bullied into it; because, never having contemplated the possibility of such an existence as a female bully, i had marked out in my mind no suitable course of conduct adequate to the treatment of one. "what _should_ i have done?" i said to myself. "what _is_ a man to do under such circumstances? shall he engage in a personal scuffle? shall he himself vacate his apartment, or shall he call in a policeman?" the question assumed importance in my eyes, because it was quite possible that, having come once, she might come again; that the same course of conduct might be used to enforce any kind of exaction which she should choose to lay on me. but, most of all was i sensitive, lest by any means some report of it might get to the van arsdels. my trepidation may then be guessed, on having the subject at once proposed to me by mr. van arsdel that evening as i was sitting with him and ida in her study. "i want to know, mr. henderson," he said, "if you are a subscriber for the _emancipated woman_, the new organ of the woman's rights party?" "now, papa," said ida, "that is a little unjust! it only _professes_ to be an organ of the party, but it is not recognized by us." "have you seen the paper?" said mr. van arsdel to me. like a true yankee i avoided the question by asking another. "have _you_ subscribed to it, mr. van arsdel?" "well, yes," said he laughing, "i confess i have; and a pretty mess i have made of it. it is not a paper that any decent man ought to have in his house. but the woman came herself into my counting-room and, actually, she badgered me into it; i couldn't get her out. i didn't know what to do with her. i never had a woman go on so with me before. i was flustered, and gave her my five dollars to get rid of her. if she had been a man i'd have knocked her down." "oh, papa," said ida, "i'll tell you what you should have done; you should have called _me_. she'd have got no money and no subscriptions out of me, nor you either if i'd been there." "now, mr. henderson, misery loves company; has she been to your room?" said mr. van arsdel. "i confess she has," said i, "and that i have done just what you did--yielded at once." "mr. henderson, all this sort of proceeding is thoroughly vexatious and disagreeable," said ida; "and all the more so that it tends directly to injure all women who are trying to be self-supporting and independent. it destroys that delicacy and refinement of feeling which men, and american men especially, cherish toward women, and will make the paths of self-support terribly hard to those who have to tread them. there really is not the slightest reason why a woman should cease to be a woman because she chooses to be independent and pursue a self-supporting career. and claiming a right to dispense with womanly decorums and act like a man is just as ridiculous as it would be for a man to claim the right to wear woman's clothes. even if we supposed that society were so altered as to give to woman every legal and every social right that man has; and if all the customs of society should allow her to do the utmost that she can for herself, in the way of self-support, still, women will be relatively weaker than men, and there will be the same propriety in their being treated with consideration and delicacy and gentleness that there now is. and the assumptions of these hoydens and bullies has a tendency to destroy that feeling of chivalry and delicacy on the part of men. it is especially annoying and galling to me, because i do propose to myself a path different from that in which young women in my position generally have walked; and such reasoners as aunt maria and all the ladies of her circle will not fail to confound miss audacia's proceedings and opinions, and mine, as all belonging to the same class. as to the opinions of the paper, it is mainly by the half truths that are in it that it does mischief. if there were not real evils to be corrected, and real mistakes in society, this kind of thing would have no power. as it is, i have no doubt that it will acquire a certain popularity and do immense mischief. i think the elements of mischief and confusion in our republic are gathering as fast as they did in france before the revolution." "and," said i, "after all, republics are on trial before the world. our experiment is not yet two hundred years old, and we have all sorts of clouds and storms gathering--the labor question, the foreign immigration question, the woman question, the monopoly and corporation question, all have grave aspects." "you see, mr. henderson," said ida, "as to this woman question, the moderate party to which i belong is just at that disadvantage that people always are when there is a party on ahead of them who hold some of their principles and are carrying them to every ridiculous extreme. they have to uphold a truth that is constantly being brought into disrepute and made ridiculous by these ultra advocates. for my part, all i can do is to go quietly on with what i knew was right before. what is right _is_ right, and remains right no matter how much ultraists may caricature it." "yes, my daughter," said mr. van arsdel, "but what would become of our country if all the women could vote, and people like miss audacia dangyereyes should stump the country as candidates for election?" "well, i am sure," said ida, "we should have very disagreeble times, and a great deal to shock us." "it is not merely that," said mr. van arsdel, "the influence of such women on young men would be demoralizing." "when i think of such dangers," said ida, "i am, on the whole, very well pleased that there is no immediate prospect of the suffrage being granted to women until a generation with superior education and better balanced minds and better habits of consecutive thought shall have grown up among us. i think the gift of the ballot will come at last as the result of a superior culture and education. and i am in no hurry for it before." "what is all this that you are talking about?" said eva, who came into the room just at this moment. "ma and aunt maria are in such a state about that paper that papa has just brought home! they say there are most horrid things in it, mr. henderson; and they say that it belongs to the party which you, and ida, and all your progressive people are in." "it is an excresence of the party," said i; "a diseased growth; and neither miss ida nor i will accept of it as any expression of our opinion, though it does hold some things which we believe." "well," said eva, "i am curious to see it, just because they don't want i should. what can there be in it so very bad?" "you may as well keep out of it, chick," said her father, caressing her. "and now, i'll tell you, ida, just what i think; you _good_ women are not fit to govern the world, because you do not know, and you oughtn't to know, the wickedness that you have got to govern. we men have to know all about the rogues, and the sharpers, and the pickpockets, and the bullies; we have to grow hard and sharp, and 'cut our eye-teeth,' as the saying is, so that at last we come to not having much faith in anybody. the rule is, pretty much, not to believe anybody that you meet, and to take for granted that every man that you have dealings with will cheat you if he can. that's bad enough, but when it comes to feeling that every _woman_ will cheat you if she can, when women cut their eye-teeth, and get to be sharp, and hard, and tricky, as men are, then i say, look out for yourself, and deliver me from having anything to do with them." "why, really!" said eva, "papa is getting to be quite an orator. i never heard him talk so much before. papa, why don't you go on to the platform at the next woman's rights convention, and give them a good blast?" "oh i'll let them alone," said mr. van arsdel; "i don't want to be mixed up with them, and i don't want my girls to be, either. now, i do not object to what ida is doing, and going to do. i think there is real sense in that, although mother and aunt maria feel so dreadfully about it. i like to see a woman have pluck, and set herself to be good for something in the world. and i don't see why there shouldn't be women doctors; it is just the thing there ought to be. but i don't go for all this hurrah and hullaballoo, and pitching women head-first into politics, and sending them to legislatures, and making them candidates for congress, and for the presidency, and nobody knows what else." "well," said i, "why not a woman president, as well as a woman queen of england?" "because," said he, "look at the difference. the woman queen in england comes to it quietly; she is born to it, and there is no fuss about it. but whoever is set up to be president of the united states is just set up to have his character torn off from his back in shreds, and to be mauled, pummeled, and covered with dirt by every filthy paper all over the country. and no woman that was not willing to be draggled through every kennel, and slopped into every dirty pail of water, like an old mop, would ever consent to run as a candidate. why, it's an ordeal that kills a man. it killed gen. harrison, and killed old zack. and what sort of a brazen tramp of a woman would it be that could stand it, and come out of it without being killed? would it be any kind of a woman that we should want to see at the head of our government? i tell you, it's quite another thing to be president of a democratic republic, from what it is to be hereditary queen." "good for you, papa!" said eva, clapping her hands. "why how you go on! i never did hear such eloquence. no, ida, set your mind at rest, you shan't be run for president of the united states. you are a great deal too good for that." "now," said mr. van arsdel, "there's your friend, mrs. cerulean, tackled me the other night, and made a convert of me, she said. bless me! she's a handsome woman, and i like to hear her talk. and if we didn't live in the world we do, and things weren't in any respect what they are, nothing would be nicer than to let her govern the world. but in the great rough round of business she's nothing but a pretty baby after all,--nothing else in the world. we let such women convert us, because we like to have them around. it amuses us, and don't hurt them. but you can't let your baby play with matches and gunpowder, if it wants to ever so much. women are famous for setting things agoing that they don't know anything about. and then, when the explosion comes, they don't know what did it, and run screaming to the men." "as to mrs. cerulean," said eva, "i never saw anybody that had such a perfectly happy opinion of herself, as she has. she always thinks that she understands everything by intuition. i believe in my heart that she'd walk into the engine-room of the largest steamship that ever was navigated, and turn out the chief engineer and take his place, if he'd let her. she'd navigate by woman's god-given instincts, as she calls them." "and so she'd keep on till she'd blown up the ship," said mr. van arsdel. "well," said i, "one fact is to be admitted, that men, having always governed the world, must by this time have acquired a good deal of traditional knowledge of the science of government, and of human nature, which women can't learn by intuition in a minute." "for my part," said ida, "i never was disposed to insist on the _immediate_ granting of political rights to women. i think that they _are_ rights, and that it is very important for the good of society that these rights should finally be respected. but i am perfectly willing, for my part, to wait and come to them in the way, and at the time, that will be best for the general good. i would a great deal rather come to them by gradual evolution than by destructive revolution. i do not want them to be forced upon society, when there is so little preparation among women that they will do themselves no credit by it. all history shows that the most natural and undeniable human rights may be granted and maintained in a way that will just defeat themselves, and bring discredit on all the supporters of them, just as was the case with the principles of democratic liberty in the first french revolution. i do not want the political rights of woman advocated in a manner that will create similar disturbances, and bring a lasting scandal on what really is the truth. i do not want women to have the ballot till they will do themselves credit and improve society by it. i like to have the subject proposed, and argued, and agitated, and kept up, in hopes that a generation of women will be educated for it. and i think it is a great deal better and safer, where it can be done, to have people educated _for_ the ballot, than to have them educated _by_ the ballot." "well, ida, there's more sense in you than in the most of 'em," said mr. van arsdel. "yes," said ida, "i think that an immediate rush into politics of such women as we have now, without experience or knowledge of political economy of affairs, would be, as eva says, just like women's undertaking to manage the machinery of a large steamer by feminine instincts. i hope never to see women in public life till we have had a generation of women who have some practical familiarity with the great subjects which are to be considered, about which now the best instructed women know comparatively nothing. the question which mainly interests me at present is a humanitarian one. it's an absolute fact that a great portion of womankind have their own living to get; and they do it now, as a general rule, with many of the laws and institutions of society against them. the reason of this is, that all these laws and institutions have been made by men, without any consent or concurrence of theirs. now, as women are different from men, and have altogether a different class of feelings and wants and necessities, it certainly is right and proper that they should have some share in making the laws with which they are to be governed. it is true that the laws have been made by fathers and brothers and husbands; but no man, however, near, ever comprehends fully the necessities and feelings of women. and it seems to me that a state where all the laws are made by men, without women, is just like a family that is managed entirely by fathers and brothers, without any concurrence of mothers and sisters. that's my testimony, and my view of the matter." "i don't see," said eva, "if women are to make the laws in relation to their own interests, or to have a voice in making them, why they need go into politics with men in order to do it, or why they need cease to act like women. if the thing has got to be done, i would have a parliament of women meet by themselves, and deliberate and have a voice in all that concerns the state. there, that's my contribution to the programme." "that's the way the quakers manage their affairs in their yearly meetings," said ida. "i remember i was visiting aunt dinah once, during a yearly meeting, and learned all about it. i remember the sisters had a voice in everything that was done. the quaker women have acquired in this way a great deal of facility in the management of business, and a great knowledge of affairs. they really seem to me superior to the men." "i can account for that," said i. "a man among the quakers is restricted and held in, and hasn't as much to cultivate and develop him as ordinary men in the world; whereas, woman, among the quakers, has her sphere widened and developed." at this moment our conversation was interrupted by the entrance of jim fellows. he seemed quite out of breath and excited, and had no sooner passed the compliments of the evening, than he began. "well," said he, "hal, i have just come from the police court, where there's a precious row. our friend dacia dangyereyes is up for blackmailing and swindling; and there's a terrible wash of dirty linen going on. i was just in time to get the very earliest notes for our paper." "good!" said mr. van arsdel. "i hope the creature is caught at last." "never believe that," said jim. "she has as many lives as a cat. they never'll get a hold on her. she'll talk 'em all round." "disgusting!" said ida. "ah!" said jim, "it's part of the world as it goes. she'll come off with flying colors, doubtless, and her cock's feathers will be flaunting all the merrier for it." "how horribly disagreeable," said eva, "to have such women around. it makes one ashamed of one's sex." "i think," said ida, "there is not sufficient resemblance to a real woman in her to make much trouble on her account. she's an amphibious animal, belonging to a transition period of human society." "well," said jim, "if you'll believe it, mrs. cerulean and two or three of the ladies of her set are actually going to invite dacia to their _salon_, and patronize her." "impossible!" said ida, flushing crimson; "it _cannot_ be!" "oh, you don't know mrs. cerulean," said jim; "dacia called on her with her newspaper, and conducted herself in a most sweet and winning manner, and cast herself at her feet for patronage; and mrs. cerulean, regarding her through those glory spectacles which she usually wears, took her up immediately as a promising candidate for the latter-day. mrs. cerulean don't see anything in dacia's paper that, properly interpreted, need make any trouble; because, you see, as she says, _everything ought to be love_, everywhere, above and below, under and over, up and down, top and side and bottom, ought to be _love_, love. and then when there's general all-overness and all-throughness, and an entire mixed-up-ativeness, then the infinite will come down into the finite, and the finite will overflow into the infinite, and, in short, miss dacia's cock's feathers will sail right straight up into heaven, and we shall see her cheek by jowl with the angel gabriel, promenading the streets of the new jerusalem. that's the programme. meanwhile, dacia's delighted. she hadn't the remotest idea of being an angel, or anything of the sort; but since good judges have told her she is, she takes it all very contentedly." "oh," said ida, "it really can't be true, mr. fellows; it really is impossible that such ladies as mrs. cerulean's set--ladies of family and position, ladies of real dignity and delicacy--are going to indorse the principles of that paper; principles which go to the immediate dissolution of civilized society." "that's just what they are doing," said jim; "and they are having a glorious high old time doing it too. mrs. cerulean herself intends to write for the paper on the subject of fortyfication and twentification and unification, and everything else that ends with _ation_. and it is thought it will improve the paper to have some nice little hymns inserted in it, to the tune of 'i want to be an angel.' i asked mrs. cerulean what if my friend dacia should rip an oath in the midst of one of her _salons_--you know the little wretch does swear like a pirate; and you ought to see how serenely she looked over my head into the far distant future, and answered me so tenderly, as if i had been a two hours' chicken peeping to her. 'oh, james,' says she, 'there are many opinions yet to be expressed on the subject of what is commonly called profanity. i have arrived at the conclusion myself, that in impassioned natures, what is called profanity, is only the state of prophetic exaltation which naturally seeks vent in intensified language. i shouldn't think the worse of this fine vigorous creature if, in a moment's inspired frenzy, she should burst the tame boundaries of ordinary language. it is true, the vulgar might call it profane. it requires anointed eyes to see such things truly. when we have risen to these heights where we now stand, we behold all things purified. there is around us a new heaven and a new earth.' and so you see, dacia dangyereyes turns out a tip-top angel of the new dispensation." "well," said ida, rising, with heightened color, "this, of course, ends my intercourse with mrs. cerulean, if it be true." "but," said eva, "how can they bear the scandal of this disgraceful trial? this certainly will open their eyes." "oh," said jim, "you will see, mrs. cerulean will adhere all the closer for this. it's persecution, and virtue in all ages has been persecuted; therefore, all who are persecuted, are virtuous. don't you see the logical consistency? and then, don't the bible say, 'blessed are ye when men persecute you, and say all manner of evil against you?'" "it don't appear to me," said ida, "that she can so far go against all common sense." "_common_ sense!" said jim; "mrs. cerulean and her clique have long since risen above anything like common sense; all their sense is of the most uncommon kind, and relates to a region somewhere up in the clouds, where everything is made to match. they live in an imaginary world, and reason with imaginary reasons, and see people through imaginary spectacles, and have glorious good times all the while. all i wish is, that i could get up there and live; for you see i get into the state of prophetic ecstasy pretty often with this confounded hard grind below here, and then, when i rip out a naughty word, nobody sees the beauty of it. mother looks glum. sister nell says, 'oh, jim!' and looks despairing." "but the fact is," said mr. van arsdel, "mrs. cerulean is a respectable woman, of respectable family, and this girl is a tramp; that's what she is; and it is absolutely impossible that mrs. cerulean can know what she is about." "well, i delicately suggested some such thing to mrs. cerulean," said jim; "but, bless me! the way she set me down! says she, 'do you men ever inquire into the character of people that you unite with to carry your purposes? you join with anybody that will help you, without regard to antecedents!" "she don't speak the truth," said mr. van arsdel. "we men are very particular about the record of those we join with to carry our purposes. you wouldn't find a board of bankers taking a man that had a record for swindling, or a man that edited a paper arguing against all rights of property. doctors won't admit a man among them who has the record of a quack or a malpractitioner. clergymen won't admit a man among them who has a record of licentiousness or infidel sentiments. and if women will admit women, in utter disregard to their record of chastity, or their lax principles as to the family, they act on lower principles than any body of men." "besides," said i, "that kind of tolerance cuts the very ground from under the whole woman movement; for the main argument for proposing it, was to introduce into politics that superior delicacy and purity, which women manifest in family life. but if women are going to be less careful about delicacy and decorum and family purity than men are, the quagmire of politics, foul enough now, will become putrid." "oh, come," said eva, "the subject does get too dreadful; i can't bear to think of it, and i move that we have a game of whist, and put an end to it. come, now, do let's sit down sociably, and have something agreeable." we went out into the parlor and sat down to the whist-table, eva and alice, with jim fellows and myself respectively as partners, and indulged ourselves in one of those agreeable chatty games which make the designation "whist" quite an amusing satire--one of those games played with that charming disregard of all rules which is so inspiring. in the best of spirits we talked across the table to each other, trumped our partners' queens, and did all sorts of enormities in the excitement of the brilliant by-play of conversation which we kept up all the while. it may be a familiar experience to many, that one never thinks of so many things to say, and so many fruitful topics for immediate discussion, as when one professes to be playing whist. but then, if a young gentleman wishes a good opportunity to reconnoiter a certain face, no more advantageous position can be given him than to have it _vis à vis_ at the whist-table. "now, mr. henderson," said alice, "we are going to make a good churchman of you." "i am happy to hear it," said i. "i am ready to be made anything good of, that you can mention." "well," said alice, "we are going to press you and mr. fellows, here, into the service of the church." "shall be perfectly enchanted!" said jim. "if the church only knew my energies, they would have tried to get me long before." "then," said eva, "you must go with us to-morrow evening; for we are going to be up all night, about the floral decorations of our church for easter morning. oh! you have no idea what splendid things we are going to do. we shall be at work hard, all day to-morrow, upon our wreaths and crosses; and the things must all be put up late at night so as to keep them from withering. then, you know, we must be out again to the sunrise service." "why," said i, "it is a regular piece of dissipation." "certainly,--religious dissipation, you know," said alice. "well," said eva, "i don't know why we should not be up all night to dress the church, for once in our lives, as well as to be up all night dancing the german. ida says it is wicked to do either. ida makes a perfect hobby of everybody's keeping their health." "yes, but," said i, "if people keep themselves, generally, in temperance and soberness, they can afford a great strain, now and then, if it be for a good purpose." "at any rate," said eva, "you and mr. fellows come round and take tea with us and help us carry our trophies to the church." chapter xxvi. cousin caroline again. about this time i received the following letter from my cousin caroline: "_dear cousin_:--i have had no time to keep up correspondence with anybody for the past year. the state of my father's health has required my constant attention, day and night, to a degree that has absorbed all my power, and left no time for writing. for the last six months father has been perfectly helpless with the most distressing form of chronic rheumatism. his sufferings have been protracted and intense, so that it has been wearing even to witness them; and the utmost that i could do seemed to bring very little relief. and when, at last, death closed the scene, it seemed to be in mercy, putting an end to sufferings which were intolerable. "for a month after his death, i was in a state of utter prostration, both physical and mental,--worn out with watching and care. my poor father; he was himself to the last, reticent, silent, undemonstrative and uncommunicative. it seemed to me that i would have given worlds for one tender word from him. i felt a pity and a love that i dared not show; his sufferings went to my very heart; but he repelled every word of sympathy, and was cold and silent to the last. yet i believe that he really loved me and that far within this frozen circle of ice, his soul was a lonely prisoner, longing to express itself, and unable; longing for the light and warmth of that love which never could touch him in its icy depths; and i am quite sure, it is my comfort to know, that death has broken the ice and melted the bands; and i believe that he has entered the kingdom of heaven as a little child. "the hard skies of our new england, its rocky soil, its severe necessities, make characters like his; and they intrench themselves in a similar religious faith which makes them still harder. they live to aspire and to suffer, but never to express themselves; and every soft and warm heart that is connected with them pines and suffers and dies like flowers that are thrown upon icebergs. "well, all is now over, and i am free of the world. i have, in the division of the property, a few acres of wood-lot, and many acres of rough, stony land, and about a hundred dollars of yearly income. i must do something, therefore, for my own support. ever since you left us i have been reading and studying under the care of your uncle, who, since your conversation with him, has been very kind and thoughtful. but then, of course, my studies have been interrupted by some duties, and, during the last year, suspended altogether by the necessity of giving myself to the care of father. "now, my desire is, if i could in any way earn the means, to go to france and perfect myself in medical studies. i am told that a medical education can be obtained there by women cheaper than anywhere else; and i have cast about in my own mind how i might earn money enough to enable me to do it. now i ask you, who are in new york and on the press, who know me thoroughly, and it also, could i, should i come to new york, gain any situation as writer for the press, which would give me an income for a year or two, by which i could make enough to accomplish my purpose? i should not wish to be always a writer; it would be too exhausting; but if i could get into a profession that i am well adapted for, i should expect to succeed in it. "i have the ability to live and make a respectable appearance upon a very little. i know enough, practically, of the arts of woman-craft to clothe myself handsomely for a small sum, and i am willing to live in cheap obscure lodgings, and think i could board myself, also, for a very moderate sum. i am willing to undergo privations, and to encounter hard work to carry my purpose, and i write to you, dear cousin, because i know you will speak to me just as freely as though i were not a woman, and give me your unbiased opinion as to whether or no i could do anything in the line that i indicate. i know that you would give me all the assistance in your power, and feel a perfect reliance upon your friendship." the letter here digressed into local details and family incidents not necessary to be reproduced. i resolved to lay it before bolton. it seemed to me that his reception of it would furnish some sort of clew to the mystery of his former acquaintance with her. the entire silence that he had always maintained with regard to his former knowledge of her, while yet he secretly treasured her picture, seemed to me to indicate that he might somehow have been connected with that passage of her life referred to by my mother when she said that caroline's father had, at one period of her life, crushed out an interest that was vital to her. "the sly old fox," said i to myself, "always draws me on to tell him everything, while he keeps a close mouth, and i learn nothing of him." of course, i felt that to ask any questions or seek to pry into a past which he evidently was not disposed to talk about, would be an indelicate impertinence. but my conscience and sense of honor were quite appeased by this opportunity presented by caroline's letter. bolton was older in the press than i, and, with all his reticence and modesty, had a wide circle of influence. he seemed contented to seek nothing for himself; but i had had occasion to notice in my own experience that he was not boasting idly when he said, on our first acquaintance, that he had some influence in literary quarters. he had already procured for me, from an influential magazine, propositions for articles which were both flattering to my pride and lucrative in the remuneration. in this way, the prospect of my yearly income, which on the part of the _great democracy_ was so very inadequate, was enlarged to a very respectable figure. [illustration: _bolton's asylum._ "_halloo, bolton!_" said i. "_have you got a foundling hospital here?_"] i resolved, therefore, to go up to bolton's room and put this letter into his hands. i knocked at the door, but no one answering i opened it and went in. he was not there, but an odd enough scene presented itself to me. the little tow-headed, freckled boy, that i had formerly remarked as an inmate of the apartment, was seated by the fire with a girl, somewhat younger than himself, nursing between them a large fat bundle of a baby. "hallo," said i, "what have we here? what are you doing here?" at this moment--before the children could answer--i heard bolton coming up the stairs. he entered the room; a bright color mounted to his cheeks as he saw the group by the fire, and me. "hallo, hal!" he said, with a sort of conscious laugh. "hallo, bolton!" said i. "have you got a foundling hospital here?" "oh, well, well," said he; "never mind; let 'em stay there. do you want anything? there," said he, pulling a package of buns out of his pocket, "eat those; and when the baby gets asleep you can lay her on the bed in the other room. and there,"--to the boy,--"you read this story aloud to your sister when the baby is asleep. and now, hal, what can i do for you? suppose i come down into your room for awhile and talk?" he took my arm, and we went down the stairs together; and when we got into my room he shut the door and said: "the fact is hal, i have to take care of that family--my washerwoman, you know. poor mrs. molloy, she has a husband that about once a month makes a perfect devil of himself, so that the children are obliged to run and hide for fear of their lives. and then she has got the way of sending them to me, and i have to go down and attend to him." "bless me!" said i, "why will women live with such brutes? why don't you make her separate from him?" bolton seated himself at my table, and leaned back in his chair, with a curious expression of countenance, very sad, yet not without a touch of humor in it. "well, you see," he said, "the fact is, hal, she loves him." "well, she oughtn't to love him," said i. "may be not; but she does," said he. "she loves that poor pat molloy so much that to be angry with him is just like your right hand being angry with your left hand. suppose there's a great boil on the left hand, what's the right to do about it but simply bear the suffering and wait for it to get well? that, you see, is love; and because of it, you can't get women away from their husbands. what are you going to do about it?" "but," said i, "it is perfectly absurd for a woman to cling to such a man." "well," said bolton, "three weeks of the month pat molloy is just as kind and tender a father and husband as you will find, and then by the fourth week comes around his drunken spell, and he's a devil. now she says, 'sure sir, it's the drink. it's not pat at all sir; he's not himself sir.' and she waits till it's over--taking care that he doesn't kill the children. now, shall i persuade her to let him go to the devil? does not jesus christ say, 'gather up the fragments that nothing be lost'? he said it about a basket of bread; wouldn't he say it still more about the fragments of the human soul? if she leaves pat, where will he go to? first, to some harlot, then to murder, and the gallows--and that gets him out of the way." "well," said i, "isn't he better out than in?" "who knows?" said bolton. "all i have to say is, that poor molly molloy, with her broad irish brogue, and her love that can't be tired, and can't give him up, and that bears, and believes, and hopes, and endures, seems to me a revelation of the christ-like spirit a thousand times more than if she was tramping to a woman's rights convention and exposing her wrongs and calling down justice on his head." "but," said i, "look at the children! oughtn't she to part with him on their account?" "yes, look at the children," said he. "the little things have learned already, from their mother, to care for each other, and to care for their father. in their little childish way, they love and bear with him just as she does. the boy came to me this afternoon and said, 'father's got another crazy spell.' already he has a delicacy in his very mode of speaking; and he doesn't say his father is _drunk_, but that he is _crazy_, as he is. and then he and the little girl are so fatherly and motherly with the baby. now, i say, all this growth of virtue around sin and sorrow is something to be revered. the fact is"--he added-- "the day for separating the tares from the wheat hasn't come yet. and it seems to me that the moral discipline of bearing with evil, patiently, is a great deal better and more ennobling than the most vigorous assertion of one's personal rights. i can see a great deal of suffering in that family from poor pat's weakness and wickedness, but i also see most noble virtues growing up, even in these children, from the straits to which they are put. and as to poor pat himself, he comes out of his demon-baptism penitent and humble, and more anxious to please than ever. it is really affecting to see with what zeal he serves me, when i have brought him through a 'drunk.' and yet i know that it will have to be gone over, and over, and over again. sometimes it seems to me he is like the earth after a thunder-shower--fresher and clearer than he was before. and i am quite of mrs. molloy's mind--there is too much good in pat to have him swept off into the gutter for the bad; and so, as god gives her grace to suffer, let her suffer. and if i can bear one little end of her cross, i will. if she does not save him in this life, she'll save him from sinking lower in demonism. she may only keep his head above water till he gets past the gates of death, and then, perhaps, in the next life, he will appear to be saved by just that much which she has done in keeping him up." bolton spoke with an intense earnestness, and a sad and solemn tone, as if he were shaken and almost convulsed by some deep, internal feeling. for some moments there was a silence between us,--the silence of a great unuttered emotion. at last, he drew a long breath, and said, "well, hal, what was it you wanted to talk about?" "oh," said i, "i have a letter from a friend of mine that i wanted to show you, to see whether you could do anything"--and i gave him caroline's letter. he sat down under the gas-light to read it. the sight of the hand-writing seemed to affect him at once. his large, dark eyes flashed over the letter, and he turned it quickly, and looked at the signature; a most unutterable expression passed over his face, like that of a man who is in danger of giving away to some violent emotion; and then, apparently by a great effort of self-constraint, he set himself carefully to reading the letter. he read it over two or three times, folded it up, and handed it back to me without any remark, and then sat leaning forward on the table with his face shaded with his hand. "my cousin is a most uncommon character," i said; "and, as you will observe by this letter, has a good deal of ability as a writer." "i am acquainted with her," he said, briefly, making a sudden movement with his hand. "indeed? where did you know her?" "years ago," he said, briefly. "i taught the academy in her village, and she was one of my scholars. i know the character of her mind." there was a dry brevity in all this, of a man who is afraid that he shall express more than he means to. said i, "i showed this letter to you because i thought you had more influence in the press than i have; and if you are acquainted with her, so much the better, as you can judge whether she can gain any employment here which would make it worth her while to come and try. i have always had an impression that she had very fine mental powers." "there is no doubt about that," he said, hurriedly. "she is an exceptional woman." he rose up, and took the letter from me. "if you will allow me to retain this a while," he said, "i will see what i can do; but just now i have some writing to finish. i will speak to you about it to-morrow." that evening, i introduced the subject to my friend, ida van arsdel, and gave her a sketch of caroline's life-history. she entered into it with the warmest interest, and was enthusiastic in her desire that the plan might succeed. "i hope that she will come to new york," she said, "so that we can make her acquaintance. don't, pray, fail to let me know, mr. henderson, if she should be here, that i may call on her." chapter xxvii. easter lilies. the next afternoon jim and i kept our appointment with the van arsdel's. we found one of the parlors transformed to a perfect bower of floral decorations. stars and wreaths and crosses and crowns were either just finished or in process of rapid construction under fairy fingers. when i came in, eva and alice were busy on a gigantic cross, to be made entirely of lilies of the valley, of which some bushels were lying around on the carpet. ida had joined the service, and was kneeling on the floor tying up the flowers in bunches to offer them to eva. "you see, mr. henderson, the difference between modern religion and the primitive christians," she said. "their cross was rough wood and hard nails; ours is lilies and roses made up in fashionable drawing-rooms." "i'm afraid," said eva, "our _crown_ may prove much of the same material!" "i sometimes wonder," said ida, "whether all the money spent for flowers at easter could not better be spent in some mode of relieving the poor." "well," said eva, "i am sorry to bring up such a parallel, but isn't that just the same kind of remark that judas made about the alabaster vase of ointment?" "yes," said i; "what could be more apparently useless than a mere perfume, losing itself in the air, and vanishing entirely? and yet the saviour justified that lavish expenditure when it was the expression of a heart-feeling." "but," said ida, "don't you think it very difficult to mark the line where these services and offerings to religious worship become excessive?" "of course it is," said i; "but no more difficult on this subject than any other." "that's the great trouble in this life," said eva. "the line between right and wrong seems always so indefinite, like the line between any two colors of the prism--it is hard to say just where one ends and another begins." "it is the office of common sense," i said, "to get the exact right in all such matters--there is a sort of _instinct_ in it." "well, all i have to say about it is," said eva, "since we do spend lavishly and without stint in our houses and in our dress for adornment, we ought to do at least as much for our religion. i like to see the adornment of a church generous, overflowing, as if we gave our very best. as to these lilies, i ordered them of an honest gardener, and it goes to help support a family that would be poor if it were not for these flowers. it is better to support one or two families honestly, by buying their flowers for churches than it is to give the money away. so i look on it." "oh, well," said alice, "there is no end to anything. everything you do tends to something else; and everything leads to something; and there is never any knowing about anything; and so i think it is best just to have as good a time as you can, and do everything that is agreeable, and make everything just as pretty as it can be. and i think it is fun to trim up the church for easter. there now! and it don't do any harm. and i just like to go to the sunrise service, if it does make one sleepy all day. what do you say, mr. fellows? do you think you could go through with the whole of it?" "miss alice, if you only go you will find me inspired with the spirit of a primitive christian in this respect," said jim. "i shall follow wherever you lead the way, if it's ever so late at night, or ever so early in the morning." "and mr. henderson," said she, "may we depend on you, too?" "by all means," said i, as i sat industriously gathering up the lilies into bunches and tying them. "mr. henderson is in a hopeful way," said eva. "i think we may have him in the true church some of these times." "i am afraid," said ida, "that mr. henderson, having seen you only in lent, won't be able to keep track of you when the easter rejoicings begin, and the parties recommence." "oh dear me!" said eva, with a sort of shudder, "to think of that horrid wedding!" "that's just like eva," said alice. "she's been, and been, and been to these things till she's tired out with them; whereas, i am just come out, and i like them, and want more of them. i don't think they are horrid at all. i am perfectly delighted about that elmore wedding. one will see there all the new things, and all the stunning things, and all the latest devices from paris. i was in at tullegig's the other day, and you never saw such a sight as her rooms are! somebody said it looked as if rainbows had been broken to pieces and thrown all round. she showed me all the different costumes that she was making up for the various parties. you know there are to be seven bride's-maids, and each of them is to wear a different color. madame thinks '_c'est si gentil_.' then, you know, they are making such grand preparations up at that _chateau_ of theirs. the whole garden is to be roofed in and made a ball room of. i think it will be gorgeous. i say, mr. fellows, if you and mr. henderson would like it, i know i could manage cards for you." jim assented, heartily, for both of us; and i added that i should like to see the affair; for i had never seen enough of that sort of thing to take away the novelty. after tea we all sallied out to the church with our trophies. we went in two carriages, for the better accommodation of these, and had a busy time disembarking at the church and carrying them in. here we met a large committee of co-workers, and the scene of real business commenced. jim and i worked heroically under the direction of our fair superintendents. by midnight the church was a bower of fragrance and beauty. the chancel seemed a perfect bed of lilies, out of which rose the great white cross, shedding perfume upon the air. the baptismal font was covered with a closely woven mosaic of fragrant violets, and in each panel appeared an alternate red or white cross formed of flowers. the font was filled with a tall bouquet of white saint's-lilies, such as gardeners force for easter. eva and i worked side by side this evening, and never had i seemed to know her more intimately. the fact is, among other dangerous situations to a young man's heart, none may be mentioned more seductive than to be in a church twining flowers and sorting crosses and emblems in the still holy hours of the night. one's head gets, somehow, bewildered; all worldly boundaries of cold prudence fade away; and one seems to be lifted up to some other kind of land where those that are congenial never part from each other. so i felt when, our work being all done, i retired with eva to the shadow of a distant pew to survey the whole result. we had turned on the gas-light to show our work, and its beams, falling on thousands of these white lily-bells and on all the sacred emblems, shed a sort of chastened light. again, somehow, as if it had been a rose-leaf floating down from heaven, i found that little hand in mine; and we spoke low to each other, in whispers, of how good and how pleasant it was to be there, and to unite in such service and work--words that meant far more than they seemed to say. once, in the course of the evening, i saw her little glove where it had fallen into a nest of cast-off flowers, and, as no one was looking, i seized upon it as a relic, and appropriated it to my own sacred memories. nor would i surrender it, though afterward i heard her making pathetic inquiries for it. late at night i went home to think and dream, and woke with the first dim gray of morning, thinking of my appointment to meet her at the church. it is a charming thing to go out in the fresh calm morning before any one is stirring. the bells for early service were dropping their notes here and there, down through the air, as if angels were calling men to awake and remember that great event which happened so silently and so unregarded, many, many years ago. i thought as i walked through the dim streets and saw here and there an early worshiper, prayer-book in hand, stealing along, of the lonely women who, years ago, in jerusalem, sought the sepulchre to see where they had laid him. little twittering sparrows filled the ivy on the outside of the church and made it vibrate with their chirpings. there was the promise in the brightening skies of a glorious sunrise. i stood waiting awhile, quite alone, till one by one the bands of youths and maidens came from different directions. i had called jim as i went out, but he, preferring to take the utmost latitude for sleep, looked at his watch and told me he would take another half hour before he joined us. eva was there, however, among the very first. the girls, she said, were coming. we went into the dim church together and sat ourselves down in the shady solitude of one of the slips waiting for the morning light to pour through the painted windows. we said nothing to each other; but the silence was sociable and not blank. there are times in life when silence between two friends is better than speech; for they know each other by intuition. gradually the church filled with worshipers; and as the rising sun streamed through the painted windows and touched all the lilies with brightness, a choir of children in the organ-loft broke forth into carols like so many invisible birds. and then, the old chant, "christ, being raised from the dead, dieth no more," seemed to thrill every heart. after the service came a general shaking of hands and greetings from neighbors and friends, as everybody walked round examining the decorations. "now, mr. henderson," said eva, as she stood with me surveying this scene, "is not a church which preserves all these historical memorials a most lovely one? ought we not thus to cherish the memory of that greatest event that ever happened in this world? and how beautiful it is to bring up children year after year by festivals like these, to mark off their life in acts of remembrance." "you speak truly," i said, sharing her enthusiasm. "i could wish the church of all good people had never ceased to keep easter; indeed, they who do disregard it seem to me a cold minority out of the great fellowship. i think it is fortunate that the romish and the episcopal churches are bringing us, descendants of the puritans, back to those primitive customs. i, for one, come back willingly and joyfully." [eva van arsdel to isabel convers.] _my darling belle_:--i have been a naughty girl to let your letter lie so long. but my darling, it is not true, as you there suggest, that the bonds of sisterly affection, which bound us in school, are growing weaker, and that i no longer trust you as a confidential friend. believe me, the day will never come, dearest belle, when i shall cease to unfold to you every innermost feeling. and now to come to the point about "that mr. henderson." indeed, my love, your cautions are greatly mistaken. it is true that, much to my surprise, he has taken a fancy to visit quite intimately at our house, and has made himself a general favorite in the family. mamma, and aunt maria, and all the girls like him so much. but, then, you must know he is generally set down as ida's admirer. at all events ida and he are extremely good friends; and when he calls here he generally spends the largest part of the evening in her sanctum; and they have most edifying conversations on all the approved modern topics--the darwinian theory, woman's rights, and everything else you can think of. one thing i admit is a little peculiar--he notices everything that _i_ say in conversation--i must own. i never saw such an observing creature. for example, the first evening he was at our house, i just accidentally dropped before him the remark that i was going to early morning services in lent, and would you believe it?--the next morning he was there too, and walked home with me. i was the more astonished, because he does not belong to the church--so one would not expect it, you know. he is a member of the bethany church himself, but he seems delighted with our services, and talks about them beautifully--as well as our rector could. i really wish you could have heard him! he seems to have such an earnest, thoughtful mind; and what i like in him is, that he never flatters, and talks that matter-of-course complimentary nonsense, that some men think is the thing to be talked to ladies; neither has he that way of _talking down_ to one that superior men sometimes have, when they are talking with us girls. i read somewhere this sentiment--that we may know the opinion people have of us by the kind of conversation they address to us--and if this is so i ought to be flattered by the way mr. henderson talks to me; for i think he shows quite as much anxiety to find out my opinion on all subjects as he does ida's. you will, perhaps, think it rather peculiar if i tell you that ever since that first morning he has been as constant at the morning services as i have, and always walks home with me. in this way we really are getting quite intimately acquainted. now, belle, don't put on that knowing look of yours, and intimate that there is anything _particular_ in all this, for there is _not_. i do assure you there is not a bit of nonsense in it. you would be perfectly astonished to hear how gravely and philosophically we talk. we moralize and philosophize, and as jim fellows would say, "come the high moral dodge" in a way that would astonish you. and yet, belle, they wrong us who are called fashionable girls, when they take for granted that we are not capable of thinking seriously, and that we prefer those whose conversation consists only of flattery and nonsense. it is mainly because i feel that mr. henderson has deep, serious purposes in life, and because he appreciates and addresses himself to the deepest part of my nature that his friendship is so valuable to me. i say _friendship_ advisedly, dear belle, because i insist upon it that there _can_ be friendship, pure and simple, between a gentleman and a lady; in our case there is "only this and nothing more." how very teasing and provoking it is that there cannot be this friendship without observation and comment! now i am very careful to avoid any outward appearance of special intimacy that might make talk, and he appears to be very careful also. after the first day at morning service he did not join me immediately on going out of church, but went out at another door and joined me at the next corner. i was so thankful for it, for old mrs. eyelett was there with her sharp eyes, and i know by experience that though she is a pillar of the church she finds abundance of leisure from her devotions to watch all the lambs of the flock; and i am one that everybody seems to keep specially in mind as proper to be looked after. if i only speak to, or look at, or walk with the same person more than once, the airy tongues of rumor are busy engaging and marrying me. isn't it horrid? i would not have old mrs. eyelett get anything of this sort into her head for the world; it's so disagreeable to have such a thing get to a gentleman's hearing when he knows there is no truth in it; and the world has condescended to interest itself so much in my fortunes that it seems dangerous for anybody to be more than civil without being set down as an aspirant. the only comfort there is in being persistently reported engaged to mr. sydney is that it serves to keep off other reports, and i sometimes think of the old fable of the fox who would not have the present swarm of flies driven off lest there should come a new one in its place. how i wish people would let one's private affairs alone! here i must break off, for there is company down stairs. _wednesday eve_. i have let this thing lie some days, dear belle, because there has been so much going and coming, time has flitted away. mr. h. has been at our house a good deal. i have made a discovery about him. he has a beautiful cousin that he thinks everything of--"cousin caroline"--and she is a very superior woman. so you see how silly all your suggestions are, belle. for aught i know he may be engaged to this cousin caroline. i believe she is coming to new york, and i am just wild to see her. you know i want to see if i shall like her. she must be just the thing for him; and i _hope_ i shall like her. ida thinks she shall. aunt maria, who wants to portion off the fate of mortals, has made up her mind that mr. h. _must_ be an admirer of ida's; and in short, that they are to be for each other. ida looks down on all this sort of thing with her placid superiority. she has a perfect contempt for it, so _very_ perfect that it is quiet. she does not even trouble herself to express it. ida _likes_ mr. h. very much, and has a straightforward, open, honest friendship with him, and doesn't trouble her head a bit what people may say. _saturday morning_. we are all busy now about easter decorations. we have ordered no end of flowers, and are going into adornments on a great scale. we press all hands in that we can get. mr. henderson and jim fellows are coming to-night to tea to help us carry our things to church and get them up. _monday morning_. i am so tired. we were up nearly all night saturday, and then at the sunrise service easter morning, and services all day. beautiful! lovely as they could be! but if one has a good time in this world, one must pay for it--and i am all tired out. mr. henderson was with us through the whole affair. one thing seemed to me quite strange. i dropped my glove among some flowers, while i was busy putting up a wreath of lilies, and i saw him through a bower of hemlock trees walk up to the spot, and slyly confiscate the article. in a moment i came back, and said, "i dropped my glove here. where can it be?" the wretched creature helped me search for it, with every appearance of interest, but never offered to restore the stolen goods. it was all so quiet--so private! you know, gentlemen often pretend, as a matter of gallantry, that they want your glove, or a ribbon, or some such memento; but this was all so secret. he evidently thinks i don't know it; and, belle--what should _you_ think about it? eva. chapter xxviii. enchantment and disenchantment. during a month after easter, i was, so to speak, in a state of mental somnambulism, seeing the visible things of this mortal life through an enchanted medium, in which old, prosaic, bustling new york, with its dry drudgeries and uninteresting details, became suddenly vivified and glorified; just as when some rosy sunset floods with light the matter-of-fact architecture of printing-house square, and etherealizes every line, and guides every detail, and heightens every bit of color, till it all seems picturesque and beautiful. i did not know what was the matter with me, but i felt somehow as if i had taken the elixir of life and was breathing the air of an immortal youth. whenever i sat down to write i found my inspiration. i no longer felt myself alone in my thoughts and speculations; i wrote _to_ another mind, a mind that i felt would recognize mine; and then i carried what i had written, and read it to ida van arsdel for her criticisms. ida was a capital critic, and had graciously expressed her willingness and desire to aid me in this way, to any extent. but was it ida who was my inspiration? sitting by, bent over her embroidery, or coming in accidentally and sitting down to listen, was eva; full of thought, full of inquiry; sometimes gay and airy, sometimes captious and controversial--always suggestive and inspiring. from these readings grew talks protracted and confidential, on all manner of subjects; and each talk was the happy parent of more talks, till it seemed that there was growing up an endless series of occasions for our having long and exciting interviews; for, what was said yesterday, in the reflections and fancies of the night following, immediately blossomed out into queries and consequences and inferences on both sides, which it was immediately and pressingly necessary that we should meet to compare and adjust. now, when two people are in this state of mind, it is surprising what a number of providential incidents are always bringing them together. it was perfectly astonishing to us both to find how many purely accidental interviews we had. if i went out for a walk, i was sure, first or last, to meet her. to be sure i took to walking very much in streets and squares where i had observed she might be expected to appear--but that did not make the matter seem to me the less unpremeditated. i had been in the habit of taking a daily constitutional stroll in central park, and the van arsdels were in the habit of driving there, at orthodox fashionable hours. in time, it seemed to happen that this afternoon stroll of mine always brought forth the happy fruit of a pleasant interview. there was no labyrinth or bower or summer-house, no dingle or bosky dell, so retired that i did not find it occasionally haunted by the presence of this dryad. true she was not there alone; sometimes with ida, sometimes with alice, or with a lively bevy of friends--but it made no difference with whom, so long as she was there. the many sins of omission and commission of which the city fathers of new york are accused, are, i think, wonderfully redeemed and covered by the beauties of the provision for humanity which they have made in central park. having seen every park in the world, i am not ashamed to glorify our own, as providing as much beauty and cheap pleasure as can anywhere be found under the sun. especially ought all lovers _par excellence_ to crown the projectors and executors of this park with unfading wreaths of olive and myrtle. it is so evidently adapted to all the purposes of falling in love and keeping in love that the only wonder is that any one can remain a bachelor in presence of such advantages and privileges! there is all the peacefulness, all the seclusion, all the innocent wildness of a country arcadia, given for the price of a five cents' ride in the cars to any citizen who chooses to be made moral and innocent. the central park is an immortal poem, forever addressing itself to the eye and ear in the whirl and bubble of that hot and bewildered city. it is a wordsworth immortalized and made permanent, preaching to the citizens. "one impulse from a vernal mood may teach you more of man-- of moral evil, and of good-- than all the sages can." certainly during this one season of my life i did full justice to the beauties of central park. there was not a nook or corner where wild flowers unfolded, where white-stemmed birches leaned over still waters, or ivies clambered over grottoed rocks, which i did not explore; and when in the winding walks of "the ramble" i caught distant sight of a white drapery, or heard through budding thickets the silvery sounds of laughing and talking, i knew i was coming on one of those pleasant surprises for which the park grounds are so nicely arranged. sometimes eva would come with a carriage full of children, and with the gay little fairies would pass a sunny afternoon, swinging them, watching them riding in the little goat-carriages, or otherwise presiding over their gaieties. we had, under these circumstances, all the advantage of a tête-à-tête without any of the responsibility of seeking or prolonging it. in fact, the presence of others was a salvo to my conscience, and to public appearance, for, looking on eva as engaged to another, i was very careful not to go over a certain line of appearances in my relations to her. my reason told me that i was upon dangerous ground for my own peace, but i quieted reason as young men in my circumstances generally do, by the best of arguments. i said to myself that, "no matter if she were engaged, why shouldn't i worship at her shrine, and cherish her unage as dante did that of beatrice, and tasso that of eleanora d'este?" and so on. "to be sure," i reflected, "this thing can never come to anything; of course she never can be anything to you more than a star in the heavens. but," i said in reply, "she is mine to worship and adore with the worship that we give to all beautiful things. she is mine as are fair flowers, and the blue skies, and the bright sunshine, which cheer and inspire." i was conscious that i had in my own most sacred receptacle at home, a little fairy glove that she had dropped, to which i had no claim; but i said to myself, "when a leaf falls from the rose, who shall say that i shall not gather it up?" so, too, i had one of those wonderful, useless little bits of fairy gossamer, which eve's daughters call a _pocket-handkerchief_. i had yet so little sense of sin that i stole that too, kept the precious theft folded in my prayer-book, and thought _she_ would never know it. i began to understand the efficacy that is ascribed to holy relics, for it seemed to me that if ever any deadly trouble or trial should come upon me, i would lay these little things upon my heart, and they would comfort me. and yet, all this while, i solemnly told myself i was _not in love_,--oh, no, not in the least. this was _friendship_--the very condensed, distilled essence of friendship, that and nothing more. to be sure it was friendship set to a heroic key--friendship of a rare quality. i longed to do something for her, and often thought how glad i would be to give my life for her. having a very active imagination, sometimes as i lay awake at night i perpetrated all sorts of confusions in the city of new york, for the sole purpose of giving myself an opportunity to do something for her. i set fire to the van arsdel mansion several times, in different ways, and, rushing in, bore her through the flames. i inaugurated a horrible plot against the life of her father, and rushing in at the critical moment, delivered the old gentleman that i might revel in her delight. i became suddenly a millionaire by the death of a supposititious uncle in the east indies, and immediately proceeded to lay all my treasures at her feet. as for mr. wat sydney, it is incredible the resignation with which i saw him ship-wrecked, upset in stages, crushed in railroad accidents, while i appeared on the scene as the consoling friend; not that i had, of course, any purpose of causing such catastrophes, but there was a degree of resignation attending the view of them that was soothing. i had in my heart a perfect certainty that sydney was unworthy of her, but of course racks and thumbscrews should not draw from me the slightest intimation of the kind, in her presence. so matters went on for some weeks. but sometimes it happens when a young fellow has long wandered in a beautiful dream of this kind, a sudden and harsh light of reality and of common-sense, every-day life, is thrown upon him in an unforeseen moment; and this moment at last arrived for me. one evening, when i dropped in for a call at the van arsdel mansion, the young ladies were all out at a concert, but mrs. van arsdel was at home, and for some reason, unusually bland and motherly. "my dear mr. henderson," she said, "it is rather hard on you to be obliged to accept an old woman like me, as a substitute for youth and beauty; but really, i am not sorry, on the whole, that the girls are out, for i would like a little chance of having a free, confidential talk with you. your relations with us have been so intimate and kindly, i feel, you know, quite as if you were one of us." i replied, of course, that 'i was extremely flattered and gratified by her kindness,' and assured her with effusion, and if i mistake not, with tears in my eyes, that 'she had made me forget that i was a stranger in new york, and that i should always cherish the most undying recollection of the kindness that i had received in her family, and of the pleasant hours i had spent there.' "ah, yes, indeed!" she said, "mr. henderson, it is pleasant to me to think that you feel so. i like to give young men a _home_ feeling. but after all," she continued, "one feels a little pensive once in a while, in thinking that one cannot always keep the home-circle unbroken. indeed, i never could see how some mothers could seem to rejoice as they do in the engagement of their daughters. there is mrs. elmore, now, her feelings are perfectly inexplicable to me." i assured her that i was quite of her way of thinking, and agreed with her perfectly. "now," she said, "as the time comes on, when i begin to think of parting with eva, though to the very best man in the world, do you know, mr. henderson, it really makes me feel sad?" i began at this moment to find the drift of the conversation becoming very embarrassing and disagreeable to me, but i mustered my energies to keep up my share in it with a becoming degree of interest. "i am to understand, then," said i, forcing a smile, "that miss eva's engagement with mr. sydney is a settled fact?" "well, virtually so," she replied. "eva is averse to the publicity of public announcements; but--you know how it is, mr. henderson, there are relations which amount to the same thing as an engagement." here mrs. van arsdel leaned back on the sofa and drew a letter from her pocket, while the words of my part of the conversation did not seem to be forthcoming. i sat in embarrassed silence. "the fact is, mr. henderson," she said, settling the diamonds and emeralds on her white, shapely fingers, "i have received a letter to-day from mr. sidney,--he is a noble fellow," she added, with empressment. i secretly wished the noble fellow at kamtschatka, but i said, in sympathetic tones, "ah, indeed?" as if waiting for the farther communication, which i perceived she was determined to bestow on me. "yes," she said, "he is coming to new york in a short time, and then, i suppose, there is no doubt that all will be finally arranged. i confess to you i have the weakness to feel a little depressed about it. did you ever read jean ingelow's _songs of seven_, mr. henderson? i think she touches so beautifully on the trials of mothers in giving up their daughters?" i said, "i only trust that mr. sydney is in some degree worthy of miss van arsdel; though," i added with warmth, "no man can be wholly so." "eva is a good girl," said mrs. van arsdel, "and i must confess that the parting from her will be the greatest trial of my life. but i thought i would let you know how matters stood, because of the very great confidence which we feel in you." i found presence of mind to acknowledge politely my sense of the honor conferred. mrs. van arsdel continued playing prettily with her rings. "one thing more perhaps i ought to say, mr. henderson, while your intimacy in our family is and has been quite what i desire, yet you know people are so absurd, and will say such absurd things, that it might not be out of the way to suggest a little caution; you know one wouldn't want to give rise to any reports that might be unpleasant--anything, you know, that might reach mr. sydney's ear--you understand me." "my dear mrs. van arsdel, is it possible that anything has been said?" "now, now, don't agitate yourself, mr. henderson; i know what you are going to say--no, nothing of the kind. but you know that we elderly people, who know the world and just what stupid and unreasonable things people are always saying, sometimes have to give you young folks just the slightest little caution. your conduct in this family has been all that is honorable, and gentlemanly, and unexceptionable, mr. henderson, and such as would lead us to repose the most perfect confidence in you. in fact, i beg you to consider this communication with regard to eva's connection with mr. sydney, as quite in confidence." "i certainly shall do so," said i, rising to take my leave, with much the same sort of eagerness with which one rises from a dentist's chair, after having his nerves picked at. as at this moment the voices of the returning party broke up our interview, i immediately arose, and excusing myself with the plea of an article to finish, left the house and walked home in a state of mind as disagreeable as my worst enemy could have wished. like all delicate advisers who are extremely fearful of hurting your feelings, mrs. van arsdel had told me nothing definite, and yet had said enough to make me supremely uncomfortable. what did she mean, and how much did she mean? had there been reports? was this to be received as an intimation from eva herself? had she discovered the state of my feelings, and was she, through her mother, warning me of my danger? all my little romance seemed disenchanted. these illusions of love are like the legends of hidden treasures guarded by watchful spirits which disappear from you if you speak a word; or like an enchanting dream, which vanishes if you start and open your eyes. i tossed to and fro restlessly all night, and resolved to do precisely the most irrational thing that i could have done, under the circumstances, and that was to give up going to the van arsdel house, and to see eva no more. the next morning, however, showed me that i could not make so striking a change in my habits without subjecting myself to jim fellows' remarks and inquiry. i resolved on a course of gradual emancipation and detachment. [eva van arsdel to isabel convers.] _my dearest belle_:--since i wrote to you last there have been the strangest changes. i scarcely know what to think. you remember i told you all about easter eve, and a certain person's appearance, and about the stolen glove and all that. your theory of accounting for all this was precisely mine; in fact i could think of no other. and, belle, if i could only see you i could tell you of a thousand little things that make me certain that he cares for me more than in the way of mere friendship. i thought i could not be mistaken in that. there has been scarcely a day since our acquaintance began when i have not in some way seen him or heard from him; you know all those early services, when he was as constant as the morning, and always walked home with me; then, he and jim fellows always spend at least one evening in a week at our house, and there are no end of accidental meetings. for example, when we take our afternoon drives at central park we are sure to see them sitting on the benches watching us go by, and it came to be quite a regular thing when we stopped the carriage at the terrace and got out to walk to find them there, and then alice would go off with jim fellows, and mr. h. and i would stroll up and down among the lilac hedges and in all those lovely little nooks and dells that are so charming. i'm quite sure i never explored the treasures of the park as i have this spring. we have rambled everywhere--up hill and down dale--it certainly is the loveliest and most complete imitation of wild nature that ever art perfected. one could fancy one's self deep in the country in some parts of it; far from all the rush and whirl and frivolity of this great, hot, dizzy new york. you may imagine that with all this we have had opportunity to become very intimate. he has told me all about himself, all the history of his life, all about his mother, and his home; it seems hardly possible that one friend could speak more unreservedly to another, and i, dear belle, have found myself speaking with equal frankness to him. we know each other so perfectly that there has for a long time seemed to be only a thin impalpable cob-web barrier between us; but you know, belle, that airy filmy barrier is something that one would not by a look or a word disturb. for weeks i have felt every day that surely the next time we meet all this must come to a crisis. that he would say in words what he says in looks--in involuntary actions--what in fact i am perfectly sure of. till he speaks i must be guarded. i must hold myself back from showing him the kindly interest i really feel. for i am proud, as you know, belle, and have always held the liberty of my heart as a sacred treasure. i have always felt a secret triumph in the consciousness that i did not care for anybody, and that my happiness was wholly in my own hands, and i mean to keep it so. our friendship is a pleasant thing enough, but i am not going to let it become too necessary, you understand. it isn't that i care so very much, but my _curiosity_ is really excited to know just what the real state of the case is; one wants to investigate interesting phenomena you know. when i saw that little glove movement on easter eve i confess i thought the game all in my own hands, and that i could quietly wait to say "checkmate" in due form and due time; but after all nothing came of it; that is, nothing decisive; and i confess i didn't know what to think. sometimes i have fancied some obstacle or entanglement or commitment with some other woman--this cousin caroline perhaps--but he talks about her to me in the most open and composed manner. sometimes i fancy he has heard the report of my engagement to sydney. if he has, why doesn't he ask me about it? i have no objection to telling him, but i certainly shall not open the subject myself. perhaps, as ida thinks, he is proud and poor and not willing to be a suitor to a rich young good-for-nothing. well, that can't be helped, he _must_ be a suitor if he wins me, for _i_ shan't be; _he_ must ask _me_, for i certainly shan't ask him, that's settled. if he would "ask me pretty," now, who knows what nice things he might hear? i would tell him, _perhaps_, how much more one true noble heart is worth in my eyes than all that wat sydney has to give. sometimes i am quite provoked with him that he should look so much, and yet say no more, and i feel a naughty wicked inclination to flirt with somebody else just to make him open those "_grands yeux_" of his a little wider and to a little better purpose. sometimes i begin to feel a trifle vindictive and as if i should like to give him a touch of the claw. the claw, my dear, the little pearly claw that we women keep in reserve in the "_patte de velours_," our only and most sacred weapon of defense. the other night, at mrs. cerulean's _salon_, she was holding forth with great effect on woman's right to court men--as natural and indefeasible--and i told her that i considered our right to _be_ courted far more precious and inviolable. of course it is so. the party that makes the proposals is the party that must take the risk of refusal, and who would wish to do that? it puts me out of all patience just to think of it. if there is anything that vexes me it is that a man should ever feel sure that a woman's heart is at his disposal before he has asked for it prettily and properly in all due form, and, my dear, i have the fear of this before my eyes, even in our most intimate moments. he shall not feel too sure of me. _wednesday evening_. my dear belle, i can't think what in the world is up now; but something or other has happened to a certain person that has changed all our relations. for more than a week i have scarcely seen him. he called with jim fellows on the usual evening, but did not go into ida's room, and hardly came near me, and seemed all in a flutter to leave all the time. he was at the great elmore wedding, and so was i, but we scarcely spoke all the evening. i could see him following all my motions and watching me at a distance, but as sure as i came into a room he seemed in a perfect flutter to get out of it, and yet no sooner had he done so than he secured some position where he could observe me at a distance. i was provoked enough, and i thought if my lord wanted to observe, i'd give him something to see, so i flirted with jerrold livingstone, whom i don't care a copper about, within an inch of his life, and i made a special effort to be vastly agreeable to all the danglers and moustaches that i usually take delight in snubbing, and i could see that he looked quite wretched, which was a comfort--but yet he wouldn't come near me till just as i was going to leave, when he came to beg i would stay longer and declared that he hadn't seen anything of me. it was a little too much! i assumed an innocent air and surveyed him "_de haut en bas_" and said, "why, dear me, mr. henderson, possible that _you've_ been here all this time? where have you kept yourself?" and then i handed my bouquet to livingstone and swept by in triumph; his last look after me as i went down stairs was tragical, you may believe. well, i can't make him out, but i don't care. i won't care. he was free to come. he shall be free to go; but isn't it vexatious that in cases of this kind one cannot put an end to the tragedy by a simple common-sense question? one doesn't care so very much, you know, _what_ is the matter with these creatures, only one is _curious_ to know what upon earth makes them _act_ so. a man sets up a friendship with you, and then looks and acts as if he adored you, as if he worshiped the ground you tread on, and then is off at a tangent with a tragedy air, and you are not allowed to say "my dear sir, why do you behave so? why do you make such a precious goose of yourself?" the fact is, these friendships of women with men are all _fol-de-rol_. the creatures always have an advantage over you. they can make every advance and come nearer and nearer and really make themselves quite agreeable, not to say necessary, and then suddenly change the whole footing and one cannot even ask why. one cannot say, as to another woman, "what is the matter? what has altered your manner?" she cannot even show that she notices the change, without loss of self-respect. a woman in friendship with a man is made heartless by this very necessity, she must always hold herself ready to change hands and make her chassé to right or left with all suitable indifference whenever her partner is ready for another move in the cotillion. well, so be it. i fancy i can do this as well as another. _i_ never shall inquire into his motives. i'm sorry for him, too, for he looked quite haggard and unhappy. well; it's his own fault; for if he would only be open with me he'd find it to his advantage--_perhaps_. you are quite mistaken, dear, in what you have heard about his belonging to that radical party of strange creatures who rant and rage about progress in our times. like all generous, magnanimous men, who are conscious of strength, he sympathizes with the weak, and is a champion of woman wherever she is wronged; and certainly in many respects, we must all admit women are wronged by the laws and customs of society. but no man could be nicer in his sense of feminine delicacy and more averse to associating with bold and unfeminine women than he. i must defend him there. i am sure that nothing could be more distasteful to him than the language and conduct of many of these dreadful female reformers of our day. if i _am_ out of sorts with him i must at least do him this justice. you inquire about alice and jim fellows; my dear, there can be nothing there. they are perfectly well matched; a pair of flirts, and neither trusts the other an inch farther than they can see. alice has one of those characters that lie in layers like the geologic strata that our old professor used to show us. the top layer is all show, and display and ambition; dig down below that and you find a warm volcanic soil where noble plants might cast root. but at present she is all in the upper stratum. she must have her run of flirting and fashion and adventure, and just now a splendid marriage is her ideal, but she is capable of a great deal in the depths of her nature. all i hope is she will not marry till she has got down into it, but she is starting under full sail now, coquetting to right and left, making great slaughter. she looked magnificently at the wedding and quite outshone me. she has that superb spanish style of beauty which promises to wear well and bloom out into more splendor as time goes on, and she has a good heart with all her nonsense. well, dear, what a long letter! and must i add to it the account of the wedding glories--lists of silver and gold tea sets, and sets of pearls and diamonds? my dear, only fancy tiffany's counters transferred bodily, with cards from a., b., and c., presenting this and that; fancy also the young men of your acquaintance silly-drunk, or stupid-drunk in the latter part of the night in the supper-room; fancy, if you can, the bridegroom carried up stairs, because he couldn't go up on his own feet!--this is a wedding! never mind! the bride had three or four sets of diamond shoe-buckles, and rubies and emeralds in the profusion of the arabian nights. well, it will be long before i care for such a wedding! i am sick of splendors, sated with nick-nacks, my doll is stuffed with saw-dust, &c., &c., but i shall ever be your loving eva. p. s.--my dear--a case of conscience!--would it be a sin to flirt a little with sydney, just enough to aggravate somebody else? sydney's, you mind, is not a deep heart-case. he only wants me because i am hard to catch, and have been the fashion. i'll warrant him against breaking his heart for anybody. however, i don't believe i will flirt after all i'll--try some other square of the chess-board. the confidential conversation held with me by mrs. van arsdel had all the effect on my mental castle-building that a sudden blow had on alnaschar's basket of glass ware in the arabian tales. nobody is conscious how far he has been in dreamland till he is awakened. i was now fully aroused to the fact that i was in love with eva van arsdel, to all intents and purposes, so much in love as made the nourishing and cherishing of an intimate friendship an impossibility, and only a specious cloak for a sort of moral dishonesty. now i might have known this fact in the beginning, and i scolded and lectured myself for my own folly in not confessing it to myself before. i had been received by the family as a friend. i had been trusted with their chief treasure, with the understanding that it was to belong not to me but another, and there was a species of moral indelicacy to my mind in having suffered myself to become fascinated by her as i now felt that i was. but i did not feel adequate to congratulating her as the betrothed bride of another man; nay, more, when i looked back on the kind of intimate and confidential relations that had been growing up between us, i could not but feel that it was not safe for me to continue them. two natures cannot exactly accord, cannot keep time and tune together, without being conscious of the fact and without becoming necessary to each other; and such relations in their very nature tend to grow absorbing and exclusive. it was plain to me that if eva were to marry wat sydney i could not with honor and safety continue the kind of intimacy we had been so thoughtlessly and so delightfully enjoying for the past few weeks. but how to break it off without an explanation, and how make that explanation? there is a certain responsibility resting on a man of conscience and honor, about accepting all that nearness of access, and that closeness of intimacy which the ignorant innocence of young girls often invites. from his very nature, from his education, from his position in society, a young man knows more of what the full significance and requirements of marriage are to be than a young woman can, and he must know the danger of absorbing and exclusive intimacy with other than a husband. the instincts of every man teach that marriage must be engrossing and monopolizing, that it implies a forsaking of all others, and a keeping unto one only; and how could that be when every taste and feeling, every idiosyncracy and individual peculiarity made the society of some other person more agreeable? without undue personal vanity, a man will surely know when there is a special congeniality of nature between himself and a certain woman, and he is bound in conscience and honor to look ahead in all his intimacies and see what must be the inevitable result of them according to the laws of the human mind. because i had neglected this caution, because i had yielded myself blindly to the delicious enchantment of a new enthusiasm, i had now come to a place where i knew neither how to advance nor recede. i could not drop this intimacy, so dangerous to my peace and honor, without risk of offending; to explain was, in fact, to solicit. i might confess all, cast myself at her feet--but supposing she should incline to mercy--and with a woman's uncalculating disinterestedness accept my love in place of wealth and station, what should i then do? had i been possessed of a fortune even half equal to mr. sydney's; had i, in fact, any settled and assumed position to offer, i would have avowed my love boldly and suffered her to decide. but i had no advantage to stand on. i was poor, and had nothing to give but myself; and what man is vain enough to think that he is in himself enough to make up for all that may be wanting in externals? besides this, eva was the daughter of a rich family, and an offer of marriage from me must have appeared to all the world the interested proposal of a fortune-hunter. of what avail would it be under such circumstances to plead that i loved her for herself alone? i could fancy the shout of incredulous laughter with which the suggestion would be received in the gay world. "so very thoughtful of the fair! it showed a true fraternal care. five thousand guineas in her purse-- the fellow might have fancied worse." now, if there was anything that my pride revolted from as an impossibility, it was coming as a poor suitor to a great rich family. were i even sure that eva loved me, how could i do that? would not all the world say that to make use of my access in the family to draw her down from a splendid position in life to poverty and obscurity was on my part a dishonorable act? could i trust myself enough to feel that it was justice to her? the struggle that a young man has to engage in to secure a self-supporting position, is of a kind to make him keenly alive to material values. dr. franklin said, "if you would learn the value of money, try to borrow some." i would say rather, try to earn some, and to live only on what you earn. my own hard experience on this subject led me to reflect very seriously on the responsibility which a man incurs in inducing a woman of refinement and culture to look to him as her provider. in our advanced state of society there are a thousand absolute wants directly created by culture and refinement; and whatever may be said about the primary importance of personal affection and sympathy as the foundation of a happy marriage, it is undoubtedly true that a certain amount of pecuniary ease and security is necessary as a background on which to develop agreeable qualities. a man and woman much driven, care-worn, and overtaxed, often have little that is agreeable to show to each other. i queried with myself then, whether, as eva's true friend, i should not wish that she might marry a respectable man, devoted to her, who could keep her in all that elegance and luxury she was so fitted to adorn and enjoy; and whether if i _could_ do it, i ought to try to put myself in his place in her mind. a man who detects himself in an unfortunate passion has always the refuge of his life-object. to the true man, the thing that he hopes to _do_ always offers some compensation for the thing he ceases to enjoy. it was fortunate therefore for me, that just in this crisis of my life, my friendship with bolton opened before me the prospect of a permanent establishment in connection with the literary press of the times. chapter xxix. a new opening. "henderson," said bolton to me, one day, "how long are you engaged on the _democracy?_" "only for this year," said i. "because," said he, "i have something to propose to you which i hope may prove a better thing. hestermann & co. sent for me yesterday in secret session. the head manager of their whole set of magazines and papers has resigned, and is going to travel in europe, and they want me to take the place." "good! i am heartily glad of it," said i. "i always felt that you were not in the position that you ought to have. you will accept, of course." "whether i accept or not depends on _you_," he replied. "i cannot understand," said i. "in short, then," said he, "the responsibility is a heavy one, and i cannot undertake it without a partner whom i can trust as myself--i mean," he added, "whom i can trust _more_ than myself." "you are a thousand times too good," said i. "i should like nothing better than such a partnership, but i feel oppressed by your good opinion. are you sure that i am the one for you?" "i think i am," said he, "and it is a case where i am the best judge; and it offers to you just what you want--a stable position, independence to express yourself, and a good income. hestermann & co. are rich, and wise enough to know that liberality is the best policy." "but," said i, "their offers are made to you, and not to me." "well, of course, their acquaintance with me is of old standing; but i have spoken to them of you, and i am to bring you round to talk with them to-morrow; but, after all, the whole power of arranging is left with me. they put a certain sum at my disposal, and i do what i please with it. in short," he said, smiling, "i hold the living, and you are my curate. well," he added, "of course you need time to think matters over; here is paper on which i have made a little memorandum of an arrangement between us; take it and dream on it, and let me know to-morrow what you think of it." i went to my room and unfolded the agreement, and found the terms liberal beyond all my expectations. in fact, the income of the principal was awarded to me, and that of the subordinate to bolton. i took the paper the next evening to bolton's room. "look here, bolton," said i, "these terms are simply absurd." "how so?" he said, lifting his eyes tranquilly from his book. "what's the matter with them?" "why, you give me all the income." "wait till you see how i'll work you," he said, smiling. "i'll get it out of you; you see if i don't." "but you leave yourself nothing." "i have as much as i would have, and that's enough. i'm a literary monk, you know, with no family but puss and stumpy, poor fellow, and i need the less." stumpy upon this pricked up his ragged ears with an expression of lively satisfaction, sat back on his haunches, and rapped the floor with his forlorn bit of a tail. "poor stumpy," said bolton, "you don't know that you are the homeliest dog in new york, do you? well, _as far as you go_, you are perfect goodness, stumpy, though you are no beauty." upon this high praise, stumpy seemed so elated that he stood on his hind paws and rested his rough fore-feet on bolton's knee, and looked up with eyes of admiration. "man is the dog's god," said bolton. "i can't conceive how any man can be rude to his dog. a dog," he added, fondling his ragged cur, "why, he's nothing but organized love--love on four feet, encased in fur, and looking piteously out at the eyes--love that would die for you, yet cannot speak--that's the touching part. stumpy _longs_ to speak; his poor dog's breast heaves with something he longs to tell me and can't. don't it, stumpy?" as if he understood his master, stumpy wheezed a doleful whine, and actual tears stood in his eyes. "well," said bolton, "stumpy has beautiful eyes; nobody shall deny that--there, there! poor fellow, maybe on the other shore your rough bark will develop into speech; let's hope so. i confess i'm of the poor indian's mind, and hope to meet my dog in the hereafter. why should so much love go out in nothing? yes, stumpy, we'll meet in the resurrection, won't we?" stumpy barked aloud with the greatest animation. "bolton, you ought to be a family man," said i. "why do you take it for granted that you are to be a literary monk, and spend your love on dogs and cats?" "_you_ may get married, hal, and i'll adopt your children," said bolton; "that's one reason why i want to establish you. you see, one's dogs _will_ die, and it breaks one's heart. if _you_ had a boy, now, i'd invest in him." "and why can't you invest in a boy of your own?" "oh, i'm a predestined old bachelor." "no such thing," i persisted, hardily, "why do you immure yourself in a den? why won't you go out into society? here, ever since i've known you, you have been in this one cave--a new york hermit; yet if you would once begin to go into society, you'd like it." "you think i haven't tried it; you forget that i am some years older than you are," said bolton. "you are a good-looking young fellow yet," said i, "and ought to make the most of yourself. why should you turn all the advantages into my hands, and keep so little for yourself?" "it suits me," said bolton; "i am lazy--i mean to get the work out of you." "that's all hum," said i; "you know well enough that you are not lazy; you take delight in work for work's sake." "one reason i am glad of this position," he said, "is that it gives me a chance to manage matters a little, as i want them. for instance, there's jim fellows--i want to make something more than a mad bohemian of that boy. jim is one of the wild growths of our new york life; he is a creature of the impulses and the senses, and will be for good or evil according as others use him." "he's capital company," said i, "but he doesn't seem to me to have a serious thought on any subject." "and yet," said bolton, "such is our day and time, that jim is more likely than you or i to get along in the world. his cap and bells win favor everywhere, and the laugh he raises gives him the privilege of saying anything he pleases. for my part, i couldn't live without jim. i have a weakness for him. nothing is so precious to me as a laugh, and, wet or dry, i can always get that out of jim. he'll work in admirably with us." "one thing must be said for jim," said i, "with all his keenness he's kind-hearted. he never is witty at the expense of real trouble. as he says, he goes for the under dog in the fight always, and his cheery, frisky, hit-or-miss morality does many a kind turn for the unfortunate, while he is always ready to help the poor." "jim is not of the sort that is going to do the world's thinking for them," said bolton; "neither will he ever be one of the noble army of martyrs for principle. he is like a lively, sympathetic horse that will keep the step of the team he is harnessed in, and in the department of lively nonsense he'd do us yeoman service. nowadays people must have truth whipped up to a white froth or they won't touch it. jim is a capital egg-beater." "yes," said i; "he's like the horse that had the go in him; he'll run any team that he's harnessed in, and if you hold the reins he won't run off the course." "then again," said bolton, "there's your cousin; there is the editorship of our weekly journal will be just the place for her. you can write and offer it to her." "pardon me," said i, maliciously, "since you are acquainted with the lady, why not write and offer it yourself? it would be a good chance to renew your acquaintance." bolton's countenance changed, and he remained a moment silent. "henderson," he said, "there are very painful circumstances connected with my acquaintance with your cousin. i never wish to meet her, or renew my acquaintance with her. sometime i will tell you why," he added. the next evening i found on my table the following letter from bolton: _dear henderson_:--you need feel no hesitancy about accepting in full every advantage in the position i propose to you, since you may find it weighted with disadvantages and incumbrances you do not dream of. in short, i shall ask of you services for which no money can pay, and till i knew you there was no man in the world of whom i had dared to ask them. i want a friend, courageous, calm, and true, capable of thinking broadly and justly, one superior to ordinary prejudices, who may be to me another, and in some hours a stronger, self. i can fancy your surprise at this language, and yet i have not read you aright if you are not one of a thousand on whom i may rest this hope. you often rally me on my lack of enterprise and ambition, on my hermit habits. the truth is, henderson, i am a strained and unseaworthy craft, for whom the harbor and shore are the safest quarters. i have lost trust in myself, and dare not put out to sea without feeling the strong hand of a friend with me. i suppose no young fellow ever entered the course of life with more self-confidence. i had splendid health, high spirits, great power of application, and great social powers. i lived freely and carelessly on the abundance of my physical resources. i could ride, and row, and wrestle with the best. i could lead in all social gaieties, yet keep the head of my class, as i did the first two years of my college life. it seems hardly fair to us human beings that we should be so buoyed up with ignorant hope and confidence in the beginning of our life, and that we should be left in our ignorance to make mistakes which no after years can retrieve. i thought i was perfectly sure of myself; i thought my health and strength were inexhaustible, and that i could carry weights that no man else could. the drain of my wide-awake exhausting life upon my nervous system i made up by the insidious use of stimulants. i was like a man habitually overdrawing his capital, and ignorant to what extent. in my third college year this began to tell perceptibly on my nerves. i was losing self-control, losing my way in life; i was excitable, irritable, impatient of guidance or reproof, and at times horribly depressed. i sought refuge from this depression in social exhilaration, and having lost control of myself became a marked man among the college authorities; in short, i was overtaken in a convivial row, brought under college discipline, and suspended. it was at this time that i went into your neighborhood to study and teach. i found no difficulty in getting the highest recommendations as to scholarship from some of the college officers who were for giving me a chance to recover myself; and for the rest i was thoroughly sobered and determined on a new course. here commenced my acquaintance with your cousin, and there followed a few months remembered ever since as the purest happiness of my life. i loved her with all there was in me,--heart, soul, mind and strength,--with a love which can never die. she also loved me, more perhaps than she dared to say, for she was young, hardly come to full consciousness of herself. she was then scarcely sixteen, ignorant of her own nature, ignorant of life, and almost frightened at the intensity of the feeling which she excited in me, yet she loved me. but before we could arrive at anything like a calm understanding, her father came between us. he was a trustee of the academy, and a dispute arose between him and me in which he treated me with an overbearing haughtiness which aroused the spirit of opposition in me. i was in the right and knew i was, and i defended my course before the other trustees in a manner which won them over to my way of thinking--a victory which he never forgave. previously to this encounter i had been in the habit of visiting in his family quite intimately. caroline and i enjoyed that kind of unwatched freedom which the customs of new england allow to young people. i always attended her home from the singing-school and the weekly lectures, and the evening after my encounter with the trustees i did the same. at the door of his house he met us, and as caroline passed in he stopped me, and briefly saying that my visits there would no longer be permitted, closed the door in my face. i tried to obtain an interview soon after, when he sternly upbraided me as one that had stolen into the village and won their confidence on false pretences, adding that if he and the trustees had known the full history of my college life i should never have been permitted to teach in their village or have access to their families. it was in vain to attempt a defense to a man determined to take the very worst view of facts which i did not pretend to deny. i knew that i had been irreproachable as to my record in the school, that i had been faithful in my duties, that the majority of parents and pupils were on my side; but i could not deny the harsh facts which he had been enabled to obtain from some secret enemy, and which he thought justified him in saying that he would rather see his daughter in her grave than to see her my wife. the next day caroline did not appear in school. her father, with prompt energy, took her immediately to an academy fifty miles away. i did not attempt to follow her or write to her; a profound sense of discouragement came over me, and i looked on my acquaintance with her with a sort of remorse. the truth bitterly told by an enemy with a vivid power of statement is a tonic oftentimes too strong for one's power of endurance. i never reflected so seriously on the responsibility which a man assumes, in awakening the slumbering feelings of a woman, and fixing them on himself. under the reproaches of caroline's father i could but regard this as a wrong i had done, and which could be expiated only by leaving her to peace in forgetfulness. i resolved that i would never let her hear from me again, till i had fully proved myself to be possessed of such powers of self-control as would warrant me in offering to be the guardian of her happiness. but when i set myself to the work, i found what many another does, that i had reckoned without my host. the man who has begun to live and work by artificial stimulant, never knows where he stands, and can never count upon himself with any certainty. he lets into his castle a servant who becomes the most tyrannical of masters. he may resolve to turn him out, but will find himself reduced to the condition in which he can neither do with nor without him. in short, the use of stimulant to the brain-power brings on a disease, in whose paroxysms a man is no more his own master than in the ravings of fever, a disease that few have the knowledge to understand, and for whose manifestations the world has no pity. i cannot tell you the dire despair that came upon me, when after repeated falls, bringing remorse and self-upbraiding to me, and drawing upon me the severest reproaches of my friends, the idea at last flashed upon me that i had indeed become the victim of a sort of periodical insanity in which the power of the will was overwhelmed by a wild unreasoning impulse. i remember when a boy reading an account of a bridal party sailing gaily on the coast of norway who were insidiously drawn into the resistless outer whirl of the great maelström. the horror of the situation was the moment when the shipmaster learned that the ship _no longer obeyed the rudder_; the cruelty of it was the gradual manner in which the resistless doom came upon them. the sun still shone, the sky was still blue. the shore, with its green trees and free birds and blooming flowers, was near and visible as they went round and round in dizzy whirls, past the church with its peaceful spire, past the home cottages, past the dwelling of friends and neighbors, past parents, brothers, and sisters who stood on the shore warning and shrieking and entreating; helpless, hopeless, with bitterness in their souls, with all that made life lovely so near in sight, and yet cut off from it by the swirl of that tremendous fate! there have been just such hours to me, in which i have seen the hopes of manhood, the love of woman, the possession of a home, the opportunities for acquisition of name, and position, and property, all within sight, within grasp, yet all made impossible by my knowledge and consciousness of the deadly drift and suction of that invisible whirlpool. the more of manliness there yet is left in man in these circumstances, the more torture. the more sense of honor, love of reputation, love of friends, conscience in duty, the more anguish. i read once a frightful story of a woman whose right hand was changed to a serpent, which at intervals was roused to fiendish activity and demanded of her the blood of her nearest and dearest friends. the hideous curse was inappeasable, and the doomed victim spell-bound, powerless to resist. even so the man who has lost the control of his will is driven to torture those he loves, while he shivers with horror and anguish at the sight. i have seen the time when i gave earnest thanks that no woman loved me, that i had no power to poison the life of a wife with the fear, and terror, and lingering agony of watching the slow fulfillment of such a doom. it is enough to say that with every advantage--of friends, patronage, position--i lost _all_. the world is _exigéant_. it demands above everything that every man shall keep step. he who cannot, falls to the rear, and is gradually left behind as the army moves on. the only profession left to me was one which could avail itself of my lucid intervals. the power of clothing thought with language is in our day growing to be a species of talent for which men are willing to pay, and i have been able by this to make myself a name and a place in the world; and what is more, i hope to do some good in it. i have reflected upon my own temptation, endeavoring to divest myself of the horror with which my sense of the suffering and disappointment i have caused my friends inspires me. i have settled in my own mind the limits of human responsibility on this subject, and have come to the conclusion that it is to be regarded precisely as mary lamb and charles lamb regarded the incursion of the mania which destroyed the peace of their life. a man who undertakes to comprehend, and cure himself, has to fight his way back alone. nobody understands, nobody sympathizes with him, nobody helps him--not because the world is unfeeling, but because it is ignorant of the laws which govern this species of insanity. it took me, therefore, a great while to form my system of self-cure. i still hope for this. _i_, the sane and sound, _i_ hope to provide for the insane and unsound intervals of my life. and my theory is, briefly, a _total_ and _eternal_ relinquishment of the poisonous influence, so that nature may have power to organize new and healthy brain-matter, and to remove that which is diseased. nature will do this, in the end, for she is ever merciful; there is always "forgiveness with her, that she may be feared." since you have known me, you have seen that i live the life of an anchorite--that my hours are regular, that i avoid exciting society, that i labor with uniformity, and that i never touch any stimulating drink. it is a peculiarity of cases like mine that for lengths of time the morbid disease leaves us, and we feel the utmost aversion to any thing of the kind. but there is always a danger lying behind this subtle calm. three or four drops of alcohol, such as form the basis of a tincture which a doctor will order without scruple, will bring back the madness. one five-minutes inadvertence will upset the painful work of years, and carry one away as with a flood. when i did not know this, i was constantly falling. society through all its parts is full of traps and pitfalls for such as i, and the only refuge is in flight. it has been part of my rule of life to avoid all responsibilities that might involve others in my liability to failure. it is now a very long time since i have felt any abnormal symptoms, and if i had not so often been thrown down after such a period of apparent calm, i might fancy my dangers over, and myself a sound man. the younger hestermann was a class-mate and chum of mine in college, and one whose friendship for me has held on through thick and thin. he has a trust in me that imposes on me a painful sense of responsibility. i would not fail him for a thousand worlds, yet if one of my hours of darkness should come i should fail ignominiously. only one motive determined me to take their offer--it gave me a chance to provide for you and for caroline. i dare do it only through trusting you for a friendship beyond that of the common; in short, for a brotherly kindness such as charles lamb showed to mary, his sister. if the curse returns upon me, you must not let me ruin myself and you; you must take me to an asylum till i recover. in asking this of you, i am glad to be able to offer what will be to you an independent position, and give you that home and fireside which i may not dare to hope for myself. in the end, i expect to conquer, either here or hereafter. i believe in the fatherhood of god, and that he has a purpose even in letting us blindly stumble through life as we do; and through all my weakness and unworthiness i still hold his hand. i _know_ that the whole temptation is one of brain and nerves, and when he chooses he can release me. the poor brain will be cold and still for good and all some day, and _i_ shall be free and able to see, i trust, why i have been suffered thus to struggle. after all, _immortality_ opens a large hope, that may overpay the most unspeakable bitterness of life. meanwhile, you can see why i do not wish to be brought into personal relations with the only woman i have ever loved, or ever can love, and whose happiness i fear to put in peril. it is an unspeakable delight and relief to have this power of doing for her, but she must not know of it. also, let me tell you that you are to me more transparent than you think. it requires only the penetration of friendship to see that you are in love, and that you hesitate and hang back because of an unwillingness to match your fortunes with hers. let me suggest, do you not owe it as a matter of justice, after so much intimacy as has existed, to give her the opportunity to choose between a man and circumstances? if the arrangement between us goes into effect, you will have a definite position and a settled income. go to her like a man and lay it before her, and if she is worthy of you she will come to you. "he either dreads his fate too much, or his desert is small, who fears to put it to the touch, to win or lose it all." god grant you a home and fireside, harry, and i will be the indulgent uncle in the chimney-corner. yours ever, bolton. chapter xxx. perturbations. scene.--_ida's study--ida busy making notes from a book--eva sitting by, embroidering._ eva--"heigho! how stupid things are. i am tired of everything. i am tired of shopping--tired of parties--tired of new york--where the same thing keeps happening over and over. i wish i was a man. i'd just take my carpet-bag and go to europe. come now, ida, pray stop that, and talk to me, do!" _ida_, putting down her book and pen: "well--and what about?" "oh, you know!--this inextricable puzzle--what does ail a certain person? now he didn't come at all last night, and when i asked jim fellows where his friend was (one must pass the compliment of inquiring, you know), he said, 'henderson had grown dumpy lately,' and he couldn't get him out anywhere." "well, eva, i'm sure i can't throw any light on the subject. i know no more than you." "now, ida, let me tell you, this afternoon when we stopped in the park, i went into that great rustic arbor on the top of the hill there, and just as we came in on one side, i saw him in all haste hurrying out on the other, as if he were afraid to meet me." "how very odd!" "odd! well, i should think it was; but what was worse, he went and stationed himself on a bench under a tree where he could hear and see us, and there my lord sat--perhaps he thought i didn't see him, but i did. "lillie and belle forrester and wat jerrold were with me, and we were having such a laugh! i don't know when i have had such a frolic, and how silly it was of him to sit there glowering like an owl in an ivy bush, when he might have come out and joined us, and had a good time! i'm quite out of patience with the creature, it's so vexatious to have him act so!" "it is vexatious, darling, but then as you can't do anything about it why think of it?" "because i can't help it. can you have a real friendship for a person and enjoy his society, and not care in the least whether you have it or not? of course you can't. we were friends--quite good friends, and i'm not ashamed to say i miss him, very much, and then to have such an unaccountable mystery about it. i should think you'd miss him too." "i do somewhat," said ida, "but then you see i have so much more to think of. i have my regular work every day for papa, and i have my plan of study, and to say the truth, so far as i am concerned, though i liked mr. henderson very much, yet i don't miss him." "well, ida, now i want to ask you, didn't you think he acted as if----" "as if he were in love with you, you would say." "well--yes." "he certainly did, if i am any judge of symptoms; but then, dear, men are often in love with women they don't mean to marry." "who wants to marry him, i should like to know? i'm not thinking of that." "well, then, eva, perhaps he has discovered that _he_ wants to marry you; and, perhaps, for some reason he regards that as impossible, and so is going to try to keep away." "how perfectly hateful and stupid of him! i'd rather never have seen him." "a man generally has this advantage over a woman in a matter of this sort, that he has an object in life which is more to him than anything else, and he can fill his whole mind with that." "well, ida, that's all very true, but what object in life can a girl have who lives as we do; who has everything she can want without an effort--i for instance." "but _i_ have an object." "yes, i know you have, but i am different from you. it would be as impossible for me to do as you do, as for a fish to walk upright on dry land." "well, eva, this objectless, rootless, floating kind of life that you and almost all girls lead, is at the bottom of nearly all your troubles. literally and truly you have nothing in the world to do but to amuse yourselves; the consequence is that you soon get tired of almost every kind of amusement, and so every friendship, and flirtation assumes a disproportioned interest in your minds. there is real danger now that you may think too much of mr."---- "oh, stuff and nonsense, ida! i _won't_, so there! i'll put him out of my head forthwith and bolt the door. give me a good stiff dose of reading, ida; one of your dullest scientific books, and get me to write you an analysis of it as we did at school. here, let me see, 'descent of man.' come, now, i'll sit down and go at it." eva sits down with book, pencil and paper, and turns over the leaves. "let's try how it looks. 'sexual selection'! oh, horrid! 'her ape-like proportions'! i should be ashamed to talk so about my ancestors. apes!--of all things--why not some more respectable animal? lions or horses, for example. you remember swift's story about the houyhnhums. isn't this a dreadfully dull book, ida?" "no, i don't find it so. i am deeply interested in it, though i admit it is pretty heavy." "but, then, ida, you see it goes against the bible, doesn't it?" "not necessarily as i see." "why, yes; to be sure. i haven't read it; but mr. henderson gave me the clearest kind of a sketch of the argument, and that is the way it impressed me. that to be sure is among the things i principally value him for; he is my milk-skimmer; he gets all the cream that rises on a book and presents it to me in a portable form. i remember one of the very last really comfortable long talks we had; it was on this subject, and i told him that it seemed to me that the modern theory and the bible were point blank opposites. instead of men being a _fallen_ race, they are a _rising_ race, and never so high as now; and then, what becomes of the garden of eden, and st. paul? now, for my part, i told mr. henderson i wasn't going to give up all the splendid poetry of milton and the bible, just because mr. darwin took it into his head that it was not improbable that my seventy fifth millionth grandfather might have been a big baboon with green nose and pointed ears!" "my dear eva, you have capital reasons for believing and _not_ believing. you believe what seems most agreeable and poetic." "exactly, ida; and in those far-off regions, sixteen million billion ages ago, why shouldn't i? nobody knows what happened there; nobody has been there to see what made the first particle of jelly take to living, and turn into a germ cell, and then go working on like yeast, till it worked out into all the things we see. i think it a good deal easier to believe the garden of eden story, especially as that is pretty and poetical, and is in the dear old book that is so sweet and comfortable to us; but then mr. henderson insists that even if we do hold the evolution theory, the old book will be no less true. i never saw a man of so much thought who had so much reverence." "i thought you were going to study darwin and not think of him," said ida. "well, somehow, almost every thing puts me in mind of him, because we have had such long talks about everything; and, ida, to tell the truth, i do believe i am intellectually lazy. i don't like rough hard work, i like polishing and furbishing. now, i want a man to go through all this rough, hard, stupid, disagreeable labyrinth of scientific terms, and pick out the meaning and put it into a few, plain words, and then i take it and brighten it up and put on the rainbows. look here, now, think of my having to scrabble through a bog like this in the "origin of the species": "'in carthamus and some other compositæ the central achenes alone are furnished with a pappus; and in hyoseris the same head yields achenes of three different forms. in certain umbelliferæ the exterior seeds, according to tanch, are orthospermous, and the central one coelospermous, and this difference has been considered by de candolle as of the highest systematic importance in the family.' "now all this is just as unintelligible to me as if it were written in choctaw. i don't know enough to know what it means, and i'm afraid i don't care enough to know. i want to know the upshot of the whole in good plain english, and then see whether i can believe it or not; and isn't it a shame that things are so that one cannot have a sensible man to be one's guide, philosopher and friend, without this everlasting marriage question coming up? if a woman makes an effort to get or keep a valuable friend, she is supposed to be intriguing and making unfeminine efforts for a husband. now this poor man is perfectly wretched about something--for i can see he has really gone off shockingly, and looks thin and haggard, and i can't just write him a note and ask him to come and finish his resumé of darwin for me, without going over the boundaries; and the worst of it is, it is _i_ who set these limits;--i myself who am a world too proud to say the first word or give the slightest indication that his absence isn't quite as agreeable as his presence." "well, eva, i can write a note and request him to call and see _me_," said ida, "and if you like, i will. i have no sort of fear what he will think of me." "i would not have you for the world. it would look like an advance on our part--no indeed. these creatures are so conceited, if they once find out that you can't do without them----" "i never observed any signs of conceit in mr. henderson." "well, i have made it an object to keep him a little humble, so far as his sex will permit, you see. but seriously, ida, is not it curious about this marriage matter? everybody says it's what we are made for, all the novels end with it, all the poems are about it, you are hearing about it in one way or other all the time; and yet all this while you are supposed not to care anything about it one way or the other. if a man be ever so agreeable to you, and do ever so much to make you like him, you must pretend that you are quite indifferent to him, and don't care whether he comes or goes, until such time as he chooses to launch the tremendous question at you." "well," said ida, "i admit that there is just this absurdity in our life: but i avoid it all by firmly laying a plan of my own, and having a business of my own. to me marriage would be an interruption; it would require a breaking up and reconstruction of my whole plan, and of course i really think nothing about it." "but are you firmly resolved never to marry?" "no; but never, unless i find some one more to me than all on which i have set my heart. i do not need it for my happiness. i am sufficient to myself; and besides i have an object i hope to attain, and that is to open a way by which many other women shall secure independence and comfort and ease." "deary me, ida, i wish i were like you: but i'm not. it seems to me that the only way to give most girls any concentration or object is to marry them. then, somehow, things seem to arrange themselves, and, at all events, the world stops talking about you, and wondering what you are going to do; they get you off their minds. that i do believe was the reason why at one time i came so near drifting into that affair with wat sydney. aunt maria was so vigorous with me and talked in such a commanding manner, and with so many 'of courses,' that i really began to think i was one of the 'of courses' myself; but my acquaintance with mr. henderson has shown me that it would be intolerable to live with a man that you couldn't talk with about everything that comes into your head; and now i can't talk with him, and i won't marry wat sydney; and so what is to be done? shall i go to stewart's and buy me a new suit of willow green, or gird up the loins of my mind and go through darwin like a man, and look out all the terms in the dictionary and come out the other side a strong minded female? or shall i go and join the sisters of st. john, and wear a great white cape and gray gown, and have all the world say i did it because i couldn't get wat sydney (for that's exactly what they would say), or what shall i do? the trouble is, mamma and aunt maria with their expectations. it's much as mamma can do to survive _your_ course, and if _i_ take to having a 'purpose' too, i don't know but mamma would commit suicide, poor dear woman." (enter alice with empressement): "girls, what do you think? wat sydney come back and going to give a great croquet party out at clairmont, and of course we are all invited with notes in the most resplendent style, with crest and coat of arms, and everything--perfectly '_mag!_' there's to be a steamboat with a band of music to take the guests up, and no end of splendid doings; marquées and tents and illuminations and fireworks, and to return by moonlight after all's over; isn't it lovely? i do think wat sydney's perfectly splendid! and it's all on your account, eva, i know it is." "pooh, nonsense, you absurd child, i don't believe it. i dare say its a party just to proclaim that he is engaged to somebody else." "do you know," added alice, "i met jim fellows, and he says everybody is wild about this party--just stark, tearing wild about it--for it isn't going to be a crush--something _very_ select." "is jim going?" "yes, he showed me his ticket and henderson's, and he declared he was going to take 'hal,' as he called him, spite of his screams; he said that he had been writing and studying and moping himself to death, and that he should drag him out by the hair of the head. come, eva, let's go down to tullegig's and have a 'kank' about costumes. i haven't a thing fit to wear, nor you either." chapter xxxi. the fates. bolton's letter excited in my mind a tumult of feeling. from the beginning of my acquaintance i had regarded him with daily increasing admiration. young men like a species of mental fealty--a friendship that seems to draw them upward and give them an ideal of something above themselves. bolton's ripe, elegant scholarship, his rare, critical taste, his calm insight into men and things, and the depth of his moral judgment, had inspired me with admiration, and his kindness for me with gratitude. it had always been an additional source of interest that there was something veiled about him--something that i could not exactly make out. this letter, so dignified in its melancholy frankness, seemed to let me into the secret of his life. it showed me the reason of that sort of sad and weary tolerance with which he seemed to regard life and its instincts, so different from the fiery, forward-looking hope of youth. he had impressed me from the first as one who had made up his mind to endure all things and hope for nothing. to keep watch every moment, to do the duty of the hour thoroughly, bravely, faithfully, as a sentinel paces through wind, rain and cold--neither asking why, nor uttering complaints--such seemed to be bolton's theory of life. the infirmity which he laid open to my view was one, to be sure, attributable in the first place to the thoughtless wrong-doing of confident youth. yet, in its beginning, how little there was in it that looked like the deep and terrible tragedy to which it was leading! out of every ten young men who begin the use of stimulants as a social exhilaration, there are perhaps five in whose breast lies coiled up and sleeping this serpent, destined in after years to be the deadly tyrant of their life--this curse, unappeasable by tears or prayers or agonies--with whom the struggle is like that of laocoön with the hideous python. yet songs and garlands and poetry encircle the wine-cup, and ridicule and contumely are reserved for him who fears to touch it. there was about this letter such a patient dignity, such an evident bracing of the whole man to meet in the bravest manner the hard truth of the situation, and such a disinterested care for others, as were to me inexpressibly touching. i could not help feeling that he judged and sentenced himself too severely, and that this was a case where a noble woman might fitly co-work with a man, and by doubling his nature give it double power of resistance and victory. i went hastily up to his room with the letter in my hand after reading it. it was in the dusk of the evening twilight, but i could see him sitting there gazing out of the window at the fading sky; yet it was too dark for either of us to see the face of the other. there are some conversations that can only be held in darkness--the visible presence of the bodily form is an impediment--in darkness, spirit speaks directly to spirit. "bolton," i said, "i am _yours_ to every intent and purpose, yours for life and death." "and _after_," he said in a deep undertone, grasping my hand. "i knew you would be, harry." "but, bolton, you judge yourself too severely. why should you put from yourself the joys that other men, not half so good as you, claim eagerly? if i were a woman like caroline, i can feel that i would rather share life with you, in all your dangers and liabilities, than with many another." he thought a moment, and then said slowly, "it is well for caroline that she has not this feeling; she probably has by this time forgotten me, and i would not for the world take the responsibility of trying to call back the feeling she once had." at this moment my thoughts went back over many scenes, and the real meaning of all caroline's life came to me. i appreciated the hardness of that lot of women which condemns them to be tied to one spot and one course of employment, when needing to fly from the atmosphere of an unhappy experience. i thought of the blank stillness of the little mountain town where her life had been passed, of her restlessness add impatience, of that longing to fly to new scenes and employments that she had expressed to me on the eve of my starting for europe; yet she had told me her story, leaving out the one vital spot in it. i remembered her saying that she had never seen the man with whom she would think of marriage without a shudder. was it because she had forgotten? or was it that woman never even to herself admits that thought in connection with one who seems to have forgotten her? or had her father so harshly painted the picture of her lover that she had been led to believe him utterly vile and unprincipled? perhaps his proud silence had been interpreted by her as the silence of indifference; perhaps she looked back on their acquaintance with indignation that she should have been employed merely to diversify the leisure of a rusticated student and abandoned character. whatever the experience might be, caroline had carried it through silently. her gay, indifferent, brilliant manner of treating any approach to matters of the heart, as if they were the very last subjects in which she could be supposed to have any experience or interest, had been a complete blind to me, nor could i, through this dazzling atmosphere, form the least conjecture as to how the land actually lay. in my former letters to her i had dwelt a good deal on bolton, and mentioned the little fact of finding her photograph in his room. in reply, in a postscript at the end of a letter about everything else, there was a brief notice. "the mr. bolton you speak of taught the academy in our place while you were away at college--and of course i was one of his scholars--but i have never seen or heard of him since. i was very young then, and it seems like something in a preëxistent state to be reminded of him. i believed him very clever, then, but was not old enough to form much of an opinion." i thought of all this as i sat silently in the dark with bolton. "are you sure," i said, "that you consult for caroline's best happiness in doing as you have done?" there was a long pause, and at last he said with a deep, drawn breath, "yes. i am sure, the less i am to her the better." "but may not your silence and apparent neglect and indifference have given pain?" "probably; but they helped her to cease caring for me; it was necessary that she should." "bolton, you are morbid in your estimate of yourself." "you do not know all, hal; nor what nor where i have been. i have been swept far out to sea, plunged under deep waters, all the waves and billows have been over me." "yet now, bolton, surely you are on firm land. no man is more established, more reliable, more useful." "yet," he said with a kind of shudder, "all this i might lose in a moment. the other day when i dined with westerford, the good fellow had his wines in all frank fellowship and pressed them on me, and the very smell distracted me. i looked at the little glass in which he poured some particularly fine sherry, and held to me to taste, and thought it was like so much heart's blood. if i had taken one taste, just one, i should have been utterly worthless and unreliable for weeks. yet westerford could not understand this; nobody can, except one who has been through my bitter experience. one sip would flash to the brain like fire, and then, all fear, all care, all conscience would be gone, and not one glass, but a dozen would be inevitable, and then you might have to look for me in some of those dens to which the possessed of the devil flee when the fit is on them, and where they rave and tear and cut themselves with stones till the madness is worn out. this has happened to me over and over, after long periods of self-denial and self-control and illusive hope. it seems to me that my experience is like that of a man whom some cruel fiend condemns to go through all the agonies of drowning over and over again--the dark plunge, the mad struggle, the suffocation, the horror, the agony, the clutch at the shore, the weary clamber up steep rocks, the sense of relief, recovery, and hope, only to be wrenched off and thrown back to struggle, and strangle, and sink again." he spoke with such a deep intensity of voice that i drew in my breath, and a silence as of the grave fell between us. "harry," he said, after a pause, "you know we read in the greek tragedies of men and women whom the gods have smitten with unnatural and guilty purposes. in which they were irresistibly impelled toward what they abominated and shuddered at! is it not strange that the greek fable should have a real counterpart in the midst of our modern life? that young man in all the inexperience and thoughtlessness of youth should be beguiled into just such a fatality; that there should be a possibility that they could be blighted by just such a doom, and yet that song, and poetry, and social illusion, and society customs should all be thrown around courses which excite and develop this fatality! what opera is complete without its drinking chorus? i remember when it used to be my forte to sing drinking songs; so the world goes! men triumph and rejoice going to a doom to which death is a trifle. if i had fallen dead, the first glass of wine i tasted, it would have been thought a horrible thing; but it would have been better for my mother, better for me, than to have lived as i did." "oh, no, no, bolton! don't say so: you become morbid in dwelling on this subject." "no, hal. i only know more of it than you. this curse has made life an unspeakable burden, a doom instead of a privilege. it has disappointed my friends, and subjected me to humiliations and agonies such that death seems to me a refuge; and yet it was all in its beginning mere thoughtlessness and ignorance. i was lost before i knew it." "but you are not lost, and you shall not be!" i exclaimed, "you are good for more than most men now, and you will come through this." "never! to be just as others are. i shall be a vessel with a crack in it, always." "well, a vase of fine porcelain with a crack in it is better than earthenware without," i said. "if i had not disappointed myself and my friends so often," said bolton, "i might look on myself as sound and sane. but the mere sight and smell of the wine at westerford's dinner gave me a giddy sensation that alarmed me; it showed that i was not yet out of danger, and it made me resolve to strengthen my self by making you my keeper. you have the advantage of perfectly healthy nerves that have come to manhood without the strain of any false stimulus, and you can be strong for both of us." "god grant it!" said i, earnestly. "but i warn you that, if the curse comes upon me you are not to trust me. i am a christian and a man of honor in my sane moments, but let me tell you one glass of wine would make me a liar on this subject. i should lie, and intrigue, and deceive the very elect, to get at the miserable completion of the aroused fury, and there are times when i am so excited that i fear i may take that first irrevocable step; it is a horror, a nightmare, a temptation of the devil,--for that there is a devil, men with my experience know; but there is a kind of safety in having a friend of a steady pulse with me who knows all. the mere fact that you do know helps hold me firm." "bolton," said i, "the situation you offer to caroline in the care of the _ladies' cabinet_ will of course oblige her to come to new york. shall you meet her and renew your acquaintance?" "i do not desire to," he said. there was a slight hesitancy and faltering of his voice as he spoke. "yet it can hardly be possible that you will not meet; you will have arrangements to make with her." "that is one of the uses, among others, of having you. all that relates to her affairs will pass through you; and now, let us talk of the magazine and its programme for the season. what is the reason, hal, that you waste your forces in short sketches? why do you not boldly dash out into a serial story? come, now, i am resolved among other things on a serial story by harry henderson." "and i will recommend a taking title," cried jim fellows, who came in as we were talking, and stood behind my chair. "let us have _henderson's horror; or, the mystery of the bloody latch-key._ _there's_ a title to take with the reflecting public! the readers of serials are generally girls from twelve to twenty, and they read them with their back-hair down, lounging on the bed, just before a nap after dinner, and there must be enough blood and thunder, and murder and adultery and mystery in them to keep the dear creatures reading at least half an hour." "i think serial stories are about played out in our day," said i. "not a bit of it. there's sister nell, don't read anything else. she is regularly running on five serial stories, and among them all they keep her nicely a-going; and she tells me that the case is the same with all the girls in her set. the knowledge of the world and of human nature that the pretty creatures get in this way is something quite astounding. nell is at present deeply interested in a fair lady who connives with her chambermaid to pass off her illegitimate child upon her husband as his own; and we have lying and false swearing, i say nothing of all other kinds of interesting things on every page. of course this is written as a moral lesson, and interspersed with pious reflections to teach girls as how they hadn't oughter do so and so. all this, you see, has a refining effect upon the rising generation." "but, really, bolton, don't you think that it is treating our modern society as children, to fall in with this extreme fashion of story-telling? it seems so childish to need pictures and stories for everything. isn't your magazine strong enough to lead and form public taste instead of following it?" "well, if i owned my magazine i would try it," said bolton. "but, you see, the westerfords, while they give me _carte blanche_ as to means to run it, expect of course that it is to be run in the approved popular grooves that the dear thoughtless ten million prefer. the people who lounge on beds after dinner are our audience, and there must be nothing wiser nor stronger than they can apprehend between sleeping and waking. we talk to a _blasé_, hurried, unreflecting, indolent generation, who want emotion and don't care for reason. something sharp and spicy, something pungent and stinging--no matter what or whence. and now as they want this sort of thing, why not give it to them? are there no other condiments for seasoning stories besides intrigues, lies, murders, and adulteries? and if the young and unreflecting will read stories shouldn't some of the thoughtful and reflecting make stories for them to read?" "of course they should, q. e. d.," said jim fellows, touching the gas with a match, and sending a flare of light upon our conference. "but come, now, behold the last novelty of the season," said he, tossing two cards of invitation. "this is for us, as sons of the press and recording angels, to be present at wat sydney's grand blow-out next tuesday. all the rank and fashion are to go. it is to be very select, and there are people who would give their eye-teeth for these cards, and can't get 'em. how do ye say, old man of the mountain, will you go?" "no," said bolton; "not my line." "well, at all events, hal has got to go. i promised the fair alice that i'd bring him if i had to take him by the hair." i had a great mind to decline. i thought in my heart it was not at all the wisest thing for me to go; but then, _amare et sapere vix deo_--i had never seen sydney, and i had a restless desire to see him and eva together--and i thought of forty good reasons why i should go. chapter xxxii. the game of croquet. now i advise all serious, sensible individuals who never intend to do anything that is not exactly most reasonable and most prudent, and who always do exactly as they intend, not to follow my steps on the present occasion, for i am going to do exactly what is _not_ to be recommended to young gentlemen in my situation, and certainly what is not at all prudent. for if a young man finds himself without recall, hopelessly in love with one whose smiles are all for another, his best way is to keep out of her society, and in a course of engrossing business that will leave him as little time to think of her as possible. i had every advantage for pursuing this course, for i had a press of writing upon me, finishing up a batch of literary job-work which i wished to get fairly out of the way so that i might give my whole energies to bolton in our new enterprise. in fact, to go off philandering to a croquet party up the north river was a sheer piece of childish folly, and the only earthly reason i could really give for it was the presence of a woman there that i had resolved to avoid. in fact i felt that the thing was so altogether silly that i pretended to myself that i was impregnably resolved against it, and sat myself down in bolton's room making abstracts from some of his books, knowing all the while that jim would seek me out there and have his moral fish-hook fast in my coat collar, as in truth he did. "come, come, hal," he said, bursting in, "i promised the divinest of her sex to bring you along." "oh nonsense, jim! it's out of the question," said i. "i've got to get this article done." "oh, you be hanged with your article, come along! what's the use of a fellow's shutting himself up with books? i tell you, hal, if you're going to write for _folks_ you must _see_ folks and folks must see you, and you must be around and into and a part of all that's going on. come on! why, you don't know the honor done you. its a tip-top select party, and all the handsomest girls and all the nobby fellows will be there, and no end of fun. sydney's place alone is worth going to see. its the crack place on the river; and then they say the engagement is going to be declared, and everybody is wild to know whether it is or isn't to be, and the girls are furbishing up fancy suits to croquet in. miss alice treated me to a glimpse of hers as i met her on tullegig's steps, and its calculated to drive a fellow crazy, and so _come now_," said jim, pulling away my papers and laying hold of me, "let's go out and get some gloves and proceed to make ourselves up. we have the press to represent, and we must be nobby, so hang expense! here's for jouvin's best, and let to-morrow take care of itself." now, seconding all these temptations was that perverse inclination that makes every man want to see a little more and taste a little more of what he has had too much already. moreover i wanted to see eva and wat sydney together. i wanted to be certain and satisfy myself with my own eyes, not only that they were engaged but that she was in love with him. if she be, said i to myself, she is certainly an exquisite coquette and a dangerous woman for me to keep up an acquaintance with. in thinking over as i had done since mrs. van arsdel's motherly conversation, all our intercourse and acquaintance with each other, her conduct sometimes seemed to me to be that of a veritable "lady clara vere de vere," bent on amusing herself, and diversifying the tedium of fashionable life by exciting feelings which she had no thought of returning. when i took this view of matters i felt angry and contemptuous and resolved to show the fair lady that i could be as indifferent as she. sometimes i made myself supremely wretched by supposing that it was by her desire that mrs. van arsdel had held the conversation with me, and that it was a sort of intimation that she had perceived my feelings, and resolved to put a decided check upon them. but of course nothing so straightforward and sensible as going to her for an explanation of all this was to be thought of. in fact our intercourse with one another ever since the memorable occasion i refer to had been daily lessening, and now was generally limited to passing the most ordinary common-places with each other. she had grown cold and dry, almost haughty, and i was conscious of a most unnatural rigidity and constraint. it seemed to me sometimes astonishing when i looked back a little, to reflect how perfectly easy and free and unconstrained we always had been up to a certain point, to find that now we met with so little enjoyment, talked and said so little to any purpose. it was as if some evil enchanter had touched us with his wand stiffening every nerve of pleasure. to look forward to meeting her in society was no longer, as it had been, to look forward to delightful hours; and yet for the life of me i could not help going where this most unsatisfactory, tantalizing intercourse was all i had to hope for. but to-day, i said to myself, i would grasp the thorns of the situation so firmly as to break them down and take a firm hold on reality. if, indeed, her engagement were to-day to be declared, i would face the music like a man, walk up to her and present my congratulations in due form, and then the acquaintance would make a gallant finale in the glare of wedding lamps and the fanfaronade of wedding festivities, and away to fresh fields and pastures new. in short, whatever a man is secretly inclined to do there are always a hundred sensible incontrovertible reasons to be found for doing, and so i found myself one of the gay and festive throng on board the steamer. a party of well-dressed people floating up the north river of a bright spring day is about as ideal a picture of travel as can be desired. in point of natural scenery the rhine is nothing compared with the hudson, and our american steamboats certainly are as far ahead of any that ever appeared on the rhine as aladdin's palace is ahead of an ordinary dwelling. the most superb boat on the river had been retained for the occasion, and a band of music added liveliness to the scene as we moved off from the wharf in triumph, as gay, glittering, festive a company as heart could wish. wat sydney as host and entertainer was everywhere present, making himself agreeable by the most devoted attentions to the comfort of the bright band of tropical birds, fluttering in silks and feathers and ribbons, whom he had charge of for the day. i was presented to him by jim fellows, and had an opportunity to see that apart from his immense wealth he had no very striking personal points to distinguish him from a hundred other young men about him. his dress was scrupulously adjusted, with a care and nicety which showed that he was by no means without consideration of the personal impression he made. every article was the choicest and best that the most orthodox fashionable emporiums pronounced the latest thing, or as jim fellows phrased it, decidedly "nobby." he was of a medium height, with very light hair and eyes, and the thin complexion which usually attends that style, and which, under the kind of exposure incident to a man's life, generally tends to too much redness of face. altogether, my first running commentary on the man as i shook hands with him was, that if eva were in love with him it was not for his beauty; yet i could see glances falling on him on all sides from undeniably handsome eyes that would have excused any man for having a favorable conceit of his own personal presence. mr. sydney was well accustomed to being the cynosure of female eyes, and walked the deck with the assured step of a man certain of pleasing. a rich good-humored young man who manifests himself daily in splendid turn-outs, who rains down flowers and confectionery among his feminine acquaintances, and sends diamonds and pearls as philopoena presents, certainly does not need a romantic style of beauty or any particular degree of mental culture to make his society more than acceptable. prudent mammas were generally of opinion that the height of felicity for a daughter would be the position that should enable her to be the mistress and dictatrix of his ample fortune. mr. sydney was perfectly well aware of this state of things. he was a man a little _blasé_ with the kind attentions of matrons, and tolerably secure of the good-will of very charming young ladies. he had the prestige of success, and had generally carried his points in the world of men and things. miss eva van arsdel had been the first young lady who had given him the novel sensation of a repulse, and thenceforth became an object of absorbing interest in his eyes. under the careless good-humor of his general appearance sydney had a constitutional pertinacity, a persistence in his own way that had been a source of many of his brilliant successes in business. he was one of those whom obstacles and difficulties only stimulate, and whose tenacity of purpose increases with resistance. he was cautious, sagacious, ready to wait and watch and renew the attack at intervals, but never to give up. to succeed was a tribute to his own self-esteem, and whatever was difficult of attainment was the more valuable. a little observation during the course of the first hour convinced me that there was as yet no announcement of an engagement. mrs. van arsdel and aunt maria wouvermans, to be sure, were on most balmy and confidential terms with mr. sydney, addressing him with every appearance of mysterious intimacy, and quite willing to produce the impression that the whole fête was in some manner a tribute to the family, but these appearances were not carried out by any coöperative movements on the part of eva herself. she appeared radiant in a fanciful blue croquet suit which threw out to advantage the golden shade of her hair, and the pink sea-shell delicacy of her cheek, and as usual she had her court around her and was managing her circle with the address of a practiced _habituée_ of society. "favors to none, to all, she smiles extends, oft she rejects, but never once offends. bright as the sun, her beams the gazers strike, and like the sun, they smile on all alike." unlike many of her sex, eva had the faculty of carrying the full cup of bellehood without spilling an unseemly drop, and as she was one of those who seem to have quite as much gift in charming her feminine as her masculine acquaintances, she generally sat surrounded by an admiring body-guard of girls who laughed at her jests and echoed her bon mots and kept up a sort of radiant atmosphere of life and motion and gayety around her. her constitutional good-nature, her readiness to admire other people, and to help each in due season to some small portion of the applause and admiration which is lying about loose for general circulation in society, all contributed to her popularity. as i approached the circle they were discussing with great animation the preliminaries of a match game of croquet that was proposed to be played at clairmont to-day. "oh, here comes mr. henderson! let's ask him," she said, as i approached the circle. "don't you think it will be a nice thing?" she said. "mr. sydney has arranged that after playing the first games as a trial the four best players shall be elected to play a match game, two on each side." "i think it will vary the usual monotony of croquet," said i. "hear him," she said, gaily, "talk of the usual monotony of croquet! for my part i think there is a constant variety to it, no two games are ever alike." "to me," i said, "it seems that after a certain amount of practice the result is likely to be the same thing, game after game." "girls," she said, "i perceive that mr. henderson is used to carrying all before him. he is probably a champion player who will walk through all the wickets as a matter of course." "not at all," i said. "on the contrary i shouldn't wonder if i should 'booby' hopelessly at the very first wicket." "and none the worse for that," said sydney. "i've boobied three times running, in the first of a game, and yet beaten; it gets one's blood up, and one _will_ beat." "for my part," said miss alice, "the more my blood is up the less i can do; if i get excited i lose my aim, my hand trembles, and i miss the very simplest move." "i think there is nothing varies so much as one's luck in croquet," said eva. "sometimes for weeks together i am sure to hit every aim and to carry every wicket, and then all of a sudden, without rhyme or reason, i make the most absurd failures, and generally when i pique myself on success." "i think, miss eva, i remember you as the best player in newport last summer," said mr. sydney. "and likely as not i shall fail ingloriously to-day," said she. "well, we shall all have a time for bringing our hands in," said mr. sydney. "i have arranged four croquet grounds, and the fifth one is laid out for the trial game with longer intervals and special difficulties in the arrangement, to make it as exciting as possible. the victorious side is to have a prize." "oh, how splendid! what is the prize to be? was the general exclamation." "behold, then!" said mr. sydney, drawing from his pocket a velvet case which when opened displayed a tiny croquet mallet wrought in gold and set as a lady's pin. depending from it by four gold chains were four little balls of emerald, ruby, amethyst, and topaz. "how perfectly lovely! how divine! how beautiful!" were the sounds that arose from the brilliant little circle that were in a moment precipitated upon the treasure. "you will really set them all by the ears, mr. sydney," said mrs. van arsdel. "croquet of itself is exciting enough; one is apt to lose one's temper." "you ought to see mamma and mrs. van duzen and aunt maria play," said eva, "if you want to see an edifying game, it's too funny. they are all so polite and so dreadfully courtly and grieved to do anything disagreeable to each other, and you know croquet is such a perfectly selfish, savage, unchristian game; so when poor mrs. van duzen is told that she ought to croquet mamma's ball away from the wicket, the dear lady, is quite ready to cry and declares that it would be such a pity to disappoint her, that she croquets her through her wicket, and looks round apologizing for her virtues with such a pitiful face! 'indeed, my dear, i couldn't help it!'" "well," said mrs. van arsdel, "i really think it is too bad when a poor body has been battering and laboring at a difficult wicket to be croqueted back a dozen times." "it's meant for the culture of christian patience, mamma," said eva. "croquet is the game of life, you see." "certainly," said mr. sydney, rubbing his hands, "and it teaches you just how to manage, use your friends to help yourself along, and then croquet them into good positions; use your enemies as long as you want them, and then send them to----." "the devil," said jim fellows, who never hesitated to fill up an emphatic blank in the conversation. "i didn't say that," said mr. sydney. "but you meant it, all the same; and that's the long and the short of the philosophy of the game of life," said jim. "and" said i, "one may read all sorts of life-histories in the game. some go on with a steady aim and true stroke, and make wickets, and hit balls, yet are croqueted back ingloriously or hopelessly wired and lose the game, while others blunder advantageously and are croqueted along by skillful partners into all the best places." "there are few of us girls that make our own wickets in life," said eva. "we are all croqueted along by papas and mammas." "and many a man is croqueted along by a smart wife," said sydney. "but more women by smart husbands," said mrs. van arsdel. on that there was a general exclamation, and the conversation forthwith whisked into one of those animated whirlwinds that always arise when the comparative merits of the sexes are moved. there was a flutter of ribbons and a rustle of fans and a laughing cross-fire of sharp sayings, till the whole was broken up by the announcement that we were drawing near the landing. chapter xxxiii. the match game. the lawn at clairmont made a brilliant spectacle, all laid out with different croquet sets. the turf was like velvet, and adjoining every ground was a pretty tent, with seats and every commodious provision for repairing at once any temporary derangement of the feminine toilet. the fluttering of gay flags and pennons from these various tents gave an airy and breezy look to the scene, and immediately we formed ourselves into sets, and the games began. it had been arranged that the preliminary playing should take place immediately, and the match game be reserved till after lunch. the various fancy costumes of the players, lit up by the bright sunshine, and contrasted with the emerald green of the lawn, formed a brilliant and animated picture, watched with interest by groups of non-combatants from rustic seats under the trees. of course everybody was a little nervous in the trial games, and there was the usual amount of ill luck, and of "ohs and ahs" of success or failure. i made myself a "booby" twice, in that unaccountable way that seems like fatality. then suddenly, favored of the fates, made two wickets at once, seized an antagonist's ball, and went with it at one heat through the side wicket, the middle and other side wicket up to the stake and down again, through the middle wicket to the stake again, and then struck back a glorious rover to join my partner. it was one of those prodigiously lucky runs, when one's ball goes exactly where it is intended, and stops exactly in the right place, and though it was mostly owing to good luck, with the usual prestige of success i was covered with glory and congratulations, and my partner, miss sophie elmore, herself a champion at croquet, was pleased to express most unbounded admiration, especially as our side came out decidedly victorious. miss sophie, a neat little vigorous brunette, in a ravishing fancy croquet-suit, entered into the game with all that whole-hearted ardor which makes women such terrible combatants. "oh, i _do_ hope that we shall be in at that final match-game!" she said, with a charming abandon of manner. "i should so like to beat eva van arsdel. those van arsdels always expect to carry all before them, and it rather provokes me, i confess. now, with you to help me, mr. henderson, i am sure we could beat." "don't put too much faith in my accidental run of luck," i said; "'one swallow does not make a summer.'" "oh, i'm quite sure by the way you managed your game that it wasn't luck. but you see i want to try with eva van arsdel again, for she and i were held to be the best players at newport last summer, and she beat in the last 'rubber' we played. it was so provoking--just one slip of the mallet that ruined me! you know, sometimes, how your mallet will turn in your hands. she made just such a slip and took the stroke over again. now that is what i never will do, you see," &c., &c. in short, i could see that for pretty miss sophie, at present, croquet was to all intents and purposes, the whole game of life, that every spangle and every hair-pin about her were vital with excitement to win. after lunch came the ballot for the combatants who were to play the deciding game, and the parties elected were: miss sophie elmore, miss eva van arsdel, mr. sydney, and myself. "miss van arsdel," said mr. sydney, "you must be my captain. after the feats that you and mr. henderson have been performing it would be impossible to allow you both on one side." "i think just as likely as not you will be worsted for your pains," said eva. "i know sophie of old for a terrible antagonist, and when she pulls on her croquet-gloves like that, it means war to the knife, and no quarter. so, my dear, begin the tournament." the wickets were arranged at extra distances upon this trial ground, and it was hardly prudent to attempt making two wickets at once, but miss sophie played in the adventurous style, and sent her ball with a vigorous tap not only through both the first wickets, but so far ahead that it was entangled in the wires of the middle wicket, in a way that made it impossible to give it a fair stroke. "now, how vexatious!" she cried. "i have two extra strokes for my two wickets, but i shall make nothing by it." in fact, miss sophie, with two nervous hits, succeeded only in placing her ball exactly where with fair luck the next player must be sure to get it. eva now came through the two first wickets, one at a time, and with a well-directed tap took possession of miss sophie, who groaned audibly, "oh, now she's got me! well, there's no saying now where she'll stop." in fact, miss eva performed very skillfully the rôle of the "cat who doth play, and after--slay." she was perfect mistress of the tactics of split-shots, which sent her antagonist's ball one side the wicket and hers the other, and all the other mysteries of the craft, and she used them well, till she had been up and hit the stake and come down to the middle wicket, when her luck failed. then came my turn, and i came through the first two wickets, struck her ball and used it for the two next wickets, till i came near my partner, when with a prosperous split-shot i sent her off to distant regions, struck my partner's ball, put it through its wicket, and came and stationed myself within its reach for future use. then came mr. sydney with a vigorous succession of hits, and knocked us apart; sent one to one side of the ground, and one to the other, and went gallantly up to his partner. by this time our blood was thoroughly up, and the game became as eva prophesied, "war to the knife." mohawk indians could not have been more merciless in purposes of utter mischief to each other than we, and for a while it seemed as if nothing was done but to attack each other's balls, and send them as far as possible to the uttermost part of the grounds. as each had about equal skill in making long shots the re-union however was constantly effected, and thus each in turn were beaten back from the wickets, till it seemed for a while that the game would make no progress. at last, however, one slip of our antagonists threw the power into our hands, and miss sophie used it to take herself and me up through three wickets to the stake, and thence down again till the intricate middle wicket stopped our course. a burst of cheering greeted her success, and the dark little lady seemed to glow like a coal of fire. i wasn't sure that sparks did not snap from her eyes as she ended her performance with a croquet that sent eva's ball spinning to the most inaccessible distances. a well-pointed shot from wat sydney again turned the tide of battle, and routed the victors, while he went to the rescue of the banished princess, and took her back to position. every turn of the tide, and every good shot was hailed with cheers, and the excitement became intense. there were points in the battle as hard to carry as the malakoff, and we did nothing but fight, without advancing a step. it seemed for a while that none of us would ever so far get the advantage of another as to pass that downward middle wicket. every successive step was won by battles. the ladies were so excited that they seemed two flames of fire. every nerve in them was alive, and we men felt ourselves only clumsy instruments of their enkindled ardor. we were ordered about, commanded, rebuked, encouraged, and cheered on to the fray with a pungency and vigor of decision that made us quite secondary characters in the scene. at last a fortunate stroke gave miss sophie the command of the game, and she dashed through the middle wicket, sent eva's ball to farthest regions up, and mr. sydney's down to the stake, took mine with her in her victorious race through wicket after wicket, quite through to the stake, and then leaving me for a moment she croqueted sydney's ball against the stake, and put it out. a general cheer and shouts of "victory" arose. "we've got it! we're quite sure to go out the next move!" she said, in triumph, as she left her ball by my side. "she never can hit at that distance." "i can try, though," said eva, walking across the ground, and taking her place by her ball, pale and resolved, with a concentrated calmness. she sighted the balls deliberately, poised her mallet, took aim, and gave a well-considered stroke. like a straight-aimed arrow the ball flew across the green, through the final wicket, and struck sophie's ball! a general cheering arose, and the victorious markswoman walked deliberately down to finish her work. one stroke put sophie out of the combat, the next struck upon me and then from me up to the head of the two last wickets that yet remained to be made. she came through these with one straight stroke, and hit me again. "now for it," she said, setting her red-slippered foot firmly on the ball, and with one virulent tap, away flew my ball to the other end of the ground, while at the same time hers hit the stake and the victory was won. a general shout, and three cheers, and all the spectators started from their seats like a troop of gay tropical birds, and came flocking around the victors. i knelt down, and laid my mallet at her feet. "beautiful princess!" said i, "behold your enemies, conquered, await your sentence." "arise, sir knight," she said, laughing; "i sentence you to write a ballad describing this battle. come, sophie," she added, turning gayly to the brunette, "let's shake hands on it. you shall have your revenge of me at newport this summer," and the two rival fair ones shook hands in all apparent amity. wat sydney now advancing presented the prize with a gallant bow, and eva accepted it graciously, and fastened the blue scarf that floated over her shoulder with it, and then the whole party adjourned to another portion of the lawn, which had been arranged for dancing; the music struck up and soon we were all joining in the dance with a general hilarity. and so ended the day at clairmont, and we came home under a broad full moon, to the sound of music on the waters. chapter xxxiv. [eva van arsdel to isabel convers.] my dearest belle:--since i last wrote you wondrous things have taken place, and of course i must keep you _au courant_. in the first place mr. sydney came back to our horizon like a comet in a blaze of glory. the first harbinger of his return was not himself in propriâ, but _cards_ for a croquet fête up at clairmont got up with the last degree of elegance. mr. sydney, it appears, understands the effect of a gilded frame to set off a picture, and so resolved to manifest himself to us in all his surroundings at clairmont. the party was to be very select and recherché, and of course everybody was just wild to go, and the elmores in particular were on the _qui vive_ to know if we had invitations before them. sophia elmore called down for nothing but to see. we had all the satisfaction there was to be got in showing her our cards and letting her know that they had come two days sooner than theirs. aunt maria contrived to give them to understand that mr. sydney gave the entertainment mostly on my account, which i think was assuming quite too much in the case. i am positively tired of these mean little rivalries and these races that are run between families. it is thought that sophia elmore is quite fascinated by mr. sydney. sophia is a nice, spirited girl, with a good, generous heart as i believe, and it's a thousand pities she shouldn't have him if she cares for him. but, to my story. you may imagine the fuss at tullegig's. of course we belong to the class who live in the enjoyment of "nothing to wear," and the first result of a projected entertainment is to throw us all on our knees before tullegig, who queens it over us accordingly. i was just dying to find out if _a certain person_ was to be there. of late our intercourse has been so very stately and diplomatic that it really becomes exciting. he has avoided every appearance of intimacy, every approach to our old confidential standing, and yet apparently for the life of him cannot keep from taking views of me at safe distance; so, as i said, it was something to see if he would be there. as to clairmont, i think in the course of my life i have seen fine grounds, fine houses, fine furniture, and fine fêtes before. nevertheless i must do sydney the justice to say that he gave a most charming and beautiful entertainment where everything was just as lovely as could be. we went up on a splendid boat to the sound of music. we had a magnificent lunch under the trees, and there were arrangements for four games to go on at once, which made a gay and animated tableau. all the girls wore the prettiest costumes you can imagine, each one seeming prettier than the other; and when they were all moving about in the game it made a bright, cheerful effect. mr. henderson was there and distinguished himself to such a degree that he was appointed one of the four who were to play a match-game, in conclusion, for a prize. curiously enough he played with sophia against sydney and myself. how we did fight! sophie is one of these girls that feel everything to the tips of their fingers, and i am another, and if we didn't make those men bestir themselves! i fancy they found women rulers were of a kind to keep men pretty busy. i can imagine the excitement we women would make of an election if we should ever get into politics. would we not croquet our adversaries' balls, and make stunning split-shots in parties, and wire ourselves artfully behind wickets, and do all sorts of perplexing things? i confess if the excitement should get to be half as great as in playing croquet, i should tremble to think of it. well, it was some excitement at all events to play against each other, he and i. didn't i seek out his ball, didn't i pursue it, beat it back from wickets, come on it with most surprising and unexpected shots? sophie fought with desperation on the other side, and at last they seemed to have carried the day, there was but one stroke wanting to put them out; they had killed sydney at the stake and banished me to the farthest extremity of the ground. mamma always said i had the genius for emergencies, and if you'll believe me i struck quite across the ground and hit sophie's ball and sent it out, and then i took _his_ back to make my two last wickets with, and finally with an imposing _coup de théâtre_ i croqueted him to the other end of the ground, and went out amid thunders of applause. he took it with great presence of mind, knelt down and laid the mallet handsomely at my feet, and professed to deliver himself captive, and i imposed it on him as a task to write a ballad descriptive of the encounter. so he was shut up for about half an hour in the library, and came out with a very fine and funny ballad in chevy chase measure describing our exploits, which was read under the trees, and cheered and encored in the liveliest manner possible. on the whole, mr. henderson may be said to have had quite a society success yesterday, as i heard him very much admired, and the elmores overwhelmed him with pressing invitations to call, to come to their soirées, etc., etc. you see these elmores have everything money can buy, and so they are distracted to be literary, or at least to have literary people in their train, and they have always been wanting to get henderson and jim fellows to their receptions. so i heard mrs. elmore overwhelming him with compliments on his poem in a way that quite amused me, for i knew enough of him to know exactly how all this seemed to him. he is of all persons one of the most difficult to flatter, and has the keenest sense of the ridiculous; and mrs. elmore's style is as if one should empty a bushel basket of peaches or grapes on your head instead of passing the fruit dish. but i am so busy traducing my neighbors that i forgot to say i won the croquet prize, which was duly presented. it was a gold croquet mallet set as a pin with four balls of emerald, amethyst, ruby, and topaz depending from it. it had quite an etruscan effect and was very pretty, but when i saw how much sophia really took the defeat to heart, my soul was moved for her and i made a peace-offering by getting her to accept it. it was not easy at first, but i made a point of it and insisted upon it with all my logic, telling her that in point of skill she had really won the game, that my last stroke was only a lucky accident, and you know i can generally talk people into almost anything i set my heart on, and so as sophie was flattered by my estimate of her skill and as the bauble is a pretty one, i prevailed on her to take it. i am tired and sick of this fuss between the elmores and us, and don't mean to have more of it, for sophie really is a nice girl, and not a bit more spoiled than any of the rest of us, notwithstanding all the nonsense of her family, and she and i have agreed to be fast friends for the future, whatever may come. i had one other motive in this move. i never have accepted jewelry from sydney, and i was quite willing to be rid of this. if i could only croquet his heart down to sophie to use, it might be a nice thing. i fancy she would like it. i managed my cards quite adroitly all day to avoid a tête-à-tête interview with sydney. i was careful always to be in the center of a group of two or three, and when he asked me to walk through the conservatories with him i said, "come, amy and jane," and took them along. as to _somebody_ else, _he_ made no attempt of the kind, though i could see that he _saw_ me wherever i went. do these creatures suppose we don't see their eyes, and fancy that they conceal their feelings? i am perfectly certain that whatever the matter is, he thinks as much of me as ever he did. well, it was moonlight and music all the way home, the band playing the most heart-breaking, entrancing harmonies from beethoven and melodies from schubert, and then wat sydney annoyed me beyond measure by keeping up a distracting chit-chat when i wanted to be quiet and listen. he cares nothing for music, and people who don't are like flies, they have no mercy and never will leave you a quiet moment. the _other one_ went off and sat by himself, gazed at the moon and heard the music all in the most proper and romantic style, and looked like a handsome tenor at an opera. * * * * * so far, my dear, the history of our affairs. but something more surprising than ever you heard has just happened, and i must hasten to jot it down. yesterday afternoon, being worried and wearied with the day before, i left your letter, as you see, and teased ida to go out driving with me in the park. she had promised effie st. clere to sketch some patterns of arbors and garden seats that are there, for her new place at fern valley, and i had resolved on a lonely ramble to clear my heart and brain. moreover, the last time i was there i saw from one of the bridges a very pretty cascade falling into a charming little wooded lake in the distance. i resolved to go in search of this same cascade which is deep in a shady labyrinth of paths. well, it was a most lovely perfect day, and we left our carriage at the terrace and started off for our ramble, ida with her sketch-book in hand. she was very soon hard at work at a rustic summer-house while i plunged into a woody tangle of paths guided only by the distant sound of the cascades. it was toward evening and the paths seemed quite solitary, for i met not a creature. i might really have thought i was among the ferns and white birches up in conway, or anywhere in the mountains, it was so perfectly mossy and wild and solitary. a flock of wild geese seemed to be making an odd sort of outlandish noise, far in a deep, dark tangle of bushes, and it appeared to me to produce the impression of utter solitude more than anything else. evidently it was a sort of wild lair seldom invaded. i still heard the noise of the cascade through a thicket of leaves, but could not get a sight of it. sometimes it seemed near and sometimes far off, but at last i thought i hit upon a winding path that seemed to promise to take me to it. it wound round a declivity and i could tell by the sound i was approaching the water. i was quite animated and ran forward till a sudden turn brought me to the head of the cascade where there was a railing and one seat, and as i came running down i saw suddenly a man with a book in his hand sitting on this seat, and it was mr. henderson. he rose up when he saw me and looked pale, but an expression of perfectly rapturous delight passed over his face as i checked myself astonished. "miss van arsdel!" he said. "to what happy fate do i owe this good fortune!" i recovered myself and said that "i was not aware of any _particular_ good fortune in the case." "not to _you_, perhaps," he said, "but to _me_. i have seen nothing of you for so long," he added, rather piteously. "there has been nothing that i am aware of to prevent your seeing me," i said. "if mr. henderson chooses to make himself strange to his friends it is his own affair." he looked confused and murmured something about "many engagements and business." "mr. henderson, you will excuse me," said i, resolved not to have this sort of thing go on any longer. "you have always been treated at our house as an intimate and valued friend; of late you seem to prefer to act like a ceremonious stranger." "indeed, you mistake me, entirely, miss van arsdel," he said, eagerly. "you _must_ know my feelings; you _must_ appreciate my reasons; you see why i cannot and ought not." "i am quite in the dark as to both," i said. "i cannot see any reason why we should not be on the old footing, i am sure. you have acted of late as if you were afraid to meet me; it is all perfectly unaccountable to me. why should you do so? what reason can there be?" "because," he said, with a sort of desperation, "because i _love_ you, miss van arsdel. because i always shall love you too well to associate with you as the wife or betrothed bride of another man." "there is no occasion you should, mr. henderson. i am not, so far as i understand, either wife or betrothed to any man," i said. he looked perfectly thunderstruck. "yet i heard it from the best authority." "from what authority?" said i, "for i deny it." "your mother." "my mother?" i was thunderstruck in my turn; here it was to be sure. poor mamma! i saw through the whole mystery. "your mother told me," he went on, "that there was a tacit engagement which was to be declared on mr. sydney's return, and cautioned me against an undue intimacy." "my mother," i said, "has done her utmost to persuade me to this engagement. i refused mr. sydney out and out in the beginning. she persuaded me to allow him to continue his attentions in hope of changing my mind, but it never has changed." he grew agitated and spoke very quickly. "oh, tell me, miss van arsdel, if _i_ may hope for success in making the same effort?" "i shouldn't be surprised if you might," said i. there followed a sort of electric flash and a confusion of wild words after this--really my dear i cannot remember half what he said--only the next i knew, somehow, we were walking arm in arm together. "what a talk we had, and what a walk up and down those tangled alleys! going over everything and explaining everything. it was a bright long twilight and the great silver moon rose upon us while yet we were talking. after a while i heard ida calling up and down the paths for me. she came up and met us with her sketch-book under her arm." "ida, we're engaged, harry and i," i said. "so i thought," she said, looking at us kindly and stretching out both hands. i took one and he the other. "do you think i have any chance with your parents?" asked harry. "i think," said ida, "that you will find trouble at first, but you may rely on eva, she will never change; but we must go home." "yes," said i, "it would not do to introduce the matter by getting up a domestic alarm and sending a party to drag the lake for us; we must drive home in a peaceable, orderly manner," and so, it being agreed among us that i should try my diplomatic powers on mamma first, and harry should speak to papa afterward, we drove home. well, now belle, it is all over--the mystery i mean; and the struggle with the powers, that bids to begin. how odd it is that marriage, which is a thing of all others most personal and individual, is a thing where all your friends want you to act to please them! mamma probably in her day felt toward papa just as i feel, but i am sure she will be drowned in despair that i cannot see wat sydney with her eyes, and that i do choose to see harry with mine. but it isn't mamma that is to live with him, it is _i_; it is my fearful venture for life, not hers. i am to give the right to have and to hold _me_ till life's end. when i think of that i wonder i am not afraid to risk it with any man, but with him i am not. i know him so intimately and trust him so entirely. what a laugh i gave him last night, telling him how foolishly he had acted; he likes to have me take him off, and seemed perfectly astonished that i had had the perspicuity to read his feelings. these men, my dear, have a kind of innocent stupidity in matters of this kind that is refreshing! well, if i am not mistaken, there was one blissful individual sent home in new york last night, notwithstanding the terrors of the '_stern parents_,' that are yet to be encountered. how i do chatter on! well, my dear belle, you see i have kept my word. i always told you that i would let you know when i was engaged, the very first of any one, and now here it is. you may make the most of it and tell whom you please, for i shall never change. i am as firm as ben lomond. ever your loving eva. chapter xxxv. domestic consultations. on the afternoon after the croquet party aunt maria wouvermans and mrs. van arsdel, withdrawn to the most confidential recess of the house, held mysterious council. "well, nelly," said aunt maria, "how did you think things looked yesterday?" "i thought a crisis was impending, but after all nothing came. but you see, maria," said mrs. van arsdel, "_that_ girl! she is the most peculiar creature. she wouldn't give him the least chance; she just held herself away from him. two or three times i tried to arrange that they should be alone together, but she wouldn't. she would keep susan and jane seaton at her elbow as if they had been glued to her." "it was so provoking," said aunt maria, "because all the elmores were there watching and whispering. those elmores are in such an elated state on account of the wedding in their family. you'd really think it was a royal marriage at the very least; and they whisper about and talk as if we had been trying to catch sydney and couldn't; that's what provokes me! they were all on tiptoe watching every turn, and i did long to be able to come down on them with an announcement! what ails eva? of course she must mean to have him; no girl at her age would be fool enough to refuse such an offer; you see she's three-and-twenty." "well, if you'll believe me, eva actually went and gave that croquet pin sydney gave her to sophie elmore! i overheard her urging it on her, and he overheard it too, and i know he didn't like it; it was so very marked a thing, you see!" "eva gave that pin to sophie elmore! the girl is crazy. she is too provoking for anything! i can't think what it is, nelly, makes your girls so singular." mrs. wouvermans, it will appear, was one of that very common class of good people who improve every opportunity to show how very senseless their neighbors are compared with themselves. the sole and only reason, as might be gathered from her remarks, why anything disagreeable happened to anybody, was because they did not do, or had not done just as she should have done in their circumstances. now mrs. van arsdel, though conceding in general that sister maria was stronger and brighter than herself, was somewhat rebellious under the process of having it insisted in detail that every unfortunate turn of affairs was her fault, and so she answered with some spirit. "i don't see that my girls are any more singular than other people's. very few mothers have brought up nicer girls than mine. everybody says so." "and i say, nelly, they are peculiar," insisted mrs. wouvermans. "there's ida going off at her tangent! and miss eva! well! one thing, it isn't _my_ fault. i've done the very best i could in instructing them! it must come from the van arsdel side of the house. i'm sure in _our_ family girls never made so much trouble. we all grew up sensible, and took the very best offer we had, and were married and went about our duties without any fuss. though of course we never had a chance like this." "now, i shouldn't wonder in the least," said mrs. van arsdel, "if sydney should fly off to sophie elmore. it's evident that she is perfectly infatuated with him! and you know men's hearts are caught on the rebound very often." "oh, yes," said aunt maria, "i shouldn't wonder, just as jerold macy flew off to blanche sinclair, when edith enderly coquetted so with him. he never would have gone to blanche in the world if edith had not thrown him off. edith was sorry enough afterward when it was too late to help it." "i declare," said mrs. van arsdel, "one never knows what trouble is till one has girls at the marrying age!" "it's all your own fault," said aunt maria, "you indulge them too much. for my part," she continued, "i like the french way of arranging these things. it ought not to be left to the choice of a young silly girl. the parents ought to arrange for her, and then the thing is settled without any trouble. of course people of experience in mature life can choose better for a girl than she can choose for herself! our girls in america have too much liberty. if i had daughters to bring up i should bring them up so that they would never think of disputing what i told them." "so you are always saying, maria," said mrs. van arsdel, "it's quite safe to say what you'll do when you haven't any, but it's very provoking to me. i only wish you had ida and eva to manage." "i only wish i had!" said aunt maria. "i should have had them both well married by this time. there shouldn't be any of this kind of nonsense that you allow. i'd set down my foot. i _wouldn't_ have it. my daughters _should_ obey me. you let them make a perfect nose-of-wax of you. they treat you in any way they please." "you always think so much of yourself, maria, and whatever happens you turn round and blame me. i wish to mercy you'd _had_ children and then you'd see! people who haven't are always delighted with themselves and always criticising people who have. if you had a family of children to manage they'd soon bring you down." "well, nelly, you'll just see, you'll have a lot of old maids on your hands, that's all," said aunt maria. "ida is a gone case now, and eva is on the certain road. girls that are so difficult and romantic and can't tell their own mind are sure to make old maids at last. there was ellen gilliflower, and jane seabright, they might both have had houses and horses and carriages of their own if they had taken offers when they could get them." "you know poor jane lost her lover." "to be sure. well, he was dead, wasn't he? and she couldn't marry him, but was that any reason why she never should marry anybody? there was john smithson would have put her at the head of one of the best establishments about new york, and she might have had her own coupé and horses just as mrs. smithson does now. it's all this ridiculous idea about loving. why, girls _can_ love anybody they'd a mind to, and if i had a daughter she _should_." "oh! i don't know, maria," said mrs. van arsdel. "i think it is a pretty serious thing to force a daughter's affections." "fiddlestick upon affections, nelly, don't you begin to talk. it makes me perfectly sick to hear the twaddle about it. people in good circumstances always like each other well enough, and any girl can get along with any man that puts her in a good position and takes good care of her. if ida had been _made_ to marry a good man when she first came out of school she never would have gone off at all these tangents, and she'd have been a contented woman, and so would eva. she ought to be _made_ to marry wat sydney, it is a tempting of providence to let the thing drag on so. now, if sydney was like sim rivington, i wouldn't say a word. i think polly's conduct is perfectly abominable, and if sim goes on getting drunk and raises a hell upon earth at home polly may just have herself to thank for it, for she was told all about him. she did it with her eyes open, but eva's case is different." at this moment the door-bell rung, and the waiter brought in a letter on a silver salver. both ladies pounced upon it, and aunt maria saying, "it's to you, from sydney," eagerly broke it open and began reading. "i should think, sister," said mrs. van arsdel, in an injured tone, "_i_ might be allowed the first reading of my own letters." "oh, pshaw, don't be so peevish," said aunt maria, pushing it petulantly toward her. "if you don't want me to take any interest in your affairs i'm sure i don't see why i should. i'll go, and you may manage them yourself." "but, maria," said poor mrs. van arsdel, apologetically, "one naturally has the wish to see one's own letters first." "well, mercy on us, child, don't be in a passion about it," said aunt maria, "you've got your letter, haven't you? do read it, and you'll see it's just as i thought. that girl has offended him with her airs and graces, and he is just on the point of giving her up." "but, you see, he says that he still desires to propose to her," said mrs. van arsdel, reading, "only that as her manner to him is so marked he does not wish to expose himself to another refusal." "well," said aunt maria, "now you see, nelly, after all, that letter leaves the game in eva's own hands. if now she will behave herself and let you invite him to an interview and treat him properly, it can all be settled. the letter, in fact, amounts to a proposal in form. now, nelly, that girl _must_ be made to behave herself. i wish i could put some pluck into you; you must be decided with her." "it's of no use, sister, you don't know eva. she's an easy child to be coaxed, but she has a terrible will of her own. the only way to manage her is through her affections. i can't bear to cross her, for she always was a good child." "well, then, tell her just how critical the state of the family is. she may have it in her power to save her father from failure. it may be just life or death with us all. put it to her strongly. it would be a pretty thing, indeed, if instead of being mistress of clairmont and that place at newport, we should all be driven to take second-rate houses and live like nobodies, just for her foolish fancies. you ought to frighten her, nelly. set it out strongly. appeal to her affections." "well, i shall do my best," said mrs. van arsdel. "where is she? let _me_ talk with her," said aunt maria. "she and ida are both gone driving in the park this afternoon, but after all, sister, i think _i_ had best manage it. i think i understand eva better than you do. she would do more for me than for anybody, i think, for the child is very affectionate." "there can't be anybody else in the case, can there?" said aunt maria. "i began to think it rather imprudent to have that henderson round so much, but of late he seems to have stopped coming." "i flatter myself, i managed _him_," said mrs. van arsdel, with complacency. "i gave him a little motherly admonition that had a wonderful effect. after all it was a duty i owed to him, poor youth! eva is wonderfully fascinating, and i could see he was getting too much interested in her. i have a regard for him. he is a nice fellow." "i intended to have him take ida," said aunt maria. "that would have been the proper thing to do." "well, maria, i should think you might have found out by this time that everybody in the world isn't going to walk in the ways you mark out for them." "it would be better for them if they would," said aunt maria. "if i had had the bringing up of your children from the beginning, nelly, and you had never interfered, i think you would have seen results that you never will see now. it seems mysterious that providence shouldn't send children to those best fitted to bring them up. well, you must do the best you can. what time is it? dear me, it is almost dinner time and i have a new table girl to-day. i expect she'll have everything topsy-turvey. i'll call round to-morrow to see how things come on." chapter xxxvi. wealth _versus_ love. eva van arsdel was seated in her apartment in all that tremulous flush of happiness and hope, that confusion of feeling, which a young girl experiences when she thinks that the great crisis of her life has been past, and her destiny happily decided. "yes, yes," she said to herself, "i like him, i like him; and i am going to like him, no matter what mamma, or aunt maria, or all the world say. i'll stand by him through life and death." at this moment her mother came into the room. "dear me! eva, child, not gone to bed yet! why, what's the matter? how flushed your cheeks are! why, you look really feverish." "do i?" said eva, hardly knowing what she was saying. "well, i suppose that is becoming, at any rate." "aren't you well?" said her mother. "does your head ache?" "well? certainly, nicely; never better, mamma dear," said eva, caressingly, coming and seating herself on her mother's knee, and putting her arm around her neck--"never better, mother." "well, eva, then i am glad of it. i just wanted a few minutes alone with you to-night. i have got something to tell you"--and she drew a letter from her pocket. "here's this letter from mr. sydney; i want to read you something from it." "oh dear mamma! what's the use? don't you think it rather stupid, reading letters?" "my dear child, mr. sydney is such a _good_ man, and so devoted to you." "i haven't the least objection, mamma, to his being a good man. long may he be so. but as to his being devoted to me, i am sorry for it." "at least, eva, just read this letter--there's a dear; and i am sure you must see how like a gentleman he writes." eva took the letter from her mother's hand, and ran it over hurriedly. "all no use, mamma, dear," she said, when she had done. "it won't hurt him. he'll get over this just as people do with the chicken pox. the fact is, mamma, mr. sydney is a man that can't bear to be balked in anything that he has once undertaken to do. it is not that he loves me so very dreadfully, but he has set out to have me. if he could have got me, ten to one, he would have tired of me before now. you know he said that he never cared anything about a girl that he knew he could have. it is simply and only because i have kept myself out of his way and been hard to get that he wants me. if he once had me for a wife, i should be all well enough, but i should be _got_, and he'd be off after the next thing he could not get. that's just his nature, mamma." "but, eva dear, such a _fine_ man as he is." "i do not see that he is so very fine." "but, eva, only look at the young men that girls marry! why, there's that young rivington; he's drunk three nights in a week, so they tell me. and there are worse stories than that about him. he has been bad in every kind of way that a man could be bad. and yet, polly elmore is perfectly crazy with delight to have her daughter get him. and here's wat sydney, who, everybody says, is always perfectly sober and correct." "well, mamma dear, if it is only a sober, correct man that you want me to have, there's that mr. henderson, just as sober and correct, and a great deal more cultivated and agreeable." "how absurd of you, my daughter! mr. henderson has not anything to support a wife on. he is a good moral young man, i admit, and agreeable, and has talent and all that; but my dear eva, you are not fitted to contend with poverty. you must marry a man that can support you in the position that you have always been in." "whether i love him or not, mamma?" "my dear eva, you would, of course, love your husband. a man that is able to take care of you and get you everything that you want--give you every wish of your heart--you would love of course." "well, mamma, i have got a man that does exactly that for me, now," said eva, "and i don't need another. that's just what papa does for me. and now, when i marry, i want a companion that suits me. i have got now all the bracelets, and jewelry, and finger rings that i can think of; and if i wanted forty more i could tease them out of papa any day, or kiss them out of him. pa always gets me everything i want; so i don't see what i want of mr. sydney." "well, now, my dear eva, i must speak to you seriously. you are old enough now not to be talked to like a child. the fact is, my darling, there is nothing so insecure as our life here. your father, my love, is reported to be a great deal richer than he is. of course we have to keep up the idea, because it helps his business. but the last two or three years he has met with terrible losses, and i have seen him sometimes so nervous about our family expenditures that, really, there was no comfort in life. but, then, we had this match in view. we supposed, of course, that it was coming off. and such a splendid settlement on you would help the family every way. mr. sydney is a very generous man; and the use of his capital, the credit that the marriage would give to your father in business circles, would be immense. and then, my child, just think of the establishment you would have! why, there is not such an establishment in the country as his place on the north river! you saw it yesterday. what could you ask more? and there is that villa at newport. you might be there in the summer, and have all you sisters there. and he is a man of the most splendid taste as to equipages and furniture, and everything of that sort. and as i said before, he is a good man." "but, mamma, mamma, it will never do. not if he had the east and west indies. all that can't buy your little eva. tell me, now, mamma dear, was pa a rich man when you married him--i mean when you fell in love with him?" "well, no, dear, not very; though people always said that he was a man that would rise." "but you didn't begin in a house like this, mamma. you began at the beginning and helped him up, didn't you?" "well, yes, dear, we did begin in a quiet way; and i had to live pretty carefully the first years of my life; and worked hard, and know all about it; and i want to save you from going through the same that i did." "may be if you did i should not turn out as you are now. but really, mother, if pa is embarrassed, why do we live so? why don't we economize? i am sure i am willing to." "oh, darling! we mustn't. we mustn't make any change; because, if the idea should once get running that there is any difficulty about money, everybody would be down on your father. we have to keep everything going, and everything up, or else things would go abroad that would injure his credit; and he could not get money for his operations. he is engaged in great operations now that will bring in millions if they succeed." "and if they don't succeed," said eva, "then i suppose that we shall lose millions--is that it?" "well, dear, it is just as i tell you, we rich people live on a very uncertain eminence, and for that reason i wanted to see my darling daughter settled securely." "well, mamma, now i will tell you what i have been thinking of. since 'riches make to themselves wings and fly away,' what is the sense of marrying a man whose main recommendation is, that he is rich? because that is the thing that makes mr. sydney more, for instance, than mr. henderson, or any other nice gentleman we know. now what if i should marry mr. sydney, who, to say the truth, dear mamma, i do not fancy, and who is rather tiresome to me--and then some fine morning his banks should fail, his railroads burst up, and his place on the north river, and his villa at newport have to be sold, and he and i have to take a little unfashionable house together, and rough it--what then? why, then, when it came to that, i should wish that i had chosen a more entertaining companion. for there isn't a thing that i am interested in that i can talk with him about. you see, dear mother, we have to take it 'for better or for worse;' and as there is always danger that the wheel may turn, by and by it may come so that we'll have nothing but the man himself left. it seems to me that we should choose our man with great care. he should be like the pearl of great price, the bible speaks of, for whom we would be glad to sell everything. it should be somebody we could be happy with if we lost all beside. and when i marry, mother, it will be with a man that i feel is all that to me." "well, eva dear, where'll you find such a man?" "what if i had found him, mother--or thought i had?" "what do you mean, child?" "mother, i have found the man that i love, and he loves me, and we are engaged." "eva, child! i would not have thought this of you. why haven't you told me before?" "because, mamma, it was only this afternoon that i found out that he loved me and wanted me to be his wife." "and may i presume to ask now who it is?" said mrs. van arsdel, in a tone of pique. "dear mother, it is harry henderson." "mr. henderson! well, i do think that is too dishonorable; when i told him your relations with mr. sydney." "mother, you gave him to understand that i was engaged to mr. sydney, and i told him, this afternoon, that i was not, and never would be. he was honorable. after you had that conversation with him, he avoided our house a long time, and avoided me. i was wretched about it, and he was wretched; but this afternoon we met accidentally in the park; and i insisted on knowing from him why he avoided us so. and, at last, i found out all; and he found out all. we understand each other perfectly now, and nothing can ever come between us. mother, i would go with him to the ends of the earth. there is nothing that i do not feel able to do or suffer for him. and i am glad and proud of myself to know that i can love him as i do." "oh well, poor child! i do not know what we shall do," said mrs. van arsdel, with profound dejection. "deary mother, i will do everything i can to help you, and everything i can to help papa. i do not believe there is one of us children that would not. and i think it is true, what ida is always telling us, that it would be a great deal better for us if we had less, and had to depend on ourselves and use our own faculties more. there are the boys in college; there is no need of their having spending-money as they do. and i know if papa would tell them of his difficulties it would make men of them, just as it would make a woman of me." "well, i do not know," said mrs. van arsdel. "your father has not told me of any particular embarrassments, only i see he is anxious and nervous, and i know him so well that i always know when his affairs trouble him. and this is a great blow to me, eva." "well, dear mother, i am very sorry it is so; but i cannot help it. it would be wicked for me, mother, to marry any other man when i love harry as i do. love is not a glove that you can take off as you please. it is something very different. now, with him, i never felt tired. i always like to be with him; i always like to talk with him; he never makes me nervous; i never wish he was gone; he can always understand me, and i can understand him. we can almost tell what the other is thinking of without speaking. and i will risk our not being happy together. so please do, dear mother, look a little cheerful about it. let me be happy in my own way." "well, i suppose i must," said mrs. van arsdel, with a deep sigh, taking up the lamp. "you always did have your own way, eva." "oh, well, mother dear; some day you'll be glad of it. good night." chapter xxxvii. further consultations. after the departure of her mother, eva in vain tried to compose herself to sleep. her cheeks were flushed, and her brain was in a complete whirl. her mother had said and hinted just enough about the financial condition of the family to fill her with vague alarms. she walked uneasily up and down her luxurious chamber, all whose appointments spoke of wealth and taste; and it was with an unpleasant feeling of insecurity that she regarded the pictures and statues and sofas, and all the charming arrangements, in perfecting which her father had always allowed her _carte blanche_ as to money. she reflected uneasily, that in making all these expensive arrangements, she had ordered simply what pleased her fancy, without inquiry as to price, and without ever glancing over a bill to know the result; and now, she found herself affianced to a young man without any other resources than those which must come from the exertion of his talents, seconded by prudence and economy. and here, again, offered to her acceptance, was another marriage, which would afford her the means of gratifying every taste, and of continuing to live in all those habits of easy luxury and careless expenses that she could not but feel were very agreeable to her. not for one moment did she feel an inclination, or a temptation, to purchase that luxury, and that ease, by the sale of herself; but still, when she thought of her lover--of the difficulties that he must necessarily meet, of the cares which she must bring upon him--she asked herself, "was it not an act of injustice to him to burden him with so incapable and helpless a wife, as she feared she should prove?" "but i _am not_ incapable," she said to herself, "and i _will not_ be helpless. i have strength in me, and i will use it; i will show that i am good for something. i wonder if it is true that papa is embarrassed. if he is, i wish he would trust us; i wish he would tell us at once, and let us help him economize. i would do it; i am sure we all would do it." it was in vain, under the pressure of these thoughts, to try to compose herself to sleep; and, at last, she passed into her sister ida's room, who, with her usual systematic regularity as to hours, had for a long time been in the enjoyment of quiet slumber. "ida, dear!" she said, stooping over and speaking to her sister, "ida, look here!" ida opened her eyes, and sat up in bed. "why eva, child, not gone to bed yet? what is the matter with you? you will certainly ruin your health with these irregular hours." "oh ida, i am so nervous i can't sleep! i am sorry to disturb you, but, indeed, i want to talk to you about something that worries me; and you know you are always gone before i am up in the morning." "well, dear, what is it?" said ida, stroking her head. "do you know mamma has just been into my room with a letter from mr. sydney. he is coming into the field again, and has written to mamma, and mamma has been in talking to me till i am just ready to cry. now, ida, you know all that took place between mr. henderson and me yesterday in the park; we are engaged, are we not, as much as two people can be?" "certainly you are," said ida, decisively. "well now, mamma is so distressed and disappointed." "you told her about it, then?" said ida. "certainly; yes, i told her all about it; and oh, ida! what do you think? mamma really made me feel as if something dreadful was going to happen in the family, that papa was getting embarrassed in his business, and perhaps we might all fail and come to ruin if i did not help him by marrying mr. sydney. now, do you think it would be right for me? it certainly can not be my duty!" "ask yourself that question," said ida; "think what you must promise and vow in marriage." "to be sure! and how wicked it would be to promise and vow all that to one man when i _know_ that i love another one better!" "then," said ida, "asking a woman to take false marriage vows to save her family, or her parents from trouble, is just like asking her to steal money, or forge a false note to save them. eva, you cannot do it." "well," said eva, "that is what i told mamma. but, ida dear, is it really true, do you think, that papa is troubled in his business?" "papa is not a man that would speak freely to any woman on business matters," said ida, "not even to me; but i know that his liabilities and ventures are terrific; and nothing would surprise me less than to have this whole air-castle that we have been living in dissolve like a morning mist, and let us down on the pavement. all i have to say is, that if it comes it is just what i have been preparing for all my life. i have absolutely refused to be made such a helpless doll as young girls in our position commonly are. i have determined that i would keep my faculties bright, and my bodily health firm and strong; and that all these luxuries should not become a necessity to me, so but what i could take care of myself, and take care of others, without them. and all i have to say is, if a crash comes it will find _me_ ready, and it won't crush me." "but, ida, don't you think it would be a great deal better if we would all begin now to economize, and live very differently? why, i am sure i would be willing to move out of this house, and rent it, or sell it, and live in a smaller one, and give up the carriages and horses. we could live a great deal cheaper and more quietly than we do, and yet have everything that i care about. yes, i'd even rather sell the pictures--all except a few--and feel safe and independent, than to live in this sort of glittering, uncertain way, and be pressed to marry a man that i do not love, for the sake of getting out of it." "well, dear," said ida, "you never will get aunt maria to let ma stop running this race with the elmores till the last gun fires, and the ship is ready to sink; that's the whole of it. it is _what people will say_, and the thought of being pitied by their set, and being beaten in the race, that will go further than anything else. if you talk about any drawing in of expenses, they say that we must not do anything of the sort--that it will injure papa's credit. now i know enough of what things cost, and what business estimates are, to know that we are spending at a tremendous rate. if we had an entailed estate settled upon us with an annual income of two or three hundred thousand dollars, there might be some sense in living as we do; but when all depends on the value of stocks that are going up to-day and down to-morrow, there is never any knowing what may happen; and _that_ is what i have always felt. father made a lucky hit by investing in stocks that doubled, and trebled, and quadrupled in value; but now, there is a combination against them, and they are falling. i know it gives father great anxiety; and, as i said before, i should not wonder in the least--nothing would surprise me less, than that we should have a great crisis one of these times." "poor harry!" said eva, "it was the thought of my being an heiress that made him hesitate so long; perhaps he'll have a chance to take me without that obstacle. ida, do you think it would be right and just in me to let him take such an inefficient body as i am? am i quite spoiled, do you think--past all redemption?" "oh, no, darling!" said ida; "i have good hopes of you. in the first place, a woman that has strength of mind enough to be true to her love against all the pressure that has been brought to bear on you, has strength of mind to do anything that may be required of her. of course, dear, it will come to the practical point of living in an entirely different style from what we now live in; and you must count the cost. in the first place, you must give up fashionable society altogether. you must consent to be pitied and wondered at as one that has fallen out of her sphere and gone down in the world. all the mrs. grundys will stop calling on you; and you won't have any turn-out in the park; and you may have to take a small house on an unfashionable street, and give your mind to the business of calculating expenses, and watching outgoes and incomes." "well, now, seriously, ida, i shouldn't mind these things a bit. i don't care a penny for mrs. grundy, nor her works and ways. as to the little house, there'll be the less care to keep it; and as to its being on an unfashionable street, what do i care for that? nobody that i really care for would fail to come and see me, let me live where i would. and harry and i just agree in our views of life. we are not going to live for the world, but for ourselves and our friends. we'll have the nicest little home, where every true friend of ours shall feel as much at home as we do. and don't you think, ida, that i should make a good manager? oh! i know that i could make a house pretty--charming--on ever so little money, just as i get up a spring hat, sometimes, out of odds and ends; and i quite like the idea of having it to do. of course, poor papa, i don't want him to fail; and i hope he won't; but i'm something like you, ida, if all should go to ruin, i feel as if i could stand up, now, that i have got harry to stand up with me. we can begin quietly at first, and make our fortune together. i have thought of ever so many things that i could do for him to help him. do you know, ida,--(i rather guess you'll laugh)--that i brought home his gloves and mended them this very evening? i told him i was going to begin to take care of him. you see i'll make it cheaper for him in a thousand ways--i know i can. he never shall find me a burden. i am quite impatient to be able to show what i can do." "to begin, darling," said ida, "one thing you must do is, to take care of your body; no late hours to waste your little brain. and so don't you think you had better go to your room and go quietly to sleep?" "oh ida! i am going to be so good and so regular after to-night; but to-night, you know, is a kind of exception. girls don't get engaged every day of their lives, and so you must forgive me if i do make a run upon you to-night. the fact is, what with my talk with harry this afternoon, and with mamma to-night, and all the fuss that i see impending, my eyes are just as wide open as they can be; and i don't believe i could go to sleep if i were to try. oh ida! harry told me all about his mother, and all about that handsome cousin of his, that he has spoken of so many times. do you know i used to have such worries of mind about that cousin? i was perfectly sure that she stood in my way. and now, ida, i have a most capital idea about her! she wants to go to france to study, just as you do; and how nice it would be if you could join company and go together." "it would be pleasant," said ida. "i must confess i don't like the idea of being '_damsel errant_,' wandering off entirely alone in the world; and if i leave you, darling, i shall want somebody to speak to. but come, my dear little pussy, you must lie down and shut your eyes, and say your prayers, and try to go to sleep." "you darling good little doctor, you," said eva, "it is too bad of me to keep you up! there, i will be good--see how good i am! good night"--and kissing her sister, she sought her own apartment. chapter xxxviii. making love to one's father-in-law. life has many descents from romance to reality that are far from agreeable. but every exalted hour, and every charming passage in our mortal pilgrimage, is a luxury that has to be paid for with something disagreeable. the german story teller, tieck, has a pretty legend of a magical region where were marvelous golden castles, and fountains, and flowers, and bright-winged elves, living a life of ceaseless pleasure; but all this was visible only to the anointed eyes of some favored mortal to whom was granted the vision. to all others this elfin country was a desolate wilderness. i had had given me within a day or two that vision of wonderland, and wandered--scarce knowing whether in the body or out--in its enchanted bowers. the first exhilarating joy of the moment when every mist rose up from the landscape of love; when there was perfect understanding, perfect union, perfect rest; was something that transfigured life. but having wandered in this blessed country and spoken the tongue of angels, i was now to return to every-day regions and try to translate its marvels and mysteries into the vernacular of mortals. in short, i was to wait upon mr. van arsdel and ask of him the hand of his daughter. now however charming, with suitable encouragement, to make love to a beautiful lady, making love to a prospective father-in-law is quite another matter. men are not as a general thing inclined to look sympathetically on other men in love with any fine woman of their acquaintance, and are rather provoked than otherwise to have them accepted. "what any woman can see in that fellow!" is a sort of standing problem. but possessors of daughters, are, _a fortiori_, enemies ready made to every pretender to their hands. my own instincts made me aware of this, and i could easily fancy that had i a daughter like eva i should be ready to shoot the fellow who came to take her from me. mr. van arsdel, it is true, had showed me, hitherto, in his quiet way, marked favor. he was seldom much of a talker, though a shrewd observer of all that was said by others. he had listened silently to all our discussions and conversations in ida's library, and oftentimes to the reading of the articles i had subjected to the judgment of the ladies; sometimes, though very rarely, interposing little bits of common sense--criticism which showed keen good sense, and knowledge of the world. mr. van arsdel, like many of our merchant princes, had come from a rural distinct, and an early experience of the hard and frugal life of a farm. good sense, acute observation, an ability to take wide and clear views of men and things, and an incorruptible integrity, had been the means of his rise to his present elevation. he was a true american man in another respect, and that was his devotion to women. in america, where we have a clear democracy, women hold that influence over men that is exerted by the aristocracy in other countries. they are something to be looked up to, petted, and courted. the human mind seems to require something of this kind. the faith and fealty that the middle-class englishman has toward his nobility is not all snobbery. it has something of poetry in it--it is his romance of life. up in those airy regions where walk the nobility, he is at liberty to fancy some higher, finer types of manhood and womanhood than he sees in the ordinary ways of life, and he adores the unseen and unknown. the american life would become vulgar and common-place did not a chivalrous devotion to women come in to supply the place of recognized orders of nobility. the true democrat sees no superior in rank among men, but all women are by courtesy his superiors. mr. van arsdel had married a beauty and a belle. when she chose him from among a crowd of suitors he could scarcely believe his own eyes or ears, or help marveling at the wondrous grace of the choice; and, as he told her so, mrs. van arsdel believed him, and their subsequent life was arranged on that understanding. the van arsdel house was an empire where women ruled, though as the queen was a pretty, motherly woman, her reign was easy and flowery. mr. van arsdel delighted in the combinations of business for its own sake. it was his form of mental activity. he liked the effort, the strife, the care, the labor, the success of winning; but when money was once won he cared not a copper for all those forms of luxury and show, for the pride, pomp, and circumstance of fashion, which were all in all to his wife. in his secret heart he considered the greater part of the proceedings in and about his splendid establishment as a rather expensive species of humbug; but then it was what the women wanted and desired, and he took it all quietly and without comment. i felt somewhat nervous when i asked a private interview with him in ida's library. "i have told mamma, harry," whispered eva, "and she is beginning to get over it." mrs. van arsdel received me with an air of patient endurance, as if i had been the toothache or any of the other inevitable inflictions of life, miss alice was distant and reserved, and only ida was cordial. i found mr. van arsdel dry, cold, and wary, not in the least encouraging any sentimental effusion, and therefore i proceeded to speak to him with as matter-of-fact directness as if the treaty related to a bag of wool. "mr. van arsdel, i love your daughter. she has honored me so far as to accept of my love, and i have her permission to ask your consent to our marriage." he took off his spectacles, wiped them deliberately while i was speaking, and coughed drily. "mr. henderson," he said, "i have always had a great respect for you so far as i knew you, but i must confess i don't know why i should want to give you my daughter." "simply, sir, because in the order of nature you must give her to somebody, and i have the honor to be chosen by her." "eva could do better, her mother thinks." "i am aware that miss van arsdel could marry a man with more money than i have, but none who would love her more or be more devoted to her happiness. besides i have the honor to be the man of her choice, and perhaps you may be aware that miss eva is a young lady of very decided preferences." he smiled drily, and looked at me with a funny twinkle in his eye. "eva has always been used to having her own way," he remarked. "then, my dear sir, i must beg leave to say that the choice of a companion for life is a place where a lady has a good right to insist on her own way." "well, mr. henderson, you may be right. but perhaps her parents ought to insist that she shall not make an imprudent marriage." "mr. van arsdel, i do not conceive that i am proposing an imprudent marriage. i have not wealth to offer, it is true, but i have a reasonable prospect of being able to support a wife and family. i have good firm health, i have good business habits, i have a profession which already assures me a certain income, and an influential position in society." "what do you call your profession?" "literature," i replied. he looked skeptical, and i added--"yes, mr. van arsdel, in our day literature is a profession in which one may hope for both fame and money." "it is rather an uncertain one, isn't it?" said he. "i think not. a business which proposes to supply a great, permanent, constantly increasing demand you must admit to be a good one. the demand for current reading is just as wide and steady as any demand of our life, and the men who undertake to supply it have as certain a business as those that undertake to supply cotton cloth, or railroad iron. at this day fortunes are being made in and by literature." mr. van arsdel drummed on the table abstractedly. "now," said i, determined to speak in the language of men and things, "the case is just this: if a young man of good, reliable habits, good health, and good principles, has a capital of seventy thousand dollars invested in a fair paying business, has he not a prospect of supporting a family in comfort?" "yes," said mr. van arsdel, regarding me curiously, "i should call that a good beginning." "well," rejoined i, "my health, my education, my power of doing literary work, are this capital. they secure to me for the next year an income equal to that of seventy thousand dollars at ten per cent. now, i think a capital of that amount invested in a _man_, is quite as safe as the same sum invested in any stocks whatever. it seems to me that in our country a _man_ who knows how to take care of his health is less likely to become unproductive in income than any stock you can name." "there is something in that, i admit," replied mr. van arsdel. "and there's something in _this_, too, papa," said eva, who entered at this moment and could not resist her desire to dip her oar in the current of conversation, "and that is, that an investment that you have got to take for better or worse and can't sell or get rid of all your life, had better be made in something you are sure you will like." "and are you sure of that in this case, pussy?" said her father, pinching her cheek. "tolerably, as men go. mr. henderson is the least tiresome man of my acquaintance, and you know, papa, it's time i took somebody; you don't want me to go into a convent, do you?" "how about poor mr. sydney?" "poor mr. sydney has just called, and i have invited him to a private audience and convinced him that i am not, in the least, the person to make him happy--and he is one of the sort that feel that it is of the last importance that he should be made happy." "well, well! mr. henderson, i presume you have seen, in the course of your observations, that this is one of the houses where the women rule. you and eva will have to settle it with her mother." "then i am to understand," exclaimed i, "that, as far as _you_ are concerned----!" "i _submit_," said mr. van arsdel. "the ayes have it, then," said eva. "i'm not so sure of that, young lady," said mr. van arsdel, "if i may judge by the way your mother lamented to me last night." "oh, that's all aunt maria! you see, papa, this is an age of revolution, and there's going to be a revolution in the aunt maria dynasty in our house. she has governed mamma and all the rest of us long enough, and now she must go down and i must rule. harry and i are going to start a new era and have things all our own way. i'm going to crown him king, and he then will crown me queen, and then we shall proceed to rule and reign in our own dominions, and aunt maria, and mrs. grundy, and all the rest of them, may help themselves; they can't hinder us. we shall be happy in our own way, without consulting them." "well, well!" said mr. van arsdel, following with an amused eye, a pirouette eva executed at the conclusion of her speech, "you young folks are venturesome." "yes, papa, i am 'the woman who dared,'" said eva. "'nothing venture, nothing have,'" quoted i. "eva knows no more about managing money than a this year's robin," said her father. "yet this year's robins know how to build respectable nests when their time comes," said she. "they don't bother about investments and stocks and all those things, but sing and have a good time. it all comes right for them, and i don't doubt it will for us." "you have a decided talent for spending money most agreeably, i confess," said mr. van arsdel. "now, papa, it's too bad for you to be running down your own daughter! i'm not appreciated. i have a world of undeveloped genius for management. harry has agreed to teach me accounts, and as i belong to the class who always grow wiser than their teachers, i'm sure that before six months are over i shall be able to suggest improved methods to him. when i get a house you'll all be glad to come and see me, i shall make it so bright and sunny and funny, and give you such lovely things to eat; and in _my_ house everybody shall do just as they please, and have their own way if they can find out what it is. i know people will like it." "i believe you, pussy," said mr. van arsdel; "but houses don't grow on bushes, you know." "well, haven't i six thousand dollars, all my own, that grandma left me?" "and how much of a house do you think that would buy?" "perhaps as big a one as you and mother began in." "you never would be satisfied with such a house as we began in." "why not? are we any better than you were?" "no. but nowadays no young folks are contented to do as we did." "then, papa, you are going to see a new thing upon the earth, for harry and i am going to be pattern folks for being rational and contented. we are going to start out on a new tack and bring in the golden age. but, bless me! there's aunt maria coming down the street! now, harry, comes the tug of war. i am going now to emancipate mamma and proclaim the new order of things," and out she flitted. "mr. henderson," said mr. van arsdel, when she had gone, "i think it is about certain that i am to look on you as a future member of our family. i'll be fair with you, that you may take steps with your eyes open. my daughters are supposed to be heiresses, but, as things are tending, in a very short time i may be put back to where i started in life and have all to begin over. my girls will have nothing. i see such a crisis impending and i have no power to help it." "my dear sir," said i, "while i shall be sorry for your trouble, and hope it may not come, i shall be only too glad to prove my devotion to eva." "it is evident," said mr. arsdel, "that her heart is set on you, and, after all, the only true comfort is in having the one you want. i myself never cared for fashion, mr. henderson, nor parties, nor any of this kind of fuss and show the women think so much of; and i believe that eva is a little like me. i like to go back to the old place in summer and eat huckleberries and milk, and see the cows come home from pasture, and sit in father's old arm-chair. it wouldn't take so much running and scheming and hard thinking and care to live, if folks were all of my mind. why, up in new hampshire where i came from, there's scarcely ever an estate administered upon that figures up more than five thousand dollars, and yet they all live well--have nice houses, nice tables, give money in charity, and make a good thing of life." there was something really quite pathetic in this burst of confidence from the worthy man. perhaps i was the first one to whom he had confessed the secret apprehensions with which he was struggling. "you see, mr. henderson, you never can tell about investments. stocks that seem to stand as firm as the foundations of the earth, that the very oldest and shrewdest and longest-headed put into, run down and depreciate--and when they get running you can't draw out, you see. now i advanced capital for the new lightning line railroad to the amount of two hundred thousand, and pledged my guatemala stock for the money, and then arose this combination against the guatemala stock, and it has fallen to a fourth of its value in six months, and it takes heavy rowing--heavy. i'd a great deal rather be in father's old place, with an estate of five thousand dollars, and read my newspaper in peace, than to have all i have with the misery of managing it. i may work out and i may not." chapter xxxix. accepted and engaged. and so at last i was accepted, and my engagement with eva was recognized as a _fait accompli_. in the family of my betrothed were all shades of acquiescence. mrs. van arsdel was pensively resigned to me as a mysterious dispensation of providence. mr. van arsdel, though not in any way demonstrative, showed an evident disposition to enter into confidential relations with me. ida was whole-hearted and cordial; and alice, after a little reconnoitering, joined our party as a gay, generous young girl, naturally disposed to make the best of things, and favorably inclined toward the interests of young lovers. mr. trollope, in _the small house at allington_, represents a young man just engaged, as feeling himself in the awkward position of a captive led out in triumph, for exhibition. the lady and her friends are spoken of as marching him forth with complacency, like a prize ox with ribbons in his horns, unable to repress the exhibition of their delight in having entrapped him. one would infer from this picture of life such a scarcity of marriageable men that the capture even of such game as young crosbie, who is represented to be an untitled young man, without fortune or principle, is an occasion of triumph. in our latitudes, we of the stronger sex are not taught to regard ourselves as such overpoweringly delightful acquisitions, and the declaration of an engagement is not with us regarded as evidence of a lady's skill in hunting. i did not, as young crosbie is said to have done, feel myself somehow _caught_. on the contrary, i was lost in wonder at my good fortune. if i had found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, or dug up the buried treasures of captain kidd, i could not have seemed to myself more as one who dreamed. i wrote all about it to my mother, who, if she judged by my letters, must have believed "hesperian fables" true for the first time in the world, and that a woman had been specially made and created out of all impossible and fabulous elements of joy. the child-wife of my early days, the dream-wife of my youth, were both living, moving, breathing in this wonderful reality. i tried to disguise my good fortune--to walk soberly and behave myself among men as if i were sensible and rational, and not dazed and enchanted. i felt myself orbed in a magical circle, out of which i looked pityingly on everybody that was not _i_. a spirit of universal match-making benevolence possessed me. i wanted everybody i liked to be engaged. i pitied and made allowances for everybody that was not. how could they be happy or good that had not my fortune? they had not, they never could have, an _eva_. there was but one eva, and i had her! i woke every morning with a strange, new thrill of joy. was it so? was she still in this world, or had this impossible, strange mirage of bliss risen like a mist and floated heavenward? i trembled when i thought how frail a thing human life is. was it possible that she might die? was it possible that an accident in a railroad car, a waft of drapery toward an evening lamp, a thoughtless false step, a mistake in a doctor's prescription, might cause this lovely life to break like a bubble, and be utterly gone, and there be no more eva, never, nevermore on earth? the very intensity of love and hope suggested the possibility of the dreadful tragedy that every moment underlies life; that with every joy connects the possibility of a proportioned pain. surely love, if nothing else, inclines the soul to feel its helplessness and be prayerful, to place its treasures in a father's hand. sometimes it seemed to me too much to hope for, that she should live to be my wife; that the fabulous joy of possession should ever be mine. each morning i left my bunch of fresh violets with a greeting in it at her door, and assured myself that the earth yet retained her, and all day long i worked with the under-thought of the little boudoir where i should meet her in the evening. who says modern new york life is prosaic? the everlasting poem of man and woman is as fresh there at this hour as among the crocuses and violets of eden. a graceful writer, in one of our late magazines, speaks of the freedom which a young man feels when he has found the mistress and queen of his life. he is bound to no other service, he is anxious about no other smile or frown. i had been approved and crowned by my queen of love and beauty. if _she_ liked me, what matter about the rest? it did not disturb me a particle to feel that i was submitted to as a necessity, rather than courted as a blessing, by her parents. i cared nothing for cold glances or indifferent airs so long as my golden-haired ariadne threw me the clew by which i threaded the labyrinth, and gave me the talisman by which to open the door. once safe with her in her little "italy," the boudoir in which we first learned to know each other, we laughed and chatted, making ourselves a gay committee of observation on the whole world besides. was there anybody so fortunate as we? and was there any end to our subject-matter for conversation? "you have no idea, harry," she said to me, the first evening after our engagement had been declared, "what a time we've been having with aunt maria! you know she is mamma's oldest sister, and mamma is one of the gentle, yielding sort, and aunt maria has always ruled and reigned over us all. she really has a way of ordering mamma about, and mamma i think is positively afraid of her. not that she's really ill-tempered, but she is one of the sort that thinks it's a matter of course that she should govern the world, and is perfectly astonished when she finds she can't. i have never resisted her before, because i have been rather lazy, and it's easier to give up than to fight; and besides one remembers one's catechism, and doesn't want to rise up against one's pastors and masters." "but you thought you had come to a place where amiability ceased to be a virtue?" said i. "exactly. ida always said that people must have courage to be disagreeable, or they couldn't be good for much; and so i put on all my terrors, and actually bullied aunt maria into submission." "you must have been terrific," said i, laughing. "indeed, you ought to have seen me! i astonished myself. i told her that she always had domineered over us all, but that now the time had come that she must let my mother alone, and not torment her; that, as for myself, i was a woman and not a child, and that i should choose my lot in life for myself, as i had a right to do. i assure you, there was warm work for a little while, but i remained mistress of the field." "it was a revolutionary struggle," said i. "exactly,--a fight at the barricades; and as a result a new government is declared. mamma reigns in her own house and i am her prime minister. on the whole i think mamma is quite delighted to be protected in giving me my own way, as she always has. aunt maria has shaken dreadful warnings and threatenings at me, and exhausted a perfect bead-roll of instances of girls that had married for love and come to grief. you'd have thought that nothing less than beggary and starvation was before us; and the more i laughed the more solemn and awful she grew. she didn't spare me. she gave me a sad character. i hadn't been educated for anything, and i didn't know how to do anything, and i was nothing of a housekeeper, and i had no strength; in short, she made out such a picture of my incapacities as may well make you tremble." "i don't tremble in the least," said i. "i only wish we could set up our establishment to-morrow." "aunt maria told me that it was ungenerous of me to get engaged to a man of no fortune, now when papa is struggling with these heavy embarrassments, and can't afford the money to marry me, and set me up in the style he would feel obliged to. you see, aunt maria is thinking of a wedding twice as big as the elmores, and a _trousseau_ twice as fine, and a brown-stone front palace twice as high and long and broad as the rivingtons; and twice as many coupés and park wagons and phaetons as maria rivington is to have; and if papa is to get all this for me, it will be the ruin of him, she says." "and you told her that we didn't want any of them?" said i. "to be sure i did. i told her that we didn't want one of these vulgar, noisy, showy, expensive weddings, and that i didn't mean to send to paris for my things. that a young lady who respected herself was always supplied with clothes good enough to be married with; that we didn't want a brown stone palace, and could be very happy without any carriage; and that there were plenty of cheap little houses in unfashionable streets we could be very happy in; that people who really cared for us would come to see us, live where we would, and that those who didn't care might keep away." "bravo, my queen! and you might tell her how mad. récamier drew all the wit and fashion of paris to her little brick-floored rooms in the old abbey. people will always want to come where _you_ are." "i don't set up for a récamier," she exclaimed, "but i do say that where people have good times, and keep a bright pleasant fireside, and are always glad to see friends, there will always be friends to come; and _friends_ are the ones we want." "ah! we will show them how things can be done, won't we?" "indeed we will. i always wanted a nice little house all my own where i could show what i could do. i have quantities of pet ideas of what a home should be, and i always fancied i could make things lovely." "if you couldn't, who could?" said i, enchanted. "see here," she added, "i have just begun to think what we have to start with. all the pictures in this little room are mine, bought with my own allowance; they are my very own. pictures, you know, are a great thing, they half furnish a house. then you know that six thousand dollars that grandmamma left me! besides, sir, only think, a whole silver cream-pitcher and six tablespoons! why harry, i'm an heiress in my own right, even if poor papa should come to grief." something in this talk reminded me of the far-off childish days when susie and i made our play-houses under the old butternut tree, and gathered in our stores of chestnuts and walnuts and laid our grave plans for life as innocently as two squirrels, and i laughed with a tear in my eye. i recounted to her the little idyl, and said that it had been a foreshadowing of her, and that perhaps my child angel had guided me to her. "some day you shall take me up there, harry, and show me where you and she played together, and we will gather strawberries and lilies and hear the bobolinks," she said. "how little the world knows how cheap happiness is!" "to those that know where to look for it," said i. "i heard papa telling you that half the estates on which good new england families live in comfort up there in the country don't amount to more than five thousand dollars, yet they live well, and they have all those lovely things around them _free_. here in this artificial city life people struggle and suffer to get money for things they don't want and don't need. nobody wants these great parties, with their candy pyramids and their artificial flowers and their rush and crush that tire one to death, and yet they pay as much for one as would keep one of those country houses going for a year. i do wish we could live there!" "i do too--with all my heart, but my work must lie here. we must make what the french call an _interior_ here in new york. i shall have to be within call of printers and the slave of printers' devils, but in summer we will go up into the mountains and stay with my mother, and have it all to ourselves." "do you know, harry," said eva after a pause, "i can see that sophie elmore really does admire sydney. i can't help wondering how one can, but i see she does. now don't you hope she'll get engaged to him?" "certainly i do," said i, "i wan't all nice people to be engaged if they have as good a time as we do. it's my solution of the woman question." "well, do you know i managed my last interview with sydney with reference to that? i made what you would call a split-shot in croquet to send him from me and to her." "how did you do it?" "oh, don't ask me to describe. there are ways of managing these men that are incommunicable. one can play on them as upon a piano, and i'll wager you a pair of gloves that sydney goes off after sophie. she's too good for him, but she likes him, and sophie will make him a nice wife. but only think of poor aunt maria! it will be the last stroke that breaks the camel's back to have the elmores get sydney." "so long as he doesn't get you, i shall be delighted," said i. "now only think," she added, "this spring i was drifting into an engagement with that man just because i was idle, and _blasé_, and didn't know what to do next, and didn't have force enough to keep saying 'no' to mamma and aunt maria and all the rest of them." "and what gave you force?" "well, sir, i couldn't help seeing that _somebody else_ was getting very prettily entangled, and i felt a sort of philosophic interest in watching the process, and somehow--you know--i was rather sorry for you." "well?" "well, and i began to feel that anybody else would be intolerable, and you know they say there must be somebody." "but me you could tolerate? thank you, for so much." "yes, harry, i think you are rather agreeable. i couldn't fancy myself sitting a whole evening with sydney as i do with you. i always had to resort to whist and all sorts of go-betweens to keep him entertained; and i couldn't fancy that i ever should run to the window to see if he were coming in the evening, or long for him to come back when he was on a journey. i'm afraid i should long quite the other way and want him to go journeys often. but sophie will do all these things. poor man! somebody ought to, for he wouldn't be a bit satisfied if his wife were not devoted. i told him that, and told him that he needed a woman capable of more devotion than i could feel and flattered him up a little--poor fellow, he took to it so kindly! and after a while i contrived to let fall a nice bit of a compliment i had once heard about him from a lady, who i remarked was usually a little fastidious, and hard to please, and you ought to have seen how animated he looked! a mouse in view of a bit of toasted cheese never was more excited. i wouldn't tell him who it was, yet i sent him off on such a track that he inevitably will find out. that's what i call sending sophie a ball to play on. you see if they don't have a great wedding about the time we have our little one!" chapter xl. congratulations, etc. the announcement of my engagement brought the usual influx of congratulations by letter and in person. bolton was gravely delighted, shook my hand paternally, and even promised to quit his hermit hole and go with me to call upon the van arsdels. as to jim, he raised a notable breeze among the papers. "engaged!--_you_, sly dog, after all! well! well! let your sentimental fellows alone for knowing what they're about. all your sighing, and poetry, and friendship, and disinterestedness and all that don't go for nothing. up to '_biz_' after all! well, you've done a tolerably fair stroke! those van arsdel girls are good for a hundred thousand down, and the rest will come in the will. well, joy to you my boy! remember your old grandfather." now there was no sort of use in going into high heroics with jim, and i had to resign myself to being congratulated as a successful fortune hunter, a thing against which all my resolution and all my pride had always been directed. i had every appearance of being caught in the fact, and jim was prepared to make the most of the situation. "i declare, hal," he said, perching himself astride a chair, "such things make a fellow feel solemn. we never know when our turn may come. nobody feels safe a minute; it's you to-day and me to-morrow. i may be engaged before the week is out--who knows!" "if nothing worse than that happens to you, you needn't be frightened," said i. "better try your luck. i don't find it bad to take at all." "oh, but think of the consequences, man! wedding journey, bandboxes and parasols to look after; beefsteaks and coffee for two; house rent and water taxes; marketing, groceries; all coming down on you like a thousand of brick! and then 'my dear, won't you see to this?' and 'my dear, have you seen to that?' and 'my dear, what makes you let it rain?' and 'my dear, how many times must i tell you i don't like hot weather?' and 'my dear, won't you just step out and get me the new moon and seven stars to trim my bonnet?' that's what i call getting a fellow into business! it's a solemn thing, hal, now i tell you, this getting married!" "if it makes you solemn, jim, i shall believe it," i said. "well, when is it to come off? when is the blissful day?" "no time fixed as yet," said i. "why not? you ought to drive things. nothing under heaven to wait for except to send to paris for the folderols. well, i shall call up and congratulate. if miss alice there would take me, there might be a pair of us. wouldn't it be jolly? i say, hal, how did you get it off?" "get what off?" "why, the question." "you'll have to draw on your imagination for that, jim." "i tell you what, harry, i won't offer myself to a girl on uncertainties. i'd pump like thunder first and find out whether she'd have me or not." "i fancy," said i, "that if you undertake that process with miss alice, you'll have your match. i think she has as many variations of yes and no as a french woman." "she doesn't catch this child," said jim, "though she's _mag_. and no mistake. soberly, she's one of the nicest girls in new york--but jim's time isn't come yet. 'oh, no, no! not for joe, not for joseph, if he knows it, oh, dear, no!' so now, hal, don't disturb my mind with these trifles. i've got three books to review before dinner, and only an hour and a half to do it in." in my secret heart i began to wish that the embarrassments that were hanging over the van arsdel fortunes would culminate and come to a crisis one way or another, so that our position might appear to the world what it really was. mr. van arsdel's communications to me were so far confidential that i did not feel that i could allude to the real state of things even with my most intimate friends; so that while i was looked upon from the outside as the prospective winner of an heiress, eva and i were making all our calculations for the future on the footing of the strictest prudence and economy. everybody was looking for splendor and festivities; we were enacting a secret pastoral, in which we forsook the grandeurs of the world to wander forth hand in hand in paths of simplicity and frugality. a week after this i received a note from caroline which announced her arrival in the city, and i lost no time in waiting on her and receiving her congratulations on my good fortune. eva and ida van arsdel were prompt in calling upon her, and the three struck up a friendship which grew with that tropical rapidity and luxuriance characteristic of the attachments of women. ida and caroline become at once bosom friends. "i'm so glad," eva commented to me, "because you and i are together so much now that i was afraid ida might feel a little out in the cold; i have been her pet and stand-by. the fact is, i'm like that chemical thing that dyers call a mordant--something that has an affinity for two different colors that have no affinity for each other. i'm just enough like mamma and just enough like ida to hold the two together. they both tell me everything, and neither of them can do without me." "i can well believe that," said i, "it is an experience in which i sympathize. but i am coming in now, like the third power in a chemical combination, to draw you away from both. i shouldn't think they'd like it." "oh, well, it's the way of nature! mamma left her mother for papa--but ida!--i'm glad for her to have so nice a friend step in just now--one that has all her peculiar tastes and motives. i wish she could go to paris and study with ida when she goes next year. do you know, harry, i used to think you were engaged to this cousin of yours? why weren't you?" "she never would have had me,--her heart was gone to somebody else." "why isn't she married, then?" "oh! the course of true love, you know." "tell me all about it." "she never made me her confidant," said i, evasively. "tell me who it was, at all events," demanded she. "bolton." "what! that serious, elegant bolton that you brought to call on us the other night! we all liked him so much! what can be the matter there? why, i think he's superb, and she's just the match for him. what broke it off?" "you know i told you she never made me her confidant." "nor he, either?" "well," said i, feeling myself cornered, "i throw myself on your mercy. it's another man's secret, and i ought not to tell you, but if you ask me i certainly shall." "right or wrong?" "yes, fair eve, just as adam ate the apple, so beware!" "i'm just dying to know, but if you really ought not to tell me i won't tease for it; but i tell you what it is, harry, if i were you i should bring them together." "would you dare take the responsibility of bringing any two together?" "i suppose i should. i am a daring young woman." "i have not your courage," said i, "but if it will do you any good to know, bolton is in a fair way to renew the acquaintance, though he meant not to do it." "you can tell me how that happened, i suppose?" "yes, that is at your service. simply, the meeting was effected as some others of fateful results have been,--in a new york street-car." "aha!" she said, laughing. "yes; he was traveling up sixth avenue the other night when a drunken conductor was very rude to two ladies. bolton interfered, made the man behave himself, waited on the ladies across the street to their door as somebody else once did,--when, behold! a veil is raised, the light of the lamp flashes, and one says 'mr. bolton!' and the other 'miss simmons!' and the romance is opened." "how perfectly charming! of course he'll call and see her. he _must_, you know." "that has proved the case in my experience." "and all the rest will follow. they are made for each other. poor ida, she won't have caroline to go to paris with her!" "no? i think she will. in fact i think it would be the best thing caroline could do." "you do! you don't want them to be married?" "i don't know. i wouldn't say--in fact it's a case i wouldn't for the world decide." "oh, heavens! here's a mystery, an obstacle, an unknown horror, and you can't tell me what it is, and i must not ask. why, this is perfectly dreadful! it isn't anything against bolton?" "bolton is the man i most love, most respect, most revere," i said. "what can it be then?" "suppose we leave it to fate and the future," said i. chapter xli. the explosion. "hal! it's too confounded bad!" said jim fellows, bursting into my room; "your apple cart's upset for good. the van arsdels are blown to thunder. the old one has failed for a million. gone to smash on that lightning railroad, and there you all are! hang it all, i'm sorry now!" and to say the truth jim's face did wear an air of as much concern as his features were capable of. "seems to me," he added, "you take it coolly." "the fact is, jim, i knew all about this the day i proposed. i knew it must come, and i'm glad, since it had to be, to have it over and be done with it. mr. van arsdel told me exactly what to expect when i engaged myself." "and you and miss eva van arsdel are going to join hands and play 'babes in the woods'?" "no," said i, "we are going to play the interesting little ballet of 'man and wife.' i am to work for her, and all that i win is to be put into her hands." "hum! i fancy she'll find things on quite another scale when it comes to your dividends." "we're not at all afraid of that--you'll see." "she's a trump--that girl!" said jim; "now that's what i call the right sort of thing. and there's alice! now, i declare it's too confounded rough on alice! just as she's come out and such a splendid girl too!" at this moment the office boy brought up a note. "from eva," i said, opening it. it ran thus: "well, dearest, the storm has burst and nobody is killed yet. papa told mamma last night, and mamma told us this morning, and we are all agreed to be brave as possible and make it seem as light as we can to papa. dear papa! i know it was for us he struggled, it was for us he was anxious, and we'll show him we can do very well. come down now. mamma says she feels as if she could trust you as a son. isn't that kind? your own eva." "i'm going right down to the house," said i. "i declare," said jim, "i want to do something, and one doesn't know what. i say, i'll buy a bouquet for alice, and you just take it with my compliments." so saying jim ran down with me, crossed to a florist's cellar, and selected the most extravagant of the floral treasures there. "hang it all!" he said, "i wouldn't send her such a one when she was up in the world, but now a fellow wants to do all he can, you know." "jim," said i, "you are not a mere smooth-water friend." "not i. 'go for the under dog in the fight' is my principle, so get along with you and stay as long as you like. i can do your book notices; i know just the sort of thing you would say, you know--do 'em up brown, so that you wouldn't know my ideas from your own." arrived at the van arsdel house, i thought i could see and feel the traces of a crisis, by that mysterious intimation that fills the very air of a place where something has just happened. the elegant colored servant who opened the door wore an aspect of tender regret like an undertaker at a funeral. "miss eva was in her boudoir," he said, "but miss alice hadn't come down." i sent up the bouquet with mr. fellows' compliments, and made the best of my way to eva. she was in the pretty little nook in which we had had our first long talk and which now she called _our_ italy. i found her a little pale and serious, but on the whole in cheerful spirits. "it's about as bad as it can be," said she. "it seems papa has made himself personally responsible for the lightning railroad and borrowed money to put into it, and then there's something or other about the stock he borrowed on running down till it isn't worth anything. i don't understand a word of it, only i know that the upshot of it all is, papa is going to give up all he has and begin over. this house and furniture will be put into a broker's hands and advertised for sale. all the pictures are going to goupil's sale rooms and will make quite a nice gallery." "except yours in this room," said i. "ah well! i thought we should keep these, but i find papa is very sensitive about giving up everything that is really his--and these are his in fact. i bought them with his money. at all events, let them go. we won't care, will we?" "not so long as we have each other," said i. "for my part, though i'm sorry for you all, yet i bless the stroke that brings you to me. you see we must make a new home at once, you and i, isn't it so? now, hear me; let us be married in june, the month of months, and for our wedding journey we'll go up to the mountains and see my mother. it's perfectly lovely up there. shall it be so?" "as you will, harry. and it will be all the better so, because ida is going to sail for paris sooner than she anticipated." "why does ida do that?" "well, you see, ida has been the manager of papa's foreign correspondence and written all the letters for three years past, and papa has paid her a large salary, of which she has spent scarcely anything. she has invested it to make her studies with in paris. she offered this to papa, but he would not take it. he told her it was no more his than the salary of any other of his clerks, and that if she wouldn't make him very unhappy she would take it and go to paris; and by going immediately she could arrange some of his foreign business. so you see she will stay to see us married and then sail." "we'll be married in the same church where we put up the easter crosses," said i. "how little we dreamed it then," she said, "and that reminds me, sir, where's my glove that you stole on that occasion? you naughty boy, you thought nobody saw you, but somebody did." "your glove," said i, "is safe and sound in my reliquary along with sundry other treasures." "you unprincipled creature! what are they? confess." "well! a handkerchief." "wretched man! and besides?" "two hair pins, a faded rose, two beads that dropped from your croquet suit, and a sleeve button. then there is a dry sprig of myrtle that you dropped, on, let me see, the th of april, when you were out at the park in one of those rustic arbors." "and you were sitting glowering like an owl in an ivy bush. i remember i saw you there." we both found ourselves laughing very much louder than circumstances seemed really to require, when eva heard her father's footstep and checked herself. "there goes poor papa. isn't it a shame that we laugh? we ought to be sober, now, but for the life of me i can't. i'm one of the imponderable elastic gases; you can't keep me down." "one may 'as well laugh as cry,' under all circumstances," said i. "better, a dozen times. but seriously and soberly, i believe that even papa, now it's all over, feels relieved. it was while he was struggling, fearing, dreading, afraid to tell us, that he had the worst of it." "nothing is ever so bad as one's fears," said i. "there is always some hope even at the bottom of pandora's box." "sententious, mr. editor, but true. now in illustration. last week ida and i wrote to the boys at cambridge all about what we feared was coming, and this very morning we had such nice manly letters from both of them. if we hadn't been in trouble we never should have known half what good fellows they are. look here," she said, opening a letter, "tom says, 'tell father that i can take care of myself. i'm in my senior year and the rest of the course isn't worth waiting for and i've had an opportunity to pitch in with a surveying party on the northern railroad along with my chum. i shall work like sixty, and make myself so essential that they can't do without me. and, you see, the first that will be known of me i shall be one of the leading surveyors of the day. so have no care for me.' and here's a letter from will which says, 'why didn't father tell us before? we've spent ever so much more than we needed, but are going about financial retrenchments with a vengeance. last week i attended the boat race at worcester and sent an account of it to the _argus_, written off-hand, just for the fun of it. i got a prompt reply, wanting to engage me to go on a reporting tour of all the great election meetings for them. i'm to have thirty dollars a week and all expenses paid; so you see i step into the press at once. we shall sell our pictures and furniture to some freshies that are coming in, and wind up matters so as not to come on father for anything till he gets past these straits. tell mother not to worry, she shall be taken care of; she shall have tom and me both to work for her.'" "they are splendid fellows!" said i, "and it is worth a crisis to see how well they behave in it. well, then," i resumed, "our wedding day shall be fixed, say for the th of june?" "how very statistical! i'm sure i can't say, i've got to talk with mamma and all the powers that be, and settle my own head. don't let's set a day yet; it soils the blue line of the distance--nothing like those pearl tints. our drawing master used to tell us one definite touch would spoil them." "for the present, then, it is agreed that we are to be married _generally_ in the month of june?" said i. "p. p.--providence permitting," said she--"providence, meaning mamma, ida, aunt maria, and all the rest." chapter xlii. the wedding and the talk over the prayer-book. if novels are to be considered true pictures of real life we must believe that the fall from wealth to poverty is a less serious evil in america than in any other known quarter of the world. in english novels the failure of a millionaire is represented as bringing results much the same as the commission of an infamous crime. poor old mr. sedley fails and forthwith all his acquaintances cut him; nobody calls on his wife or knows her in the street; the family who have all along been courting his daughter for their son and kissing the ground at her feet, now command the son to break with her, and turn him out of doors for marrying her. in america it is quite otherwise. a man fails without losing friends, neighbors, and the consideration of society. he moves into a modest house, finds some means of honest livelihood, and everybody calls on his wife as before. friends and neighbors as they have opportunity are glad to stretch forth a helping hand, and a young fellow who should break his engagement with the daughter at such a crisis would simply be scouted as infamous. americans have been called worshipers of the almighty dollar, and they certainly are not backward in that species of devotion, but still these well-known facts show that our worship is not, after all, so absolute as that of other quarters of the world. mr. van arsdel commanded the respect and sympathy of the influential men of new york. the inflexible honesty and honor with which he gave up all things to his creditors won sympathy, and there was a united effort made to procure for him an appointment in the custom house, which would give him a comfortable income. in short, by the time that my wedding-day arrived, the family might be held as having fallen from wealth into competence. the splendid establishment on fifth avenue was to be sold. it was, in fact, already advertised, and our wedding was to be the last act of the family drama in it. after that we were to go to my mother's, in the mountains of new hampshire, and mr. van arsdel's family were to spend the summer at the old farm-homestead where his aged parents yet kept house. our wedding preparations therefore went forward with a good degree of geniality on the part of the family, and with many demonstrations of sympathy and interest on the part of friends and relations. a genuine love-marriage always and everywhere evokes a sort of instinctive warmth and sympathy. the most worldly are fond of patronizing it as a delightful folly, and as eva had been one of the most popular girls of her set she was flooded with presents. and now the day of days was at hand, and for the last time i went up the steps of the van arsdel mansion to spend a last evening with eva van arsdel. she met me at the door of her boudoir: "harry, here you are! oh, i have no end of things to tell you!--the door bell has been ringing all day, and a perfect storm of presents. we have duplicates of all the things that nobody can do without. i believe we have six pie-knives and four sugar-sifters and three egg-boilers and three china hens to sit on eggs, and a perfect meteoric shower of salt-cellars. i couldn't even count them." "oh well! salt is the symbol of hospitality," said i, "so we can't have too many." "and look here, harry, the wedding-dress has come home. think of the unheard-of incomprehensible virtue of tullegig! i don't think she ever had a thing done in time before in her life. behold now!" sure enough! before me, arranged on a chair was a misty and visionary pageant of vapory tulle and shimmering satin. "all this is ida's gift. she insisted that she alone would dress me for my wedding, and poor tullegig actually has outdone herself and worked over it with tears in her eyes. good soul! she has a heart behind all her finery, and really seems to take to me especially, perhaps because i've been such a model of patience in waiting at her doors, and never scolded her for any of her tricks. in fact, we girls have been as good as an annuity to tullegig; no wonder she mourns over us. do you know, harry, the poor old thing actually kissed me!" "i'm not in the least surprised at her wanting that privilege," said i. "well, i felt rather tender toward her. i believe it's dr. johnson or somebody else who says there are few things, not purely evil, of which we can say without emotion, 'this is the last!' and tullegig is by no means a pure evil. this is probably the last of her--with me. but come, you don't say what you think of it. what is it like?" "like a vision, like the clouds of morning, like the translation robes of saints, like impossible undreamed mysteries of bliss. i feel as if they might all dissolve away and be gone before to-morrow." "oh, shocking, harry! you mustn't take such indefinite cloudy views of things. you must learn to appreciate details. open your eyes, and learn now that tullegig out of special love and grace has adorned my dress with a new style of trimming that not one of the girls has ever had or seen before. it is an original composition of her own. isn't it blissful, now?" "extremely blissful," said i, obediently. "you don't admire,--you are not half awake." "i do admire--wonder--adore--anything else that you like--but i can't help feeling that it is all a vision, and that when those cloud wreaths float around you, you will dissolve away and be gone." "poh! poh! you will find me very visible and present, as a sharp little thorn in your side. now, see, here are the slippers!" and therewith she set down before me a pair of pert little delicious white satin absurdities, with high heels and tiny toes, and great bows glistening with bugles. nothing fascinates a man like a woman's slipper, from its utter incomprehensibility, its astonishing unlikeness to any article subserving the same purpose for his own sex. eva's slippers always seemed to have a character of their own,--a prankish elfin grace, and these as they stood there seemed instinct with life as two white kittens just ready for a spring. i put two fingers into each of the little wretches and made them caper and dance, and we laughed gayly. "let me see your boots, harry?" "there," said i, putting best foot forward, a brand new pair bought for the occasion. "i am wearing them to get used to them, so as to give my whole mind to the solemn services to-morrow." "oh, you enormous creature!" she said, "you are a perfect behemoth. fancy now my slippers peeping over the table here and wondering at your boots. i can imagine the woman question discussed between the slippers and the boots." "and i can fancy," said i, "the poor, stumping, well-meaning old boots being utterly perplexed and routed by the elfin slippers. what can poor boots do? they cannot follow them, cannot catch or control them, and if they come down hard on them they ruin them altogether." "and the good old boots nevertheless," said she, "are worth forty pairs of slippers. they can stamp through wet and mud and rain, and come out afterward good as new; and lift the slippers over impossible places. dear old patient long-suffering boots, let the slippers respect them! but come, harry, this is the last evening now, and do you know i've some anxiety about our little programme to-morrow? you were not bred in the church, and you never were married before, and so you ought to be well up in your part beforehand." "i confess," said i, "i feel ignorant and a bit nervous." "now, i've been a bridesmaid no end of times, and seen all the possibles that may happen under those interesting circumstances, and men are so awkward--their great feet are always sure to step somewhere where they shouldn't, and then they thumb and fumble about the ring, and their gloves always stick to their hands, and it's uncomfortable generally. now don't, i beg you, disgrace me by any such enormities." "this is what the slippers say to the boots," said i. "exactly. and here is where the boots do well to take a lesson of the slippers. they are 'on their native heath,' here." "well, then," said i, "get down the prayer-book and teach me my proprieties. i will learn my lesson thoroughly." "well, now, we have the thing all arranged for to-morrow; the carriages are to be here at ten; ceremony at eleven. the procession will form at the church door; first, jim fellows and alice, then you and mamma, then papa and me, and when we meet at the altar be sure to mind where you step, and don't tread on my veil or any of my tulle clouds, because, though it may look like vapor, you can't very well set your foot through it; and be sure you have a well-disciplined glove that you can slip off without a fuss; and have the ring just where you can lay your hand on it. and now let's read over the service and responses and all that." we went through them creditably till eva, putting her finger on one word, looked me straight in the eye. "_obey_, harry, isn't that a droll word between you and me? i can't conceive of it. now up to this time you have always obeyed me." "and 'turn about, is fair play,' the proverb says," said i, "you see, eva, since adam took the apple from eve men have obeyed women _nem. con._--there was no need of putting the 'obey' into their part. the only puzzle is how to constrain the subtle, imponderable, ethereal essence of womanhood under some law; so the _obey_ is our helpless attempt." "but now, really and truly, harry, i want to talk seriously about this. the girls are so foolish! jane seymour said she said 'be gay' instead of 'obey'--and maria elmore said she didn't say it at all. but really and truly, that is god's altar--and it is a religious service, and if i go there at all, i must understand what i mean, and say it from my heart." "my dear, if you have any hesitancy you know that you can leave it out. in various modern wedding services it is often omitted. we could easily avoid it." "oh nonsense, harry! marry out of the church! what are you thinking of? not i, indeed! i shouldn't think myself really married." "well, then, my princess, it is your own affair. if you choose to promise to obey me, i can only be grateful for the honor; if it gives any power, it is of your giving, not my seeking." "but what does a woman promise when she promises at the altar to obey?" "well, evidently, she promises to obey her husband in every case where he commands, and a higher duty to god does not forbid." "but does this mean that all through life in every case where there arises a difference of opinion or taste between a husband and wife she is to give up to him?" "if," said i, "she has been so unwise as to make this promise to a man without common sense or gentlemanly honor, who chooses to have his own will prevail in all cases of differences of taste, i don't see but she must." "but between people like you and me, harry?" "between people like you and me, darling, i can't see that the word can make any earthly difference. there can be no obeying where there never is any commanding, and as to commanding you i should as soon think of commanding the sun and moon." "well; but you know we shall not always think alike or want the same thing." "then we will talk matters over, and the one that gives the best reasons shall prevail. you and i will be like any other two dear friends who agree to carry on any enterprise together, we shall discuss matters, and sometimes one and sometimes the other will prevail." "but, harry, this matter puzzles me. why is there a command in the bible that wives should always obey? very many times in domestic affairs, certainly, the woman knows the most and has altogether the best judgment." "it appears to me that it is one of those very general precepts that require to be largely interpreted by common sense. taking the whole race of man together, for all stages of society and all degrees of development, i suppose it is the safest general direction for the weaker party. in low stages of society where brute force rules, man has woman wholly in his power, and she can win peace and protection only by submission. but where society rises into those higher forms where husbands and wives are intelligent companions and equals, the direction does no harm because it confers a prerogative that no cultivated man would think of asserting any more than he would think of using his superior physical strength to enforce it." "i suppose," said eva, "it is just like the command that children should obey parents. when children are grown up and married and settled, parents never think of it." "precisely," said i, "and you and i are the grown-up children of the christian era--all that talk of obedience is the old calyx of the perfect flower of love--'when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away.'" "so, then, it appears you and i shall have a free field of discussion, harry, and may be i shall croquet your ball off the ground sometimes, as i did once before, you know." "i dare say you will. there was an incipient spice of matrimonial virulence, my fair eva, in the way you played that game! in fact, i began to hope i was not indifferent to you from the zeal with which you pursued and routed me on that occasion." "i must confess it did my heart good to set your ball spinning,--and that puts me in mind. i have the greatest piece of news to tell you. if you'll believe me, _sydney and sophie are engaged already!_ she came here this morning with her present, this lovely amethyst cross--and it seems funny to me, but she is just as dead in love with sydney as she can be, and do you know he is so delighted with the compliment, that he has informed her that he has made the discovery that he _never was in love before_." "the scamp! what does he mean?" said i. "oh, he said that little witch eva van arsdel had dazzled him--and he had really supposed himself in love, but that she never had 'excited the profound,' etc., etc., he feels for sophie." "so 'all's well that ends well,'" said i. "and to show his entire pacification toward me," said eva, "he has sent me this whole set of mantel bronzes--clock, vases, candlesticks, match-box and all. aren't they superb?" "magnificent!" said i. "what an air they will give our room! on the whole, dear, i think rejected lovers are not so bad an article." "well, here, i must show you bolton's present, which came in this afternoon," with which she led me to a pair of elegantly carved book-racks enriched with the complete works of longfellow, whittier, lowell, holmes, and hawthorne. they were elegantly gotten up in a uniform style of binding. "isn't that lovely?" said she, "and so thoughtful! for how many happy hours he has provided here!" "good fellow!" said i, feeling the tears start in my eyes. "eva, if there is a mortal absolutely without selfishness, it is bolton." "oh, harry, why couldn't he marry and be as happy as we are?" "perhaps some day he may," said i, "but dear me! who gave that comical bronze inkstand? it's enough to make one laugh to look at it." "don't you know at once? why, that's jim fellows' present. isn't it just like him?" "i might have known it was jim," said i, "it's so decidedly frisky." "well, really, harry do you know that i am in deadly fear that that wicked jim will catch my eye to-morrow in the ceremony or do something to set me off, and i'm always perfectly hysterical when i'm excited, and if i look his way there'll be no hope for me." "we must trust to providence," said i; "if i should say a word of remonstrance it would make it ten times worse. the creature is possessed of a frisky spirit and can't help it." "alice was lecturing him about it last night, and the only result was we nearly killed ourselves laughing. after all, harry, who can help liking jim? since our troubles he has been the kindest of mortals; so really delicate and thoughtful in his attentions. it was something i shouldn't have expected of him. harry, what do you think? should you want alice to like him, supposing you knew that he would like her? is there stability enough in him?" "jim is a queer fellow," said i. "on a slight view he looks a mere bundle of comicalities and caprices, and he takes a singular delight in shocking respectable prejudices and making himself out worse than he is, or ever thinks of being. but after all, as young men go, jim is quite free from bad habits. he does not drink, and he doesn't even smoke. he is the most faithful assiduous worker in his line of work among the newspaper-men of new york. he is a good son; a kind brother." "but, somehow, he doesn't seem to me to have real deep firm principle." "jim is a child of modern new york--an _élève_ of her school. a good wife and a good home, with good friends, might do much for him, but he will always be one that will act more from kindly impulses than from principle. he will be very apt to go as his friends go." "you know," she said, "in old times, when alice was in full career, i never thought of anything serious as possible. it is only since our trouble and his great kindness to us that i have thought of the thing as at all likely." "we may as well leave it to the good powers," said i, "we can't do much to help or hinder, only, if they should come together i shall be glad for jim's sake, for i love him. and now, my dear eva, have you any more orders, counsels, or commands for the fateful to-morrow?" said i, "for it waxes late, and you ought to get a beauty-sleep to-night." "oh, i forgot to tell you i'm not going to wear either my new traveling dress or hat, or anything to mark me out as a bride; and look here, harry, you must try and study the old staid married man's demeanor. don't let's disgrace ourselves by being discovered at once." "shall i turn my back on you and read the newspaper? i observe that some married men do that." "yes, and if you could conjugally wipe your boots on my dress, it would have an extremely old married effect. you can read the paper _first_, and then pass it to me--that is another delicate little point." "i'm afraid that in your zeal you will drive me to excesses of boorishness that will overshoot the mark" said i. "you wouldn't want me to be so negligent of 'that pretty girl,' that some other gentleman would feel a disposition to befriend her?" "well, dear, but there's a happy medium. we can appear like two relatives traveling together." "i am afraid," said i "after all, we shall be detected; but if we are, we shall be in good company. our first day's journey lies in the regular bridal route, and i expect that every third or fourth seat will show an enraptured pair, of whom we can take lessons--after all, dear, you know there is no sin in being just married." "no, only in acting silly about it as i hope we shan't. i want us to be models of rationality and decorum." here the clock striking twelve warned me that the last day of eva van arsdel's life was numbered. chapter xliii. bolton. i returned to my room past midnight, excited and wakeful. seeing a light through the crack of bolton's door, i went up and knocked and was bidden to enter. i found him seated under his study-lamp, looking over a portfolio of papers, some of which lay strewed around him open. i observed at a glance that the hand-writing was that of caroline. he looked at me. our eyes met--a slight flush rose in his cheeks as he said: "i have been looking over a collection of writings belonging to your cousin, the fruits of the solitary years of her secluded life." "and you find them--?" "a literary treasure," he said, with emphasis. "yes," he added, "what there is here will, i think, give her reputation and established position, and a command of prices which will enable her to fullfil her long cherished intention of studying in paris. she will go out with miss ida van arsdel, soon after you are gone. i can assure her the means, and i have already procured her the situation of correspondent to the _chronicle_, with very liberal terms. so you see her way is all plain." "but what shall we do with the _ladies' cabinet?_" "o, we'll manage it among us. caroline will write for it occasionally." "_caroline!_" there was a great deal in the manner in which bolton spoke that name. it was full of suppressed feeling. some can express as much intensity of devotion by the mere utterance of a name, as others by the most ardent protestations. i was in the mood that holds every young man on the eve of a happy marriage. i could conceive of no bliss outside of that; and there was in the sound of bolton's voice, as he spoke, a vibration of an intense pain which distressed me. "bolton," i said, imploringly, "why will you sacrifice yourself and her? she loves you--you love her. why not another marriage--another home?" his face quivered a moment, and then settled firmly. he smiled. "hal, my boy," he said, "you naturally see nothing for man and woman but marriage just now. but it is not every man and woman who love each other who have the _right_ to marry. she does love me," he added, with a deep, inward breathing. "she is capable of all that magnanimity, all that generous self-sacrifice that make women such angels to us----" "then, oh! why not----?" began i, eagerly. "_because_ i love her dearly, devotedly, i will not accept such a sacrifice. i will not risk her wrecking her life on me. the pain she feels now in leaving me will soon die out in the enthusiasm of a career. yes, the day is now come, thank god, when a woman as well as a man can have some other career besides that of the heart. let her study her profession--expand her mind, broaden her powers--become all that she can be. it will not impede her course to remember that there is in the world one friend who will always love her above all things; and the knowledge that she loves me will save me--if i am salvable." "_if_--oh, bolton, my brother! _why_ do you say _if?_" "because the danger is one i cannot comprehend and provide for. it is like that of sudden insanity. the curse may never return--pray god it may not--but if it should, at least i shall wreck no other heart." "bolton, can you say so if there is one that loves you?" "not as a wife would love. her whole being and destiny are not intertwined with mine, as marriage would unite them. besides, if there is somewhere hid away in my brain and blood the seed of this fatal mania, shall i risk transmitting them to a helpless child? shall i expose such a woman to the danger of suffering over again, as a mother, the anguish she must suffer as a wife?--the fears, the anxieties, the disappointment, the wearing, wasting pain? as god is my judge, i will not make another woman suffer what my mother has." in all my intercourse with bolton, i never heard him speak of his mother before, and he spoke now with intense vehemence; his voice vibrated and quivered with emotion. in a few moments, however, he resumed his habitual self-possession. "no, hal," he said, cheerily; "build no air-castles for me. i shall do well enough; you and yours will be enough to occupy me. and now show me first what i am to do for you while you are gone. jim and i will trudge to all impossible places, to look you up that little house with a good many large rooms in it, that all young housekeepers are in search of. i will cut out advertisements and look over nice places and let you know the result; and i'll see to the proof-sheets of your articles for the _milky way_, and write your contributions to the _democracy_. if you want to be our special correspondent from the garden of eden, why you may send us back letters on your trip. you can tell us if the 'gold of that land' is still 'good,' and if there are there still 'bdellium and onyx stone,' as there were in the bible days." "thank you," said i. "i shall send you letters, but hardly of a kind to appear in the _democracy_." "what with your engagements on that sheet, and what i shall have ready to pile in on you by the time you come back, you will have little time for philandering after your return. so take it out now and get all the honey there is in this next moon. for me, i have my domestic joys. finnette has presented me with a charming batch of kittens. look here." and sure enough, snugly ensconced in a large, well-padded basket by the fire, lay madam asleep, with four downy little minikins snuggled to her. bolton took the lamp and kneeled down to show them, with the most absorbed intent. stumpy came and stood by the basket, wagging what was left of his poor tail, and looking as if he had some earnest responsibility in the case. as to finnette, she opened her yellow eyes, sleepily stretched out her claws, purred and rolled over, as if in excess of pride and joy. "who says there isn't happiness on earth?" said bolton. "a cat is a happiness-producing machine. hal, i shall save one of those kittens to set you up with. no family is complete without a cat. i shall take one in training for you. you should have a dog, too; but i can't spare stumpy. i don't believe there is anything like him in the world." "i verily believe you," said i. "stumpy's beauty is so entirely moral that i fear it never would be popularly appreciated; besides, poor brute, he is quite capable of dying for love of me if i gave him up. that's an accomplishment few men attain to. well, hal, go to bed now, or you'll be too sleepy to behave respectably to-morrow. god bless you!" chapter xliv. the wedding journey. a wedding journey,--what is it? a tour to all the most expensive and fashionable hotels and watering-places. the care of saratoga trunks and bonnet-boxes. the display of a fashionable wardrobe made purposely for this object, and affording three altogether new and different toilets a day. very well. doubtless all this may coexist with true love; and true lovers, many and ardent, have been this round, and may again, and been and be none the worse for it. for where true love is, it is not much matter whatever else is or is not. but when the saratoga trunks, the three dresses a day, and the display of them to mrs. grundy, have been the substitute for love and one of the impelling motives to marriage, or when they absorb all those means and resources on which domestic comfort and peace should be built during the first years of married life, then they are simply in scriptural phrase "the abomination of desolation, standing where it ought not." yet apart from that there is to me a violation of the essential sacredness of the holiest portion of mortal life in exposing it to the glare of everyday observation. it seems as if there were something so wonderful and sacred in that union by which man and woman, forsaking all others, cleave to each other, that its inception requires quiet solitude, the withdrawal from the common-place and bustling ways of ordinary life. the two, more to each other than all the world besides, are best left to the companionship of nature. carpets of moss are better than the most elaborate of fashionable hotel furniture; birds and squirrels are more suitable companions than men and women. our wedding was a success, so far as cheerfulness and enjoyment was concerned. the church had been garlanded and made fair and sweet by the floral tributes of many friendly hands. jim fellows and one or two of the other acquaintances of the family had exerted themselves to produce a very pretty effect. the wedding party was one of relatives and near friends only, without show or parade, but with a great deal of good taste. there was the usual amount of weeping among the elderly female relatives, particularly on the part of aunt maria, who insisted on maintaining a purely sepulchral view of our prospects on life. ever since the failure of mr. van arsdel, aunt maria had worn this aspect, and seemed to consider all demonstrations of lightness of heart and cheerfulness on the part of the family as unsuitable trifling with a dreadful dispensation. but the presence of this funereal influence could not destroy the gayety of the younger members, and jim fellows seemed to exert himself particularly to whip up such a froth and foam of merriment and jollity as caused the day to be remembered as one of the gayest in our annals. we had but one day's ride in the cars to bring us up to the old simple stage route of the mountain country. during this said day in the cars, under the tutelage of my empress, i was made to behave myself with the grimmest and most stately reserve of manner. scarcely was i allowed the same seat with her, and my conversation with her, so far as could be observed, was confined to the most unimpassioned and didactic topics. the reason for this appeared to be that having married in the very matrimonial month of june, and our track lying along one of the great routes of fashionable travel, we were beset behind and before by enraptured couples, whose amiable artlessness in the display of their emotions appeared particularly shocking to her taste. on the row of seats in front of us could be seen now a masculine head lolling confidentially on a feminine shoulder, and again in the next seat an evident bridal bonnet leaning on the bosom of the beloved waistcoat of its choice in sweet security. "it is perfectly disgusting and disagreeable," she said in my ear. "my dear," i replied, "i don't see as we can do anything about it." "i don't see--i cannot imagine how people can make such a show of themselves," she said. "well, you see," said i, "we are all among the _parvenus_ of married life. it isn't everybody that knows how to behave as if he had always been rich--let us comfort ourselves with reflections on our own superiority." the close of the day brought us, however, to the verge of the mountain region where railroads cease and stages begin,--the beautiful country, of hard, flinty, rocky roads, of pines and evergreens of silvery cascades and brooks of melted crystal, and of a society, as yet homely and heart-some, and with a certain degree of sylvan innocence. at once we seemed to have left the artificial world behind us--the world of observers and observed. we sat together on the top of the stage, and sailed like two birds of the air through the tree-tops of the forest, looking down into all the charming secrets of woodland ways as we went on, and feeling ourselves delivered from all the spells and incantations of artificial life. we might have been two squirrels, or a pair of robins, or blue birds. we ceased to think how we appeared. we forgot that there were an outer world and spectators, and felt ourselves taken in and made at home in the wide hospitality of nature. highland, where my mother lived, was just within a day's ride of the finest part of the white mountains. the close of a charming leisurely drive upward brought us at night to her home, and i saw her sweet face of welcome at the door to meet us, and gave her new daughter to her arms with confident pride. the village was so calm, and still, and unchanged! the old church where my father had preached, the houses where still lived the people i had known from a boy, the old store, the tavern with its creaking sign-post, and best of all, uncle jacob's house, with its recesses and corners full of books, its quiet rooms full of comfort, its traditions of hospitality, and the deep sense of calm and rest that seemed ever brooding there. this was a paradise where i could bring my eve for rest and for refuge. what charming days went over our heads there! we rambled like two school children, hand in hand, over all the haunts of my boyhood. where i and my little child-wife had gathered golden-hearted lilies, and strawberries, we gathered them again. the same bobolink seemed to sit on the top twig of the old apple tree in the corner of the meadow and say "chack, chack, chack!" as he said it when susie and i used to sit with the meadow grass over our heads to watch him while he poured down on us showers of musical dew drops. it seemed as if i had gone back to boyhood again, so much did my inseparable companion recall to me the child-wife of my early days. we were both such perfect children, living in the enjoyment of the bright present, without a care or a fear for the future. every day when we returned from our rambles and excursions the benignant face of my mother shone down on us with fullness of appreciation and joy in our joy; while uncle jacob, still dry, quizzical, and active as ever, regarded us with an undisguised complacency. "you've done the right thing now, harry," he said to me. "she'll _do_. you're a lucky boy to get such a one, even though she is a city girl." eva, after a little experience in mountain climbing, proceeded to equip herself for it with feminine skill. our village store supplied her with material out of which with wonderful quickness she constructed what she called a mountain suit, somewhat of the bloomer order, but to which she contrived to impart a sort of air of dapper grace and fitness. and once arrayed in this she climbed with me to the most impossible places, and we investigated the innermost mysteries of rock, forest, and cavern. my uncle lent me his horse and carriage, and with a luncheon-basket well stored by my mother's providing care, we went on a tour of exploration of two or three days into the mountains, in the course of which we made ourselves familiar in a leisurely manner with some of the finest scenery. the mutual acquaintance that comes to companions in this solitude and face-to-face communion with nature, is deeper and more radical than can come when surrounded by the factitious circumstances of society. when the whole artificial world is withdrawn, and far out of sight, when we are surrounded with the pure and beautiful mysteries of nature, the very best and most genuine part of us comes to the surface, we know each other by the communion of our very highest faculties. when eva and i found ourselves alone together in the heart of some primeval forest, where the foot sunk ankle-deep in a carpet of more exquisite fabric than any loom of mortal workmanship could create, where the old fallen trunks of trees were all overgrown with this exquisite mossy tapestry, and all around us was a perfect broidery and inlay of flower and leaf, while birds called to us overhead, down through the flickering shadows of the pine boughs, we felt ourselves out of the world and in paradise, and able to look back from its green depths with a dispassionate judgment on the life we had left. then, the venture we had made in striking hands with each other to live, not for the pomps and vanities of this world, but for the true realities of the heart, seemed to us the highest reason. nature smiled on it. every genuine green thing, every spicy fragrant bush and tree, every warbling bird, true to the laws of its nature, seemed to say to us "well done." "i suppose," said eva, as we sat in one of these mountain recesses whence we could gain a view of the little silvery cascade, "i suppose that there are a great many people who look on me as a proper subject of pity. my father has failed. i have married a man with no fortune, except what he has in himself. we can't afford to spend our honeymoon at niagara, saratoga, and the rest of the show places; and we don't contemplate either going to parties or giving them when we go back to new york." "poor, poor eva van arsdel! how art thou fallen!" said i. "poor aunt maria!" said eva. "i honestly and truly am sorry for her. she really loves me in her way--the way most people love you, which is to want you to be happy in doing as _they_ please. her heart was set on my making an astoundingly rich match, and having a wedding that should eclipse all former weddings, and then becoming a leader of fashionable society; and to have me fail of all this is a dreadful catastrophe. i want somehow to comfort her and make up with her, but she can't forgive me. she kissed me at last with a stern and warning air that seemed to say: 'well, if you will go to destruction, i can't help it.'" "perhaps when she sees how happy we are, she will get over it," said i. "no, i fear not. aunt maria can't conceive of anybody's being happy that has to begin life with an ingrain carpet on the floor. she would think it a positive indecorum to be happy under such circumstances--a want of a proper sense of the fitness of things. now, i propose to be very happy under precisely those circumstances, and to try to make you so; consequently you see i shall offend her moral sense continuously, and, as i said, i do wish it weren't so, because i love aunt maria, and am sorry i can't please her." "i suppose," said i, "there is no making her comprehend the resources we have in each other--our love of just this bright, free, natural life?" "oh dear, no! all aunt maria's idea of visiting the mountains would be having rooms at the profile house in the height of the season, and gazing in full dress at the mountains from the verandahs. i don't think she really cares enough for any thing here to risk wetting her feet for it. i dare say the poor dear soul is lying awake nights now, lamenting over my loss of what i don't care for, and racking her brains how we may contrive to patch up a little decent gentility." "and you are as free and gay as an oriole!" "certainly i am. all i wish is that we could live in one of these little mountain towns, just as your mother and uncle do. i love the hearty, simple society here." "well," said i, "as we cannot, we can only try to make a home in new york, as simple-hearted, and kindly, and unworldly as if we lived here." "yes, and we can do that," said she. "you have only to resolve to be free, and you are free. now, that is the beauty of our being married. _alone_, we are parts of other families, drawn along with them--_entrained_, as the french say: now we are married, we can do as we please; we become king and queen of a new state. in our own house we can have our own ways. we are monarchs of all we survey." "true," said i, "and a home and a family that has an original and individual life of its own, is always recognized in time as a _fait accompli_. you and i will be for the future 'the hendersons;' and people will say the hendersons do this and that, or the hendersons don't do the other. they will study us as one studies a new state." "yes," said she, taking up my idea in her vivacious way, "and when they have ascertained our latitude and longitude, soil and productions, manners and customs, they can choose whether they like to visit us." "and you are not in the least afraid of having it said, 'the hendersons are odd?'" asked i. "not a bit of it," replied eva, "so long as the oddity is some unusual form of comfort. for example, a sitting-room like your uncle's, with its brass andirons and blazing wood fire, its books and work, its motherly lounges, would be a sort of exotic in new york, where people, as a matter of course, expect a pier-glass and marble slab, a somber concatenation of cord and tassels and damask curtains, and a given number of french chairs and ottomans, veiled with linen covers, and a general funereal darkness of gentility. now, i propose to introduce the country sitting room into our new york house. your mother already has given me her wedding andirons--perfect loves--with shovel and tongs corresponding; and i am going to have a bright, light, free and easy room which the sunshine shall glorify." "but you know, my love, wood is very dear in new york." "so are curtains, and ottomans, and mirrors, and marble slabs, and quantities of things which we shall do without. and then, you see, we don't propose to _warm_ our house with a wood-fire, but only to adorn it. it is an altar fire that we will kindle every evening, just to light up our room and show it to advantage. how charming every thing looks at your mother's in that time between daylight and dark, when you all sit round the hearth, and the fire lights up the pictures and the books, and makes every thing look so dreamy and beautiful!" "you are a little poet, my dear; it will be your specialty to turn life into poetry." "and that is what i call woman's genius. to make life beautiful; to keep down and out of sight the hard, dry, prosaic side, and keep up the poetry--that is my idea of our 'mission.' i think woman ought to be, what hawthorne calls, 'the artist of the beautiful.'" chapter xlv. my wife's wardrobe. let not the reader imagine by the paragraph on saratoga trunks that my little wife had done what the scripture assumes is the impossibility for womankind, and as a bride forgotten her attire. although possessing ideas of great moderation, she had not come to our mountain home without the appropriate armor of womanhood. i interpreted the duties of a husband after the directions of michelet, and was my wife's only maid, and in all humility performed for her the office of packing and unpacking her trunks, and handling all those strange and wonderful mysteries of the toilet, which seemed to my eyes penetrated with an ineffable enchantment. i have been struck with dismay of late, in reading the treatises of some very clever female reformers concerning the dress of the diviner sex. it is really in contemplation among them to reduce it to a level as ordinary and prosaic as it occupies among us men, heavy-footed sons of toil? are sashes and bows, and neck ribbons and tiny slippers and gloves to give way to thick-soled boots and buckskin gauntlets and broadcloth coats? to me my wife's wardrobe was a daily poem, and from her use of it i derived the satisfaction of faculties which had lain dormant under my heavy black broadcloth, like the gauzy tissue under the black horn wings of a poor beetle. i never looked at the splendid pictures of paul veronese and titian in the venetian galleries, without murmuring at the severe edicts of modern life which sends every man forth on the tide of life, like a black gondola condemned to one unvarying color. those gorgeous velvets in all the hues of the rainbow, those dainty laces and splendid gems, which once were allowed to us men, are all swept away, and for us there remains no poetry of dress. our tailor turns us out a suit in which one is just like another with scarce an individual variation. the wife, then, the part of one's self which marriage gives us, affords us a gratification of these suppressed faculties. she is our finer self; and in her we appreciate and enjoy what is denied to us. i freely admit the truth of what women-reformers tell us, that it is the admiration of us men that stimulates the love of dress in women. it is a fact--i confess it with tears in my eyes--but it is the truth, that we are blindly enchanted by that play of fancy and poetry in their externals, which is forever denied to us; and that we look with our indulgent eyes even on what the french statesman calls their "_fureurs de toilette_." in fact, woman's finery never looks to another woman as it does to a man. it has to us a charm, a sacredness, that they cannot comprehend. under my wife's instruction i became an expert guardian of these filmy treasures of the wardrobe, and knew how to fold and unfold, and bring her everything in its place, as she daily performed for me the charming work of making up her toilet. to be sure, my slowness and clumsiness brought me many brisk little lectures, but my good will and docility were so great that my small sovereign declared herself on the whole satisfied with my progress. there was a vapory collection apparently made up of bits and ends of rainbows, flosses of clouds, spangles of stars, butterflies and humming bird's wings, which she turned and tossed over daily, with her dainty fingers, selecting a bit here and a morsel there, which went to her hair, or her neck, or her girdle, with a wonderful appropriateness, and in a manner to me wholly incomprehensible; only the result was a new picture every day. this little, artless tableau was expensive neither of time nor money, and the result was a great deal of very honest pleasure to us both. it was her pride to be praised and admired first by me, and then by my mother, and aunt, and uncle jacob, who turned her round and admired her, as if she had been some rare tropical flower. now, do the very alarmingly rational women-reformers i speak of propose to forbid to women in the future all the use of clothes except that which is best adapted to purposes of work? is the time at hand when the veil and orange flowers and satin slippers of the bride shall melt away into mist, and shall we behold at the altar the union of young parties, dressed alike in swallow-tailed coats and broadcloth pantaloons, with brass buttons? if this picture seems absurd, then, it must be admitted that there is a reason in nature why the dress of woman should forever remain different from that of man, in the same manner that the hand of her creator has shaped her delicate limbs and golden hair differently from the rugged organization of man. woman was meant to be more than a worker; she was meant for the poet and artist of life; she was meant to be the charmer; and that is the reason, dear miss minerva, why to the end of time you cannot help it that women always will, and must, give more care and thought to dress than men. to be sure, this runs into a thousand follies and extravagances; but in this as in everything else the remedy is not extirpation, but direction. certainly my pretty wife's pretty toilets had a success in our limited circle, which might possibly have been denied in fashionable society at saratoga and newport. she was beauty, color, and life to our little world, and followed by almost adoring eyes wherever she went. it was as real an accession of light and joy to the simple ways of our household to have her there, as a choice picture, or a marvelous strain of music. my wife had to perfection the truly artistic gift of dress. had she lived in robinson crusoe's island with no one to look at her but the paroquets and the monkeys, and with no mirror but a pool of water, she would have made a careful toilet every day, from the mere love of beauty; and it was delightful to see how a fresh, young, charming woman, by this faculty of adornment, seemed to make the whole of the sober, old house like a picture or a poem. "she is like the blossom on a cactus," said my uncle jacob. "we have come to our flower, in her; we have it in us; we all like it, but she brings it out; she is our blossom." in fact, it was charming to see the delight of the two sober, elderly matrons, my mother and my aunt, in turning over and surveying the pretty things of her toilet. my mother, with all her delicate tastes and love of fineness and exquisiteness, had lived in these respects the self-denied life of a poor country minister, who never has but one "best pocket handkerchief," and whom one pair of gloves must last through a year. it was a fresh little scene of delight to see the two way-worn matrons in the calm, silvery twilight of their old age, sitting like a pair of amicable doves on the trunks in our room, while my wife displayed to them all her little store of fineries, and all three chatted them over with as whole-hearted a zeal as if finery were one of the final ends in creation. every morning it was a part of the family breakfast to admire some new device of berries or blossoms adapted to her toilet. now, it was knots of blue violets, and now clusters of apple blossoms, that seemed to adapt themselves to the purpose, as if they had been made for it. in the same manner she went about the house filling all possible flower vases with quaint and original combinations of leaves and blossoms till the house bloomed like a garland. then there were days when i have the vision of my wife in calico dress and crisp white apron, taking lessons in ornamental housewifery of my mother and aunt in the great, clean kitchen. there the three proceeded with all care and solemnity to perform the incantations out of which arose strange savory compounds of cakes and confections, whose recipes were family heir-looms. out of great platters of egg-whites, whipped into foamy masses, these mystical dainties arose, as of old rose venus from the foam of the sea. i observe that the elderly priestesses in the temple of domestic experience, have a peculiar pride and pleasure in the young neophyte that seeks admission to these eleusinian mysteries. eva began to wear an air of precocious matronly gravity, as she held long discourses with my mother and aunt on all the high mysteries of household ways, following them even to the deepest recesses of the house where they displayed to her their hidden treasures of fine linen and napery, and drew forth gifts wherewith to enrich our future home. in the olden times the family linen of a bride was of her own spinning and that of her mother and kinswomen; so that every thread in it had a sacredness of family life and association. one can fancy dreams of peace could come in a bed, every thread of whose linen has been spun by loving and sainted hands. so, the gift to my wife from my mother was some of this priceless old linen, every piece of which had its story. these towels were spun by a beloved aunt avis, whose life was a charming story of faith and patience; and those sheets and pillow-cases were the work of my mother's mother; they had been through the history of a family life, and came to us fragrant with rosemary and legend. we touched them with reverence, as the relics of ascended saints. then there were the family receipt books, which had a quaint poetry of their own. i must confess, in the face of the modern excellent printed manuals of cookery and housekeeping, a tenderness for these old-fashioned receipt books of our mothers and grandmothers, yellow with age, where in their own handwriting are the records of their attainments and discoveries in the art of making life healthful and charming. there was a loving carefulness about these receipts--an evident breathing of human experience and family life--they were entwined with so many associations of the tastes and habits of individual members of the family, that the reading of my mother's receipt-book seemed to bring back all the old pictures of home-life; and this precious manual she gave to eva, who forthwith resolved to set up one of her own on the model of it. in short, by the time our honeymoon had passed, eva regarded herself as a passed mistress in the grand free-masonry of home life, and assumed toward me those grave little airs of instruction blent with gracious condescension for male inferiority which obtain among good wives. she began to be my little mother no less than wife. my mother and aunt were confident of her success and abilities as queen in her new dominions. it was evident that though a city girl and a child of wealth and fashion, she had what yankee matrons are pleased to denominate "faculty," which is, being interpreted, a _genius for home life_, and she was only impatient now to return to her realm and set up her kingdom. chapter xlvi. letters from new york. about this time we got a very characteristic letter from jim. here it is: _dear hal_:--my head buzzes like a swarm of bees. what haven't i done since you left? the van arsdels are all packing up and getting ready to move out, and of course i have been up making myself generally useful there. i have been daily call-boy and page to the adorable alice. mem:--_that girl is a brick!_ didn't use to think so, but she's sublime! the way she takes things is so confounded sensible and steady! i respect her--there's not a bit of nonsense about _her_ now--you'd better believe. they are all going up to the old paternal farm to spend the summer with his father, and by fall there'll be an arrangement to give him an income (van arsdel i mean), so that they'll have something to go on. they'll take a house somewhere in new york in the fall and do fairly; but think what a change to alice! oh, by the by, hal, the whang doodle has made her appearance in our parts again. yesterday as i sat scratching for dear life, our friend 'dacia sailed in, cock's feathers and all, large as life. she was after money, as usual, but this time it's her _book_ she insisted on my subscribing for. she informed me that it was destined to regenerate society, and she wanted five dollars for it. the title is: the universal empyrean harmoniad, being _an exposition of the dual triplicate conglomeration of the infinite_. there, now, is a book for you. 'dacia was in high spirits, jaunty as ever, and informed me that the millennium was a-coming straight along, and favored me with her views of how they intended to manage things in the good time. the great mischief at present, she informs me, lies in _possessive pronouns_, which they intend to abolish. there isn't to be any _my_ or _thy_. everybody is to have everything just the minute they happen to want it, and everybody else is to let 'em. marriage is an old effete institution, a relic of barbarous ages. there is to be no _my_ of husband and wife, and no _my_ of children. the state is to raise all the children as they do turnips in great institutions, and they are to belong to everybody. love, she informed me, in those delightful days is to be free as air; everybody to do exactly as they've a mind to; a privilege she remarked that she took now as her right. "if i see a man that pleases me," said she, "i shall not ask priest or levitt for leave to have him." this was declared with so martial an air that i shrank a little, but she relieved me by saying, "you needn't be frightened. i don't want _you_. you wouldn't suit me. all i want of you is your money." whereat she came down to business again. the book she informed me was every word of it dictated by spirits while she was in the trance state, and was composed conjointly by socrates, st. paul, ching ling, and jim crow, representing different races of the earth and states of progression. from some specimens of the style which she read to me, i was led to hope that we might all live as long as possible, if that sort of thing is what we are coming to after death. well, it was all funny and entertaining enough to hear her go on, but when it came to buying the book and planking the v, i flunked. told 'dacia i couldn't encourage her in possessive pronouns, that she had no more right to the book than i had, that truth was a universal birthright, and so the truths in that book were mine as much as hers, and as i needed a v more than she did i proposed she should buy the book of me. she didn't see it in that light, and we had high words in consequence, and she poured down on me like a thousand of brick, and so i coolly walked down stairs, telling her when she had done scolding to shut the door. isn't she a case? the domini was up in his den, and i believe she got at him after i left. how he managed her i don't know. he won't talk about her. the domini is working like a trojan, and his family are doing finely. the kittens are all over his room with as many capers as the fairies, and i hear him laughing all by himself at the way they go on. we have looked at a dozen houses advertised in the paper, but not one yet is the bargain you want; but we trudge on the quest all our exercise-time daily. it will turn up yet, i'm convinced, the very thing you want. height, hal, you are a lucky dog. i'm like a lean old nag out on a common, looking over a fence and seeing you in clover up to your hat-band. if my kettle only could boil for two i'd risk about the possessive pronouns. to say the truth i am tired of i and my, and would like to say we and our if i dared. come home any way and kindle your tent fire, and let a poor tramp warm himself at it. your dog and slave, jim. bolton's letter was as follows: _dear hal_:--i promised you a family cat, but i am going to do better by you. there is a pair of my kittens that would bring laughter to the cheeks of a dying anchorite. they are just the craziest specimens of pure jollity that flesh, blood, and fur could be wrought into. who wants a comic opera at a dollar a night when a family cat will supply eight kittens a year? nobody seems to have found out what kittens are for. i do believe these two kittens of mine would cure the most obstinate hypochondria of mortal man, and, think of it, i am going to give them to you! their names are whisky and frisky, and their ways are past finding out. the house in which the golden age pastoral is to be enacted has not yet been found. it is somewhere in fairy land, and will probably suddenly appear to you as things used to, to good knights in enchanted forests. jim and i went down to the steamer yesterday to see miss van arsdel and your cousin off for europe. they are part of a very pleasant party that are going together and seem in high spirits. i find her articles (your cousin's) take well, and there is an immediate call for more. so far, good! stay your month out, my boy, and get all you can out of it before you come back to the "dem'd horrid grind" of new york. ever yours, bolton. p. s.--while i have been writing, whisky and frisky have pitched into a pile of the proof-sheets of your _milky way_ story, and performed a ballet dance with them so that they are rather the worse for wear. no fatal harm done however, and i find it reads capitally. i met hestermann yesterday quite enthusiastic over one of your articles in the _democracy_ that happened to hit his fancy, and plumed myself to him for having secured you next year for his service. so you see your star is in the ascendant. the hestermanns are liberal fellows, and the place you have is as sure as the bank of england. so your pastoral will have a good bit of earthly ground to begin on. b. the next was from alice. _dear sister_:--i am so tired out with packing, and all the thousand and one things that have to be attended to! you know mamma is not strong, and now you and ida are gone, i am the eldest daughter, and take everything on my shoulders. aunt maria comes here daily, looking like a hearse, and i really think she depresses mamma as much by her lugubrious ways as she helps. she positively is a most provoking person. she assumes with such certainty that mamma is a fool, and that all that has happened out of the way comes by some fault of hers, that when she has been here a day mamma is sure to have a headache. but i have discovered faculties and strength i never knew i possessed. i have taken on myself the whole work of separating the things we are to keep from those which are to be sold, and those which we are to take into the country with us, from those which are to be stored in new york for our return. i don't know what i should have done if jim fellows hadn't been the real considerate friend he is. papa is overwhelmed with settling up business matters, and one wants to save him every care, and jim has really been like a brother--looking up a place to store the goods, finding just the nicest kind of a man to cart them, and actually coming in and packing for me, till i told him i knew he must be giving us time that he wanted for himself--and all this with so much fun and jollification that we really have had some merry times over it, and quite shocked aunt maria, who insists on maintaining a general demeanor as if there were a corpse in the house. one wicked thing about jim is that he will take her off; and though i scold him for it, between you and me, eva, and in the "buzzom of the family," as old mrs. knabbs used to say, i must admit that it's a little too funny for anything. he can make himself look and speak exactly like her, and breaks out in that way every once in a while; and if we reprove him, says, "what's the matter? who are you thinking of? i wasn't thinking of what you were." he is a dreadful rogue, and one can't do anything with him; but what we should have done without him, i'm sure i don't know. sophie elmore called the other day, and told me all about things between her and sydney. she is sending to paris for all her things, and tullegig's is all in commotion. they are to be married early in october and go off for a tour in europe. you ought to see the gloom on aunt maria's visage when the thing is talked about. if it had been anybody but the elmores i think aunt maria could have survived it, but they have been her mordecai in the gate all this time, and now she sees them triumphant. she speaks familiarly about our being ruined, and finally the other day i told her that i found ruin altogether a more comfortable thing than i expected, whereat she looked at me as if i were an abandoned sinner, sighed deeply, and said nothing. poor soul! i oughtn't to laugh, but she does provoke me so i am tempted to revenge myself in a little quiet fun at her expense. the other day jim was telling me about a house he had been looking at. aunt maria listened with a severe gravity and interposed with, "of course nobody could live on that street. eva would be crazy to think of it. there isn't a good family within squares of that quarter." i said you didn't care for fashion, and she gave me one of her looks and said, "i trust i sha'n't see eva in that street; none but most ordinary people live there." only think, eva, what if you should live on a street where ordinary people live? how dreadful! well, darling, i can't write more; my hands are dusty with packing and overhauling, and i am writing now on the top of a box waiting for the man to cart away the next load. we are all well, and the girls behave charmingly, and are just as handy and helpful as they can be, and mamma says she never knew the comfort of her children before. god bless you, dear, and good by, your loving alice. chapter xlvii. aunt maria's dictum. our lovely moon of moons had now waned, and the time drew on when, like adam and eve, we were hand in hand to turn our backs on paradise and set our faces toward the battle of life. "the world was all before us where to choose." in just this crisis we got the following from aunt maria: _my dear eva_:--notwithstanding all that has passed, i cannot help writing to show that interest in your affairs, which it may be presumed, as your aunt and godmother, i have some right to feel, and though i know that my advice always has been disregarded, still i think it my duty to speak, and shall speak. of course, as i have not been consulted or taken into your confidence at all, this may seem like interference, but i overheard mr. fellows talking with alice about looking for houses for you, and i must tell you that i am astonished that you should think of such a thing. housekeeping is very expensive, if you keep house with the least attention to appearance; and genteel board can be obtained at a far less figure. then as to your investing the little that your grandmother left you in a house, it is something that shows such childish ignorance as really is pitiable. i don't suppose either you or your husband ever priced an article of furniture at david and saul's in your lives, and have not the smallest idea of the cost of all those things which a house makes at once indispensable. you fancy a house arranged as you have always seen your father's, and do not know that the kind of marriage you have chosen places all these luxuries wholly out of your reach. then as to the house itself, the whole of your little property would go but a small way toward giving you a dwelling any way respectable for you to live in. it is true there are cheap little houses in new york, but where, and on what streets? you would not want to live among mechanics and dentists, small clerks, and people of that description. everything when one is first married depends on taking a right stand in the beginning. of course, since the ruin that has come on your father, and with which you will see i never reproach you, though you might have prevented it, it is necessary for all of us to be doubly careful. everybody is very kind and considerate, and people have called and continue to invite us, and we may maintain our footing as before, if we give our whole mind to it, as evidently it is our duty to do, paying proper attention to appearances. i have partially engaged a place for you, subject of course to your and your husband's approval, at mivart's, which is a place that can be spoken of--a place where the best sort of people are. mrs. mivart is a _protégée_ of mine, and is willing to take you at a considerable reduction, if you take a small back room. thus you will have no cares, and no obligations of hospitality, and be able to turn your resources all to keeping up the proper air and appearances, which with the present shocking prices for everything, silks, gloves, shoes, etc., and the requirements of the times, are something quite frightful to contemplate. the course of conduct i have indicated seems specially necessary in view of alice's future. the blight that comes on all her prospects in this dreadful calamity of your father's is something that lies with weight on my mind. a year ago alice might have commanded the very best of offers, and we had every reason to hope such an establishment for her as her beauty and accomplishments ought to bring. it is a mercy to think that she will still be invited and have her chances, though she will have to struggle with her limited means to keep up a proper style; but with energy and attention it can be done. i have known girls capable of making, in secret, dresses and bonnets that were ascribed to the first artists. the puffed tulle in which sallie morton came to your last german was wholly of her own make--although of course this was told me in confidence by her mother and ought to go no farther. but if you take a mean little house among ordinary low classes, and live in a poor, cheap, and scrubby way, of course you cut yourself off from society, and you see it degrades the whole family. i am sure, as i told your mother, nothing but your inexperience would lead you to think of it, and your husband being a literary man naturally would not understand considerations of this nature. i have seen a good deal of life, and i give it as the result of my observation that there are two things that very materially influence standing in society; the part of the city we live in, and the church we go to. of course, i presume you will not think of leaving your church, which has in it the most select circles of new york. a wife's religious consolations are things no husband should interfere with, and i trust you will not fling away your money on a mean little house in a fit of childish ignorance. you will want the income of that money for your dress, and carriages for calls and other items essential to keep up life. i suppose you have heard that the elmores are making extensive preparations for sophie's wedding in the fall. when i see the vanity and instability of earthly riches, i cannot but be glad that there is a better world; the consolations of religion at times are all one has to turn to. be careful of your health, my dear child, and don't wet your feet. from your letters i should infer that you were needlessly going into very damp unpleasant places. write me immediately what i am to tell them at mivart's. your affectionate aunt, maria wouvermans. it was as good as a play to see my wife's face as she read this letter, with flushed cheeks and an impatient tapping of her little foot that foreboded an outburst. "just like her for all the world," she said, tossing the letter to me, which i read with vast amusement. "we'll have a house _of our own_ as quick as we can get one," she said. "i think i see myself gossipping in a boarding house, hanging on to the outskirts of fashion in the way she plans, making puffed tulle dresses in secret places and wearing out life to look as if i were as rich as i am not, and trying to keep step with people of five times our income. if you catch eva van arsdel at that game, then tell me!" "eva van arsdel is a being of the past, fortunately for me, darling." "well, eva van arsdel henderson, then," said she. "that compound personage is stronger and more defiant of worldly nonsense than the old eva dared to be." "and i think your aunt has no idea of what there is developing in alice." "to be sure she hasn't; not the remotest. alice is proud and sensible, proud in the proper way i mean. she was full willing to take the goods the gods provided while she had them, but she never will stoop to all the worries, and cares, and little mean artifices of genteel poverty. she never will dress and go out on hunting expeditions to catch a rich husband. i always said alice's mind lay in two strata, the upper one worldly and ambitious, the second generous and high minded. our fall from wealth has been like a land slide, the upper stratum has slid off and left the lower. alice will now show that she is both a strong and noble woman. our engagement and marriage has wholly converted her, and she has stood by me like a little trojan all along." "well," said i, "about this letter?" "oh! you answer it for me. it's time aunt maria learned that there is a man to the fore; besides _you_ are not vexed, you are only amused, and you can write a diplomatic letter." "and tell her sweetly and politely, with all ruffles and trimmings, that it is none of her business?" said i. "yes, just that, but of course with all possible homage of your high consideration. then tell we can find a house. i suppose we can find nice country board for the hot months near new york, where you can come out every night on the railroad and stay sundays." "exactly. i have the place all thought of and terms arranged long ago. a charming quaker family where you will find the best of fruit, and the nicest of board, and the quietest and gentlest of hosts, all for a sum quite within our means." "and then," said she, "by fall i trust we shall find a house to suit us." "certainly," said i. "i have faith that such a house is all waiting for us somewhere in the unknown future. we are traveling toward it, and shall know it when we see it." "just think," said my wife, "of aunt maria as suggesting that we should board so that we could shirk all obligations of hospitality! what's life good for if you can't have your friends with you, and make people happy under your roof?" "and who would think of counting the money spent in hospitality?" said i. "yet i have heard of people who purposely plan to have no spare room in their house," answered eva. "i remember, now, aunt maria's speaking of mrs. jacobs with approbation for just this piece of economy." "by which she secures money for party dresses and a brilliant annual entertainment i suppose," said i. "well," said eva, "i have always imagined my home with friends in it. a warm peculiar corner for each one of yours and mine. it is the very charm of the prospect when i figure this, that, and the other one enjoying with us, and then i have the great essential of "help" secured. do you know that there was one mary mcclellan married from our house years ago who was a perfect adorer at my shrine and always begged me to be married that she might come and live with me? now she is a widow with a little girl eight years old, and it is the desire of her heart to get a place where she can have her child with her. it will fit exactly. the little cub, under my training, can wait on the table and tend the door, and mary will be meanwhile a mother to me in my inexperience." "capital!" said i. "i am sure our star is in the ascendant, and we shall hear from our house before the summer is through." one day, near the first of october, while up for a sunday at our country boarding-place, i got the following letter from jim fellows: _my dear old boy_:--i think we have got it, i mean got the house. i am not quite sure what your wife will say, but i happened to meet miss alice last night and i told her, and she says she is sure it will do. hear and understand. coming down town yesterday i bought the _herald_ and read to my joy that jack fergus had been appointed consul to algiers. to say the truth we fellows have thought the game was pretty much up with poor jack; his throat and lungs are so bad, and his family consumptive. so i said when i read it, 'good! there's a thing that'll do.' i went right round to congratulate him and found three or four of our fellows doing the same thing. jack was pleased, said it was all right, but still i could see there was a hitch somewhere, and that in fact it was not all right, and when the other fellows went away i staid, and then it came out. he said at once that he was glad of the appointment, but that he had no money; the place at algiers does not support a man. he will have to give up his bank salary, and unless he could sell his house for ready money he could do nothing. i never knew he had any house. heaven knows none of the rest of us have got any houses. but it seems some aunt of his, an old knickerbocker, left him one. well, i asked him why he didn't sell it. he said he couldn't. he had had two agents there that morning. they wouldn't give him any encouragement till the whole place was sold together. they wouldn't offer anything, and would only say they would advertise it on his account. you see it is one of those betwixt and between places which is going to be a business place, but isn't yet. so he said; and it was that which made me think of you and your wife. i asked where it was, and he told me. it is one of those little streets that lead out of varick street, if you know where that is, i'll bet mrs. henderson a dozen pair that she doesn't. well, i went with him to see it when the bank closed, for i still thought of you. by george, i think you will like it. it is the last house in a block, the street is dull enough but is inhabited by decent quiet people, who mind their own business. of course the respectable mrs. wouverman's would think it an unknown horror to live there; and be quite sure they were all jews or sorcerers, or some other sort of come-outers. well, this house itself is not like the rest of the block--having been built by this old aunt martila, or van beest, or whatever else her name was, for her own use. it is a brick house, with a queer stoop, two and a half stories high (the house, not the stoop), with a bay-window on the end, going out on a sort of a church-yard, across which you look to what is, i believe, st. john's park[ ]--a place with trees, and english sparrows, and bird-houses and things. jack and his wife have made the place look quite cosy, and managed to get a deal of comfort out of it. i wish i could buy it and take my wife there if only i had one. this place jack will sell for eight thousand dollars--four thousand down and four thousand on mortgage. i call that dirt cheap, and livingstone, our head book-keeper, who used to be a house-broker, tells me it is a bargain such as he never heard of, and that you can sell it at any time for more than that. i have taken the refusal for three days, so come down, both of you, bright and early monday and look at it. so down we came; we saw; we bought. in a few days we were ready, key in hand, to open and walk into "our house." footnote: [ ] it _was_; but alas! since the recent time of this story, insatiate commerce has taken the old park and built therein a huge railway freight depot. chapter xlviii. our house. there are certain characteristic words which the human heart loves to conjure with, and one of the strongest among them is the phrase, "our house." it is not my house, nor your house, nor their house, but _our house_. it is the inseparable _we_ who own it, and it is the _we_ and the _our_ that go a long way towards impregnating it with the charm that makes it the symbol of things most blessed and eternal. houses have their physiognomy, as much as persons. there are common-place houses, suggestive houses, attractive houses, mysterious houses, and fascinating houses, just as there are all these classes of persons. there are houses whose windows seem to yawn idly--to stare vacantly--there are houses whose windows glower weirdly, and look at you askance; there are houses, again, whose very doors and windows seem wide open with frank cordiality, which seem to stretch their arms to embrace you, and woo you kindly to come and possess them. my wife and i, as we put our key into the door and let ourselves into the deserted dwelling, now all our own, said to each other at once that it was a home-like house. it was built in the old style, when they had solid timbers and low ceilings with great beams and large windows, with old-fashioned small panes of glass, but there was about it a sort of homely individuality, and suggestive of cosy comforts. the front room had an ancient fire-place, with quaint dutch tiles around it. the ferguses had introduced a furnace, gas, and water, into it; but the fire-place in most of the rooms still remained, suggestive of the old days in new york when wood was plenty and cheap. one could almost fancy that those days of roaring family hearths had so heartened up the old chimneys that a portion of the ancient warmth yet inhered in the house. "there, harry," said my wife, exultantly pointing to the fire-place, "see, this is the very thing that your mother's brass andirons will fit into--how charmingly they will go with it!" and then those bright, sunny windows, and that bay-window looking across upon those trees was perfectly lovely. in fact, the leaves of the trees shimmering in october light, cast reflections into the room suggestive of country life, which, fresh from the country as we were, was an added charm. the rooms were very low studded, scarcely nine feet in height--and, by the by, i believe that that feature in old english and dutch house-building is one that greatly conduces to give an air of comfort. a low ceiling insures ease in warming, and in our climate where one has to depend on fires for nine months in the year, this is something worth while. in general, i have noticed in rooms that the sense of snugness and comfort dies out as the ceiling rises in height--rooms twelve and fifteen feet high may be all very grand and very fine, but they are never sociable, they never seem to brood over you, soothe you, and take you to their heart as the motherly low-browed room does. my wife ran all over her new dominions-exploring and planning, telling me volubly how she would arrange them. the woman was queen here; her foot was on her native heath, and she saw capabilities and possibilities with the eye of an artist. now, i desire it to be understood that i am not indifferent to the charms of going to housekeeping full-handed. i do not pretend to say that my wife and i should not have enjoyed opening our family reign in a stone palace, overlooking new york central park, with all the charms of city and country life united, with all the upholsterers and furniture shops in new york at our feet. all this was none too good for our taste if we could have had it, but since we could not have it, we took another kind of delight, and one quite as vivid, in seeing how charmingly we could get on without it. in fact, i think there is an exultation in the constant victory over circumstances, in little inventions, substitutions, and combinations, rendered necessary by limited means which is wanting to those to whose hand everything comes without an effort. if, for example, the brisk pair of robins, who have built in the elm tree opposite to our bay-window, had had a nest all made, and lined, and provided for them to go into, what an amount of tweedle and chipper, what a quantity of fluttering, and soaring, and singing would have been wanting to the commencement of their housekeeping! all those pretty little conversations with the sticks and straw, all that brave work in tugging at a bit of twine and thread, which finally are carried off in triumph and wrought into the nest, would be a loss in nature. how much adventure and enterprise, how many little heart-beats of joy go into one robin's nest simply because mother nature makes them work it out for themselves! we spent a cheerful morning merely in running over our house, and telling each other what we could do with it, and congratulating each other that it was "such a bargain," for, look, here is an outlook upon trees; and here is a little back yard, considerably larger than a good sized pocket-handkerchief, where mrs. fergus had raised mignonette, heliotropes, and roses and geraniums enough to have a fresh morning bouquet of them daily; and an ancient grape-vine planted by some old knickerbocker, which jack fergus had trained in a sort of arbor over the dining-room window, and which at this present moment was hanging with purple clusters of grapes. we ate of them, and felt like adam and eve in paradise. what was it to us that this little eden of ours was in an unfashionable quarter, and that, as aunt maria would say, there was not a creature living within miles of us, it was still our mystical "garden which the lord god had planted eastward in eden." the purchase of it, it is true, had absorbed all my wife's little fortune, and laid a debt upon us--but we told each other that it was, after all, our cheapest way of renting a foothold in new york. "for, you see," said my wife instructively, "papa says it is a _safe_ investment, as it is sure to rise in value, so that even if we want to sell it we can get more than we paid." "what a shrewd little trader you are getting to be!" i said, admiring this profound financial view. "oh, indeed i am; and, now, harry dear, don't let's go to any expense about furniture till i've shown you what i intend to do. i know devices for giving a room an air with so little; for example, look at this recess. i shall fill this up with a divan that i shall get up for nine or ten dollars." "you get it up!" "yes, i--with mary to help me--you'll see in time. we'll have all the comfort that could be got out of a sofa, for which people pay eighty or ninety dollars, and the eighty or ninety dollars will go to get other things, you see. and then we must have a stuffed seat running round this bay-window. i can get that up. i've seen at stewart's such a lovely piece of patch, with broad crimson stripes, and a sort of mauresque figure interposed. i think we had better get the whole of it, and that will do for one whole room. let's see. i shall make lambrequins for the windows, and cover the window-seats, and then we shall have only to buy two or three great stuffed chairs and cover them with the same. oh, you'll see what i'll do. i shall make this house so comfortable and charming that people will wonder to see it." "well, darling, i give all that up to you, that is your dominion, your reign." "to be sure, you have all your work up at the office there, and your articles to write, and besides, dear, with all your genius, and all that, you really don't know much about this sort of thing, so give yourself no trouble, i'll attend to it--it is my ground, you know. now, i don't mean mother or aunt maria shall come down here till we have got every thing arranged. alice is going to come and stay with me and help, and when i want you i'll call on you, for, though i am not a writing genius, i am a genius in these matters as you'll see." "you are a veritable household fairy," said i, "and this house, henceforth, lies on the borders of the fairy land. troops of gay and joyous spirits are flocking to take possession of it, and their little hands will carry forward what you begin." chapter xlix. picnicking in new york. our house seemed so far to be ours that it was apparently regarded by the firm of good fellows as much their affair as mine. the visits of jim and bolton to our quarters were daily, and sometimes even hourly. they counseled, advised, theorised, and admired my wife's generalship in an artless solidarity with myself. jim was omnipresent. now he would be seen in his shirt-sleeves nailing down a carpet, or unpacking a barrel, and again making good the time lost in these operations by scribbling his articles on the top of some packing-box, dodging in and out at all hours with news of discoveries of possible bargains that he had hit upon in his rambles. for a while we merely bivouacked in the house, as of old the pilgrims in a caravansary, or as a picnic party might do, out under a tree. the house itself was in a state of growth and construction, and, meanwhile, the work of eating and drinking was performed in moments snatched in the most pastoral freedom and simplicity. i must confess that there was a joyous, rollicking freedom about these times that was lost in the precision of regular housekeepers. when we all gathered about mary's cooking-stove in the kitchen, eating roast oysters and bread and butter, without troubling ourselves about table equipage, we seemed to come closer to each other than we could in months of orderly housekeeping. our cooking-stove was bolton's especial protégé and pet. he had studied the subject of stoves, for our sakes, with praiseworthy perseverance, and after philosophic investigation had persuaded us to buy this one, and of course had a fatherly interest in its well-doing. i have the image of him now as he sat, seriously, with the book of directions in his hand, reading and explaining to us all, while a set of muffins were going through the "_experimentum crucis_"--the oven. the muffins were excellent and we ate them hot out of the oven with gladness and singleness of heart, and agreed that we had touched the absolute in the matter of cooking-stoves. all my wife's plans and achievements, all her bargains and successes, were reported and admired in full conclave, when we all looked in at night, and took our snack together in the kitchen. one of my wife's enterprises was the regeneration of the dining-room. it had a pretty window draped pleasantly by the grape-vine, but it had a dreadfully common wall-paper, a paper that evidently had been chosen for no other reason than because it was cheap. it had moreover a wainscot of dark wood running round the side, so that what with our low ceiling, the portion covered by this offending paper was only four feet and a half wide. i confess, in the multitude of things on hand in the work of reconstruction, i was rather disposed to put up with the old paper as the best under the circumstances. "my dear," said i, "why not let pretty well alone." "my darling child!" said my wife, "it is impossible--that paper is a horror." "it certainly isn't pretty, but who cares?" said i. "i don't see so very much the matter with it, and you are undertaking so much that you'll be worn out." "it will wear me out to have that paper, so now, harry dear, be a good boy, and do just what i tell you. go to berthold & capstick's and bring me one roll of plain black paper, and six or eight of plain crimson, and wait then to see what i'll do." the result on a certain day after was that i found my dining-room transformed into a pompeiian saloon, by the busy fingers of the house fairies. the ground-work was crimson, but there was a series of black panels, in each of which was one of those floating pompeiian figures, which the italian traveler buys for a trifle in naples. "there now," said my wife, "do you remember my portfolio of cheap neapolitan prints? haven't i made good use of them?" "you are a witch," said i. "you certainly can't paper walls." "can't i! haven't i as many fingers as your mother? and she has done it time and again; and this is such a crumb of a wall. alice and jim and i did it to-day, and have had real fun over it." "jim?" said i, looking amused. "jim!" said my wife, nodding with a significant laugh. "seems to me," said i. "so it seems to me," said she. after a pause she added, with a smile, "but the creature is both entertaining and useful. we have had the greatest kind of a frolic over this wall." "but, really," said i, "this case of jim and alice is getting serious." "don't say a word," said my wife, laughing. "they are in the f's; they have got out of flirtation and into friendship." "and friendship between a girl like alice and a young man, on his part soon gets to mean----." "oh, well, let it get to mean what it will," said my wife; "they are having nice times now, and the best of it is, nobody sees anything but you and i. nobody bothers alice, or asks her if she is engaged, and she is careful to inform me that she regards jim quite as a brother. you see that is one advantage of our living where nobody knows us--we can all do just as we like. this little house is robinson crusoe's island--in the middle of new york. but now, harry, there is one thing you must do toward this room. there must be a little gilt molding to finish off the top and sides. you just go to berthold & capstick's and get it. see, here are the figures," she said, showing her memorandum-book. "we shall want just that much." "but, can we put it up?" "no, but you just speak to little tim brady, who is a clerk there--tim used to be a boy in father's office--he will like nothing better than to come and put it up for us, and then we shall be fine as a new fiddle." and so, while i was driving under a great pressure of business at the office daily, my home was growing leaf by leaf, and unfolding flower by flower, under the creative hands of my home-queen and sovereign lady. time would fail me to relate the enterprises conceived, carried out, and prosperously finished under her hands. indeed i came to have such a reverential belief in her power that had she announced that she intended to take my house up bodily and set it down in japan, in the true "arabian nights" style, i should not in the least have doubted her ability to do it. the house was as much an expression of my wife's personality, a thing wrought out of her being, as any picture painted by an artist. many homes have no personality. they are made by the upholsterers; the things in them express the tastes of david and saul, or berthold & capstick, or whoever else of artificers undertake the getting up of houses. but our house formed itself around my wife like the pearly shell around the nautilus. my home was eva,--she the scheming, the busy, the creative, was the life, soul, and spirit of all that was there. is not this a species of high art, by which a house, in itself cold and barren, becomes in every part warm and inviting, glowing with suggestion, alive with human tastes and personalities? wall-paper, paint, furniture, pictures, in the hands of the home artist, are like the tubes of paint out of which arises, as by inspiration, a picture. it is the woman who combines them into the wonderful creation which we call a home. when i came home from my office night after night, and was led in triumph by eva to view the result of her achievements, i confess i began to remember with approbation the old greek mythology, and no longer to wonder that divine honors had been paid to household goddesses. it seemed to me that she had a portion of the talent of creating out of nothing. our house had literally nothing in it of the stereotyped sets of articles expected as a matter of course in good families, and yet it looked cosy, comfortable, inviting, and with everywhere a suggestion of ideal tastes, and an eye to beauty. there were chambers which seemed to be built out of drapery and muslins, every detail of which, when explained, was a marvel of results at small expense. my wife had an aptitude for bargains, and when a certain article was wanted, supplied it from some second-hand store with such an admirable adaptation to the place that it was difficult to persuade ourselves after a few days that it had not always been exactly there, where now it was so perfectly adapted to be. in fact, her excursions into the great sea of new york and the spoils she brought thence to enrich our bower reminded me of the process by which robinson crusoe furnished his island home by repeated visits to the old ship which was going to wreck on the shore. from the wreck of other homes came floating to ours household belongings, which we landed reverently and baptized into the fellowship of our own. chapter l. neighbors. "do you know, harry," said my wife to me, one evening when i came home to dinner, "i have made a discovery?" now, the truth was, that my wife was one of those lively, busy, active, enterprising little women, who are always making incident for themselves and their friends; and it was a regular part of my anticipation, as i plodded home from my office, tired and work-worn, to conjecture what new thing eva would find to tell me that night. what had she done, or altered, or made up, or arranged, as she always met me full of her subject? "well," said i, "what is this great discovery?" "my dear, i'll tell you. one of those dumb houses in our neighborhood has suddenly become alive to me. i've made an acquaintance." now, i knew that my wife was just that social, conversing, conversable creature that, had she been in robinson crusoe's island, would have struck up confidential relations with the monkeys and paroquets, rather than not have somebody to talk to. therefore, i was not in the least surprised, but quite amused, to find that she had begun neighboring in our vicinity. "you don't tell me," said i, "that you have begun to cultivate acquaintances on this street, so far from the centers of fashion?" "well, i have, and found quite a treasure, in at the very next door." "and pray now, for curiosity's sake, how did you manage it?" "well, to tell the truth, harry, i'm the worst person in the world for keeping up what's called select society; and i never could bear the feeling of not knowing anything about anybody that lives next to me. why, suppose we should be sick in the night, or anything happen, and we not have a creature to speak to! it seems dreary to think of it. so i was curious to know who lived next door; and i looked down from our chamber-window into the next back-yard, and saw that whoever it was had a right cunning little garden, with nasturtiums and geraniums, and chrysanthemums, and all sorts of pretty things. well, this morning i saw the sweetest little dove of a quaker woman, in a gray dress, with a pressed crape cap, moving about as quiet as a chip sparrow among the flowers. and i took quite a fancy to her, and began to think how i should make her acquaintance." "if that isn't just like you!" said i. "well, did you run in and fall on her neck?" "not exactly. but, you see, we had all our windows open to air the rooms, and my very best pocket handkerchief lay on the bureau. and the wind took it up, and whirled it about, and finally carried it down into that back-yard; and it lit on her geranium bush. 'there, now,' said i to alice, 'there's a providential opening. i'm just going to run right down and inquire about my pocket handkerchief.' which i did: i just stepped off from our stoop on to her door-step, and rang the bell. meanwhile, i saw, on a nice, shining door plate, that the name was baxter. well, who should open the door but the brown dove in person, looking just as pretty as a pink in her cap and drab gown. i declare, harry, i told alice i'd a great mind to adopt the quaker costume right away. it's a great deal more becoming than all our finery." "well, my dear," said i, "that introduces a large subject; and i want to hear what came next." "oh, well, i spoke up, and said, 'dear mrs. baxter, pray excuse me; but i've been so very careless as to lose my handkerchief down in your back-yard.' you ought to have seen the pretty pink color rise in her cheeks; and she said in such a cunning way, 'i'll get it for thee!' "'oh, dear, no,' said i, 'don't trouble yourself. please let me go out into your pretty little garden there.' "well, the upshot was, we went into the garden and had a long chat about the flowers. and she picked me quite a bouquet of geraniums. and then i told her all about our little garden, and how i wanted to make things grow in it, and didn't know how; and asked her if she wouldn't teach me. well, then, she took me into the nicest little drab nest of a parlor that ever you saw. the carpet was drab, and the curtains were drab, and the sofas and chairs were all covered with drab; but the windows were perfectly blazing with flowers. she had most gorgeous nasturtium vines trained all around the windows, and scarlet geraniums that would really make your eyes wink to look at them. i couldn't help laughing a little to myself, that they make it a part of their religion not to have any color, and then fall back upon all these high-colored operations of the lord by way of brightening up their houses. however, i got a great deal of instruction out of her, and she's going to come in and show me how to arrange my ferns and other things i gathered in the country, in a ward's case; and she's going to show me, too, how to plant an ivy, so as to have it grow all around this bay-window. the inside of hers is a perfect bower." "i perceive," said i, "the result of all was that you swore eternal friendship on the spot, just like the eva that you are." "precisely." "and you didn't have the fear of your gentility before your eyes?" "not a bit. i always have detested gentility." "you don't even know the business of her husband." "but i do, though. he's a watchmaker, and works for tiffany & co. i know, because she showed me a curious little clock of his construction; and these things came out in a parenthesis, you see." "i see the hopeless degradation which this will imply in aunt maria's eyes," said i. "a fig for aunt maria, and a fig for the world! i'm married now, and can do as i've a mind to. besides, you know quakers are not world's people. they have come out from it, and don't belong to it. there's something really refreshing about this dear little body, with her 'thee's' and her 'thou's' and her nice little ways. and they're young married people, just like us. she's been in this house only a year. but, harry, she knows everybody on the street,--not in a worldly way, but in the way of her sect. she's made a visitation of christian love to every one of them. now, isn't that pretty? she's been to see what she could do for them, and to offer friendship and kind offices. isn't that sort of arcadian, now?" "well, and what does she tell you?" "oh, there are a great many interesting people on this street. i can't tell you all about it now, but some that i think we must try to get acquainted with. in the third story of that house opposite to us is a poor french gentleman, who came to new york a political refugee, hoping to give lessons; but has no faculty for getting along, and his wife, a delicate little woman with a baby, and they're very, very poor. i'm going with her to visit them some time this week. it seems this dear little ruth was with her when her baby was born,--this dear little ruth! it struck me so curiously to see how interesting she thinks everybody on this street is." "simply," said i, "because she looks at them from the christian stand-point. well, dear, i can't but think your new acquaintance is an acquisition." "and only think, harry, this nice little person is one of the people that aunt maria calls nobody; not rich, not fashionable, not of the world, in short; but just as sweet and lovely and refined as she can be. i think those plain, sincere manners are so charming. it makes you feel so very near to people to have them call you by your christian name right away. she calls me eva and i call her ruth; and i feel somehow as if i must always have known her." "i want to see her," said i. "you must. it'll amuse you to have her look at you with her grave, quiet eyes, and call you harry henderson. what an effect it has to hear one's simple, common name, without fuss or title!" "yes," said i, "i remember how long i called you eva in my heart, while i was addressing you at arm's length as miss van arsdel." "it was in the park, harry, that we lost the mr. and miss, never to find them again." "i've often thought it strange," said i, "how these unworldly modes of speaking among the quakers seem to have with them a certain dignity. it would be an offense, a piece of vulgar forwardness, in most people to address you by your christian name. but, with them it seems to be an attempt at realizing a certain ideal of christian simplicity and sincerity, which one almost loses sight of in the conventional course of life." "i was very much amused," said my wife, "at her telling me of one of her visits of christian love to a jew family, living on this street. and really, harry, she has learned an amount of good about the jews, from cultivating an intimacy with this family, that is quite astonishing. i'd no idea how good the jews were." "well, my little high-church darling," said i, "you're in a fair way to become ultra-liberal, and to find that what you call _the_ church doesn't come anywhere near representing the whole multitude of the elect in this world. i comfort myself with thinking, all the time, how much more good there is in the world and in human nature than appears on the surface." "and, now, harry, that you and i have this home of our own, we can do some of those things with it that our friends next door seem to be doing. i thought we might stir about and see if we couldn't get up a class for this poor frenchman, and i'm going to call on his wife. in fact, harry, i've been thinking that it must be one's own fault if one has no friends in one's neighborhood. i can't believe in living on a street, and never knowing or caring whether your next-door neighbor is sick or dead, simply because you belong to a circle up at the other end of the city." "well, dear, you know that i am a democrat by nature. but i am delighted to have you make these discoveries for yourself. it was bad enough, in the view of your friends, presume, for me to have come between you and a fashionable establishment, and a palace on the park, without being guilty of introducing you into such very mixed society as the course that you're falling into seems to promise. but wherever you go i'll follow." chapter li. my wife projects hospitalities. "my dear," said my wife to me at breakfast, "our house is about done. to be sure there are ever so many little niceties that i haven't got as yet, but it's pretty enough now. so that i'm not at all ashamed to show it to mamma or aunt maria, or any of them." "do you think," said i, "that last-named respectable individual could possibly think of countenancing us, when we have only an ingrain carpet on our parlor and nothing but mattings on the chambers, and live down here where nobody lives?" "well, poor soul!" said eva, "she'll have to accept it as one of the trials of life, and have recourse to the consolations of religion. then, after all, harry, i really am proud of our parlor. of course, we've had the good luck to have a good many handsome ornaments given to us; so that, though we haven't the regulation things that people generally get, it does look very bright and pretty." "it's perfectly lovely," said i. "our house to me is a perfect dream of loveliness. i think of it all day from time to time when i'm at work in my office, and am always wanting to come home and see it again, and have a little curiosity to know what new thing you've accomplished. so far, your career has been a daily succession of triumphs, and the best of it is that it's all so much like you." "so," said she, "that i can't be jealous at your loving the house so much. i suppose you think it as much a part of me as the shell on a turtle's back. well, now, before we invite mother and aunt maria, and all the folks down here, i propose that we have just a nice little housewarming, with our own little private particular set, who know how to appreciate us." "agreed!" said i; "bolton, and jim, and alice, and you and i will have a commemoration-dinner together. our fellows, you see, seem to feel as much interested in this house as if it were their own." "i know it," said she. "isn't it really amusing to see the grandfatherly concern that bolton has for our cooking-stove?" "oh! bolton has staked his character on that stove," i said. "its success is quite a personal matter now." "well, it does bake admirably," said my wife, "and i think our dinner will be a perfect success, so far as that is concerned. and, do you know, i'm going to introduce that new way of doing up cold chicken which i've invented." "yes," said i, "we shall christen it chicken _à la eva_." "and i've been talking with our mary about it, and she's quite in the spirit of the affair. you see, like all irish women, mary perfectly worships the boys, and thinks there never was anybody like mr. bolton, and mr. jim; and of course it's quite a labor of love with her. then i've been giving her little cub there a series of lessons to enable her to wait on table; and she is all exercised with the prospect." "why," said i, "the little flibberty-gibbet is hardly as high as the table." "oh, never say that before her. she feels very high indeed in the world, and is impressed with the awful gravity and responsibility of being eight years old. i have made her a white apron with pockets, in which her soul delights; and her mother has starched and ironed it till it shines with whiteness. and she is learning to brush the table-cloth, and change plates in the most charming way, and with a gravity that is quite overcoming." "capital!" said i. "and when shall it be?" "to-morrow night." "agreed! i'll tell the fellows this is to be a regular blow-out, and we must do our very prettiest, which is very pretty indeed," said i, "thanks to the contributions of our numerous friends. for my part, i think the fashion of wedding-presents has proved a lucky thing for us." "even if we have six pie-knives, and no pie to eat with them," said my wife, "as may happen in our establishment pretty often." "still," said i, "among them all there are a sufficiency of articles that give quite another aspect to our prudent little house from what it would wear if we were obliged to buy everything ourselves." "yes," said my wife, "and one such present as that set of bronzes on the mantel-piece gives an air to a whole room. a mantel-piece is like a lady's bonnet. it's the headpiece of a room, and if that be pleasing the rest is a good deal taken for granted. then, you see, our parlor is all of a warm color,--crimson carpet, crimson curtains,--everything warm and glowing. and so long as you have the color it isn't a bit of matter whether your carpet cost three dollars and a half a yard or eighty-seven cents, and whether your curtains are damask or turkey red. color is color, and will produce its effects, no matter in what material." "and we men," said i, "never know what the material is, if only the effect is pleasant. i always look at a room as a painting. it never occurs to me whether the articles in it are cheap or dear, so that only the general effect is warm, and social, and agreeable. and that is just what you have made these rooms. i think the general effect of the rooms, either by daylight, or lamp-light, or firelight, would be to make a person like to stay in them, and when he had left them want to come back." "yes," said my wife, "i flatter myself our rooms have the air of belonging to people that are having nice times, and enjoying themselves, as we are. and, for my own part, i feel like sitting right down in them. all that round of party-going, and calling, and visiting, that i used to have to keep up, seems to me really wearisome. i want you to understand, harry, that it's not the slightest sacrifice in the world for me to give it up. i'm just happy to be out of it." "you see," said i, "we can sit down here and make our own world. those that we really like very much and who like us very much will come to us. my ideal of good society is of a few congenial persons who can know each other very thoroughly, so as to feel perfectly acquainted and at home with one another. that was the secret of those reunions that went on so many years around madame récamier. it made no difference whether she lived in a palace, or a little obscure street; her friends were real friends, and followed her everywhere. the french have made a science of the cultivation of friendship, which is worth study." thus my wife and i chatted, and felicitated each other, in those first happy home making days. there was never any end to our subjects of mutual conversation. every little change in our arrangements was fruitful in conversation. we hung our pictures here at first, and liked them well, but our maturer second-thoughts received bright inspirations to take them down and hang them there; and then we liked them better. i must say, by the by, that i had committed one of those extravagances which lovers do commit when they shut their eyes and go it blind. i had bought back the pictures of eva's little boudoir from goupil's. the fact was that there was a considerable sympathy felt for mr. van arsdel, and one of the members of the concern was a nice fellow, with whom i had some pleasant personal acquaintance. so that the redemption of the pictures was placed at a figure which made it possible for me to accomplish it. and the pictures themselves were an untold store of blessedness to us. i believe we took them all down and hung them over four times, on four successive days, before we were satisfied that we had come to ultimate perfection. chapter lii. preparations for our dinner party. "harry," said my wife, the morning of the day of our projected house-warming, "there's one thing you must get me." "well, princess?" "well, you know you and i don't care for wine and don't need it, and can't afford it, but i have such a pretty set of glasses and decanters, and you must get me a couple of bottles just to set off our table for celebration." immediately i thought of bolton's letter, of what he had told me of the effect of wine upon his senses at hestermanns dinner table. i knew it must not be at ours, but how to explain to my wife without compromising him! at a glance i saw that all through the future my intimacy with bolton must be guided and colored by what i knew of his history, his peculiar struggles and temptations, and that not merely now, but on many future occasions i should need a full understanding with my wife to act as i should be obliged to act. i reflected that eva and i had ceased to be two and had become one, that i owed her an unlimited confidence in those respects where my actions must involve her comfort, or wishes, or coöperation. "eva, darling," i said, "you remember i told you there was a mystery about the separation of bolton and caroline." "yes, of course," said she, wondering, "but what has this to do with this wine question?" "a great deal," i said, and going to my desk i took out bolton's letter and put it into her hand. "read that my dear and then tell me what to do." she took it and read with something of the eagerness of feminine curiosity while i left the room for a few moments. in a little while she came after me and laid her hand on my arm. "harry, dear," she said "i'll stand by you in this thing. his secret shall be sacred with me, and i will make a safe harbor for him where he may have a home without danger. i want our house to seem like a home for him." "you are an angel, eva." "well, harry, i must say i always have had conscience about offering wine to some young men that i knew ought to keep clear of it, but it never occurred to me in regard to such a grave noble man as bolton." we never know who may be in this danger. it is a diseased action of the nervous system--often inherited--a thing very little understood, like the tendency to insanity or epilepsy. but while we know such things are, we cannot be too careful. "i should never have forgiven myself, harry, if i had done it." "the result would have been that bolton would never have dined with us again, he is resolute to keep entirely out of all society where this temptation meets him." "well, we don't want it, don't need it, and won't have it. mary makes magnificent coffee and that's even so much better. so that matter is settled, harry, and i'm ever and ever so glad you told me. i do admire him so much! there is something really sad and noble in his struggle." "many a man with that temptation who fails often exercises more self-denial, and self-restraint, than most christians," said i. "i'm sure i don't deny myself much. i generally want to do just what i do," said eva. "you always want to do all that is good and generous," said i. "i think, on the whole," said eva, reflectively, "my self-denial is in not doing what other people want me to. i'm like mrs. quickly. i want to please everybody. i wanted to please mamma and aunt maria." "and came very near marrying a man you couldn't love purely to oblige people." "if you hadn't rescued me," she said, laughing. "but now, harry, really i want some little extravagance about our dinner. so if we don't have wine, buy the nicest of grapes and pears, and i will arrange a pretty fruit piece for the center of the table." "my love, i will get you all the grapes and pears you want." "and my little ruth has sent me in this lovely tumbler of apple jelly. you see i held sweet council with her yesterday on the subject of jelly-making, where i am only a novice, and hers is splendid; literally now, splendid, for see how the light shines through it! and do you think the generous little puss actually sent me in half a dozen tumblers." "what a perfect saint!" said i. "and i am to have all the flowers in her garden. she says the frost will take them in a day or two if we don't. harry, next summer we must take lessons of her about our little back yard. i never saw so much made of so little ground." "she'll be only too delightful," said i. "well, now, mind you are home at five. i want you to look the house over before your friends come, and see if i have got everything as pretty as it can be." "are they to "_process_" through the house and see your blue room, and your pink room, and your guest chamber, and all?" "yes. i want them to see all through how pretty the rooms are, and then sometimes, perhaps, we shall tempt them to stay all night." "and sleep in the chamber that is called peace," said i, "after the fashion of pilgrim's progress." "come, harry, begone. i want you to go, so as to be sure and come back early." chapter liii. the house-warming. dear reader, fancy now a low-studded room, with crimson curtains and carpet, a deep recess filled a crimson divan with pillows, the lower part of the room taken up by a row of book-shelves, three feet high, which ran all round the room and accommodated my library. the top of this formed a convenient shelf, on which all our pretty little wedding presents--statuettes, bronzes, and articles of _vertu_--were arranged. a fire-place, surrounded by an old-fashioned border of dutch tiles, with a pair of grandmotherly brass andirons, nibbed and polished to an extreme of brightness, exhibits a wood fire, all laid in order to be lighted at the touch of the match. my wife has dressed the house with flowers, which our pretty little neighbor has almost stripped her garden to contribute. there are vases of fire-colored nasturtiums and many-hued chrysanthemums the arrangement of which has cost the little artist an afternoon's study, but which i pronounce to be perfect. i have come home from my office an hour earlier to see if she has any commands. "here, harry," she says, with a flushed face, "i believe everything now is about as perfect as it can be. now come and stand at this door, and see how you think it would strike anybody, when they first came in. you see i've heaped up those bronze vases on the mantel with nothing but nasturtiums; and it has such a surprising effect in that dark bronze! then i've arranged those white chrysanthemums right against these crimson curtains. and now come out in the dining-room, and see how i've set the dinner-table! you see i've the prettiest possible center-piece of fruit and flowers. isn't it lovely?" of course i kissed her and said it was lovely, and that she was lovelier; and she was a regular little enchantress, witch, and fairy-queen, and ever so much more to the same purport. and then alice came down, all equipped for conquest, as pretty an additional ornament to the house as heart could desire. and when the clock was on the stroke of six, and we heard the feet of our guests at the door, we lighted our altar-fire in the fire-place; for it must be understood that this was a pure _coup de théâtre_, a brightening, vivifying, ornamental luxury--one of the things we were determined to have, on the strength of having determined not to have a great many others. how proud we were when the blaze streamed up and lighted the whole room, fluttered on the pictures, glinted here and there on the gold bindings of the books, made dreamy lights and deep shadows, and called forth all the bright glowing color of the crimson tints which seemed to give out their very heart to firelight! my wife was evidently proud of the effect of all things in our rooms, which jim declared looked warm enough to bring a dead man to life. bolton was seated in due form in a great, deep arm-chair, which, we informed him, we had bought especially with reference to him, and the corner was to be known henceforth as his corner. "well," said he, with grave delight, "i have brought my final contribution to your establishment;" and forthwith from the capacious hinder pockets of his coat he drew forth a pair of kittens, and set them down on the hearth-rug. "there, harry," he said, gravely, "there are a pair of ballet dancers that will perform for you gratis, at any time." "oh, the little witches, the perfect loves!" said my wife and alice, rushing at them. bolton very gravely produced from his pocket two long strings with corks attached to them, and hanging them to the gas fixtures, began, as he said, to exhibit the ballet dancing, in which we all became profoundly interested. the wonderful leaps and flings and other achievements of the performers occupied the whole time till dinner was announced. "now, harry," said my wife, "if we let little cub see the kittens, before she's waited on table, it'll utterly demoralize her. so we must shut them in carefully," which was done. i don't think a dinner party was ever a more brilliant success than ours; partly owing to the fact that we were a mutual admiration society, and our guests felt about as much sense of appropriation and property in it as we did ourselves. the house was in a sort of measure "our house," and the dinner "our dinner." in short, we were all of us strictly _en famille_. the world was one thing, and we were another, outside of it and by ourselves, and having a remarkably good time. everybody got some share of praise. mary got praised for her cooking. the cooking-stove was glorified for baking so well, and bolton was glorified for recommending the cooking-stove. and jim and alice and my wife congratulated each other on the lovely looks of the dining-room. we shuddered together in mutual horror over what the wall-paper there had been; and we felicitated the artists that had brought such brilliant results out of so little. the difficulties that had been overcome in matching the paper and arranging the panels were forcibly dwelt upon; and some sly jokes seemed to pass between jim and alice, applicable to certain turns of events in these past operations. after dinner we had most transcendent coffee, and returned to our parlor as gay of heart as if we had been merry with wine. the kittens had got thoroughly at home by that time, having investigated the whole of the apartment, and began exhibiting some of their most irresistible antics, with a social success among us of a most flattering nature. alice declared that she should call them taglioni and madame céleste, and proceeded to tie blue and pink bows upon their necks, which they scratched and growled at in quite a warlike manner. a low whine from the entry interrupted us; and eva, opening the door and looking out, saw poor old stumpy sitting on the mat, with the most good-dog air of dejected patience. "why, here's stumpy, poor fellow!" she said. "oh, don't trouble yourself about him," said bolton. "i've taught him to sit out on the mat. he's happy enough if he only thinks i'm inside." "but, poor fellow," said eva, "he looks as if he wanted to come in." "oh, he'll do well enough; never mind him," said bolton, looking a little embarrassed. "it was silly of me to bring him, only he is so desolate to have me go out without him." "well, he shall come in," said eva. "come in, you poor homely old fellow," she said. "i daresay you're as good as an angel; and to-night's my house-warming, and not even a dog shall have an ungratified desire, if i can help it." so poor stumpy was installed by bolton in the corner, and looked perfectly beatified. and now, while we have brought all our characters before the curtain, and the tableau of the fireside is complete, as we sit there all around the hearth, each perfectly at home with the other, in heart and mind, and with even the poor beasts that connect us with the lower world brightening in our enjoyment, this is a good moment for the curtain to fall on the fortunes of my wife and i. the end. p. s.--if our kind readers still retain a friendly interest in the fortunes of any of the actors in this story, they may hear again from us at some future day, in the records of an unfashionable street. some good books for sale by all booksellers, or mailed, pre-paid, to any address, on receipt of the price by the publishers, j. b. ford & co., no. park place, new york. =full set: beecher's sermons.= first, second, third, and fourth series, uniformly bound. single volumes, each complete, extra cloth, $ . ; half morocco, $ . of the first volume the _advance_, of chicago, said: "the volume is a handsome one, and is prefaced with the best portrait of mr. beecher we have ever seen. the sermons are twenty-seven in number, the regular sunday morning and thanksgiving discourses of six months, and are a wonderful testimony, not only to the real goodness of heart of the great plymouth preacher, but to the fertility of resource, industry of thought, and rare ability which can keep his regular ministrations to such a height of average excellence." each succeeding volume contains also six months' sermons (about pp.), issued in style uniform with the _first series_. =lecture-room talks.= a series of familiar discourses, on themes of christian experience. by henry ward beecher. phonographically reported by j. t. ellinwood. mo, extra cloth. price $ . "j. b. ford & co, who are now printers and publishers to the beecher family, have collected in a handsome volume the _lecture room talks_ of the brooklyn preacher, held in the weekly prayer-meeting of the plymouth church. "there is a great deal of humorous talk mingled with much that is serious; and the subjects discussed are of the most varied kind. it is a charming book ."--_springfield [mass.] republican._ =principles of domestic science=: as applied to the duties and pleasures of home. by catharine e. beecher and harriet beecher stowe. a compact mo volume of pages; profusely illustrated; well printed, and bound in neat and substantial style. price $ . prepared with a view to assist in training young women for the distinctive duties which inevitably come upon them in household life, this volume has been made with especial reference to the duties, cares, and pleasures of _the family_, as being the place where, whatever the political developments of the future, woman, from her very nature of body and of spirit, will find her most engrossing occupation, and is full of interest for all intelligent girls and young women. the work has been heartily indorsed, and adopted by the directors of many of the leading colleges and seminaries for young women as a text-book. =the children's week=: seven stories for seven days. by r. w. raymond. mo. nine full-page illustrations by h. l. stephens and miss m. l. hallock. price, extra cloth, $ . ; cloth, full gilt, $ . "the book is bright enough to please any people of culture, and yet so simple that children will welcome it with glee. mr. raymond's tales have won great popularity by their wit, delicate fancy, and, withal, admirable good sense. the illustrations--all new and made for the book--are particularly apt and pleasing, showing forth the comical element of the book and its pure and beautiful sentiment."--_buffalo [n. y.] commercial advertiser._ =the overture of angels.= by henry ward beecher. illustrated by harry fenn. mo. tinted paper, extra cloth gilt. price $ . . this exquisite book is a chapter from mr. beecher's great work, the "life of jesus the christ." it is a series of pictures, in the author's happiest style, of the angelic appearances--giving a beautiful and characteristically interesting treatment of all the events recorded in the gospels, as occurring about the period of the nativity of our lord. "the style, the sentiment, and the faithfulness to the spirit of the biblical record with which the narrative is treated, are characteristic of its author, and will commend it to many readers, to whom its elegance of form will give it an additional attraction."--_worcester (mass.) spy_. "a perfect fragment."--_n. y. world._ =christian heart-songs.= a collection of choruses, quartets, and set pieces; together with a selection of anthems, motets, and tunes of all metres. by john zundel, author of "harmony and modulation," "voluntaries for the organ," etc. pages. boards, $ ; cloth, $ . . "mr. zundel is well known as an admirable composer of church music. a pupil of the great rink, he shows his training in the beautiful simplicity of his themes and the rich variety of his harmonies. mr. zundel is organist at plymouth church, brooklyn (rev. h. w. beecher's)."--_troy [n. y.] times_. =our seven churches=: eight lectures by thomas k. beecher. mo. paper, cents; extra cloth, $ ; cloth gilt, $ . . "the eight lectures comprised in this volume are conceived in a spirit of broad liberality, as refreshing as it is rare. they evince, in the most gratifying manner possible, how easy it is to find something good in one's neighbors, or opponents, or even enemies, if one tries faithfully to do so, instead of making an effort to discover a fault or a weakness. the volume is one which should have, as it undoubtedly will, a wide circulation."--_detroit free press._ =maternity.= a popular treatise for young wives and mothers. by t. s. verdi, a.m., m.d., of washington, d.c. handsomely printed on laid paper, bevelled boards, extra english cloth. mo. pages. price $ . . _third edition._ "the author deserves great credit for his labor, and the book merits an extensive circulation."--_u. s. medical and surgical journal_ [_chicago_]. "there are few intelligent mothers who will not be benefited by reading and keeping by them for frequent counsel a volume so rich in valuable suggestions. with its tables, prescriptions, and indices at the end, this book ought to do much good."--_hearth and home._ "we hail the appearance of this work with real pleasure. it is dictated by a pure and liberal spirit, and will be a real boon to many a young mother." _american medical observer_ [_detroit_]. =mines, mills, and furnaces= of the precious metals of the united states. being a complete exposition of the general methods employed in the great mining industries of america, including a review of the present condition and prospects of the mines throughout the interior and pacific states. by rossiter w. raymond, ph.d., united states commissioner of mining statistics, editor of the "_engineering and mining journal_," author of "_the mines of the west_," "_mines and mining_," etc., etc. vol. vo. pages. illustrated with engravings of machines and processes. extra cloth $ . . "the author is thorough in his subject; and has already published a work on our mines which commanded universal approval by its clearness of statement and breadth of views."--_albany (n. y.) argus._ "his scientific ability, his practical knowledge of mines and mining, his unerring judgment, and finally the enthusiasm with which he enters upon his work, all combine to fit him for his position; and none could bring to it a greater degree of uprightness and fairness."--_denver (col) news._ =the trotting horse of america=: how to train and drive him. with reminiscences of the trotting turf. by hiram woodruff. edited by charles j. foster, of _wilkes' spirit of the times_. mo, pp. with steel-plate portrait of hiram woodruff. price, extra cloth, $ . ; half-calf, $ . the demand for this book is still unabated, for it is the _standard_ work on the american horse. "_this is a masterly treatise by the master of his profession_--the ripened product of forty years' experience in handling, training, riding, and driving the trotting horse. there is no book like it in any language on the subject of which it treats.... before we read it, we had seen with curious surprise very hearty commendation of it and eulogy of its author in the leading presbyterian, baptist, and methodist journals. no wonder, for hiram woodruff's system is based on the law of love."--_n. y. tribune_ robert bonner, who owns the fastest horses in the world, says: "_it is a book for which every man who owns a horse ought to subscribe. the information which it contains is worth ten times its cost._" =history of the state of new york.= from the date of the discovery and settlements on manhattan island to the present time. a text-book for high schools, academies, and colleges. by s. s. randall, superintendent of public education in new york city. mo vol., pages. illustrated. price $ . . the author, for many years intimately connected with the management of our public schools, has written with _a full knowledge of what was needed_, and the result is a clear, compendious, and admirable digest of all the important events in the life of new york, down to the year . "this work contains so much valuable information that it should be found in every house in the state as a volume of reference. its value for use in educational institutions is of a very high character."--_northern budget_ (troy, n. y.) officially adopted by the boards of education in the cities of new york and brooklyn for use in the public schools, and also extensively used in private schools throughout the state. _in preparation._ =h. w. beecher's works.= uniform edition. this is a set of books long needed in the trade. it will include "norwood," "lectures to young men," "eyes and ears," "summer in the soul," the early "star papers," and other works, embracing some which are now out of print, and for which there is constant call. _a brilliant success!_ = , in six months.= rapid and continued sales!! volumes in one! agents wanted for the library of poetry and song, being choice selections from the best poets, _english, scotch, irish, american_, including translations from the german, spanish, etc. with an introduction by william cullen bryant. _in one superb large octavo volume of over pages, well printed, on fine paper, and illustrated with an admirable portrait on steel of =mr. bryant=, together with autographic fac-similes on wood of celebrated poets, besides other choice full-page engravings, by the best artists._ the handsomest and cheapest subscription book extant. a _library of over = = volumes in one book_, whose contents, of no ephemeral nature or interest, will never grow old or stale. it can be, and will be, read and re-read with pleasure as long as its leaves hold together. this book has been prepared with the aim of gathering into a single volume the largest practicable compilation of the best poems of the english language, making it as nearly as possible the choicest and most complete general collection of poetry yet published. the "library of poetry and song" is a volume destined to become one of the most popular books ever printed. it is truly a people's book. its contents would cost hundreds of dollars in the books whence they are gleaned, english and american; and, indeed, although one possessed the volumes, the reading of such vast numbers of pages would be a labor not readily undertaken by most people, even those who appreciate poetry. _=the new york times=_, a journal well known the country over for high literary excellence and correct taste, says: "this very handsome volume differs from all collections of 'elegant extracts,' parlor books, and the like, which we have seen, in being arranged according to an intelligible and comprehensive plan, in containing selections which nearly cover the entire historical period over which english poetry extents, and in embracing matter suited to every conceivable taste and every variety of feeling and culture. _we know of no similar collection in the english language which, in copiousness and felicity of selection and arrangement, can at all compare with it...._ the volume is a model of typographical clearness." _=the albany evening journal=_, one of the oldest papers and highest literary standards in the country, says: "it is undoubtedly 'the choicest and most complete general collection of poetry yet published.' is will be deemed sufficient proof of the judicious character of the selections, and of their excellence, that 'every poem has taken its place in the book only after passing the cultured criticism of mr. william cullen bryant,' whose portrait constitutes the fitting frontispiece of the volume. the work could have no higher endorsement. mr. bryant's introduction to the volume is a most beautiful and critical essay on poets and poetry, from the days of 'the father of english poetry' to the present time.... _no other selection we know of is as varied and complete as this_: and it must find its way into every library and household where poetry is read and appreciated." this book, supplying a real public need in an admirable manner, has constantly sold so fast that the publishers have had trouble to keep up their stock. it has won an _instant and permanent popularity_. _terms liberal._ agents all like it, and buyers are more than pleased with it. send for circular and terms to j. b. ford & co., publishers, park place, new york. the christian union is an unsectarian religious weekly, under the editorial management of henry ward beecher. this journal has had a very remarkable success, _in one year_ attaining a circulation surpassing that of any other religious weekly in the united states (one only excepted, and that one over twenty-two years old). _why is it?_ =because=, =first=, henry ward beecher is its editor, and his editorials, star papers, and occasional literary reviews and _lecture-room talks_ are sought for by thousands, while the auxiliary editorial labor is in the hands of cultivated journalists; _the contributors being representative men of all denominations_. =because=, =secondly=, its form, sixteen pages, large quarto, stitched and cut, is so convenient for reading, binding, and preservation, as to be a great and special merit in its favor. =because=, =thirdly=, _it is called "the most interesting religious paper published,"_ being quoted from by the press of the entire country more extensively than any other. the critical _nation_ (n. y.) says it is "not only the ablest and best, but also, as we suppose, the most popular of american religious periodicals. at all events it is safe to predict that it will soon have, if it has not already, greater influence than any other religious paper in the country." =because=, =fourthly=, _it has something for every member of the household_, admirable contributed and editorial articles, discussing all timely topics; fresh information on unhackneyed subjects; reliable news of the church and the world; market and financial reports; an agricultural department; excerpts of public opinion from the press; careful book reviews, with educational, literary, musical, and art notes; much matter of a high and pure religious tone; a household department; choice poems; household stories; and chat for the little ones. =because=, =fifthly=, all subscribers are entitled to =two superb oil chromos=, "wide awake" and "fast asleep," _a pair_--no cheap colored prints, but splendid copies of oil paintings, by an eminent english artist. the pair, by a fortunate arrangement which one of the partners of this house was able to make with the proprietors of the pictures in paris, during the late siege, are furnished to the publishers at a rate _entirely exceptional_. so that, although the selling price of them is (=$ =) _ten dollars_, at which price thousands have been sold in america, and still are selling and will be sold by the picture trade generally, the publishers of the christian union _give away_ the _two_ pictures, _of course unmounted_, to every subscriber to the paper. or, if preferred, subscribers will receive a fine impression of _marshall's household engraving of washington_, of which darley, the celebrated artist, says: "it is, _beyond all question the best head engraved in line yet produced in this country_, as well as the finest copy of stuart's portrait i have ever seen." terms: one year's subscription (including _unmounted_ chromos) $ do do (including chromos _mounted_ on cardboard, sized, varnished, and ready for framing), the christian union and plymouth pulpit, mailed for one year to one address (including chromos as above) for _canvassers allowed liberal commissions._ an old agent who knows, says: "i have never presented anything for sale that met with the approval of the entire reading community as nearly as does henry ward beecher's christian union. sorry i did not work for it sooner. think it _the best business for canvassers ever offered by any firm_, to my knowledge." j. b. ford & co., publishers, _ park place, new york city_. transcriber's notes: italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal signs=. obvious punctuation errors and minor printer errors repaired. inconsistent hyphenation retained as in original. every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible, including obsolete and variant spellings and other inconsistencies. audacia's last name spelled as both "dangyrereyes" and "dangereyes" in original text, left as is. p (noble type of the madonna and the venus di milo) changed to (noble type of the madonna and the venus de milo) book was produced from images made available by the hathitrust digital library.) +-------------------------------------------------+ |transcriber's note: | | | |obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | +-------------------------------------------------+ challenge by v. sackville-west [illustration: logo] george h. doran company publishers new york printed in great britain dedication acaba embeo sin tiro, men chuajaÑi; lirenas, berjaras tiri ochi busÑe, changeri, ta armensalle. epilogue a man and a woman leaned idly over the balustrade watching the steady stream of guests that mounted the magnificent staircase. the marble of the balustrade was cool beneath the woman's bare arms, for it was summer, and the man, without interrupting his murmur of comment and anecdote, glanced admiringly at her, and thought that, in spite of her forty years, she, with diamonds in her hair and the great ropes of pearls over her shoulders, need not fear comparison with all the beauty of london assembled at that ball. her beauty and dignity melted pleasantly, for him, into the wealth of the house, the lights, the abundance of flowers, and the distant orchestra. again the idea that this woman, for the asking, would decorate his own house with her presence, and would ornament his own distinguished name, played flatteringly through his mind. he reflected with gratification that it lay within his power to do her this honour. for, a vain man, he never questioned but that the favour would lie entirely on his side. he pointed out to her the famous general on the stairs, escorting his daughter; the new american beauty; the young man recently succeeded to fabulous estates; the indian prince who had turned the heads of half the women in london. skilful, she paid him the compliment of interest and amusement, letting it be understood that he was himself of far greater interest to her than the personages who served as pegs to his wit. as he paused once, she revived the conversation:-- 'there is a man i have never seen before; that tall, dark man. and the handsome woman with him--she must be his wife.' 'why must she be his wife?' he asked, amused. 'because i am sure she is the type of woman he would marry, stately and correct; am i not right?' 'you are quite right; she is his wife. he has been and still is a very successful man; an under-secretary at thirty-five, and in the cabinet before he was forty. many people think that he will be the next viceroy.' at that moment the man on the stairs looked up, and his eyes met those of the woman leaning on the balustrade above. 'what a wonderful face!' she exclaimed, startled, to her companion. 'wonderful--but he looks as though he had learnt all the sorrow of the world.--he looks--what shall i say?--so weary.' 'then he has no business to,' he answered with a smile. 'he has everything man can wish for: power, wealth, and, as you can see, an admirable wife. as usual, however, your perception is unerring: he's the most cynical fellow i ever came across. he believes in nothing--and is incidentally the only real philanthropist i know. his name is perfectly familiar to you. it is davenant.' 'oh,' she said, carried away by her interest, 'is that julian davenant? of course every one has heard of him. stay,' she added, searching in her memory, 'wasn't there some extraordinary story about him as a young man? some crazy adventure he engaged in? i don't remember exactly....' the man at her side began to laugh. 'there was indeed,' he replied; 'do you remember an absurd tiny republic named herakleion, which has since been absorbed by greece?' 'herakleion?' she murmured. 'why, i have been there in a yacht, i believe; a little greek port; but i didn't know it had ever been an independent republic?' 'dear me, yes,' he said, 'it was independent for about a hundred years, and julian davenant as a young man was concerned in some preposterous revolution in those parts; all his money comes, you know, from his vine-growing estates out there. i am a little vague myself as to what actually happened. he was very young at the time, not much more than a boy.' 'how romantic,' said the woman absently, as she watched julian davenant shaking hands with his hostess. 'very romantic, but we all start by being romantic until we have outgrown it, and any way, don't you think we are going, you and i, rather too much out of our way this evening to look for romance?' said the man, leaning confidentially a little nearer. * * * * * * but these two people have nothing to do with the story. part i--julian i on sunday, after the races were over, the diplomatic, indigenous, and cosmopolitan society of herakleion, by virtue of a custom they never sought to dispute, streamed through the turnstiles of the race-course to regain their carriages and to drive for an hour in the ilex avenue consecrated to that purpose outside the suburbs of the town. like the angels on jacob's ladder, the carriages went up one side and down the other, at a slow walk, the procession invariably headed by the barouche of the french legation, containing m. lafarge, chief of the mission, his beard spread fan-like over his frock-coat, but so disposed as to reveal the rosette in his button-hole, peeping with a coy red eye at the passing world; madame lafarge, sitting erect and bowing stiffly from her unassailable position as dictator to social herakleion; and, on the _strapontin_, julie lafarge, repressed, sallow-faced daughter of the emissaries of france. streaming after the barouche came mere humanity, some in victorias, some in open cabs, all going at a walk, and down the centre rode the young men of the place, and down the centre alexander christopoulos, who dared all and to whom all was forgiven, drove his light buggy and american trotter at a rattling pace and in a cloud of dust. the diplomatic carriages were distinguished by the presence of a chasseur on the box, though none so gorgeous as the huge scarlet-coated chasseur of the french legation. it was commonly said that the danish minister and his wife, who were poor, denied themselves food in order to maintain their carriage for the sunday drive. the rich greeks, on the other hand, from generation to generation, inherited the family brake, which was habitually driven by the head of the clan on the box, his wife beside him, and his sons and unmarried daughters sitting two by two, on the six remaining seats behind. there had been a rush of scandal when alexander christopoulos had appeared for the first time alone in his buggy, his seat in the family brake conspicuously empty. there remained, however, his four sisters, the virgins of herakleion, whose ages ranged from thirty-five to forty, and whose batteries were unfailingly directed against the latest arrival. the fifth sister had married a banker in frankfort, and was not often mentioned. there were, besides the brakes of the rich greeks, the wagonettes of the english davenants, who always had english coachmen, and frequently absented themselves from the sunday drive to remind herakleion that, although resident, they were neither diplomatic, indigenous, nor cosmopolitan, but unalterably english. they were too numerous and too influential to be disregarded, but when the name of davenant was mentioned in their absence, a murmur was certain to make itself heard, discreet, unvindictive, but none the less remorseless, 'ah yes, the english levantines.' sunshades were lowered in the ilex avenue, for the shadows of the ancient trees fell cool and heavy across the white dust. through the ilexes, the sea glimmered on a lower level, washing idly on the shore; vainly blue, for herakleion had no eyes for the sea. the sea was always there, always blue, just as mount mylassa was always there, behind the town, monotonous and immovable. the sea was made for the transport of merchandise and to provide man with fish. no one had ever discovered a purpose in mount mylassa. when the french barouche had reached the end of the avenue, it turned gravely in a wide circle and took its place at the head of the descending carriages. when it had reached its starting-point, the entrance to the avenue, it detached itself from the procession and continued on its way towards the town. the procession did not follow it. another turn up and down the avenue remained for the procession, and the laughter became perceptibly brighter, the smiles of greeting more cordial, with the removal of madame lafarge's influence. it was known that the barouche would pass the race-course at its former dignified walk, but that, once out of sight, madame lafarge would say, '_grigora_, vassili!' to the chasseur, that the horses would be urged into a shambling trot and that the ladies in the carriage would open their sunshades to keep off the glare of the sun which beat down from heaven and reverberated from the pavements and the white walls of the houses as they drove through the streets of the deserted town. deserted, for that part of the population which was not within doors strolled in the ilex avenue, looking at the carriages. a few lean dogs slept on door-steps where the shadow of the portico fell sharply dividing the step into a dark and a sunny half. the barouche rolled along the wide quay, where here and there the parapet was broken by a flight of steps descending to the water; passed the casino, white, with palms and cacti growing hideously in the forecourt; rolled across the square _platia_, where a group of men stood lounging within the cool and cavernous passage-way of the club. madame lafarge stopped the barouche. a young man detached himself from the group with a slightly bored and supercilious expression. he was tall beyond the ordinary run of frenchmen; had dark eyes under meeting eyebrows in an ivory face, and an immensely high, flat, white brow, from which the black wavy hair grew straight back, smoothed to the polish of a black greyhound. 'our persian miniature,' the fat american wife of the danish minister, called him, establishing herself as the wit of herakleion, where any one with sufficient presumption could establish him or herself in any chosen rôle. the young man had accepted the title languidly, but had taken care that it should not die forgotten. madame lafarge said to him in a tone which conveyed a command rather than proffered a favour, 'if you like, we can drive you to the legation.' she spoke in a booming voice that burst surprisingly out of the compression of a generously furnished bust. the young man, accepting the offer, seated himself beside julie on the _strapontin_ opposite his chief, who sat silent and majestically bearded. the immense chasseur stood stiffly by the side of the carriage, his eyes gazing unblinkingly across the _platia_, and the tips of his long drooping whiskers obscuring the braid of his scarlet collar. madame lafarge addressed herself to the group of men,-- 'i did not see you at the races?' her graciousness did not conceal the rebuke. she continued,-- 'i shall hope to welcome you presently at the legation.' with a bow worthy of theodora, whom she had once been told that she resembled, she gave the order to drive on. the loaded barouche, with the splendid red figure on the box, rolled away across the dazzling square. the french legation stood back behind a grille in the main street of the town, built of white stucco like the majority of the houses. inside, it was cool and dark, the venetian blinds were drawn, and the lighted candles in the sconces on the walls reflected pleasantly, and with a curious effect of freshening night, in the polished floors. gilt chairs were arranged in circles, and little tables stood about, glitteringly laden with tall tumblers and bottles of coloured sirops. madame lafarge surveyed these things as she had surveyed them every sunday evening since julie could remember. the young man danced attendance in his languid way. 'the chandeliers may be lighted,' her excellency said to the chasseur, who had followed. the three stood watching while the candles sprang into little spears of light under the touch of the taper, madame lafarge contrasting displeasedly the lemon sallowness of her daughter's complexion with the warm magnolia-like pallor of the secretary's face. the contrast caused her to speak sharply,-- 'julie, you had better go now and take off your hat.' when her submissive daughter had gone, she said,-- 'julie is looking ill. the summer does not suit her. but what is to be done? i cannot leave herakleion.' 'obviously,' murmured the secretary, 'herakleion would fall all to pieces. your sunday evenings,' he continued, 'the races ... your picnics....' 'impossible,' she cried with determination. 'one owes a duty to the country one represents, and i have always said that, whereas politics are the affairs of men, the woman's social obligation is no less urgent. it is a great career, armand, and to such a career one must be prepared to sacrifice one's personal convenience.' 'and one's health ... the health of one's children,' he added, looking down at his almond nails. 'if need be,' she replied with a sigh, and, fanning herself, repeated, 'if need be.' the rooms began to fill. a little middle-aged greek, his wrinkled saffron face curiously emphasised by the beautiful whiteness of his hair and moustaches, took his stand near madame lafarge, who in speaking to him looked down on the top of his head over the broad plateau of her bust. 'these cool rooms of yours,' he murmured, as he kissed her hand. 'one cannot believe in the heat of the sun outside.' he made this remark every other sunday. lafarge came up and took the little greek banker by the arm. 'i hear,' he said, 'that there is fresh trouble in the islands.' 'we can leave it to the davenants,' said christopoulos with an unpleasant smile. 'but that is exactly what i have always urged you not to do,' said the french minister, drawing the little greek into a corner. 'you know the proverbial reputation of the english: you do not see them coming, but they insinuate themselves until one day you open your eyes to the fact that they are there. you will be making a very great mistake, my dear friend, if you allow the davenants to settle disputes in the islands. have you forgotten that in the last generation a davenant caused himself to be elected president?' 'considering that they are virtually kings, i do not see that the nominal title of president can make a vast difference.' lafarge sent his eyes round the room and through the doorway into the room beyond; he saw the familiar, daily faces, and returned to the charge. 'you are pleased to be sarcastic, i know. nevertheless allow me to offer you my advice. it is not a question of kingship or presidency. it is a question of a complete break on the part of the islands. they are small, but their strategic value is self-evident. remember italy has her eye upon them.... the davenants are democrats, and have always preached liberty to the islanders. the davenant wealth supports them. can you calmly contemplate the existence of an independent archipelago a few miles from your shore?' a dull red crept under the banker's yellow skin, giving him a suffused appearance. 'you are very emphatic.' 'the occasion surely warrants emphasis.' the rooms were by now quite full. little centres of laughter had formed themselves, and were distinguishable. alexander christopoulos had once boasted that he could, merely by looking round a room and arguing from the juxtaposition of conversationalists, give a fairly accurate _résumé_ of what every one was saying. he also claimed to tell from the expression of the danish excellency whether she was or was not arriving primed with a new epigram. he was now at the side of the danish excellency, fat, fair, and foolish, but good-natured, and having a fund of veritable humanity which was lacking in most of her colleagues. the careful english of alexander reached his father's ears through the babel,-- 'the empress eugénie set the fashion of wearing _décolleté_ in the shape the water in your bath makes round your shoulders....' lafarge went on,-- 'the davenants are sly; they keep apart; they mix with us, but they do not mingle. they are like oil upon water. where is william davenant now, do you know?' 'he is just arriving,' said christopoulos. lafarge saw him then, bowing over his hostess's hand, polite, but with absent eyes that perpetually strayed from the person he was talking to. behind him came a tall, loose-limbed boy, untidy, graceful; he glanced at the various groups, and the women looked at him with interest. a single leap might carry him at any moment out of the room in which his presence seemed so incongruous. the tall mirrors on the walls sent back the reflection of the many candles, and in them the same spectral company came and went that moved and chattered in the rooms. 'at least he is not on the islands,' said christopoulos. 'after all,' said lafarge, with a sudden weariness, 'perhaps i am inclined to exaggerate the importance of the islands. it is difficult to keep a true sense of proportion. herakleion is a little place. one forgets that one is not at the centre of the world.' he could not have tracked his lassitude to its origin, but as his eyes rested again on the free, generous limbs of the davenant boy, he felt a slight revolt against the babble, the coloured sirops, and the artificially lighted rooms from which the sun was so carefully excluded. the yellow skin of little christopoulos gave him the appearance of a plant which has been deprived of light. his snowy hair, too, soft and billowy, looked as though it had been deliberately and consistently bleached. he murmured a gentle protest to the minister's words,-- 'surely not, dear excellency, surely you do not exaggerate the importance of the islands. we could not, as you say, tolerate the existence of an independent archipelago a few miles from our shores. do not allow my sarcasm to lead you into the belief that i underestimate either their importance, or the value, the compliment of your interest in the politics of our country. the friendship of france....' his voice died away into suave nothings. the french minister emerged with an effort from his mood of temporary discontent, endeavouring to recapture the habitual serenity of his life. 'and you will remember my hint about the davenants?' christopoulos looked again at william davenant, who, perfectly courteous but incorrigibly absent-minded, was still listening to madame lafarge. 'it is a scandal,' she was saying, resuming her conversation in the intervals of interruption occasioned by newly-arriving guests, 'a scandal that the museum should remain without a catalogue....' 'i will remember,' said christopoulos. 'i will tell alexander to distract that youth's attention; one davenant the less, you follow me, to give us any trouble.' 'pooh! a schoolboy,' interjected the minister. christopoulos pursed his lips and moved his snowy head portentously up and down. 'a schoolboy, but nevertheless he probably shares the enthusiasms of his age. the islands are sufficiently romantic to appeal to his imagination. remember, his grandfather ruled there for a year.' 'his grandfather? _un farceur!_' said lafarge. christopoulos assented, and the two men, smiling tolerantly, continued to look across at the unconscious boy though their minds were already occupied by other things. madame lafarge, catching sight of them, was annoyed by her husband's aloofness from the social aspect of her weekly reception. it pleased her--in fact, she exacted--that a certain political atmosphere should pervade any gathering in her drawing-rooms, but at the same time she resented a political interview which deprived, at once, her guests of a host and herself of a _cavalier servente_. she accordingly stared at christopoulos while continuing her conversation with william davenant, until the little greek became aware of her gaze, and crossed the room obediently to the unspoken summons. william davenant moved away in relief; he knew his duty to madame lafarge, but performed it wearily and without pleasure. it was now over for a month, he thought, deciding that he would not be expected to attend the three succeeding sundays. he paused beside his son, who had been captured by two of the sisters christopoulos and who, with two russian secretaries, was being forced to join in a round game. the sisters gave little shrieks and peals of laughter; it was their idea of merriment. they sat one on each side of julian davenant, on a small gilt sofa covered with imitation tapestry. near by, listening to the game with a gentle and languorous smile upon his lips, stood the persian minister, who understood very little french, his fine oriental figure buttoned into the traditional frock-coat, and a black lamb's-wool fez upon his head. he was not very popular in herakleion; he did not know enough french to amuse the women, so, as at present, he silently haunted the circles of the younger generation, with mingled humility and dignity. william davenant paused there for a moment, met his son's eyes with a gleam of sympathy, then passed on to pay his monthly duty to influence and fashion. the danish excellency whispered behind her fan to alexander christopoulos as he passed, and the young man screwed in his eyeglass to examine the retreating back of the englishman. the red-coated chasseur came round, gravely offering sandwiches on a tray. 'uneatable,' said alexander christopoulos, taking one and hiding it beneath his chair. the courage of the young man! the insolence! 'julie will see you,' giggled the danish excellency. 'and what if she does?' he retorted. 'you have no respect, no veneration,' she chided him. 'for _maman_ lafarge? _la bonne bourgeoise!_' he exclaimed, but not very loudly. 'alexander!' she said, but her tone said, 'i adore you.' 'one must be something,' the young christopoulos had once told himself; 'i will be insolent and contemptuous; i will impose myself upon herakleion; my surroundings shall accept me with admiration and without protest.' he consequently went to oxford, affected to speak greek with difficulty, interlarded his english with american slang, instituted a polo club, and drove an american trotter. he was entirely successful. unlike many a greater man, he had achieved his ambition. he knew, moreover, that madame lafarge would give him her daughter for the asking. 'shall i make julie sing?' he said suddenly to the danish excellency, searching among the moving groups for the victim of this classic joke of herakleion. 'alexander, you are too cruel,' she murmured. he was flattered; he felt himself an irresistible autocrat and breaker of hearts. he tolerated the danish excellency, as he had often said in the club, because she had no other thought than of him. she, on the other hand, boasted in her fat, good-humoured way to her intimates,-- 'i may be a fool, but no woman is completely a fool who has realised the depths of man's vanity.' julie lafarge, who was always given to understand that one day she would marry the insolent alexander, was too efficiently repressed to be jealous of the danish excellency. under the mischievous influence of her friend, eve davenant, she would occasionally make an attempt to attract the young man; a pitiable, grotesque attempt, prompted by the desire to compel his homage, to hear herself called beautiful--which she was not. so far she did not delude herself that she had succeeded, but she did delude herself that it gave him pleasure to hear her sing. she stood now beside a little table, dispensing sirops in tall tumblers, very sallow in her white muslin, with a locket on a short gold chain hanging between the bones of her neck. her very thin brown arms, which were covered with small black hairs, protruded ungracefully from the short sleeves of her dress. alexander presented himself before her; she had seen him coming in one of the mirrors on the walls. madame lafarge cherished an affection for these mirrors, because thanks to them her drawing-rooms always appeared twice as crowded as they really were. alexander uttered his request in a tone at once beseeching and compelling; she thought him irresistible. nevertheless, she protested: there were too many people present, her singing would interrupt all conversation, her mother would be annoyed. but those standing near by seconded alexander, and madame lafarge herself bore down majestically upon her daughter, so that all protest was at an end. julie stood beside the open piano with her hands loosely folded in a rehearsed and approved attitude while the room disposed itself to listen, and alexander, who was to accompany her, let his fingers roam negligently over the keyboard. chairs were turned to face the piano, people drifted in from the farther drawing-room, young men leaned in the doorways and against the walls. lafarge folded his arms across his chest, freeing his imprisoned beard by an upward movement of his chin, and smiled encouragingly and benignly at his daughter. speech dropped into whispers, whispers into silence. alexander struck a few preliminary chords. julie sang; she sang, quite execrably, romantic german music, and out of the roomful of people only three, herself, her father, and her mother, thought that she sang well. despite this fact she was loudly applauded, congratulated, and pressed for more. julian davenant, taking advantage of the diversion to escape from the sisters christopoulos, slipped away to one of the window recesses where he could partly conceal himself behind the stiff, brocaded curtain. horizontal strings of sunlight barred the venetian blind, and by peeping between its joints he could see the tops of the palms in the legation forecourt, the iron grille which gave on to the main street, and a victoria standing near the grille, in the shade, the horse covered over with a flimsy, dust-coloured sheet, and the driver asleep inside the carriage, a fly-whisk drooping limply in his hand. he could hear the shrill squeaking of the tram as it came round the corner, and the clang of its bell. he knew that the sea lay blue beyond the white town, and that, out in the sea, lay the islands, where the little grapes were spread, drying into currants, in the sun. he returned to the darkened, candle-lit room, where julie lafarge was singing 'im wunderschönen monat mai.' looking across the room to the door which opened on to the landing at the top of the stairs, he saw a little stir of arrival, which was suppressed in order to avoid any interruption to the music. he distinguished the new-comer, a short, broad, middle-aged woman, out of breath after mounting the stairs, curiously draped in soft copper-coloured garments, with gold bangles on her bare arms, and a wreath of gold leaves round her dark head. he knew this woman, a singer. he neither liked nor disliked her, but had always thought of her as possessing a strangely classical quality, all the stranger because of her squat, almost grotesque ugliness; although not a dwarf, her great breadth gave her the appearance of one; but at the same time she was for him the embodiment of the wealth of the country, a kind of demeter of the islands, though he thought of demeter as having corn-coloured hair, like the crops over which she presided, and this woman had blue-black hair, like the purple of the grapes that grew on the islands. he had often heard her sing, and hoped now that she was arriving in her professional capacity, which seemed probable, both from her dress, and from the unlikelihood that she, a singer and a woman of the native people, would enter madame lafarge's house as a guest, renowned though she was, and fêted, in the capitals of europe. he saw lafarge tiptoe out to receive her, saw madame lafarge follow, and noted the faintly patronising manner of the minister's wife in shaking hands with the artist. applause broke out as julie finished her song. the greek singer was brought forward into the room amid a general movement and redistribution of groups. alexander christopoulos relinquished his place at the piano, and joined the davenant boy by the window. he appeared bored and languid. 'it is really painful ... as well listen to a macaw singing,' he said. 'you are not musical, are you, julian? you can scarcely imagine what i endured. have you heard this woman, kato?' julian said that he had. 'quite uneducated,' christopoulos said loftily. 'any woman in the fields sings as well. it was new to paris, and paris raved. you and i, my dear julian, have heard the same thing a hundred times. shall we escape?' 'i must wait for my father,' said julian, who detested his present companion; 'he and i are going to dine with my uncle.' 'so am i,' christopoulos answered, and, leaning over to the english boy, he began to speak in a confidential voice. 'you know, my dear julian, in this society of ours your father is not trusted. but, after all, what is this society? _un tas de rastas._ do you think i shall remain here long? not i. _je me fiche des balcans._ and you? are you going to bury yourself on those islands of yours, growing grapes, ripening olives? what? that satisfied the old generations. what have i to do with a banking house in herakleion, you with a few vineyards near the coast? i shall marry, and spend the rest of my life in paris.' 'you're ambitious to-day,' julian said mildly. 'ambitious! shall i tell you why? yesterday was my twenty-fifth birthday. i've done with herakleion....' 'conquered it, you mean,' said julian, 'squeezed it dry.' the other glanced at him suspiciously. 'are you laughing at me? confound your quiet manner, julian, i believe my family is right to mistrust your family. very well, then: conquered it. believe me, it isn't worth conquering. don't waste your youth on your vineyards, but come with me. let the islands go. they are always in trouble, and the trouble is getting more acute. they are untidy specks on the map. don't you hear the call of paris and the world?' julian, looking at him, and seeing the laughable intrigue, was mercifully saved from replying, for at that moment madame kato began to sing. she sang without accompaniment, songs of the people, in a curiously guttural voice with an occasionally nasal note, songs no different from those sung in the streets or, as christopoulos had said, in the fields, different only in that, to this peasant music, half melancholy, half emotional, its cadence born of physical labour, she brought the genius of a great artist. as she stood there, singing, julian reflected that her song emphasised the something classical, something massive, something monumental, about her, which overshadowed what might have been slightly grotesque in her appearance. she was, indeed, a demeter of the vineyards. she should have stood singing in the sun, not beneath the pale mockery of the candles. 'entirely uneducated,' christopoulos said again, shifting his shoulders as he leaned against the wall. 'that is why paris liked her: as a contrast. she was clever enough to know that. contrasts are always artistically effective.' he went off, pleased, to repeat his facile epigram to the danish excellency. madame lafarge was looking round to see whether the audience had approved of the innovation. the audience was waiting to hear the expression of an opinion which it might safely follow. presently the word, 'uneducated' was on every lip. julian remained at the window, chained there by his natural reserve and shyness; he looked up at the lighted chandeliers, and down at their reflection in the floors; he saw the faces of people turned towards him, and the back of their heads in the mirrors; he saw armand, the french secretary, with the face of a persian prince, offering red sirop to madame kato. he wished to go and speak to her, but his feet would not carry him forward. he felt himself apart from the talk and the easy laughter. presently mlle lafarge, seeing him there alone, came to him with her awkward and rather touching grace as a hostess. 'you know, i suppose,' she said to him, 'that madame kato is a friend of eve's? will you not come and speak to her?' released, he came. the singer was drinking her red sirop by the piano. the persian minister in the black fez was standing near, smiling gently at her with his usual mournful smile. 'you will not remember me, julian davenant,' the boy said in a low, shy voice. he spoke in greek involuntarily, feeling that french would be an outrage in the presence of this so splendidly hellenic woman. armand had moved away, and they stood isolated, caressed by the vague smile of the persian minister. kato set down her glass of red sirop on the top of the piano. she leaned against the piano talking to the english boy, her arms akimbo, as a peasant woman might lean in the doorway of her house gossiping in the cool of the evening, her little eyes keen and eager. the muscles of her arms and of her magnificent neck curved generously beneath her copper draperies, mocking the flimsy substance, and crying out for the labour of the vineyards. her speech was tinged with the faint accent of the islands, soft and slurring. it was more familiar to julian davenant than the harsher greek of the town, for it was the speech of the women who had brought him up as a child, women of the islands, his nurses in his father's big house in the _platia_ of herakleion. it murmured to him now in the rich voice of the singer beneath the chandelier. 'eve; i have not seen her yet. you must tell her that i have returned and that she must come to my concert on wednesday. tell her that i will sing one song for her, but that all the other songs must be for my audience. i have brought back a new repertoire from munich, which will please herakleion better, i hope, than the common music it despises.' she laughed a little. 'it has taken me thirty years to discover that mankind at large despises the art of its own country. only the exotic catches the ear of fashion. but eve has told me that you do not care for music?' 'i like your music,' he said. 'i will tell you why: because you are musically uneducated.' he looked at her; she was smiling. he wondered whether she had overheard a whisper in the humming room. 'i speak without sarcasm,' she added; 'i envy you your early ignorance. in fact, i believe i have uttered a paradox, and that the words education and music are incompatible. music is the emotional art, and where education steps in at the door emotion flies out at the window. we should keep education for literature, painting, architecture, and sculpture. music is the medium to which we turn when these more intellectual mediums fail us.' julian listened with only half his brain. this peasant, this artist, spoke to him with the superficial ease of drawing-rooms; she employed words that matched ill with her appearance and with the accent of her speech. the native songs were right upon her lips, as the names of architecture and sculpture were wrong. he was offended in his sensitiveness. demeter in analysis of the arts! she was watching him. 'ah, my young friend,' she said, 'you do not understand. i spoke to you as the cousin of eve, who is a child, but who always understands. she is purely sentient, emotional.' he protested,-- 'i have always thought of eve as exceptionally sophisticated.' kato said,-- 'you are right. we are both right. eve is childlike in many ways, but she is also wise beyond her years. she will grow, believe me, into a woman of exceptional attraction, and to such women existence is packed with danger. it is one of providence's rare pieces of justice that they should be provided with a natural weapon of self-defence. to a lion his claws,' she said, smiling, 'and to the womanly woman the gift of penetration. tell me, are you fond of eve?' julian was surprised. he replied, naïf again and like a schoolboy,-- 'she's my cousin. i haven't thought much about her. she's only a child. i haven't seen her yet either. i arrived from england this morning.' they were more than ever isolated from the rest of the room. madame lafarge, talking to don rodrigo valdez, the spanish minister, who had a birdlike head above his immensely high white collar, glanced now and then resentfully at the singer, but otherwise the room was indifferent. the sunlight between the cracks of the venetian blinds had grown fainter, and the many candles were coming into their own. a few people had already taken their leave. an excited group of men had gathered round little christopoulos, and the words 'local politics' shrieked from every gesture. 'i shall not be expected to sing again,' said kato with a slight return to her ironical manner. 'will you not come with eve to my concert on wednesday? or, better, will you come to my house on wednesday evening after the concert? i shall be alone, and i should like to talk to you.' 'to me?' broke from him, independently of his will. 'remember,' she said, 'i am from the islands. that is my country, and when my country is in trouble i am not indifferent. you are very young, mr davenant, and you are not very often in herakleion, but your future, when you have done with oxford and with england'--she made a large gesture--'lies in the islands. you will hear a great deal about them; a little of this i should like you to hear from me. will you come?' the patriot beneath the artist! he would come, flattered, important; courted, at his nineteen years, by a singer of european reputation. popularity was to him a new experience. he expanded beneath its warmth. 'i will come to the concert first with eve.' william davenant, in search of his son, and light-hearted in his relief at the end of the monthly duty, was bowing to madame kato, whom he knew both as a singer and as a figure of some importance in the troubled politics of the tiny state. they had, in their lives, spent many an hour in confabulation, when his absent-minded manner left the man, and her acquired polish the woman. he deferred to her as a controlling agent in practical affairs, spoke of her to his brother with admiration. 'a remarkable woman, robert, a true patriot; sexless, i believe, so far as her patriotism lies. malteios, you say? well, i know; but, believe me, she uses him merely as a means to her end. not a sexless means? damn it, one picks up what weapons come to one's hand. she hasn't a thought for him, only for her wretched country. she is a force, i tell you, to be reckoned with. forget her sex! surely that is easy, with a woman who looks like a toad. you make the mistake of ignoring the people when it is with the people that you have to deal. hear them speak about her: she is an inspiration, a local joan of arc. she works for them in paris, in berlin, and in london; she uses her sex, for them and for them alone. all her life is dedicated to them. she gives them her voice, and her genius.' madame kato did not know that he said these things about her behind her back. had she known, she would have been surprised neither at the opinions he expressed nor at the perception which enabled him to express them, for she had seen in him a shrewd, deliberate intellect that spoke little, listened gravely, and settled soberly down at length upon a much tested and corroborated opinion. madame lafarge, and the women to whom he paid his courtly, rather pompous duty in public, thought him dull and heavy, a true englishman. the men mistrusted him in company with his brother robert, silence, in the south, breeding mistrust as does volubility in the north. the rooms were emptier now, and the candles, burning lower, showed long icicles of wax that overflowed on to the glass of the chandeliers. the tall tumblers had been set down, here and there, containing the dregs of the coloured sirops. madame lafarge looked hot and weary, drained of her early sunday energy, and listening absently to the parting compliments of christopoulos. from the other room, however, still came the laughter of the christopoulos sisters, who were winding up their round game. 'come, julian,' said william davenant, after he had spoken and made his farewells to madame kato. together they went down the stairs and out into the forecourt, where the hotter air of the day greeted them after the coolness of the house, though the heat was no longer that of the sun, but the closer, less glaring heat of the atmosphere absorbed during the grilling hours of the afternoon. the splendid chasseur handed them their hats, and they left the legation and walked slowly down the crowded main street of the town. ii the town house of the davenants stood in the _platia_, at right angles to the club. on the death of old mr davenant--'president davenant,' as he was nicknamed--the town and the country properties had been divided between the two inheriting brothers; herakleion said that the brothers had drawn lots for the country house, but in point of fact the matter had been settled by amicable arrangement. william davenant, the elder of the brothers, widowed, with an only son away for three-quarters of the year at school in england, was more conveniently installed in the town, within five minutes reach of the central office, than robert, who, with a wife and a little girl, preferred the distance of his country house and big garden. the two establishments, as time went on, became practically interchangeable. the rue royale--herakleion was so cosmopolitan as to give to its principal thoroughfare a french name--was at this hour crowded with the population that, imprisoned all day behind closed shutters, sought in the evening what freshness it could find in the cobbled streets between the stucco houses. the street life of the town began between five and six, and the davenants, father and son, were jostled as they walked slowly along the pavements, picking their way amongst the small green tables set outside the numerous cafés. at these tables sat the heterogenous elements that composed the summer population of the place, men of every nationality: old gamblers too disreputable for monte carlo; young levantines, natives, drinking absinthe; turks in their red fezzes; a few rakish south americans. the trams screamed discordantly in their iron grooves, and the bells of the cinema tinkled unceasingly. between the tramlines and the kerb dawdled the hired victorias, few empty at this time of day, but crowded with families of levantines, the men in straw hats, the women for the most part in hot black, very stout, and constantly fanning their heavily powdered faces. now and then a chasseur from some diplomatic house passed rapidly in a flaming livery. mr davenant talked to his son as they made their way along. 'how terrible those parties are. i often wish i could dissociate myself altogether from that life, and god knows that i go merely to hear what people are saying. they know it, and of course they will never forgive me. julian, in order to conciliate herakleion, you will have to marry a greek.' 'alexander christopoulos attacked me to-day,' julian said. 'wanted me to go to paris with him and see the world.' he did not note in his own mind that he refrained from saying that madame kato had also, so to speak, attacked him on the dangerous subject of the islands. they turned now, having reached the end of the rue royale, into the _platia_, where the cavernous archway of the club stained the white front of the houses with a mouth of black. the houses of the _platia_ were large, the hereditary residences of the local greek families. the christopoulos house stood next to the club, and next to that was the house of the premier, his excellency platon malteios, and next to that the italian consulate, with the arms of italy on a painted hatchment over the door. the centre of the square was empty, cobbled in an elaborate pattern which gave the effect of a tessellated pavement; on the fourth side of the square were no houses, for here lay the wide quay which stretched right along above the sea from one end of the town to the other. the davenant house faced the sea, and from the balcony of his bedroom on the second floor julian could see the islands, yellow with little white houses on them; in the absolute stillness and limpidity of the air he could count the windows on aphros, the biggest island, and the terraces on the slope of the hills. the first time he had arrived from school in england he had run up to his bedroom, out on to the balcony, to look across the _platia_ with its many gaudily striped sunblinds, at the blue sea and the little yellow stains a few miles out from the shore. at the door of the davenant house stood two horses ready saddled in the charge of the door-keeper, fat aristotle, an islander, who wore the short bolero and pleated fustanelle, like a kilt, of his country. the door-keepers of the other houses had gathered round him, but as mr davenant came up they separated respectfully and melted away to their individual charges. the way lay along the quays and down the now abandoned ilex avenue. the horses' hoofs padded softly in the thick dust. the road gleamed palely beneath the thick shadows of the trees, and the water, seen between the ancient trunks, was almost purple. the sun was gone, and only the last bars of the sunset lingered in the sky. at the tip of the pier of herakleion twinkled already the single light of phosphorescent green that daily, at sunset, shone out, to reflect irregularly in the water. they passed out of the avenue into the open country, the road still skirting the sea on their left, while on their right lay the strip of flat country crowded in between mount mylassa and the sea, carefully cultivated by the labourers of the davenants, where the grapes hung on the festooned branches looped from pole to pole. william davenant observed them critically, thinking to himself, 'a good harvest.' julian davenant, fresh from an english county, saw as with a new eye their beauty and their luxuriance. he rode loosely in the saddle, his long legs dangling, indisputably english, though born in one of the big painted rooms overlooking the _platia_ of herakleion, and reared in the country until the age of ten. he had always heard the vintage discussed since he could remember. he knew that his family for three generations had been the wealthiest in the little state, wealthier than the greek banking-houses, and he knew that no move of the local politics was entirely free from the influence of his relations. his grandfather, indeed, having been refused a concession he wanted from the government, had roused his islands to a declaration of independence under his own presidency--a state of affairs which, preposterous as it was, had profoundly alarmed the motley band that made up the cabinet in herakleion. what had been done once, could be repeated.... granted his concession, julian's grandfather had peaceably laid down the dignity of his new office, but who could say that his sons might not repeat the experiment? these things had been always in the boy's scheme of life. he had not pondered them very deeply. he supposed that one day he would inherit his father's share in the concern, and would become one of the heads of the immense family which had spread like water over various districts of the mediterranean coasts. besides the davenants of herakleion, there were davenants at smyrna, davenants at salonica, davenants at constantinople. colonies of davenants. it was said that the levant numbered about sixty families of davenants. julian was not acquainted with them all. he did not even know in what degree of relationship they stood to him. every time that he passed through london on his way to school, or, now, to oxford, he was expected to visit his great-uncle, sir henry, who lived in an immense house in belgrave square, and had a business room downstairs where julian was interviewed before luncheon. in this room hung framed plans of the various davenant estates, and julian, as he stood waiting for sir henry, would study the plan of herakleion, tracing with his finger the line of the quays, the indent of the _platia_, the green of the race-course, the square which indicated the country house; in a corner of this plan were the islands, drawn each in separate detail. he became absorbed, and did not notice the entrance of sir henry till the old man's hand fell on his shoulder. 'ha! looking at the plan, are you? familiar to you, what? so it is familiar to me, my boy. never been there, you know. yet i know it. i know my way about. know it as though i had seen it.' he didn't really know it, julian thought--he didn't feel the sun hot on his hands, or see the dazzling, flapping sunblinds, or the advertisements written up in greek characters in the streets. sir henry went on with his sermon. 'you don't belong there, boy; don't you ever forget that. you belong here. you're english. bend the riches of that country to your own purpose, that's all right, but don't identify yourself with it. impose yourself. make 'em adopt your methods. that's the strength of english colonisation.' the old man, who was gouty, and leaned his hands on the top of a stick, clapped the back of one hand with the palm of the other and blew out his lips, looking at his great-nephew. 'yes, yes, remember that. impose yourself. on my soul, you're a well-grown boy. what are you? nineteen? great overgrown colt. get your hair cut. foreign ways; don't approve of that. big hands you've got; broad shoulders. loosely put together. hope you're not slack. can you ride?' 'i ride all day out there,' said julian softly, a little bewildered. 'well, well. come to luncheon. keep a head on your shoulders. your grandfather lost his once; very foolish man. wonder he didn't lose it altogether. president indeed! stuff and nonsense. not practical, sir, not practical.' sir henry blew very hard. 'let's have no such rubbish from you, boy. what'll you drink? here, i'll give you the best: herakleion, . best year we ever had. hope you appreciate good wine; you're a wine-merchant, you know.' he cackled loudly at his joke. julian drank the wine that had ripened on the slopes of mount mylassa, or possibly on the islands, and wished that the old man had not so blatantly called him a wine-merchant. he liked sir henry, although after leaving him he always had the sensation of having been buffeted by spasmodic gusts of wind. he was thinking about sir henry now as he rode along, and pitying the old man to whom those swags of fruit meant only a dusty bottle, a red or a blue seal, and a date stamped in gold numerals on a black label. the light was extraordinarily tender, and the air seemed almost tangible with the heavy, honeyed warmth that hung over the road. julian took off his gray felt hat and hung it on the high peak of his saddle. they passed through a little village, which was no more than a score of tumbledown houses sown carelessly on each side of the road; here, as in the rue royale, the peasants sat drinking at round tables outside the café to the harsh music of a gramophone, with applause and noisy laughter. near by, half a dozen men were playing at bowls. when they saw mr davenant, they came forward in a body and laid eager hands on the neck of his horse. he reined up. julian heard the tumult of words: some one had been arrested, it was vassili's brother. vassili, he knew, was the big chasseur at the french legation. he heard his father soothing, promising he would look into the matter; he would, if need be, see the premier on the morrow. a woman flung herself out of the café and clasped julian by the knee. they had taken her lover. would he, julian, who was young, be merciful? would he urge his father's interference? he promised also what was required of him, feeling a strange thrill of emotion and excitement. ten days ago he had been at oxford, and here, to-day, kato had spoken to him as to a grown man, and here in the dusk a sobbing woman was clinging about his knee. this was a place in which anything, fantastic or preposterous, might come to pass. as they rode on, side by side, his father spoke, thinking aloud. an absent-minded man, he gave his confidence solely in this, so to speak, unintentional manner. long periods, extending sometimes over months, during which his mind lay fallow, had as their upshot an outbreak of this audible self-communion. julian had inherited the trait; his mind progressed, not regularly, but by alternate stagnation and a forward bound. 'the mistake that we have made lies in the importation of whole families of islanders to the mainland. the islands have always considered themselves as a thing apart, as, indeed, historically, they always were. a hundred years is not sufficient to make them an intrinsic part of the state of herakleion. i cannot wonder that the authorities here dislike us. we have introduced a discontented population from the islands to spread sedition among the hitherto contented population of the mainland. if we were wise, we should ship the whole lot back to the islands they came from. now, a man is arrested on the islands by the authorities, and what happens? he is the brother of vassili, an islander living in herakleion. vassili spreads the news, it flies up and down the town, and out into the country. it has greeted us out here already. in every café of the town at this moment the islanders are gathered together, muttering; some will get drunk, perhaps, and the municipal police will intervene; from a drunken row the affair will become political; some one will raise the cry of "liberty!", heads will be broken, and to-morrow a score of islanders will be in jail. they will attribute their imprisonment to the general hostility to their nationality, rather than to the insignificant brawl. vassili will come to me in herakleion to-morrow. will i exercise my influence with malteios to get his brother released? i shall go, perhaps, to malteios, who will listen to me suavely, evasively.... it has all happened a hundred times before. i say, we ought to ship the whole lot back to where they came from.' 'i suppose they are really treated with unfairness?' julian said, more speculation than interest in his tone. 'i suppose a great many people would think so. the authorities are certainly severe, but they are constantly provoked. and, you know, your uncle and i make it up to the islanders in a number of private ways. ninety per cent. of the men on the islands are employed by us, and it pays us to keep them devoted to us by more material bonds than mere sentiment; also it alleviates their discontent, and so obviates much friction with herakleion.' 'but of course,' said julian quickly, 'you don't allow malteios to suspect this?' 'my dear boy! what do you suppose? malteios is president of herakleion. of course, we don't mention such things. but he knows it all very well, and winks at it--perforce. our understanding with malteios is entirely satisfactory, entirely. he is on very wholesome terms of friendly respect to us.' julian rarely pronounced himself; he did so now. 'if i were an islander--that is, one of a subject race--i don't think i should be very well content to forgo my liberty in exchange for underhand compensation from an employer whose tactics it suited to conciliate my natural dissatisfaction.' 'what a ridiculous phrase. and what ridiculous sentiments you occasionally give vent to. no, no, the present arrangement is as satisfactory as we can hope to make it, always excepting that one flaw, that we ought not to allow islanders in large numbers to live upon the mainland.' they turned in between the two white lodges of the country house, and rode up the drive between the tall, pungent, untidy trees of eucalyptus. the house, one-storied, low, and covered with wistaria and bougainvillea, glimmered white in the uncertain light. the shutters were flung back and the open windows gaped, oblong and black, at regular intervals on the upper floor. on the ground level, a broad veranda stretched right along the front of the house, and high french windows, opening on to this, yellow with light, gave access to the downstairs rooms. 'holà!' mr davenant called in a loud voice. 'malista, kyrie,' a man's voice answered, and a servant in the white fustanelle of the islands, with black puttees wound round his legs, and red shoes with turned-up toes and enormous rosettes on the tip, came running to hold the horses. 'they have taken vassili's brother, kyrie,' he said as mr davenant gave him the reins. julian was already in the drawing-room, among the chintz-covered sofas, loaded little tables, and ubiquitous gilt chairs. four fat columns, painted to represent lapis-lazuli, divided the room into two halves, and from their corinthian capitals issued flames made of red tinsel and painted gray smoke, which dispersed itself realistically over the ceiling. he stood in the window, absently looking out into the garden across the veranda, where the dinner table was laid for six. pots of oleander and agapanthus stood along the edge of the veranda, between the fat white columns, with gaps between them through which one might pass out into the garden, and beyond them in the garden proper the fruit gleamed on the lemon-trees, and, somewhere, the sea whispered in the dusk. the night was calm and hot with the serenity of established summer weather, the stars big and steady like sequins in the summer sky. the spirit of such serenity does not brood over england, where to-day's pretence of summer will be broken by the fresh laughter of to-morrow's shower. the rose must fall to pieces in the height of its beauty beneath the fingers of sudden and capricious storm. but here the lemons hung, swollen and heavily pendulous, among the metallic green of their leaves, awaiting the accomplished end of their existence, the deepening of their gold, the fuller curve of their ripened luxuriance, with the complacency of certainty; fruit, not for the whim of the elements, but progressing throughout the year steadfastly towards the hand and the basket of the picker. here and there the overburdened stem would snap, and the oblong ball of greenish-gold would fall with a soft and melancholy thud, like a sigh of regret, upon the ground beneath the tree; would roll a little way, and then be still. the little grove stretched in ordered lines and spaces, from the veranda, where the windows of the house threw rectangles of yellow light on to the ground in the blackness, to the bottom of the garden, where the sea washed indolently against the rocks. presently he would see eve, his eyes would meet her mocking eyes, and they would smile at one another out of the depths of their immemorial friendship. she was familiar to him, so familiar that he could not remember the time when, difficult, intractable, exasperating, subtle, incomprehensible, she had not formed part of his life. she was as familiar to him as the house in the _platia_, with its big, empty drawing-room, the walls frescoed with swinging monkeys, broken columns, and a romantic land and seascape; as the talk about the vintage; as the preposterous politics, always changing, yet always, monotonously, nauseatingly, pettishly, the same. she was not part of his life in england, the prosaic life; she was part of his life on the greek seaboard, unreal and fantastic, where the most improbable happenings came along with an air of ingenuousness, romance walking in the garments of every day. after a week in herakleion he could not disentangle the real from the unreal. it was the more baffling because those around him, older and wiser than he, appeared to take the situation for granted and to treat it with a seriousness that sometimes led him, when, forgetful, he was off his guard, to believe that the country was a real country and that its statesmen, platon malteios, gregori stavridis, and the rest, were real statesmen working soberly towards a definite end. that its riots were revolutions; that its factions were political parties; that its discordant, abusive, wrangling chamber was indeed a senate. that its four hundred stout soldiers, who periodically paraded the _platia_ under the command of a general in a uniform designed by a theatrical costumier in buda-pesth, were indeed an army. that the _platia_ itself was a forum. that the society was brilliant; that its liaisons had the dignity of great passions. that his aunt, who talked weightily and contradicted every one, including herself--the only person who ever ventured to do such a thing--was indeed a political figure, an egeria among the men in whose hands lay the direction of affairs. in his more forgetful moments, he was tempted to believe these things, when he saw his father and his uncle robert, both unbending, incisive, hard-headed business men, believing them. as a rule, preserving his nice sense of perspective, he saw them as a setting to eve. he was beginning to adjust himself again to the life which faded with so extraordinary a rapidity as the express or the steamer bore him away, three times a year, to england. it faded always then like a photographic proof when exposed to the light. the political jargon was the first to go--he knew the sequence--'civil war,' 'independent archipelago,' 'overthrow of the cabinet,' 'a threat to the malteios party,' 'intrigues of the stavridists,' the well-known phrases that, through sheer force of reiteration, he accepted without analysis; then, after the political jargon, the familiar figures that he saw almost daily, sharp, his father's chief clerk; aristotle, the door-keeper, his tussore fustanelle hanging magisterially from the rotundity of his portentous figure; madame lafarge, erect, and upholstered like a sofa, driving in her barouche; the young men at the club, languid and insolent and licentious; then, after the familiar figures, the familiar scenes; and lastly eve herself, till he could no longer recall the drowsy tones of her voice, or evoke her eyes, that, though alive with malice and mockery, were yet charged with a mystery to which he could give no name. he was sad when these things began to fade. he clung on to them, because they were dear, but they slipped through his fingers like running water. their evanescence served only to convince him the more of their unreality. then, england, immutable, sagacious, balanced; oxford, venerable and self-confident, turning the young men of the nation as by machinery out of her mould. law-abiding england, where men worked their way upwards, attaining power and honour in the ripeness of years. london, where the houses were of stone. where was herakleion, stucco-built and tawdry, city of perpetually-clanging bells, revolutions, and prime ministers made and unmade in a day? herakleion of the yellow islands, washed by too blue a sea. where? eve had never been to england, nor could he see any place in england for her. she should continue to live as she had always lived, among the vines and the magnolias, attended by a fat old woman who, though english, had spent so many years of her life in herakleion that her english speech was oddly tainted by the southern lisp of the native greek she had never been able to master; old nana, who had lost the familiarity of one tongue without acquiring that of another; the ideal duenna for eve. then with a light step across the veranda a young greek priest came into the room by one of the french windows, blinking and smiling in the light, dressed in a long black soutane and black cap, his red hair rolled up into a knob at the back of his head according to the fashion of his church. he tripped sometimes over his soutane as he walked, muscular and masculine inside that feminine garment, and when he did this he would gather it up impatiently with a hand on which grew a pelt of wiry red hairs. father paul had instituted himself as a kind of private chaplain to the davenants. eve encouraged him because she thought him picturesque. mrs robert davenant found him invaluable as a lieutenant in her campaign of control over the peasants and villagers, over whom she exercised a despotic if benevolent authority. he was therefore free to come and go as he pleased. the population, julian thought, was flowing back into his recovered world. england and oxford were put aside; not forgotten, not indistinct, not faded like herakleion was wont to fade, but merely put aside, laid away like winter garments in summer weather. he was once more in the kingdom of stucco and adventure. eve was coming back to him, with her strange shadowy eyes and red mouth, and her frivolity beneath which lay some force which was not frivolous. there were women who were primarily pretty; women who were primarily motherly; women who, like mrs robert davenant, were primarily efficient, commanding, successful, metallic; women who, like kato, were consumed by a flame of purpose which broke, hot and scorching, from their speech and burned relentlessly in their eyes; women who were primarily vain and trifling; he found he could crowd eve into no such category. he recalled her, spoilt, exquisite, witty, mettlesome, elusive, tantalising; detached from such practical considerations as punctuality, convenience, reliability. a creature that, from the age of three, had exacted homage and protection.... he heard her indolent voice behind him in the room, and turned expectantly for their meeting. iii it was, however, during his first visit to the singer's flat that he felt himself again completely a citizen of herakleion; that he felt himself, in fact, closer than ever before to the beating heart of intrigue and aspiration. kato received him alone, and her immediate comradely grasp of his hand dispelled the shyness which had been induced in him by the concert; her vigorous simplicity caused him to forget the applause and enthusiasm he had that afternoon seen lavished on her as a public figure; he found in her an almost masculine friendliness and keenness of intellect, which loosened his tongue, sharpened his wits, set him on the path of discovery and self-expression. kato watched him with her little bright eyes, nodding her approval with quick grunts; he paced her room, talking. 'does one come, ever, to a clear conception of one's ultimate ambitions? not one's personal ambitions, of course; they don't count.' ('how young he is,' she thought.) 'but to conceive clearly, i mean, exactly what one sets out to create, and what to destroy. if not, one must surely spend the whole of life working in the dark? laying in little bits of mosaic, without once stepping back to examine the whole scheme of the picture.... one instinctively opposes authority. one struggles for freedom. why? why? what's at the bottom of that instinct? why are we, men, born the instinctive enemies of order and civilisation, when order and civilisation are the weapons and the shields we, men, have ourselves instituted for our own protection? it's illogical. 'why do we, every one of us, refute the experience of others, preferring to gain our own? why do we fight against government? why do i want to be independent of my father? or the islands independent of herakleion? or herakleion independent of greece? what's this instinct of wanting to stand alone, to be oneself, isolated, free, individual? why does instinct push us towards individualism, when the great wellbeing of mankind probably lies in solidarity? when the social system in its most elementary form starts with men clubbing together for comfort and greater safety? no sooner have we achieved our solidarity, our hierarchy, our social system, our civilisation, than we want to get away from it. a vicious circle; the wheel revolves, and brings us back to the same point from which we started.' 'yes,' said kato, 'there is certainly an obscure sympathy with the rebel, that lies somewhere dormant in the soul of the most platitudinous advocate of law and order.' she was amused by his generalisations, and was clever enough not to force him back too abruptly to the matter she had in mind. she thought him ludicrously, though rather touchingly, young, both in his ideas and his phraseology; but at the same time she shrewdly discerned the force which was in him and which she meant to use for her own ends. 'you,' she said to him, 'will argue in favour of society, yet you will spend your life, or at any rate your youth, in revolt against it. youth dies, you see, when one ceases to rebel. besides,' she added, scrutinising him, 'the time will very soon come when you cease to argue and begin to act. believe me, one soon discards one's wider examinations, and learns to content oneself with the practical business of the moment. one's own bit of the mosaic, as you said.' he felt wholesomely sobered, but not reproved; he liked kato's penetration, her vivid, intelligent sympathy, and her point of view which was practical without being cynical. 'i have come to one real conclusion,' he said, 'which is, that pain alone is intrinsically evil, and that in the lightening or abolition of pain one is safe in going straight ahead; it is a bit of the mosaic worth doing. so in the islands....' he paused. kato repressed a smile; she was more and more touched and entertained by his youthful, dogmatic statements, which were delivered with a concentration and an ardour that utterly disarmed derision. she was flattered, too, by his unthinking confidence in her; for she knew him by report as morose and uncommunicative, with relapses into rough high spirits and a schoolboy sense of farce. eve had described him as inaccessible.... 'when you go, as you say, straight ahead,' he resumed, frowning, his eyes absent. kato began to dwell, very skilfully, upon the topic of the islands.... certain events which madame kato had then predicted to julian followed with a suddenness, an unexpectedness, that perplexed the mind of the inquirer seeking, not only their origin, but their chronological sequence. they came like a summer storm sweeping briefly, boisterously across the land after the inadequate warning of distant rumbles and the flash of innocuous summer lightning. the thunder had rumbled so often, it might be said that it had rumbled daily, and the lightning had twitched so often in the sky, that men remained surprised and resentful long after the rough little tornado had passed away. they remained staring at one another, scratching their heads under their straw hats, or leaning against the parapet on the quays, exploring the recesses of their teeth with the omnipresent toothpick, and staring across the sea to those islands whence the storm had surely come, as though by this intense, frowning contemplation they would finally provide themselves with enlightenment. groups of men sat outside the cafés, their elbows on the tables, advancing in tones of whispered vehemence their individual positive theories and opinions, beating time to their own rhetoric and driving home each cherished point with the emphatic stab of a long cigar. in the casino itself, with the broken windows gaping jaggedly on to the forecourt, and the red curtains of the atrium hanging in rags from those same windows, men stood pointing in little knots. 'here they stood still,' and 'from here he threw the bomb,' and those who had been present on the day were listened to with a respect they never in their lives had commanded before and never would command again. there was no sector of society in herakleion that did not discuss the matter with avidity; more, with gratitude. brigandage was brigandage, a picturesque but rather _opéra bouffe_ form of crime, but at the same time an excitement was, indubitably, an excitement. the ministers, in their despatches to their home governments, affected to treat the incident as the work of a fortuitous band rather than as an organised expedition with an underlying political significance, nevertheless they fastened upon it as a pretext for their wit in herakleion, where no sardonic and departmental eye would regard them with superior tolerance much as a grown-up person regards the facile amusement of a child. at the diplomatic dinner parties very little else was talked of. at tea parties, women, drifting from house to house, passed on as their own the witticisms they had most recently heard, which became common property until reclaimed from general circulation by the indignant perpetrators. from the drawing-rooms of the french legation, down to village cafés where the gramophone grated unheard and the bowls lay neglected on the bowling alley, one topic reigned supreme. what nobody knew, and what everybody wondered about, was the attitude adopted by the davenants in the privacy of their country house. what spoken or unspoken understanding existed between the inscrutable brothers? what veiled references, or candid judgments, escaped from william davenant's lips as he lay back in his chair after dinner, a glass of wine--wine of his own growing--between his fingers? what indiscretions, that would have fallen so delectably upon the inquisitive ears of herakleion, did he utter, secure in the confederacy of his efficient and vigorous sister-in-law, of the more negligible robert, the untidy and taciturn julian, the indifferent eve? it was as universally taken for granted that the outrage proceeded from the islanders as it was ferociously regretted that the offenders could not, from lack of evidence, be brought to justice. they had, at the moment, no special grievance; only their perennial grievances, of which everybody was tired of hearing. the brother of vassili, a quite unimportant labourer, had been released; m. lafarge had interested himself in his servant's brother, and had made representations to the premier, which malteios had met with his usual urbane courtesy. an hour later the fellow had been seen setting out in a rowing boat for aphros. all, therefore, was for the best. yet within twenty-four hours of this proof of leniency.... the élite were dining on the evening of these unexpected occurrences at the french legation to meet two guests of honour, one a distinguished albanian statesman who could speak no language but his own, and the other an englishman of irregular appearances and disappearances, an enthusiast on all matters connected with the near east. in the countries he visited he was considered an expert who had the ear of the english cabinet and house of commons, but by these institutions he was considered merely a crank and a nuisance. his conversation was after the style of the more economical type of telegram, with all prepositions, most pronouns, and a good many verbs left out; it gained thereby in mystery what it lost in intelligibility, and added greatly to his reputation. he and the albanian had stood apart in confabulation before dinner, the englishman arguing, expounding, striking his open palm with the fingers of the other hand, shooting out his limbs in spasmodic and ungraceful gestures, the albanian unable to put in a word, but appreciatively nodding his head and red fez. madame lafarge sat between them both at dinner, listening to the englishman as though she understood what he was saying to her, which she did not, and occasionally turning to the albanian to whom she smiled and nodded in a friendly and regretful way. whenever she did this he made her a profound bow and drank her health in the sweet champagne. here their intercourse perforce ended. half-way through dinner a note was handed to m. lafarge. he gave an exclamation which silenced all his end of the table, and the englishman's voice was alone left talking in the sudden hush. 'turkey!' he was saying. 'another matter! ah, ghost of abdul hamid!' and then, shaking his head mournfully, 'world-treachery--world-conspiracy....' 'ah, yes,' said madame lafarge, rapt, 'how true that is, how right you are.' she realised that no one else was speaking, and raised her head interrogatively. lafarge said,-- 'something has occurred at the casino, but there is no cause for alarm; nobody has been hurt. i am sending a messenger for further details. this note explicitly says'--he consulted it again--'that no one is injured. a mere question of robbery; an impudent and successful attempt. a bomb has been thrown,'--('_mais ils sont donc tous apaches?_' cried condesa valdez. lafarge went on)--'but they say the damage is all in the atrium, and is confined to broken windows, torn hangings, and mirrors cracked from top to bottom. glass lies plentifully scattered about the floor. but i hope that before very long we may be in possession of a little more news.' he sent the smile of a host round the table, reassuring in the face of anxiety. a little pause, punctuated by a few broken ejaculations, followed upon his announcement. 'how characteristic of herakleion,' cried alexander christopoulos, who had been anxiously searching for something noteworthy and contemptuous to say, 'that even with the help of a bomb we can achieve only a disaster that tinkles.' the danish excellency was heard to say tearfully,-- 'a robbery! a bomb! and practically in broad daylight! what a place, what a place!' 'those islands again, for certain!' madame delahaye exclaimed, with entire absence of tact; her husband, the french military attaché, frowned at her across the table; and the diplomatists all looked down their noses. then the englishman, seeing his opportunity, broke out,-- 'very significant! all of a piece--anarchy--intrigue--no strong hand--free peoples. too many, too many. small nationalities. chips! cut-throats, all. so!'--he drew his fingers with an expressive sibilant sound across his own throat. 'asking for trouble. yugo-slavs--bah! poles--pfui! eastern empire, that's the thing. turks the only people'--the albanian, fortunately innocent of english, was smiling amiably as he stirred his champagne--'great people. armenians, wash-out. quite right too. herakleion, worst of all. not even a chip. only the chip of a chip.' 'and the islands,' said the danish excellency brightly, 'want to be the chip of a chip of a chip.' 'yes, yes,' said madame lafarge, who had been getting a little anxious, trying to provoke a laugh, 'fru thyregod has hit it as usual--_elle a trouvé le mot juste_,' she added, thinking that if she turned the conversation back into french it might check the englishman's truncated eloquence. out in the town, the quay was the centre of interest. a large crowd had collected there, noisy in the immense peace of the evening. far, far out, a speck on the opal sea, could still be distinguished the little boat in which the three men, perpetrators of the outrage, had made good their escape. beyond the little boat, even less distinct, the sea was dotted with tiny craft, the fleet of fishing-boats from the islands. the green light gleamed at the end of the pier. on the quay, the crowd gesticulated, shouted, and pointed, as the water splashed under the ineffectual bullets from the carbines of the police. the chief of police was there, giving orders. the police motor-launch was to be got out immediately. the crowd set up a cheer; they did not know who the offenders were, but they would presently have the satisfaction of seeing them brought back in handcuffs. it was at this point that the entire lafarge dinner-party debouched upon the quay, the women wrapped in their light cloaks, tremulous and excited, the men affecting an amused superiority. they were joined by the chief of police, and by the christopoulos, father and son. it was generally known, though never openly referred to, that the principal interest in the casino was held by them, a fact which explained the saffron-faced little banker's present agitation. 'the authorities must make better dispositions,' he kept saying to madame lafarge. 'with this example before them, half the blackguards of the country-side will be making similar attempts. it is too absurdly easy.' he glared at the chief of police. 'better dispositions,' he muttered, 'better dispositions.' 'this shooting is ridiculous,' alexander said impatiently, 'the boat is at least three miles away. what do they hope to kill? a fish? confound the dusk. how soon will the launch be ready?' 'it will be round to the steps at any moment now,' said the chief of police, and he gave an order in an irritable voice to his men, who had continued to let off their carbines aimlessly and spasmodically. in spite of his assurance, the launch did not appear. the englishman was heard discoursing at length to madame lafarge, who, at regular intervals, fervently agreed with what he had been saying, and the danish excellency whispered and tittered with young christopoulos. social distinctions were sharply marked: the diplomatic party stood away from the casual crowd, and the casual crowd stood away from the rabble. over all the dusk deepened, one or two stars came out, and the little boat was no longer distinguishable from the fishing fleet with its triangular sails. finally, throbbing, fussing, important, the motor-launch came churning to a standstill at the foot of the steps. the chief of police jumped in, alexander followed him, promising that he would come straight to the french legation on his return and tell them exactly what had happened. in the mirrored drawing-rooms, three hours later, he made his recital. the gilt chairs were drawn round in a circle, in the middle of which he stood, aware that the danish excellency was looking at him, enraptured, with her prominent blue eyes. 'of course, in spite of the start they had had, we knew that they stood no chance against a motor-boat, no chance whatsoever. they could not hope to reach aphros before we overtook them. we felt quite confident that it was only a question of minutes. we agreed that the men must have been mad to imagine that they could make good their escape in that way. sterghiou and i sat in the stern, smoking and talking. what distressed us a little was that we could no longer see the boat we were after, but you know how quickly the darkness comes, so we paid very little attention to that. 'presently we came up with the fishing smacks from aphros, and they shouted to us to keep clear of their tackle--impudence. we shut off our engines while we made inquiries from them as to the rowing-boat. rowing-boat? they looked blank. they had seen no rowing-boat--no boat of any sort, other than their own. the word was passed, shouting, from boat to boat of the fleet; no one had seen a rowing-boat. of course they were lying; how could they not be lying? but the extraordinary fact remained'--he made an effective pause--'there was no sign of a rowing-boat anywhere on the sea.' a movement of appreciative incredulity produced itself among his audience. 'not a sign!' alexander repeated luxuriously. 'the sea lay all round us without a ripple, and the fishing smacks, although they were under full sail, barely moved. it was so still that we could see their reflection unbroken in the water. there might have been twenty of them, dotted about--twenty crews of bland liars. we were, i may as well admit it, nonplussed. what can you do when you are surrounded by smiling and petticoated liars, leaning against their masts, and persisting in idiotic blankness to all your questions? denial, denial, was all their stronghold. they had seen nothing. but they must be blind to have seen nothing? they were very sorry, they had seen nothing at all. would the gentlemen look round for themselves, they would soon be satisfied that nothing was in sight. 'as for the idea that the boat had reached aphros in the time at their disposal, it was absolutely out of the question. 'i could see that sterghiou was getting very angry; i said nothing, but i think he was uncomfortable beneath my silent criticism. he and his police could regulate the traffic in the rue royale, but they could not cope with an emergency of this sort. from the very first moment they had been at fault. and they had taken at least twenty minutes to get out the motor-launch. sterghiou hated me, i feel sure, for having accompanied him and seen his discomfiture. 'anyway, he felt he must take some sort of action, so he ordered his men to search all the fishing smacks in turn. we went the round, a short throbbing of the motors, and then silence as we drew alongside and the men went on board. of course, they found nothing. i watched the faces of the islanders during this inspection; they sat on the sides of their boats, busy with their nets, and pretending not to notice the police that moved about, turning everything over in their inefficient way, but i guessed their covert grins, and i swear i caught two of them winking at one another. if i had told this to sterghiou, i believe he would have arrested them on the spot, he was by then in such a state of exasperation, but you can't arrest a man on a wink, especially a wink when darkness has very nearly come. 'and there the matter remains. we had found nothing, and we were obliged to turn round and come back again, leaving that infernally impudent fleet of smacks in possession of the battle-ground. oh, yes, there is no doubt that they got the best of it. because, naturally, we have them to thank.' 'have you a theory, alexander?' some one asked, as they were intended to ask. alexander shrugged. 'it is so obvious. a knife through the bottom of the boat would very quickly send her to the bottom, and a shirt and a fustanelle will very quickly transform a respectable bank-thief into an ordinary islander. who knows that the two ruffians i saw winking were not the very men we were after? a sufficiently ingenious scheme altogether--too ingenious for poor sterghiou.' iv these things came, made their stir, passed, and were forgotten, leaving only a quickened ripple upon the waters of herakleion, of which julian davenant, undergraduate, aged nineteen, bordering upon twenty, was shortly made aware. he had arrived from england with no other thought in his mind than of his riding, hawking, and sailing, but found himself almost immediately netted in a tangle of affairs of which, hitherto, he had known only by the dim though persistent echoes which reached him through the veils of his deliberate indifference. he found now that his indifference was to be disregarded. men clustered round him, shouting, and tearing with irascible hands at his unsubstantial covering. he was no longer permitted to remain a boy. the half-light of adolescence was peopled for him by a procession of figures, fortunately distinct by virtue of their life-long familiarity, figures that urged and upbraided him, some indignant, some plaintive, some reproachful, some vehement, some dissimulating and sly; many vociferous, all insistent; a crowd of human beings each playing his separate hand, each the expounder of his own theory, rooted in his own conviction; a succession of intrigues, men who took him by the arm, and, leading him aside, discoursed to him, a strange medley of names interlarding their discourse with concomitant abuse or praise; men who flattered him; men who sought merely his neutrality, speaking of his years in tones of gentle disparagement. men who, above all, would not leave him alone. who, by their persecution, even those who urged his youth as an argument in favour of his neutrality, demonstrated to him that he had, as a man, entered the arena. for his part, badgered and astonished, he took refuge in a taciturnity which only tantalised his pursuers into a more zealous aggression. his opinions were unknown in the club where the men set upon him from the first moment of his appearance. he would sit with his legs thrown over the arm of a leather arm-chair, loose-limbed and gray-flannelled, his mournful eyes staring out of the nearest window, while greek, diplomat, or foreigner argued at him with gesture and emphasis. they seemed to him, had they but known, surprisingly unreal for all their clamour, pompous and yet insignificant. his father was aware of the attacks delivered on his son, but, saying nothing, allowed the natural and varied system of education to take its course. he saw him standing, grave and immovable, in the surging crowd of philosophies and nationalities, discarding the charlatan by some premature wisdom, and assimilating the rare crumbs of true worldly experience. he himself was ignorant of the thoughts passing in the boy's head. he had forgotten the visionary tumult of nineteen, when the storm of life flows first over the pleasant, easy meadows of youth. himself now a sober man, he had forgotten, so completely that he had ceased to believe in, the facile succession of convictions, the uprooting of beliefs, the fanatical acceptance of newly proffered creeds. he scarcely considered, or he might perhaps not so readily have risked, the possible effect of the queer systems of diverse ideals picked up, unconsciously, and put together from the conversation of the mountebank administrators of that tiny state, the melodramatic champions of the oppressed poor, and the professional cynicism of dago adventurers. if, sometimes, he wondered what julian made of the talk that had become a jargon, he dismissed his uneasiness with a re-affirmation of confidence in his impenetrability. 'broaden his mind,' he would say. 'it won't hurt him. it doesn't go deep. foam breaking upon a rock.' so might sir henry have spoken, to whom the swags of fruit were but the vintage of a particular year, put into a labelled bottle. julian had gone more than once out of a boyish curiosity to hear the wrangle of the parties in the chamber. sitting up in the gallery, and leaning his arms horizontally on the top of the brass railing, he had looked down on the long tables covered with red baize, whereon reposed, startlingly white, a square sheet of paper before the seat of each deputy, and a pencil, carefully sharpened, alongside. he had seen the deputies assemble, correctly frock-coated, punctiliously shaking hands with one another, although they had probably spent the morning in one another's company at the club--the club was the natural meeting-place of the greeks and the diplomats, while the foreigners, a doubtful lot, congregated either in the gambling-rooms or in the _jardin anglais_ of the casino. he had watched them taking their places with a good deal of coughing, throat-clearing, and a certain amount of expectoration. he had seen the premier come in amid a general hushing of voices, and take his seat in the magisterial arm-chair in the centre of the room, behind an enormous ink-pot, pulling up the knees of his trousers and smoothing his beard away from his rosy lips with the tips of his fingers as he did so. julian's attention had strayed from the formalities attendant upon the opening of the session, and his eyes had wandered to the pictures hanging on the walls: aristidi patros, the first premier, after the secession from greece, b. , d. , premier of the republic of herakleion from to ; pericli anghelis, general, - ; constantine stavridis, premier from to , and again from to , when he died assassinated. the portraits of the other premiers hung immediately below the gallery where julian could not see them. at the end of the room, above the doors, hung a long and ambitious painting executed in and impregnated with the romanticism of that age, representing the declaration of independence in the _platia_ of herakleion on the th september--kept as an ever memorable and turbulent anniversary-- . the premier, patros, occupied the foreground, declaiming from a scroll of parchment, and portrayed as a frock-coated young man of godlike beauty; behind him stood serried ranks of deputies, and in the left-hand corner a group of peasants, like an operatic chorus, tossed flowers from baskets on to the ground at his feet. the heads of women clustered at the windows of the familiar houses of the _platia_, beneath the fluttering flags with the colours of the new republic, orange and green. julian always thought that a portrait of his grandfather, for twelve months president of the collective archipelago of hagios zacharie, should have been included among the notables. he had tried to listen to the debates which followed upon the formal preliminaries; to the wrangle of opponents; to the clap-trap patriotism which so thinly veiled the desire of personal advancement; to the rodomontade of panaïoannou, commander-in-chief of the army of four hundred men, whose sky-blue uniform and white breeches shone among all the black coats with a resplendency that gratified his histrionic vanity; to the bombastic eloquence which rolled out from the luxuriance of the premier's beard, with a startling and deceptive dignity in the trappings of the ancient and classic tongue. malteios used such long, such high-sounding words, and struck his fist upon the red baize table with such emphatic energy, that it was hard not to believe in the authenticity of his persuasion. julian welcomed most the moments when, after a debate of an hour or more, tempers grew heated, and dignity--that is to say, the pretence of the sobriety of the gathering--was cast aside in childish petulance. 'the fur flew,' said julian, who had enjoyed himself. 'christopoulos called panaïoannou a fire-eater, and panaïoannou called christopoulos a money-grubber. "where would you be without my money?" "where would you be without my army?" "army! can the valiant general inform the chamber how many of his troops collapsed from exhaustion on the _platia_ last independence day, and had to be removed to the hospital?" and so on and so forth. they became so personal that i expected the general at any moment to ask christopoulos how many unmarried daughters he had at home.' malteios himself, president of the little republic, most plausible and empiric of politicians, was not above the discussion of current affairs with the heir of the davenants towards whom, it was suspected, the thoughts of the islanders were already turning. the president was among those who adopted the attitude of total discouragement. the interference of a headstrong and no doubt quixotic schoolboy would be troublesome; might become disastrous. having dined informally with the davenant brothers at their country house, he crossed the drawing-room after dinner, genial, a long cigar protruding from his mouth, to the piano in the corner where eve and julian were turning over some sheets of music. 'may an old man,' he said with his deliberate but nevertheless charming suavity, 'intrude for a moment upon the young?' he sat down, removing his cigar, and discoursed for a little upon the advantages of youth. he led the talk to julian's oxford career, and from there to his future in herakleion. 'a knotty little problem, as you will some day find--not, i hope, for your own sake, until a very remote some day. perhaps not until i and my friend and opponent gregori stavridis are figures of the past,' he said, puffing smoke and smiling at julian; 'then perhaps you will take your place in herakleion and bring your influence to bear upon your very difficult and contrary islands. oh, very difficult, i assure you,' he continued, shaking his head. 'i am a conciliatory man myself, and not unkindly, i think i may say; they would find gregori stavridis a harder taskmaster than i. they are the oldest cause of dispute, your islands, between gregori stavridis and myself. now see,' he went on, expanding, 'they lie like a belt of neutral territory, your discontented, your so terribly and unreasonably discontented islands, between me and stavridis. we may agree upon other points; upon that point we continually differ. he urges upon the senate a policy of severity with which i cannot concur. i wish to compromise, to keep the peace, but he is, alas! perpetually aggressive. he invades the neutral zone, as it were, from the west--periodical forays--and i am obliged to invade it from the east; up till now we have avoided clashing in the centre.' malteios, still smiling, sketched the imaginary lines of his illustration on his knee with the unlighted tip of his cigar. 'i would coax, and he would force, the islanders to content and friendliness.' julian listened, knowing well that malteios and stavridis, opponents from an incorrigible love of opposition for opposition's sake, rather than from any genuine diversity of conviction, had long since seized upon the islands as a convenient pretext. neither leader had any very definite conception of policy beyond the desire, respectively, to remain in, or to get himself into, power. between them the unfortunate islands, pulled like a rat between two terriers, were given ample cause for the discontent of which malteios complained. malteios, it was true, adopted the more clement attitude, but for this clemency, it was commonly said, the influence of anastasia kato was alone responsible. through the loud insistent voices of the men, julian was to remember in after years the low music of that woman's voice, and to see, as in a vignette, the picture of himself in kato's flat among the cushions of her divan, looking again in memory at the photographs and ornaments on the shelf that ran all round the four walls of the room, at the height of the top of a dado. these ornaments appeared to him the apotheosis of cosmopolitanism. there were small, square wooden figures from russia, a few inches high, and brightly coloured; white and gray danish china; little silver images from spain; miniature plants of quartz and jade; battersea snuff-boxes; photographs of an austrian archduke in a white uniform and a leopard-skin, of a mexican in a wide sombrero, mounted on a horse and holding a lasso, of mounet-sully as the blinded oedipus. every available inch of space in the singer's room was crowded with these and similar trophies, and the shelf had been added to take the overflow. oriental embroideries, heavily silvered, were tacked up on the walls, and on them again were plates and brackets, the latter carrying more ornaments; high up in one corner was an ikon, and over the doors hung open-work linen curtains from the bazaars of constantinople. among the many ornaments the massive singer moved freely and spaciously, creating havoc as she moved, so that julian's dominating impression remained one of setting erect again the diminutive objects she had knocked over. she would laugh good-humouredly at herself, and would give him unequalled turkish coffee in little handleless cups, like egg-cups, off a tray of beaten brass set on a small octagonal table inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and all the while she would talk to him musically, earnestly, bending forward, and her restless fingers would turn the bangles round and round upon her arms. he could not think kato unreal, though many of the phrases upon her lips were the same as he heard from the men in the club; he could not think her unreal, when her voice broke over the words 'misery' and 'oppression,' and when her eyes burned their conviction into his. he began to believe in the call of the islands, as he listened to the soft, slurring speech of their people in her voice, and discovered, listening to her words with only half his mind, the richness of the grapes in the loose coils of her dark hair, and the fulvous colouring of the islands in the copper draperies she always affected. it seemed to julian that, at whatever time of day he saw her, whether morning, afternoon, or evening, she was always wearing the same dress, but he supposed vaguely that this could not actually be so. like his father, he maintained her as a woman of genuine patriotic ardour, dissociating her from herakleion and its club and casino, and associating her with the islands where injustice and suffering, at least, were true things. he lavished his enthusiasm upon her, and his relations learned to refrain, in his presence, from making the usual obvious comments on her appearance. he looked upon her flat as a sanctuary and a shrine. he fled one day in disgust and disillusionment when the premier appeared with his ingratiating smile in the doorway. julian had known, of course, of the liaison, but was none the less distressed and nauseated when it materialised beneath his eyes. he fled to nurse his soul-sickness in the country, lying on his back at full length under the olive-trees on the lower slopes of mount mylassa, his hands beneath his head, his horse moving near by and snuffing for pasture on the bare terraces. the sea, to-day of the profoundest indigo, sparkled in the sun below, and between the sea and the foot of the mountain, plainly, as in an embossed map, stretched the strip of flat cultivated land where he could distinguish first the dark ilex avenue, then the ribbon of road, then the village, finally the walled plantation which was his uncle's garden, and the roofs of the low house in the centre. the bougainvillea climbing over the walls and roof of his uncle's house made a warm stain of magenta. herakleion was hidden from sight, on the other hand, by the curve of the hill, but the islands were visible opposite, and, caring only for them, he gazed as he had done many times, but now their meaning and purport crystallised in his mind as never before. there was something symbolical in their detachment from the mainland--in their clean remoteness, their isolation; all the difference between the unfettered ideal and the tethered reality. an island land that had slipped the leash of continents, forsworn solidarity, cut adrift from security and prudence! one could readily believe that they made part of the divine, the universal discontent, that rare element, dynamic, life-giving, that here and there was to be met about the world, always fragmentary, yet always full and illuminating, even as the fragments of beauty. this was a day which julian remembered, marked, as it were, with an asterisk in the calendar of his mind, by two notes which he found awaiting him on his return to the house in the _platia_. aristotle handed them to him as he dismounted at the door. the first he opened was from eve. 'i am so angry with you, julian. what have you done to my kato? i found her in tears. she says you were with her when the premier came, and that you vanished without a word. 'i know your _sauts de gazelle_; you are suddenly bored or annoyed, and you run away. very naïf, very charming, very candid, very fawn-like--or is it, hideous suspicion, a pose?' he was surprised and hurt by her taunt. one did not wish to remain, so one went away; it seemed to him very simple. the second note was from kato. 'julian, forgive me,' it ran; 'i did not know he was coming. forgive me. send me a message to say when i shall see you. i did not know he was coming. forgive me.' he read these notes standing in the drawing-room with the palely-frescoed walls. he looked up from reading them, and encountered the grinning faces of the painted monkeys and the perspective of the romantic landscape. the colours were faint, and the rough grain of the plaster showed through in tiny lumps. why should kato apologise to him for the unexpected arrival of her lover? it was not his business. he sat down and wrote her a perfectly polite reply to say that he had nothing to forgive and had no intention of criticising her actions. the sense of unreality was strong within him. it seemed that he could not escape the general determination to involve him, on one side or the other, in the local affairs. besides the men at the club, sharp, the head clerk at the office, spoke to him--'the people look to you, mr julian; better keep clear of the islands if you don't want a crowd of women hanging round kissing your hands--, murmured to him in the hall when he went to dine at the french legation; walters, the _times_ correspondent in herakleion, winked to him with a man to man expression that flattered the boy. 'i know the balkans inside out, mind you; nearly lost my head to the bulgars and my property to the serbs; i've been held to ransom by albanian brigands, and shot at in the streets of athens on december the second; i've had my rooms ransacked by the police, and i could have been a rich man now if i'd accepted half the bribes that i've had offered me. so you can have my advice, if you care to hear it, and that is, hold your tongue till you're sure you know your own mind.' the women, following the lead, chattered to him. he had never known such popularity. it was hard, at times, to preserve his non-committal silence, yet he knew, ignorant and irresolute, that therein lay his only hope of safety. they must not perceive that they had taken him unawares, that he was hopelessly at sea in the mass of names, reminiscences, and prophecies that they showered upon him. they must not suspect that he really knew next to nothing about the situation.... he felt his way cautiously and learnt, and felt his strength growing. in despite of sharp's warning, he went across to the islands, taking with him father paul. eve exclaimed that he took the priest solely from a sense of the suitability of a retinue, and julian, though he denied the charge, did not do so very convincingly. he had certainly never before felt the need of a retinue. he had always spent at least a week of his holidays on aphros, taking his favourite hawk with him, and living either in his father's house in the village, or staying with the peasants. when he returned, he was always uncommunicative as to how he had passed his time. because he felt the stirring of events in the air, and because he knew from signs and hints dropped to him that his coming was awaited with an excited expectancy, he chose to provide himself with the dignity of an attendant. he had, characteristically, breathed no word of his suspicions, but moved coldly self-reliant in the midst of his uncertainties. father paul only thought him more than usually silent as he busied himself with the sail of his little boat and put out to sea from the pier of herakleion. aphros lay ahead, some seven or eight miles--a couple of hours' sailing in a good breeze. his white sails were observed some way off by the villagers, who by chance were already assembled at the weekly market in the village square. they deserted the pens and stalls to cluster round the top of the steps that descended, steep as an upright ladder, and cut in the face of the rock, from the market place straight down to the sea, where the white foam broke round the foot of the cliff. julian saw the coloured crowd from his boat; he distinguished faces as he drew nearer, and made out the flutter of handkerchiefs from the hands of the women. the village hung sheerly over the sea, the face of the white houses flat with the face of the brown rocks, the difference of colour alone betraying where the one began and the other ended, as though some giant carpenter had planed away all inequalities of surface from the eaves down to the washing water. the fleet of fishing-boats, their bare, graceful masts swaying a little from the perpendicular as the boats ranged gently at their moorings with the sigh of the almost imperceptible waves, lay like resting seagulls in the harbour. 'they are waiting to welcome you--feudal, too feudal,' growled father paul, who, though himself the creature and dependent of the davenants, loudly upheld his democratic views for the rest of mankind. 'and why?' muttered julian. 'this has never happened before. i have been away only four months.' three fishermen wearing the white kilted fustanelle and tasselled shoes were already on the jetty with hands outstretched to take his mooring-rope. eager faces looked down from above, and a hum went through the little crowd as julian sprang on to the jetty, the boat rocking as his weight released it--a hum that died slowly, like the note of an organ, fading harmoniously into a complete silence. paul knew suddenly that the moment was significant. he saw julian hesitate, faltering as it were between sea and land, his dark head and broad shoulders framed in an immensity of blue, the cynosure of the crowd above, still silent and intent upon his actions. he hesitated until his hesitation became apparent to all. paul saw that his hands were shut and his face stern. the silence of the crowd was becoming oppressive, when a woman's voice rang out like a bell in the pellucid air,-- 'liberator!' clear, sudden, and resonant, the cry vibrated and hung upon echo, so that the mind followed it, when it was no more heard, round the island coast, where it ran up into the rocky creeks, and entered upon the breeze into the huts of goat-herds on the hill. julian slowly raised his head as at a challenge. he looked up into the furnace of eyes bent upon him, lustrous eyes in the glow of faces tanned to a golden brown, finding in all the same query, the same expectancy, the same breathless and suspended confidence. for a long moment he gazed up, and they gazed down, challenge, acceptance, homage, loyalty, devotion, and covenant passing unspoken between them; then, his hesitation a dead and discarded thing, he moved forward and set his foot firmly upon the lowest step. the silence of the crowd was broken by a single collective murmur. the crowd--which consisted of perhaps not more than fifty souls, men and women--parted at the top as his head and shoulders appeared on the level of the market-place. paul followed, tripping over his soutane on the ladder-like stairs. he saw julian's white shoes climbing, climbing the flight, until the boy stood deliberately upon the market-place. a few goats were penned up for sale between wattled hurdles, bleating for lost dams or kids; a clothes-stall displayed highly-coloured handkerchiefs, boleros for the men, silk sashes, puttees, tasselled caps, and kilted fustanelles; a fruit-stall, lined with bright blue paper, was stacked from floor to ceiling with oranges, figs, bunches of grapes, and scarlet tomatoes. an old woman, under an enormous green umbrella, sat hunched on the back of a tiny gray donkey. julian stood, grave and moody, surveying the people from under lowered brows. they were waiting for him to speak to them, but, as a contrast to the stifled volubility seething in their own breasts, his stillness, unexpected and surprising, impressed them more than any flow of eloquence. he seemed to have forgotten about them, though his eyes dwelt meditatively on their ranks; he seemed remote, preoccupied; faintly disdainful, though tolerant, of the allegiance they had already, mutely, laid at his feet, and were prepared to offer him in terms of emotional expression. he seemed content to take this for granted. he regarded them for a space, then turned to move in the direction of his father's house. the people pressed forward after him, a whispering and rustling bodyguard, disconcerted but conquered and adoring. their numbers had been increased since the news of his landing had run through the town. fishermen, and labourers from olive-grove and vineyard, men whose lives were lived in the sun, their magnificent bare throats and arms glowed like nectarines in the white of the loose shirts they wore. knotted handkerchiefs were about their heads, and many of them wore broad hats of rough straw over the handkerchief. ancestrally more italian than greek, for the original population of the archipelago of hagios zacharie had, centuries before, been swamped by the settlements of colonising genoese, they resembled the peasants of southern italy. the headman of the village walked with them, tsantilas tsigaridis, sailor and fisherman since he could remember, whose skin was drawn tightly over the fine bony structure of his face, and whose crisp white hair escaped in two bunches over his temples from under the red handkerchief he wore; he was dressed, incongruously enough, in a blue english jersey which mrs davenant had given him, and a coffee-coloured fustanelle. behind the crowd, as though he were shepherding them, nico zapantiotis, overseer of the davenant vineyards, walked with a long pole in his hand, a white sheepdog at his heels, and a striped blue and white shirt fluttering round his body, open at the throat, and revealing the swelling depth of his hairy chest. between these two notables pressed the crowd, bronzed and coloured, eyes eager and attentive and full of fire, a gleam of silver ear-rings among the shiny black ringlets. bare feet and heelless shoes shuffled alike over the cobbles. at the end of the narrow street, where the children ran out as in the story of the pied piper to join in the progress, the doorway of the davenant house faced them. it was raised on three steps between two columns. the monastery had been a genoese building, but the greek influence was unmistakable in the columns and the architrave over the portico. julian strode forward as though unconscious of his following. paul became anxious. he hurried alongside. 'you must speak to these people,' he whispered. julian mounted the steps and turned in the dark frame of the doorway. the people had come to a standstill, filling the narrow street. it was now they who looked up to julian, and he who looked down upon them, considering them, still remote and preoccupied, conscious that here and now the seed sown in the club-rooms must bear its fruit, that life, grown impatient of waiting for a summons he did not give, had come to him of its own accord and ordered him to take the choice of peace or war within its folded cloak. if he had hoped to escape again to england with a decision still untaken, that hope was to be deluded. he was being forced and hustled out of his childhood into the responsibilities of a man. he could not plead the nebulousness of his mind; action called to him, loud and insistent. in vain he told himself, with the frown deepening between his brows, and the people who watched him torn with anxiety before that frown--in vain he told himself that the situation was fictitious, theatrical. he could not convince himself of this truth with the fire of the people's gaze directed upon him. he must speak to them; they were silent, expectant, waiting. the words broke from him impelled, as he thought, by his terror of his own helplessness and lack of control, but to his audience they came as a command, a threat, and an invitation. 'what is it you want of me?' he stood on the highest of the three steps, alone, the back of his head pressed against the door, and a hand on each of the flanking columns. the black-robed priest had taken his place below him, to one side, on the ground level. julian felt a sudden resentment against these waiting people, that had driven him to bay, the resentment of panic and isolation, but to them, his attitude betraying nothing, he appeared infallible, dominating, and inaccessible. tsantilas tsigaridis came forward as spokesman, a gold ring hanging in the lobe of one ear, and a heavy silver ring shining dully on the little finger of his brown, knotted hand. 'kyrie,' he said, 'angheliki zapantiotis has hailed you. we are your own people. by the authorities we are persecuted as though we were bulgars, we, their brothers in blood. last week a score of police came in boats from herakleion and raided our houses in search of weapons. our women ran screaming to the vineyards. such weapons as the police could find were but the pistols we carry for ornament on the feast-days of church, and these they removed, for the sake, as we know, not being blind, of the silver on the locks which they will use to their own advantage. by such persecutions we are harried. we may never know when a hand will not descend on one of our number, on a charge of sedition or conspiracy, and he be seen no more. we are not organised for resistance. we are blind beasts, leaderless.' a woman in the crowd began to sob, burying her face in her scarlet apron. a man snarled his approval of the spokesman's words, and spat violently into the gutter. 'and you demand of me?' said julian, again breaking his silence. 'championship? leadership? you cannot say you are unjustly accused of sedition! what report of aphros could i carry to herakleion?' he saw the people meek, submissive, beneath his young censure, and the knowledge of his power surged through him like a current through water. 'kyrie,' said the old sailor, reproved, but with the same inflexible dignity, 'we know that we are at your mercy. but we are your own people. we have been the people of your people for four generations. the authorities have torn even the painting of your grandfather from the walls of our assembly room....' 'small blame to them,' thought julian; 'that shows their good sense.' tsantilas pursued,-- ' ... we are left neither public nor private liberty. we are already half-ruined by the port-dues which are directed against us islanders and us alone.' a crafty look came into his eyes. 'here, kyrie, you should be in sympathy.' julian's moment of panic had passed; he was now conscious only of his complete control. he gave way to the anger prompted by the mercenary trait of the levantine that marred the man's natural and splendid dignity. 'what sympathy i may have,' he said loudly, 'is born of compassion, and not of avaricious interest.' he could not have told what instinct urged him to rebuke these people to whose petition he was decided to yield. he observed that with each fresh reproof they cringed the more. 'compassion, kyrie, and proprietary benevolence,' tsantilas rejoined, recognising his mistake. 'we know that in you we find a disinterested mediator. we pray to god that we may be allowed to live at peace with herakleion. we pray that we may be allowed to place our difficulties and our sorrows in your hands for a peaceful settlement.' julian looked at him, majestic as an arab and more cunning than a jew, and a slightly ironical smile wavered on his lips. 'old brigand,' he thought, 'the last thing he wants is to live at peace with herakleion; he's spoiling for a stand-up fight. men on horses, himself at their head, charging the police down this street, and defending our house like a beleaguered fort; rifles cracking from every window, and the more police corpses the better. may i be there to see it!' his mind flew to eve, whom he had last seen lying in a hammock, drowsy, dressed in white, and breathing the scent of the gardenia she held between her fingers. what part would she, the spoilt, the exquisite, play if there were to be bloodshed on aphros? all this while he was silent, scowling at the multitude, who waited breathless for his next words. 'father will half kill me,' he thought. at that moment tsigaridis, overcome by his anxiety, stretched out his hands towards him, surrendering his dignity in a supreme appeal,-- 'kyrie? i have spoken.' he dropped his hands to his sides, bowed his head, and fell back a pace. julian pressed his shoulders strongly against the door; it was solid enough. the sun, striking on his bare hand, was hot. the faces and necks and arms of the people below him were made of real flesh and blood. the tension, the anxiety in their eyes was genuine. he chased away the unreality. 'you have spoken,' he said, 'and i have accepted.' the woman named angheliki zapantiotis, who had hailed him as liberator, cast herself forward on to the step at his feet, as a stir and a movement, that audibly expressed itself in the shifting of feet and the releasing of contained breaths, ruffled through the crowd. he lifted his hand to enjoin silence, and spoke with his hand raised high above the figure of the woman crouching on the step. he told them that there could now be no going back, that, although the time of waiting might seem to them long and weary, they must have hopeful trust in him. he exacted from them trust, fidelity, and obedience. his voice rang sharply on the word, and his glance circled imperiously, challenging defiance. it encountered none. he told them that he would never give his sanction to violence save as a last resort. he became intoxicated with the unaccustomed wine of oratory. 'an island is our refuge; we are the garrison of a natural fortress, that we can hold against the assault of our enemies from the sea. we will never seek them out, we will be content to wait, restrained and patient, until they move with weapons in their hands against us. let us swear that our only guilt of aggression shall be to preserve our coasts inviolate.' a deep and savage growl answered him as he paused. he was flushed with the spirit of adventure, the prerogative of youth. the force of youth moved so strongly within him that every man present felt himself strangely ready and equipped for the calls of the enterprise. a mysterious alchemy had taken place. they, untutored, unorganised, scarcely knowing what they wanted, much less how to obtain it, had offered him the formless material of their blind and chaotic rebellion, and he, having blown upon it with the fire of his breath, was welding it now to an obedient, tempered weapon in his hands. he had taken control. he might disappear and the curtains of silence close together behind his exit; paul, watching, knew that these people would henceforward wait patiently, and with confidence, for his return. he dropped suddenly from his rhetoric into a lower key. 'in the meantime i lay upon you a charge of discretion. no one in herakleion must get wind of this meeting; father paul and i will be silent, the rest lies with you. until you hear of me again, i desire you to go peaceably about your ordinary occupations.' 'better put that in,' he thought to himself. 'i know nothing, nor do i wish to know,' he continued, shrewdly examining their faces, 'of the part you played in the robbery at the casino. i only know that i will never countenance the repetition of any such attempt; you will have to choose between me and your brigandage.' he suddenly stamped his foot. 'choose now! which is it to be?' 'kyrie, kyrie,' said tsigaridis, 'you are our only hope.' 'lift up your hands,' julian said intolerantly. his eyes searched among the bronzed arms that rose at his command like a forest of lances; he enjoyed forcing obedience upon the crowd and seeing their humiliation. 'very well,' he said then, and the hands sank, 'see to it that you remember your promise. i have no more to say. wait, trust, and hope.' he carried his hand to his forehead and threw it out before him in a gesture of farewell and dismissal. he suspected himself of having acted and spoken in a theatrical manner, but he knew also that through the chaos of his mind an unextinguishable light was dawning. v julian in the candour of his inexperience unquestioningly believed that the story would not reach herakleion. before the week was out, however, he found himself curiously eyed in the streets, and by the end of the week, going to dinner at the french legation, he was struck by the hush that fell as his name was announced in the mirrored drawing-rooms. madame lafarge said to him severely,-- 'jeune homme, vous avez été très indiscret,' but a smile lurked in her eyes beneath her severity. an immense serbian, almost a giant, named grbits, with a flat, mongolian face, loomed ominously over him. 'young man, you have my sympathy. you have disquieted the greeks. you may count at any time upon my friendship.' his fingers were enveloped and crushed in grbits' formidable handshake. the older diplomatists greeted him with an assumption of censure that was not seriously intended to veil their tolerant amusement. 'do you imagine that we have nothing to do,' don rodrigo valdez said to him, 'that you set out to enliven the affairs of herakleion?' fru thyregod, the danish excellency, took him into a corner and tapped him on the arm with her fan with that half flirtatious, half friendly familiarity she adopted towards all men. 'you are a dark horse, my dark boy,' she said meaningly, and, as he pretended ignorance, raising his brows and shaking his head, added, 'i'm much indebted to you as a living proof of my perception. i always told them; i always said, "carl, that boy is an adventurer," and carl said, "nonsense, mabel, your head is full of romance," but i said, "mark my words, carl, that boy will flare up; he's quiet now, but you'll have to reckon with him."' he realised the extent of the gratitude of social herakleion. he had provided a flavour which was emphatically absent from the usual atmosphere of these gatherings. every legation in turn, during both the summer and the winter season, extended its hospitality to its colleagues with complete resignation as to the lack of all possibility of the unforeseen. the rules of diplomatic precedence rigorously demanding a certain grouping, the danish excellency, for example, might sit before her mirror fluffing out her already fluffy fair hair with the complacent if not particularly pleasurable certainty that this evening, at the french legation, she would be escorted in to dinner by the roumanian minister, and that on her other hand would sit the italian counsellor, while to-morrow, at the spanish legation, she would be escorted to dinner by the italian counsellor and would have upon her other hand the roumanian minister--unless, indeed, no other minister's wife but madame lafarge was present, in which case she would be placed on the left hand of don rodrigo valdez. she would have preferred to sit beside julian davenant, but he, of course, would be placed amongst the young men--secretaries, young greeks, and what not--at the end of the table. these young men--'les petits jeunes gens du bout de la table,' as alexander christopoulos, including himself in their number, contemptuously called them--always ate mournfully through their dinner without speaking to one another. they did not enjoy themselves, nor did their host or hostess enjoy having them there, but it was customary to invite them.... fru thyregod knew that she must not exhaust all her subjects of conversation with her two neighbours this evening, but must keep a provision against the morrow; therefore, true to her little science, she refrained from mentioning julian's adventure on aphros to the roumanian, and discoursed on it behind her fan to the italian only. other people seemed to be doing the same. julian heard whispers, and saw glances directed towards him. distinctly, herakleion and its hostesses would be grateful to him. he felt slightly exhilarated. he noticed that no greeks were present, and thought that they had been omitted on his account. he reflected, not without a certain apprehensive pleasure, that if this roomful knew, as it evidently did, the story would not be long in reaching his father. who had betrayed him? not paul, he was sure, nor kato, to whom he had confided the story. (tears had come into her eyes, she had clasped her hands, and she had kissed him, to his surprise, on his forehead.) he was glad on the whole that he had been betrayed. he had come home in a fever of exaltation and enthusiasm which had rendered concealment both damping and irksome. little incidents, of significance to him alone, had punctuated his days by reminders of his incredible, preposterous, and penetrating secret; to-night, for instance, the chasseur in the hall, the big, scarlet-coated chasseur, an islander, had covertly kissed his hand.... his father took an unexpected view. julian had been prepared for anger, in fact he had the countering phrases already in his mind as he mounted the stairs of the house in the _platia_ on returning from the french legation. his father was waiting, a candle in his hand, on the landing. 'i heard you come in. i want to ask you, julian,' he said at once, 'whether the story i have heard in the club to-night is true? that you went to aphros, and entered into heaven knows what absurd covenant with the people?' julian flushed at the reprimanding tone. 'i knew that you would not approve,' he said. 'but one must do something. those miserable, bullied people, denied the right to live....' 'tut,' said his father impatiently. 'have they really taken you in? i thought you had more sense. i have had a good deal of trouble in explaining to malteios that you are only a hot-headed boy, carried away by the excitement of the moment. you see, i am trying to make excuses for you, but i am annoyed, julian, i am annoyed. i thought i could trust you. paul, too. however, you bring your own punishment on your head, for you will have to keep away from herakleion in the immediate future.' 'keep away from herakleion?' cried julian. 'malteios' hints were unmistakable,' his father said dryly. 'i am glad to see you are dismayed. you had better go to bed now, and i will speak to you to-morrow.' mr davenant started to go upstairs, but turned again, and came down the two or three steps, still holding his candle in his hand. 'come,' he said in a tone of remonstrance, 'if you really take the thing seriously, look at it at least for a moment with practical sense. what is the grievance of the islands? that they want to be independent from herakleion. if they must belong to anybody, they say, let them belong to italy rather than to greece or to herakleion. and why? because they speak an italian rather than a greek patois! because a lot of piratical genoese settled in them five hundred years ago! well, what do you propose to do, my dear julian? hand the islands over to italy?' 'they want independence,' julian muttered. 'they aren't even allowed to speak their own language,' he continued, raising his voice. 'you know it is forbidden in the schools. you know that the port-dues in herakleion ruin them--and are intended to ruin them. you know they are oppressed in every petty as well as in every important way. you know that if they were independent they wouldn't trouble herakleion.' 'independent! independent!' said mr davenant, irritable and uneasy. 'still, you haven't told me what you proposed to do. did you mean to create a revolution?' julian hesitated. he did not know. he said boldly,-- 'if need be.' mr davenant snorted. 'upon my word,' he cried sarcastically, 'you have caught the emotional tone of aphros to perfection. i suppose you saw yourself holding panaïoannou at bay? if these are your ideas, i shall certainly support malteios in keeping you away. i am on the best of terms with malteios, and i cannot afford to allow your quixotism to upset the balance. i can obtain almost any concession from malteios,' he added thoughtfully, narrowing his eyes and rubbing his hand across his chin. julian watched his father with distaste and antagonism. 'and that is all you consider?' he said then. 'what else is there to consider?' mr davenant replied. 'i am a practical man, and practical men don't run after chimeras. i hope i'm not more cynical than most. you know very well that at the bottom of my heart i sympathise with the islands. come,' he said, with a sudden assumption of frankness, seeing that he was creating an undesirable rift between himself and his son, 'i will even admit to you, in confidence, that the republic doesn't treat its islands as well as it might. you know, too, that i respect and admire madame kato; she comes from the islands, and has every right to hold the views of an islander. but there's no reason why you should espouse those views, julian. we are foreigners here, representatives of a great family business, and that business, when all's said and done, must always remain our first consideration.' 'yet people here say,' julian argued, still hoping for the best against the cold disillusionment creeping over him, 'that no political move can be made without allowing for your influence and uncle robert's. and my grandfather, after all....' 'ah, your grandfather!' said mr davenant, 'your grandfather was an extremely sagacious man, the real founder of the family tradition, though i wouldn't like malteios to hear me say so. he knew well enough that in the islands he held a lever which gave him, if he chose to use it, absolute control over herakleion. he only used it once, when he wanted something they refused to give him; they held out against him for a year, but ultimately they came to heel. a very sagacious man.... don't run away with the idea that he was inspired by anything other than a most practical grasp--though i don't say it wasn't a bold one--a most practical grasp of the situation. he gave the politicians of herakleion a lesson they haven't yet forgotten. he paused, and, as julian said nothing, added-- 'we keep very quiet, your uncle robert and i, but malteios, and stavridis himself, know that in reality we hold them on a rope. we give them a lot of play, but at any moment we choose, we can haul them in. a very satisfactory arrangement. tacit agreements, to my mind, are always the most satisfactory. and so you see that i can't tolerate your absurd, uneducated interference. why, there's no end to the harm you might do! some day you will thank me.' as julian still said nothing, he looked at his son, who was standing, staring at the floor, a deep frown on his forehead, thunderous, unconvinced. mr davenant, being habitually uncommunicative, felt aggrieved that his explanatory condescension had not been received with a more attentive deference. he also felt uneasy. julian's silences were always disquieting. 'you are very young still,' he said, in a more conciliatory tone, 'and i ought perhaps to blame myself for allowing you to go about so freely in this very unreal and bewildering place. perhaps i ought not to have expected you to keep your head. malteios is quite right: herakleion is no place for a young man. don't think me hard in sending you away. some day you will come back with, i hope, a better understanding.' he rested his hand kindly for a moment on julian's shoulder, then turned away, and the light of his candle died as he passed the bend of the stairs. on the following evening julian, returning from the country-house where he had spent the day, was told that the premier was with mr davenant and would be glad to see him. he had ridden out to the country, regardless of the heat, turning instinctively to eve in his strange and rebellious frame of mind. for some reason which he did not analyse, he identified her with aphros--the aphros of romance and glamour to which he so obstinately clung. to his surprise she listened unresponsive and sulky. 'you are not interested, eve?' then the reason of her unreasonableness broke out. 'you have kept this from me for a whole week, and you confide in me now because you know the story is public property. you expect me to be interested. grand merci!' 'but, eve, i had pledged myself not to tell a soul.' 'did you tell kato?' 'damn your intuition!' he said angrily. she lashed at him then, making him feel guilty, miserable, ridiculous, though as he sat scowling over the sea--they were in their favourite place at the bottom of the garden, where under the pergola of gourds it was cool even at that time of the day--he appeared to her more than usually unmoved and forbidding. after a long pause,-- 'julian, i am sorry.--i don't often apologise.--i said i was sorry.' he looked coldly at her with his mournful eyes, that, green in repose, turned black in anger. 'your vanity makes me ill.' 'you told kato.' 'jealousy!' she began to protest; then, with a sudden change of front,-- 'you know i am jealous. when i am jealous, i lie awake all night. i lose all sense of proportion. it's no joke, my jealousy; it's like an open wound. i put up a stockade round it to protect it. you are not considerate.' 'can you never forget yourself? do you care nothing for the islands? are you so self-centred, so empty-headed? are all women, i wonder, as vain as you?' they sat on the parapet, angry, inimical, with the coloured gourds hanging heavily over their heads. far out to sea the islands lay, so pure and fair and delicate that julian, beholding them, violently rejected the idea that in this possession of such disarming loveliness his grandfather had seen merely a lever for the coercion of recalcitrant politicians. they lay there as innocent and fragile as a lovely woman asleep, veiled by the haze of sunshine as the sleeper's limbs by a garment of lawn. julian gazed till his eyes and his heart swam in the tenderness of passionate and protective ownership. he warmed towards his grandfather, the man whose generous ideals had been so cynically libelled by the succeeding generation. no man deserving the name could be guilty of so repulsive an act of prostitution.... 'they will see me here again,' he exclaimed, striking his fist on the parapet. to the startled question in eve's eyes he vouchsafed an explanation. 'malteios is sending me away. but when his term of office is over, i shall come back. it will be a good opportunity. we will break with herakleion over the change of government. kato will restrain malteios so long as he is in power, i can trust her; but i shall make my break with stavridis.' in his plans for the future he had again forgotten eve. 'you are going away?' 'for a year or perhaps longer,' he said gloomily. her natural instinct of defiant secrecy kept the flood of protest back from her lips. already in her surprisingly definite philosophy of life, self-concealment held a sacred and imperious position. secrecy--and her secrecy, because disguised under a superficial show of expansiveness, was the more fundamental, the more dangerous--secrecy she recognised as being both a shield and a weapon. therefore, already apprehending that existence in a world of men was a fight, a struggle, and a pursuit, she took refuge in her citadel. and, being possessed of a picturesque imagination, she had upon a certain solemn occasion carried a symbolic key to the steps which led down to the sea from the end of the pergola of gourds, and had flung it out as far as she was able into the guardianship of the waters. she remembered this now as she sat on the parapet with julian, and smiled to herself ironically. she looked at him with the eye of an artist, and thought how his limbs, fallen into their natural grace of relaxed muscularity, suggested the sculptural ease of stone far more than the flat surfaces of canvas. sculptural, she thought, was undoubtedly the adjective which thrust itself upon one. in one of her spasmodic outbursts of activity she had modelled him, but, disdainful of her own talents, had left the clay to perish. then she remembered acutely that she would not see him again. 'my mythological julian....' she murmured, smiling. a world of flattery lay in her tone. 'you odd little thing,' he said, 'why the adjective?' she made an expressive gesture with her hands. 'your indifference, your determination--you're so intractable, so contemptuous, so hard--and sometimes so inspired. you're so fatally well suited to the islands. prince of aphros?' she launched at him insinuatingly. she was skilful; he flushed. she was giving him what he had, half unconsciously, sought. 'siren!' he said. 'am i? perhaps, after all, we are both equally well suited to the islands,' she said lightly. and for some reason their conversation dropped. yet it sufficed to send him, stimulated, from her side, full of self-confidence; he had forgotten that she was barely seventeen, a child! and for him the smile of pride in her eyes had been the smile of aphros. in the house, on his way through, he met father paul. 'everything is known,' said the priest, wringing his hand with his usual energy. 'what am i to do? malteios wants me to leave herakleion. shall i refuse? i am glad to have met you,' said julian, 'i was on my way to find you.' 'go, if malteios wants you to go,' the priest replied, 'the time is not ripe yet; but are you determined, in your own mind, to throw in your lot with hagios zacharie? remember, i cautioned you when we were still on aphros: you must be prepared for a complete estrangement from your family. you will be running with the hare, no longer hunting with the hounds. have you considered?' 'i am with the islands.' 'good,' said the priest, making a sign over him. 'go, all the same, if malteios exacts it; you will be the more of a man when you return. malteios' party will surely fall at the next elections. by then we shall be ready, and i will see that you are summoned. god bless you.' 'will you go out to eve in the garden, father? she is under the pergola. go and talk to her.' 'she is unhappy?' asked the priest, with a sharp look. 'a little, i think,' said julian, 'will you go?' 'at once, at once,' said paul, and he went quickly, through the grove of lemon-trees, stumbling over his soutane.... julian returned to herakleion, where he found his father and malteios in the big frescoed drawing-room, standing in an embrasure of the windows. the premier's face as he turned was full of tolerant benignity. 'ah, here is our young friend,' he began paternally. 'what are these stories i hear of you, young man? i have been telling your father that when i was a schoolboy, a _lycéen_--i, too, tried to meddle in politics. take my advice, and keep clear of these things till you are older. there are many things for the young: dancing, poetry, and love. politics to the old and the middle-aged. of course, i know your little escapade was nothing but a joke ... high spirits ... natural mischief....' the interview was galling and humiliating to julian; he disliked the premier's bantering friendliness, through which he was not sufficiently experienced to discern the hidden mistrust, apprehension, and hostility. his father, compelled to a secret and resentful pride in his son, was conscious of these things. but julian, his eyes fixed on the middle button of the premier's frock-coat, sullen and rebellious, tried to shut his ears to the prolonged murmur of urbane derision. he wished to look down upon, to ignore malteios, the unreal man, and this he could not do while he allowed those smooth and skilful words to flow unresisted in their suave cruelty over his soul. he shut his ears, and felt only the hardening of his determination. he would go; he would leave herakleion, only to return with increase of strength in the hour of fulfilment. dismissed, he set out for kato's flat, hatless, in a mood of thunder. his violence was not entirely genuine, but he persuaded himself, for he had lately been with eve, and the plausible influence of herakleion was upon him. he strode down the street, aware that people turned to gaze at him as he went. on the quay, the immense grbits rose suddenly up from the little green table where he sat drinking vermouth outside a café. 'my young friend,' he said, 'they tell me you are leaving herakleion? 'they are wise,' he boomed. 'you would break their toys if you remained. but _i_ remain; shall i watch for you? you will come back? i have hated the greeks well. shall we play a game with them? ha! ha!' his huge laugh reverberated down the quay as julian passed on, looking at the visiting card which the giant had just handed to him:-- srgjÁn grbits. _attaché à la légation de s.m. le roi des serbes, croates, et slovènes._ 'grbits my spy!' he was thinking. 'fantastic, fantastic.' kato's flat was at the top of a four-storied house on the quay. on the ground floor of the house was a cake-shop, and, like every other house along the sea-front, over every window hung a gay, striped sunblind that billowed slightly like a flag in the breeze from the sea. inside the cake-shop a number of levantines, dressed in their hot black, were eating sweet things off the marble counter. julian could never get eve past the cake-shop when they went to kato's together; she would always wander in to eat _choux à la crème_, licking the whipped cream off her fingers with a guilty air until he lent her his handkerchief, her own being invariably lost. julian went into the house by a side-door, up the steep narrow stairs, the walls painted in pompeian red with a slate-coloured dado; past the first floor, where on two frosted glass doors ran the inscription: koninklijke nederlandsche stoomboot-maatschappij; past the second floor, where a brass plate said: th. mavrudis et fils, cie. d'assurance; past the third floor, where old grigoriu, the money-lender, was letting himself in by a latchkey; to the fourth floor, where a woman in the native dress of the islands admitted him to kato's flat. the singer was seated on one of her low, carpet-covered divans, her throat and arms, as usual, bare, the latter covered with innumerable bangles; her knees wide apart and a hand placed resolutely upon each knee; before her stood tsigaridis, the headman of aphros, his powerful body encased in the blue english jersey mrs davenant had given him, and from the compression of which his pleated skirt sprang out so ridiculously. beside kato on the divan lay a basket of ripe figs which he had brought her. their two massive figures disproportionately filled the already overcrowded little room. they regarded julian gravely. 'i am going away,' he said, standing still before their scrutiny, as a pupil before his preceptors. kato bowed her head. they knew. they had discussed whether they should let him go, and had decided that he might be absent from herakleion until the next elections. 'but you will return, kyrie?' tsigaridis spoke respectfully, but with urgent authority, much in the tone a regent might adopt towards a youthful king. 'of course i shall return,' julian answered, and smiled and added, 'you mustn't lose faith, tsantilas.' the fisherman bowed with that dignity he inherited from unnamed but remotely ascending generations; he took his leave of kato and the boy, shutting the door quietly behind him. kato came up to julian, who had turned away and was staring out of the window. from the height of this fourth story one looked down upon the peopled quay below, and saw distinctly the houses upon the distant islands. 'you are sad,' she said. she moved to the piano, which, like herself, was a great deal too big for the room, and which alone of all the pieces of furniture was not loaded with ornaments. julian had often wondered, looking at the large expanse of lid, how kato had so consistently resisted the temptation to put things upon it. the most he had ever seen there was a gilt basket of hydrangeas, tied with a blue ribbon, from which hung the card of the premier. he knew that within twenty-four hours he would be at sea, and that herakleion as he would last have seen it--from the deck of the steamer, white, with many coloured sunblinds, and, behind it, mount mylassa, rising so suddenly, so threateningly, seemingly determined to crowd the man-built town off its narrow strip of coast into the water--herakleion, so pictured, would be but a memory; within a week, he knew, he would be in england. he did not know when he would see herakleion again. therefore he abandoned himself, on this last evening, to aphros, to the memory of eve, and to romance, not naming, not linking the three that took possession of and coloured all the daylight of his youth, but quiescent, sitting on the floor, his knees clasped, and approaching again, this time in spirit, the island where the foam broke round the foot of the rocks and the fleet of little fishing-boats swayed like resting seagulls in the harbour. he scarcely noticed that, all this while, kato was singing. she sang in a very low voice, as though she were singing a lullaby, and, though the words did not reach his consciousness, he knew that the walls of the room had melted into the warm and scented freedom of the terraces on aphros when the vintage was at its height, and when the air, in the evening, was heavy with the smell of the grape. he felt eve's fingers lightly upon his brows. he saw again her shadowy gray eyes, red mouth, and waving hair. he visualised the sparkle that crept into her eyes--strange eyes they were! deep-set, slanting slightly upwards, so ironical sometimes, and sometimes so inexplicably sad--when she was about to launch one of her more caustic and just remarks. how illuminating her remarks could be! they always threw a new light; but she never insisted on their value; on the contrary, she passed carelessly on to something else. but whatever she touched, she lit.... one came to her with the expectation of being stimulated, perhaps a little bewildered, and one was not disappointed. he recalled her so vividly--yet recollection of her could never be really vivid; the construction of her personality was too subtle, too varied; as soon as one had left her one wanted to go back to her, thinking that this time, perhaps, one would succeed better in seizing and imprisoning the secret of her elusiveness. julian caught himself smiling dreamily as he conjured her up. he heard the murmur of her seductive voice,-- 'i love you, julian.' he accepted the words, which he had heard often from her lips, dreamily as part of his last, deliberate evening, so losing himself in his dreams that he almost failed to notice when the music died and the notes of kato's voice slid from the recitative of her peasant songs into conversation with himself. she left the music-stool and came towards him where he sat on the floor. 'julian,' she said, looking down at him, 'your cousin eve, who is full of perception, says you are so primitive that the very furniture is irksome to you and that you dispense with it as far as you can. i know you prefer the ground to a sofa.' he became shy, as he instantly did when the topic of his own personality was introduced. he felt dimly that eve, who remorselessly dragged him from the woods into the glare of sunlight, alone had the privilege. at the same time he recognised her methods of appropriating a characteristic, insignificant in itself, and of building it up, touching it with her own peculiar grace and humour until it became a true and delicate attribute, growing into life thanks to her christening of it; a method truly feminine, exquisitely complimentary, carrying with it an insinuation faintly exciting, and creating a link quite separately personal, an understanding, almost an obligation to prove oneself true to her conception.... 'so you are leaving us?' said kato, 'you are going to live among other standards, other influences, "_dont je ne connais point la puissance sur votre coeur_." how soon will it be before you forget? and how soon before you return? we want you here, julian.' 'for the islands?' he asked. 'for the islands, and may i not say,' said kato, spreading her hands with a musical clinking of all her bangles, 'for ourselves also? how soon will it be before you forget the islands?' she forced herself to ask, and then, relapsing, 'which will fade first in your memory, i wonder--the islands? or kato?' 'i can't separate you in my mind,' he said, faintly ill at ease. 'it is true that we have talked of them by the hour,' she answered, 'have we talked of them so much that they and i are entirely identified? do you pay me the compliment of denying me the mean existence of an ordinary woman?' he thought that by answering in the affirmative he would indeed be paying her the greatest compliment that lay within his power, for he would be raising her to the status of a man and a comrade. he said,-- 'i never believed, before i met you, that a woman could devote herself so whole-heartedly to her patriotism. we have the islands in common between us; and, as you know, the islands mean more than mere islands to me: a great many things to which i could never give a name. and i am glad, yes, so glad, that our friendship has been, in a way, so impersonal--as though i were your disciple, and this flat my secret school, from which you should one day discharge me, saying "go!"' never had he appeared to her so hopelessly inaccessible as now when he laid his admiration, his almost religious idealisation of her at her feet. he went on,-- 'you have been so infinitely good to me; i have come here so often, i have talked so much; i have often felt, when i went away, that you, who were accustomed to clever men, must naturally....' 'why not say,' she interrupted, 'instead of "clever men," "men of my own age? my own generation"?' he looked at her doubtfully, checked. she was standing over him, her hands on her hips, and he noticed the tight circles of fat round her bent wrists, and the dimples in every joint of her stumpy hands. 'but why apologise?' she added, taking pity on his embarrassment, with a smile both forgiving and rueful for the ill she had brought upon herself. 'if you have enjoyed our talks, be assured i have enjoyed them too. for conversations to be as successful as ours have been, the enjoyment cannot possibly be one-sided. i shall miss them when you are gone. you go to england?' after a moment she said,-- 'isn't it strange, when those we know so intimately in one place travel away to another place in which we have never seen them? what do i, kato, know of the houses you will live in in england, or of your english friends? as some poet speaks, in a line i quoted to you just now, of all the influences _dont je ne connais pas la puissance sur votre coeur_! perhaps you will even fall in love. perhaps you will tell this imaginary woman with whom you are to fall in love, about our islands?' 'no woman but you would understand,' he said. 'she would listen for your sake, and for your sake she would pretend interest. does eve listen when you talk about the islands?' 'eve doesn't care about such things. i sometimes think she cares only about herself,' he replied with some impatience. 'you ...' she began again, but, checking herself, she said instead, with a grave irony that was lost upon him, 'you have flattered me greatly to-day, julian. i hope you may always find in me a wise preceptor. but i can only point the way. the accomplishment lies with you. we will work together?' she added, smiling, 'in the realms of the impersonal? a philosophic friendship? a platonic alliance?' when he left her, she was still, gallantly, smiling. part ii--eve i after spending nearly two years in exile, julian was once more upon his way to herakleion. on deck, brooding upon a great coil of rope, his head bare to the winds, absorbed and concentrated, he disregarded all his surroundings in favour of the ever equi-distant horizon. he seemed to be entranced by its promise. he seemed, moreover, to form part of the ship on which he travelled; part of it, crouching as he did always at the prow, as a figurehead forms part; part of the adventure, the winged gallantry, the eager onward spirit indissoluble from the voyage of a ship in the midst of waters from which no land is visible. the loneliness--for there is no loneliness to equal the loneliness of the sea--the strife of the wind, the generosity of the expanse, the pure cleanliness of the nights and days, met and matched his mood. at moments, feeling himself unconquerable, he tasted the full, rare, glory of youth and anticipation. he did not know which he preferred: the days full of sunlight on the wide blue sea, or the nights when the breeze was fresher against his face, and the road more mysterious, under a young moon that lit the ridges of the waves and travelled slowly past, overhead, across the long black lines of cordage and rigging. he knew only that he was happy as he had never been happy in his life. his fellow-passengers had watched him when he joined the ship at brindisi, and a murmur had run amongst them, 'julian davenant--son of those rich davenants of herakleion, you know--great wine-growers--they own a whole archipelago'; some one had disseminated the information even as julian came up the gangway, in faded old gray flannels, hatless, in a rage with his porter, who appeared to be terrified out of all proportion. then, suddenly, he had lost all interest in his luggage, tossed some money to the porter, and, walking for'ard, had thrown himself down on the heap of ropes and stared straight in front of him to sea, straining his eyes forward to where greece might lie. from here he had scarcely stirred. the people who watched him, benevolent and amused, thought him very young. they saw that he relieved the intensity of his vigil with absurd and childlike games that he played by himself, hiding and springing out at the sailors, and laughing immoderately when he had succeeded in startling them--he fraternised with the sailors, though with no one else--or when he saw somebody trip over a ring in the deck. his humour, like his body, seemed to be built on large and simple lines.... in the mornings he ran round and round the decks in rubber-soled shoes. then again he flung himself down and continued with unseeing eyes to stare at the curve of the horizon. not wholly by design, he had remained absent from herakleion for nearly two years. the standards and systems of life on that remote and beautiful seaboard had not faded for him, this time, with their usual astonishing rapidity; he had rather laid them aside carefully and deliberately, classified against the hour when he should take them from their wrappings; he postponed the consideration of the mission which had presented itself to him, and crushed down the recollection of what had been, perhaps, the most intoxicating of all moments--more intoxicating even, because more unexpected, than the insidious flattery of eve--the moment when paul had said to him beneath the fragmentary frescoes of the life of saint benedict, in a surprised voice, forced into admission,-- 'you have the quality of leadership. you have it. you have the secret. the people will fawn to the hand that chastens.' paul, his tutor and preceptor, from whom he had first learnt, so imperceptibly that he scarcely recognised the teaching as a lesson, of the islands and their problems both human and political, paul had spoken these words to him, renouncing the authority of the master, stepping aside to admit the accession of the pupil. from the position of a regent, he had abased himself to that of a prime minister. julian had accepted the acknowledgement with a momentary dizziness. in later moments of doubt, the words had flamed for him, bright with reassurance. and then he had banished them with the rest. that world of romance had been replaced by the world of healthy and prosaic things. the letters he periodically received from eve irritated him because of their reminder of an existence he preferred to regard, for the moment, as in abeyance. 'and so you are gone: _veni, vidi, vici_. you were well started on your career of devastation! you hadn't done badly, all things considered. herakleion has heaved an "ouf!" of relief. you, unimpressionable? _allons donc!_ you, apathetic? you, placid, unemotional, unawakened? _tu te payes ma tête!_ 'ah, the limitless ambition i have for you! 'i want you to rule, conquer, shatter, demolish. 'haul down the simpering gods, the pampered gods, and put yourself in their place. it is in your power. 'why not? you have _le feu sacré_. stagnation is death, death. burn their temples with fire, and trample their altars to dust.' this letter, scrawled in pencil on a sheet of torn foolscap, followed him to england immediately after his departure. then a silence of six months. then he read, written on spacious yellow writing-paper, with the monogram e.d. embossed in a triangle of mother-of-pearl, vivid and extravagant as eve herself-- they are trying to catch me, julian! i come quite near, quite near, and they hold very quiet their hand with the crumbs in it. i see the other hand stealing round to close upon me--then there's a flutter--_un battement d'ailes--l'oiseau s'est de nouveau dérobé!_ they remain gazing after me, with their mouths wide open. they look so silly. and they haven't robbed me of one plume--not a single plume. 'julian! why this mania for capture? this wanting to take from me my most treasured possession--liberty? when i want to give, i'll give freely--largesse with both hands, showers of gold and flowers and precious stones--(don't say i'm not conceited!) but i'll never give my liberty, and i'll never allow it to be forced away from me. i should feel a traitor. i couldn't walk through a forest and hear the wind in the trees. i couldn't listen to music. (ah, julian! this afternoon i steeped myself in music; grieg, elf-like, mischievous, imaginative, romantic, so latin sometimes in spite of his northern blood. you would love grieg, julian. in the fairyland of music, grieg plays gnome to debussy's magician.... then "khovantchina," of all music the most sublime, the most perverse, the most _bariolé_, the most abandoned, and the most desolate.) i could have no comradeship with a free and inspired company. i should have betrayed their secrets, bartered away their mysteries....' he had wondered then whether she were happy. he had visualised her, turbulent, defiant; courting danger and then childishly frightened when danger overtook her; deliciously forthcoming, inventive, enthusiastic, but always at heart withdrawn; she expressed herself truly when she said that the bird fluttered away from the hand that would have closed over it. he knew that she lived constantly, from choice, in a storm of trouble and excitement. yet he read between the lines of her letters a certain dissatisfaction, a straining after something as yet unattained. he knew that her heart was not in what she described as 'my little round of complacent amourettes.' the phrase had awoken him with a smile of amusement to the fact that she was no longer a child. he felt some curiosity to see her again under the altered and advanced conditions of her life, yet, lazy and diffident, he shrank from the storm of adventure and responsibility which he knew would at once assail him. the indolence he felt sprang largely from the certainty that he could, at any moment of his choice, stretch out his hand to gather up again the threads that he had relinquished. he had surveyed herakleion, that other world, from the distance and security of england. he had the conviction that it awaited him, and this conviction bore with it a strangely proprietary sense in which eve was included. he had listened with amusement and tolerance to the accounts of her exploits, his sleepy eyes bent upon his informant with a quiet patience, as a man who listens to a familiar recital. he had dwelt very often upon the possibility of his return to herakleion, but, without a full or even a partial knowledge of his motives, postponed it. yet all the while his life was a service, a dedication. then the letters which he received began to mention the forthcoming elections; a faint stir of excitement pervaded his correspondence; eve, detesting politics, made no reference, but his father's rare notes betrayed an impatient and irritable anxiety; the indications grew, culminating in a darkly allusive letter which, although anonymous, he took to be from grbits, and finally in a document which was a triumph of illiterate dignity, signed by kato, tsigaridis, zapantiotis, and a double column of names that broke like a flight of exotic birds into the mellow enclosure of the cathedral garden where it found him. conscious of his ripened and protracted strength, he took ship for greece. he had sent no word to announce his coming. a sardonic smile lifted one corner of his mouth as he foresaw the satisfaction of taking eve by surprise. a standing joke between them (discovered and created, of course, by her, the inventive) was the invariable unexpectedness of his arrivals. he would find her altered, grown. an unreasoning fury possessed him, a jealous rage, not directed against any human being, but against time itself, that it should lay hands upon eve, his eve, during his absence; taking, as it were, advantage while his back was turned. and though he had often professed to himself a lazy indifference to her devotion to him, julian, he found intolerable the thought that that devotion might have been transferred elsewhere. he rose and strode thunderously down the deck, and one of his fellow-travellers, watching, whistled to himself and thought,-- 'that boy has an ugly temper.' then the voyage became a dream to julian; tiny islands, quite rosy in the sunlight, stained the sea here and there only a few miles distant, and along the green sea the ship drew a white, lacy wake, broad and straight, that ever closed behind her like an obliterated path, leaving the way of retreat trackless and unavailable. one day he realised that the long, mountainous line which he had taken for a cloud-bank, was in point of fact the coast. that evening, a sailor told him, they were due to make herakleion. he grew resentful of the apathy of passengers and crew. the coast-line became more and more distinct. presently they were passing aphros, and only eight miles lay between the ship and the shore. the foam that gave it its name was breaking upon the rocks of the island.... after that a gap occurred in his memory, and the scene slipped suddenly to the big frescoed drawing-room of his father's house in the _platia_, where the peace and anticipation of his voyage were replaced by the gaiety of voices, the blatancy of lights, and the strident energy of three violins and a piano. he had walked up from the pier after the innumerable delays of landing; it was then eleven o'clock at night, and as he crossed the _platia_ and heard the music coming from the lighted and open windows of his father's house, he paused in the shadows, aware of the life that had gone on for over a year without him. 'and why is that surprising? i'm an astounding egotist,' he muttered. he was still in his habitual gray flannels, but he would not go to his room to change. he was standing in the doorway of the drawing-room on the first floor, smiling gently at finding himself still unnoticed, and looking for eve. she was sitting at the far end of the room between two men, and behind her the painted monkeys grimaced on the wall, swinging by hands and tails from the branches of the unconvincing trees. he saw her as seated in the midst of that ethereal and romantic landscape. skirting the walls, he made his way round to her, and in the angle he paused, and observed her. she was unconscious of his presence. young christopoulos bent towards her, and she was smiling into his eyes.... in eighteen months she had perfected her art. julian drew nearer, critically, possessively, and sarcastically observing her still, swift to grasp the essential difference. she, who had been a child when he had left her, was now a woman. the strangeness of her face had come to its own in the fullness of years, and the provocative mystery of her person, that withheld even more than it betrayed, now justified itself likewise. there seemed to be a reason for the red lips and ironical eyes that had been so incongruous, so almost offensive, in the face of the child. an immense fan of orange feathers drooped from her hand. her hair waved turbulently round her brows, and seemed to cast a shadow over her eyes. he stood suddenly before her. for an instant she gazed up at him, her lips parted, her breath arrested. he laughed easily, pleased to have bettered her at her own game of melodrama. he saw that she was really at a loss, clutching at her wits, at her recollection of him, trying desperately to fling a bridge across the gulf of those momentous months. she floundered helplessly in the abrupt renewal of their relations. seeing this, he felt an arrogant exhilaration at the discomfiture which he had produced. she had awoken in him, without a word spoken, the tyrannical spirit of conquest which she induced in all men. then she was saved by the intervention of the room; first by christopoulos shaking julian's hand, then by dancers crowding round with exclamations of welcome and surprise. mr davenant himself was brought, and julian stood confused and smiling, but almost silent, among the volubility of the guests. he was providing a sensation for lives greedy of sensation. he heard madame lafarge, smiling benevolently at him behind her lorgnon, say to don rodrigo valdez,-- '_c'est un original que ce garçon._' they were all there, futile and vociferous. the few new-comers were left painfully out in the cold. they were all there: the fat danish excellency, her yellow hair fuzzing round her pink face; condesa valdez, painted like a courtesan; armand, languid, with his magnolia-like complexion; madame delahaye, enterprising and equivocal; julie lafarge, thin and brown, timidly smiling; panaïoannou in his sky-blue uniform; the four sisters christopoulos, well to the front. these, and all the others. he felt that, at whatever moment during the last eighteen months he had timed his return, he would have found them just the same, complete, none missing, the same words upon their lips. he accepted them now, since he had surrendered to herakleion, but as for their reality as human beings, with the possible exceptions of grbits the giant, crashing his way to julian through people like an elephant pushing through a forest, and of the persian minister, hovering on the outskirts of the group with the gentle smile still playing round his mouth, they might as well have been cut out of cardboard. eve had gone; he could see her nowhere. alexander, presumably, had gone with her. captured at last by the danish excellency, julian had a stream of gossip poured into his ears. he had been in exile for so long, he must be thirsty for news. a new english minister had arrived, but he was said to be unsociable. he had been expected at the races on the previous sunday, but had failed to put in an appearance. armand had had an affair with madame delahaye. at a dinner-party last week, rafaele, the councillor of the italian legation, had not been given his proper place. the russian minister, who was the doyen of the _corps diplomatique_, had promised to look into the matter with the chef du protocole. once etiquette was allowed to become lax.... the season had been very gay. comparatively few political troubles. she disliked political troubles. she--confidentially--preferred personalities. but then she was only a woman, and foolish. she knew that she was foolish. but she had a good heart. she was not clever, like his cousin eve. eve? a note of hostility and reserve crept into her expansiveness. eve was, of course, very charming, though not beautiful. she could not be called beautiful; her mouth was too large and too red. it was almost improper to have so red a mouth; not quite _comme il faut_ in so young a girl. still, she was undeniably successful. men liked to be amused, and eve, when she was not sulky, could be very amusing. her imitations were proverbial in herakleion. imitation was, however, an unkindly form of entertainment. it was perhaps a pity that eve was so _moqueuse_. nothing was sacred to her, not even things which were really beautiful and touching--patriotism, or moonlight, or art--even greek art. it was not that she, mabel thyregod, disapproved of wit; she had even some small reputation for wit herself; no; but she held that there were certain subjects to which the application of wit was unsuitable. love, for instance. love was the most beautiful, the most sacred thing upon earth, yet eve--a child, a chit--had no veneration either for love in the abstract or for its devotees in the flesh. she wasted the love that was offered her. she could have no heart, no temperament. she was perhaps fortunate. she, mabel thyregod, had always suffered from having too warm a temperament. a struggle ensued between them, fru thyregod trying to force the personal note, and julian opposing himself to its intrusion. he liked her too much to respond to her blatant advances. he wondered, with a brotherly interest, whether eve were less crude in her methods. the thought of eve sent him instantly in her pursuit, leaving fru thyregod very much astonished and annoyed in the ball-room. he found eve with a man he did not know sitting in her father's business-room. she was lying back in a chair, listless and absent-minded, while her companion argued with vehemence and exasperation. she exclaimed,-- 'julian again! another surprise appearance! have you been wearing a cap of invisibility?' seeing that her companion remained silent in uncertainty, she murmured an introduction,-- 'do you know my cousin julian? prince ardalion miloradovitch.' the russian bowed with a bad grace, seeing that he must yield his place to julian. when he had gone, unwillingly tactful and full of resentment, she twitted her cousin,-- 'implacable as always, when you want your own way! i notice you have neither outgrown your tyrannical selfishness nor left it behind in england.' 'i have never seen that man before; who is he?' 'a russian. not unattractive. i am engaged to him,' she replied negligently. 'you are going to marry him?' she shrugged. 'perhaps, ultimately. more probably not.' 'and what will he do if you throw him over?' julian asked with a certain curiosity. 'oh, he has a fine _je-m'en-fichisme_; he'll shrug his shoulders, kiss the tips of my fingers, and die gambling,' she answered. when eve said that, julian thought that he saw the whole of miloradovitch, whom he did not know, quite clearly; she had lit him up. they talked then of a great many things, extraneous to themselves, but all the while they observed one another narrowly. she found nothing actually new in him, only an immense development along the old, careless, impersonal lines. in appearance he was as untidy as ever; large, slack-limbed, rough-headed. he, however, found much that was new in her; new, that is, to his more experienced observation, but which, hitherto, in its latent form had slept undiscovered by his boyish eyes. his roaming glance took in the deliberate poise and provocative aloofness of her self-possession, the warm roundness of her throat and arms, the little _mouche_ at the corner of her mouth, her little graceful hands, and white skin that here and there, in the shadows, gleamed faintly gold, as though a veneer of amber had been brushed over the white; the pervading sensuousness that glowed from her like the actual warmth of a slumbering fire. he found himself banishing the thought of miloradovitch.... 'have you changed?' he said abruptly. 'look at me.' she raised her eyes, with the assurance of one well-accustomed to personal remarks; a slow smile crept over her lips. 'well, your verdict?' 'you are older, and your hair is brushed back.' 'is that all?' 'do you expect me to say that you are pretty?' 'oh, no,' she said, snapping her fingers, 'i never expect compliments from you, julian. on the other hand, let me pay you one. your arrival, this evening, has been a triumph. most artistic. let me congratulate you. you know of old that i dislike being taken by surprise.' 'that's why i do it.' 'i know,' she said, with sudden humility, the marvellous organ of her voice sinking surprisingly into the rich luxuriance of its most sombre contralto. he noted with a fresh enjoyment the deep tones that broke like a honeyed caress upon his unaccustomed ear. his imagination bore him away upon a flight of images that left him startled by their emphasis no less than by their fantasy. a cloak of black velvet, he thought to himself, as he continued to gaze unseeingly at her; a dusky voice, a gipsy among voices! the purple ripeness of a plum; the curve of a southern cheek; the heart of red wine. all things seductive and insinuating. it matched her soft indolence, her exquisite subtlety, her slow, ironical smile. 'your delicious vanity,' he said unexpectedly, and, putting out his hand he touched the hanging fold of silver net which was bound by a silver ribbon round one of her slender wrists. ii herakleion. the white town. the sun. the precipitate coast, and mount mylassa soaring into the sky. the distant slope of greece. the low islands lying out in the jewelled sea. the diplomatic round, the calculations of gain, the continuous and plaintive music of the islands, the dream of rescue, the ardent championship of the feebler cause, the strife against wealth and authority. the whole fabric of youth.... these were the things abruptly rediscovered and renewed. the elections were to take place within four days of julian's arrival. father paul, no doubt, could add to the store of information kato had already given him. but father paul was not to be found in the little tavern he kept in the untidy village close to the gates of the davenants' country house. julian reined up before it, reading the familiar name, xenodochion olympos, above the door, and calling out to the men who were playing bowls along the little gravelled bowling alley to know where he might find the priest. they could not tell him, nor could the old islander tsigaridis, who sat near the door, smoking a cigar, and dribbling between his fingers the beads of a bright green rosary. 'the _papá_ is often absent from us,' added tsigaridis, and julian caught the grave inflection of criticism in his tone. the somnolent heat of the september afternoon lay over the squalid dusty village; in the whole length of its street no life stirred; the dogs slept; the pale pink and blue houses were closely shuttered, with an effect of flatness and desertion. against the pink front of the tavern splashed the shadows of a great fig-tree, and upon its threshold, but on one side the tree had been cut back to prevent any shadows from falling across the bowling-alley. julian rode on, enervated by the too intense heat and the glare, and, giving up his horse at his uncle's stables, wandered in the shade under the pergola of gourds at the bottom of the garden. he saw father paul coming towards him across the grass between the lemon-trees; the priest walked slowly, his head bent, his hands clasped behind his back, a spare black figure among the golden fruit. so lean, so lank he appeared, his natural height accentuated by his square black cap; so sallow his bony face in contrast to his stringy red hair. julian likened him to a long note of exclamation. he advanced unaware of julian's presence, walking as though every shuffling step of his flat, broad-toed shoes were an accompaniment to some laborious and completed thought. 'perhaps,' julian reflected, watching him, 'by the time he reaches me he'll have arrived at his decision.' he speculated amusedly as to the priest's difficulties: an insurgent member of the flock? a necessary repair to the church? nothing, nothing outside herakleion. a tiny life! a priest, a man who had forsworn man's birthright. the visible in exchange for the invisible world. a life concentrated and intense; tight-handed, a round little ball of a life. no range, no freedom. village life under a microscope; familiar faces and familiar souls. julian seemed to focus suddenly the rays of the whole world into a spot of light which was the village, and over which the priest's thin face was bent poring with a close, a strained expression of absorption, so that his benevolent purpose became almost a force of evil, prying and inquisitive, and from which the souls under his charge strove to writhe away in vain. to break the image, he called out aloud,-- 'you were very deeply immersed in your thoughts, father?' 'yes, yes,' paul muttered. he took out his handkerchief to pass it over his face, which julian now saw with surprise was touched into high lights by a thin perspiration. 'is anything wrong?' he asked. 'nothing wrong. your father is very generous,' the priest added irrelevantly. julian, still under the spell, inquired as to his father's generosity. 'he has promised me a new iconostase,' said paul, but he spoke from an immense distance, vagueness in his eyes, and with a trained, obedient tongue. 'the old iconostase is in a disgraceful state of dilapidation,' he continued, with a new, uncanny energy; 'when we cleaned out the panels we found them hung with bats at the back, and not only bats, but, do you know, julian, the mice had nested there; the mice are a terrible plague in the church. i am obliged to keep the consecrated bread in a biscuit tin, and i do not like doing that; i like to keep it covered over with a linen cloth; but no, i cannot, all on account of the mice. i have set traps, and i had got a cat, but since she caught her foot in one of the traps she has gone away. i am having great trouble, great trouble with the mice.' 'i know,' said julian, 'i used to have mice in my rooms at oxford.' 'a plague!' cried paul, still fiercely energetic, but utterly remote. 'one would wonder, if one were permitted to wonder, why he saw fit to create mice. i never caught any in my traps; only the cat's foot. and the boy who cleans the church ate the cheese. i have been very unfortunate--very unfortunate with the mice,' he added. would they never succeed in getting away from the topic? the garden was populated with mice, quick little gray objects darting across the path. and paul, who continued to talk vehemently, with strange, abrupt gestures, was not really there at all. 'nearly two years since you have been away,' he was saying. 'i expect you have seen a great deal; forgotten all about paul? how do you find your father? many people have died in the village; that was to be expected. i have been kept busy, funerals and christenings. i like a full life. and then i have the constant preoccupation of the church; the church, yes. i have been terribly concerned about the iconostase. i have blamed myself bitterly for my negligence. that, of course, was all due to the mice. a man was drowned off these rocks last week; a stranger. they say he had been losing in the casino. i have been into herakleion once or twice, since you have been away. but it is too noisy. the trams, and the glare.... it would not seem noisy to you. you no doubt welcome the music of the world. you are young, and life for you contains no problems. but i am very happy; i should not like you to think i was not perfectly happy. your father and your uncle are peculiarly considerate and generous men. your uncle has promised to pay for the installation of the new iconostase and the removal of the old one. i forgot to tell you that. completely perished, some of the panels.... and your aunt, a wonderful woman.' julian listened in amazement. the priest talked like a wound-up and crazy machine, and all the while julian was convinced that he did not know a word he was saying. he had once been grave, earnest, scholarly, even wise.... he kept taking off and putting on his cap, to the wild disordering of his long hair. 'he's gone mad,' julian thought in dismay. julian despaired of struggling out of the quicksands that sucked at their feet. he thought desperately that if the priest would come back, would recall his spirit to take control of his wits, all might be well. the tongue was babbling in an empty body while the spirit journeyed in unknown fields, finding there what excruciating torment? who could tell! for the man was suffering, that was clear; he had been suffering as he walked across the grass, but he had suffered then in controlled silence, spirit and mind close-locked and allied in the taut effort of endurance; now, their alliance shattered by the sound of a human voice, the spirit had fled, sweeping with it the furies of agony, and leaving the mind bereaved, chattering emptily, noisily, in the attempt at concealment. he, julian, was responsible for this revelation of the existence of an unguessed secret. he must repair the damage he had done. 'father!' he said, interrupting, and he took the priest strongly by the wrist. their eyes met. 'father!' julian said again. he held the wrist with the tensest effort of his fingers, and the eyes with the tensest effort of his will. he saw the accentuated cavities of the priest's thin face, and the pinched lines of suffering at the corners of the mouth. paul had been strong, energetic, masculine. now his speech was random, and he quavered as a palsied old man. even his personal cleanliness had, in a measure, deserted him; his soutane was stained, his hair lank and greasy. he confronted julian with a scared and piteous cowardice, compelled, yet seeking escape, then as he slowly steadied himself under julian's grip the succeeding emotions were reflected in his eyes: first shame; then a horrified grasping after his self-respect; finally, most touching of all, confidence and gratitude; and julian, seeing the cycle completed and knowing that paul was again master of himself, released the wrist and asked, in the most casual voice at his command, 'all right?' he had the sensation of having saved some one from falling. paul nodded without speaking. then he began to ask julian as to how he had employed the last eighteen months, and they talked for some time without reference to the unaccountable scene that had passed between them. paul talked with his wonted gentleness and interest, the strangeness of his manner entirely vanished; julian could have believed it a hallucination, but for the single trace left in the priest's disordered hair. red strands hung abjectly down his back. julian found his eyes drawn towards them in a horrible fascination, but, because he knew the scene must be buried unless paul himself chose to revive it, he kept his glance turned away with conscious deliberation. he was relieved when the priest left him. 'gone to do his hair'--the phrase came to his mind as he saw the priest walk briskly away, tripping with the old familiar stumble over his soutane, and saw the long wisps faintly red on the black garment. 'like a woman--exactly!' he uttered in revolt, clenching his hand at man's degradation. 'like a woman, long hair, long skirt; ready to listen to other people's troubles. unnatural existence; unnatural? it's unnatural to the point of viciousness. no wonder the man's mind is unhinged.' he was really troubled about his friend, the more so that loyalty would keep him silent and allow him to ask no questions. he thought, however, that if eve volunteered any remarks about paul it would not be disloyal to listen. the afternoon was hot and still; eve would be indoors. the traditions of his english life still clung to him sufficiently to make him chafe vaguely against the idleness of the days; he resented the concession to the climate. a demoralising place. a place where priests let their hair grow long, and went temporarily mad.... he walked in the patchy shade of the lemon-trees towards the house in a distressed and irascible frame of mind. he longed for action; his mind was never content to dwell long unoccupied. he longed for the strife the elections would bring. the house glared very white, and all the green shutters were closed; behind them, he knew, the windows would be closed too. another contradiction. in england, when one wanted to keep a house cool, one opened the windows wide. he crossed the veranda; the drawing-room was dim and empty. how absurd to paint sham flames on the ceiling in a climate where the last thing one wanted to remember was fire. he called,-- 'eve!' silence answered him. a book lying on the floor by the writing-table showed him that she had been in the room; no one else in that house would read albert samain. he picked it up and read disgustedly,-- '... des roses! des roses encore! je les adore à la souffrance. elles ont la sombre attirance des choses qui donnent la mort.' 'nauseating!' he cried, flinging the book from him. certainly the book was eve's. certainly she had been in the room, for no one else would or could have drawn that mask of a faun on the blotting paper. he looked at it carelessly, then with admiration; what malicious humour she had put into those squinting eyes, that slanting mouth! he turned the blotting paper idly--how like eve to draw on the blotting paper!--and came on other drawings: a demon, a fantastic castle, a half-obliterated sketch of himself. once he found his name, in elaborate architectural lettering, repeated all over the page. then he found a letter of which the three first words: 'eternal, exasperating eve!' and the last sentence, ' ... votre réveil qui doit être charmant dans le désordre fantaisiste de votre chambre,' made him shut the blotter in a scurry of discretion. here were all the vivid traces of her passage, but where was she? loneliness and the lack of occupation oppressed him. he lounged away from the writing-table, out into the wide passage which ran all round the central court. he paused there, his hands in his pockets, and called again,-- 'eve!' 'eve!' the echoing passage answered startlingly. presently another more tangible voice came to him as he stood staring disconsolately through the windows into the court. 'were you calling mith eve, mathter julian? the'th rethting. thall i tell her?' he was pleased to see nana, fat, stayless, slipshod, slovenly, benevolent. he kissed her, and told her she was fatter than ever. 'glad i've come back, nannie?' 'why, yeth, thurely, mathter julian.' nana's demonstrations were always restrained, respectful. she habitually boasted that although life in the easy south might have induced her to relax her severity towards her figure, she had never allowed it to impair her manners. 'can i go up to eve's room, nannie?' 'i thuppoth tho, my dear.' 'nannie, you know, you ought to be an old negress.' 'why, dear lord! me black?' 'yes; you'd be ever so much more suitable.' he ran off to eve's room upstairs, laughing, boyish again after his boredom and irritability. he had been in eve's room many times before, but with his fingers on the door handle he paused. again that strange vexation at her years had seized him. he knocked. inside, the room was very dim; the furniture bulked large in the shadows. scent, dusk, luxury lapped round him like warm water. he had an impression of soft, scattered garments, deep mirrors, chosen books, and many little bottles. suddenly he was appalled by the insolence of his own intrusion--an unbeliever bursting into a shrine. he stood silent by the door. he heard a drowsy voice singing in a murmur an absurd childish rhyme,-- 'il était noir comme un corbeau, ali, ali, ali, alo, macachebono, la roustah, la mougah, la roustah, la mougah, allah! 'il était de bonne famille, sa mère élevait des chameaux, macachebono....' he discerned the bed, the filmy veils of the muslin mosquito curtains, falling apart from a baldaquin. the lazy voice, after a moment of silence, queried,-- 'nana?' it was with an effort that he brought himself to utter,-- 'no; julian.' with an upheaval of sheets he heard her sit upright in bed, and her exclamation,-- 'who said you might come in here?' at that he laughed, quite naturally. 'why not? i was bored. may i come and talk to you?' he came round the corner of the screen and saw her sitting up, her hair tumbled and dark, her face indistinct, her shoulders emerging white from a foam of lace. he sat down on the edge of her bed, the details of the room emerging slowly from the darkness; and she herself becoming more distinct as she watched him, her shadowy eyes half sarcastic, half resentful. 'sybarite!' he said. she only smiled in answer, and put out one hand towards him. it fell listlessly on to the sheets as though she had no energy to hold it up. 'you child,' he said, 'you make me feel coarse and vulgar beside you. here am i, burning for battle, and there you lie, wasting time, wasting youth, half-asleep, luxurious, and quite unrepentant.' 'surely even you must find it too hot for battle?' 'i don't find it too hot to wish that it weren't too hot. you, on the other hand, abandon yourself contentedly; you are pleased that it is too hot for you to do anything but glide voluptuously into a siesta in the middle of the day.' 'you haven't been here long, remember, julian; you're still brisk from england. only wait; herakleion will overcome you.' 'don't!' he cried out startlingly. 'don't say it! it's prophetic. i shall struggle against it; i shall be the stronger.' she only laughed murmurously into her pillows, but he was really stirred; he stood up and walked about the room, launching spasmodic phrases. 'you and herakleion, you are all of a piece.--you shan't drag me down.--not if i am to live here.--i know one loses one's sense of values here. i learnt that when i last went away to england. i've come back on my guard.--i'm determined to remain level-headed.--i refuse to be impressed by fantastic happenings.... 'why do you stop so abruptly?' did her voice mock him? he had stopped, remembering paul. already he had blundered against something he did not understand. an impulse came to him to confide in eve; eve lying there, quietly smiling with unexpressed but unmistakable irony; eve so certain that, sooner or later, herakleion would conquer him. he would confide in her. and then, as he hesitated, he knew suddenly that eve was not trustworthy. he began again walking about the room, betraying by no word that a moment of revelation, important and dramatic, had come and passed on the tick of a clock. yet he knew he had crossed a line over which he could now never retrace his steps. he would never again regard eve in quite the same light. he absorbed the alteration with remarkable rapidity into his conception of her. he supposed that the knowledge of her untrustworthiness had always lain dormant in him waiting for the test which should some day call it out; that was why he was so little impressed by what he had mistaken for new knowledge. 'julian, sit down; how restless you are. and you look so enormous in this room, you frighten me.' he sat down, closer to her than he had sat before, and began playing with her fingers. 'how soft your hand is. it is quite boneless,' he said, crushing it together; 'it's like a little pigeon. so you think herakleion will beat me? i dare say you are right. shall i tell you something? when i was on my way here, from england, i determined that i would allow myself to be beaten. i don't know why i had that moment of revolt just now. because i am quite determined to let myself drift with the current, whether it carry me towards adventures or towards lotus-land.' 'perhaps towards both.' 'isn't that too much to hope?' 'why? they are compatible. c'est le sort de la jeunesse.' 'prophesy adventures for me!' 'my dear julian! i'm far too lazy.' 'lotus-land, then?' 'this room isn't a bad substitute,' she proffered. he wondered then at the exact extent of her meaning. he was accustomed to the amazing emotional scenes she had periodically created between them in childhood--scenes which he never afterwards could rehearse to himself; scenes whose fabric he never could dissect, because it was more fantastic, more unreal, than gossamer; scenes in which storm, anger, and heroics had figured; scenes from which he had emerged worried, shattered, usually with the ardent impress of her lips on his, and brimming with self-reproach. a calm existence was not for her; she would neither understand nor tolerate it. the door opened, and old nana came shuffling in. 'mith eve, pleath, there'th a gentleman downstairth to thee you. here'th hith card.' julian took it. 'eve, it's malteios.' that drowsy voice, indifferent and melodious,-- 'tell him to go away, nana; tell him i am resting.' 'but, dearie, what'll your mother thay?' 'tell him to go away, nana.' 'he'th the prime minithter,' nana began doubtfully. 'eve!' julian said in indignation. 'but, mith eve, you know he came latht week and you forgot he wath coming and you wath out.' 'is that so, eve? is he here by appointment with you to-day?' 'no.' 'i shall go down to him and find out whether you are speaking the truth.' he went downstairs, ignoring eve's voice that called him back. the premier was in the drawing-room, examining the insignificant ornaments on the table. their last meeting had been a memorable one, in the painted room overlooking the _platia_. when their greetings were over, julian said,-- 'i believe you were asking for my cousin, sir?' 'that is so. she promised me,' said the premier, a sly look coming over his face, 'that she would give me tea to-day. shall i have the pleasure of seeing her?' 'what,' thought julian, 'does this old scapegrace politician, who must have his mind and his days full of the coming elections, want with eve? and want so badly that he can perform the feat of coming out here from herakleion in the heat of the afternoon?' aloud he said, grimly because of the lie she had told him,-- 'she will be with you in a few moments, sir.' in eve's dark room, where nana still stood fatly and hopelessly expostulating, and eve pretended to sleep, he spoke roughly,-- 'you lied to me as usual. he is here by appointment. he is waiting. i told him you would not keep him waiting long. you must get up.' 'i shall do nothing of the sort. what right have you to dictate to me?' 'you're making mathter julian croth--and he tho thweet-tempered alwayth,' said nana's warning voice. 'does she usually behave like this, nana?' 'oh, mathter julian, it'th dreadful--and me alwayth thaving her from her mother, too. and loothing all her thingth, too, all the time. i can't keep anything in it'th plathe. only three dayth ago the lotht a diamond ring, but the never cared. the thpanith gentleman thent it to her, and the never thanked him, and then lotht the ring. and the never notithed or cared. and the getth dretheth and dretheth, and won't put them on twith. and flowerth and chocolathes thent her--they all thpoil her tho--and the biteth all the chocolathes in two to thee what'th inthide, and throwth them away and thayth the dothn't like them. that exathperating, the ith.' 'leave her to me, nannie.' 'mith naughtineth,' said nana, as she left the room. they were alone. 'eve, i am really angry. that old man!' she turned luxuriously on to her back, her arms flung wide, and lay looking at him. 'you are very anxious that i should go to him. you are not very jealous of me, are you, julian?' 'why does he come?' he asked curiously. 'you never told me....' 'there are a great many things i never tell you, my dear.' 'it is not my business and i am not interested,' he answered, 'but he has come a long way in the heat to see you, and i dislike your callousness. i insist upon your getting up.' she smiled provokingly. he dropped on his knees near her. 'darling, to please me?' she gave a laugh of sudden disdain. 'fool! i might have obeyed you; now you have thrown away your advantage.' 'have i?' he said, and, slipping his arm beneath her, he lifted her up bodily. 'where shall i put you down?' he asked, standing in the middle of the room and holding her. 'at your dressing-table?' 'why don't you steal me, julian?' she murmured, settling herself more comfortably in his grasp. 'steal you? what on earth do you mean? explain!' he said. 'oh, i don't know; if you don't understand, it doesn't matter,' she replied with some impatience, but beneath her impatience he saw that she was shaken, and, flinging one arm round his neck, she pulled herself up and kissed him on the mouth. he struggled away, displeased, brotherly, and feeling the indecency of that kiss in that darkened room, given by one whose thinly-clad, supple body he had been holding as he might hold a child's. 'you have a genius for making me angry, eve.' he stopped: she had relaxed suddenly, limp and white in his arms; with a long sigh she let her head fall back, her eyes closed. the warmth of her limbs reached him through the diaphanous garment she wore. he thought he had never before seen such abandonment of expression and attitude; his displeasure deepened, and an uncomplimentary word rose to his lips. 'i don't wonder....' flashed through his mind. he was shocked, as a brother might be at the betrayal of his sister's sexuality. 'eve!' he said sharply. she opened her eyes, met his, and came to herself. 'put me down!' she cried, and as he set her on her feet, she snatched at her spanish shawl and wrapped it round her. 'oh!' she said, an altered being, shamed and outraged, burying her face, 'go now, julian--go, go, go.' he went, shaking his head in perplexity: there were too many things in herakleion he failed to understand. paul, eve, malteios. this afternoon with eve, which should have been natural, had been difficult. moments of illumination were also moments of a profounder obscurity. and why should malteios return to-day, when in the preceding week, according to nana, he had been so casually forgotten? why so patient, so long-suffering, with eve? was it possible that he should be attracted by eve? it seemed to julian, accustomed still to regard her as a child, very improbable. malteios! the premier! and the elections beginning within four days--that he should spare the time! rumour said that the elections would go badly for him; that the stavridists would be returned. a bad look-out for the islands if they were. rumour said that stavridis was neglecting no means, no means whatsoever, by which he might strengthen his cause. he was more unscrupulous, younger, more vigorous, than malteios. the years of dispossession had added to his determination and energy. malteios had seriously prejudiced his popularity by his liaison with kato, a woman, as the people of herakleion never forgot, of the islands, and an avowed champion of their cause. was it possible that eve was mixed up in malteios' political schemes? julian laughed aloud at the idea of eve interesting herself in politics. but perhaps kato herself, for whom eve entertained one of her strongest and most enduring enthusiasms, had taken advantage of their friendship to interest eve in malteios' affairs? anything was possible in that preposterous state. eve, he knew, would mischievously and ignorantly espouse any form of intrigue. if malteios came with any other motive he was an old satyr--nothing more. julian's mind strayed again to the elections. the return of the stavridis party would mean certain disturbances in the islands. disturbances would mean an instant appeal for leadership. he would be reminded of the day he had spent, the only day of his life, he thought, on which he had truly lived, on aphros. tsigaridis would come, grave, insistent, to hold him to his undertakings, a figure of comedy in his absurdly picturesque clothes, but also a figure full of dignity with his unanswerable claim. he would bring forward a species of moral blackmail, to which julian, ripe for adventure and sensitive to his obligations, would surely surrender. after that there would be no drawing back.... 'i have little hope of victory,' said malteios, to whom julian, in search of information, had recourse; and hinted with infinite suavity and euphemism, that the question of election in herakleion depended largely, if not entirely, on the condition and judicious distribution of the party funds. stavridis, it appeared, had controlled larger subscriptions, more trustworthy guarantees. the christopoulos, the largest bankers, were unreliable. alexander had political ambitions. an under-secretaryship.... christopoulos _père_ had subscribed, it was true, to the malteios party, but while his right hand produced the miserable sum from his right pocket, who could tell with what generosity his left hand ladled out the drachmæ into the gaping stavridis coffers? safe in either eventuality. malteios knew his game. the premier enlarged blandly upon the situation, regretful, but without indignation. as a man of the world, he accepted its ways as herakleion knew them. julian noted his gentle shrugs, his unfinished sentences and innuendoes. it occurred to him that the premier's frankness and readiness to enlarge upon political technique were not without motive. buttoned into his high frock-coat, which the climate of herakleion was unable to abolish, he walked softly up and down the parquet floor between the lapis columns, his fingers loosely interlaced behind his back, talking to julian. in another four days he might no longer be premier, might be merely a private individual, unostentatiously working a dozen strands of intrigue. the boy was not to be neglected as a tool. he tried him on what he conceived to be his tenderest point. 'i have not been unfavourable to your islanders during my administration,'--then, thinking the method perhaps a trifle crude, he added, 'i have even exposed myself to the attack of my opponents on that score; they have made capital out of my clemency. had i been a less disinterested man, i should have had greater foresight. i should have sacrificed my sense of justice to the demands of my future.' he gave a deprecatory and melancholy smile. 'do i regret the course i chose? not for an instant. the responsibility of a statesman is not solely towards himself or his adherents. he must set it sternly aside in favour of the poor, ignorant destinies committed to his care. i lay down my office with an unburdened conscience.' he stopped in his walk and stood before julian, who, with his hands thrust in his pockets, had listened to the discourse from the depths of his habitual arm-chair. 'but you, young man, are not in my position. the door i seek is marked exit; the door you seek, entrance. i think i may, without presumption, as an old and finished man, offer you a word of prophecy.' he unlaced his fingers and pointed one of them at julian. 'you may live to be the saviour of an oppressed people, a not unworthy mission. remember that my present opponents, should they come to power, will not sympathise with your efforts, as i myself--who knows?--might have sympathised.' julian, acknowledging the warning, thought he recognised the style of the senate chamber, but failed to recognise the sentiments he had heard expressed by the premier on a former occasion, on this same subject of his interference in the affairs of the islands. he ventured to suggest as much. the premier's smile broadened, his deprecatory manner deepened. 'ah, you were younger then; hot-headed; i did not know how far i could trust you. your intentions, excellent; but your judgment perhaps a little precipitate? since then, you have seen the world; you are a man. you have returned, no doubt, ready to pick up the weapon you tentatively fingered as a boy. you will no longer be blinded by sentiment, you will weigh your actions nicely in the balance. and you will remember the goodwill of platon malteios?' he resumed his soft walk up and down the room. 'within a few weeks you may find yourself in the heart of strife. i see you as a young athlete on the threshold, doubtless as generous as most young men, as ambitious, as eager. discard the divine foolishness of allowing ideas, not facts, to govern your heart. we live in herakleion, not in utopia. we have all shed, little by little, our illusions....' after a sigh, the depth of whose genuineness neither he nor julian could accurately diagnose, he continued, brightening as he returned to the practical,-- 'stavridis--a harsher man than i. he and your islanders would come to grips within a month. i should scarcely deplore it. a question based on the struggle of nationality--for, it cannot be denied, the italian blood of your islanders severs them irremediably from the true greek of herakleion--such questions cry for decisive settlement even at the cost of a little bloodletting. submission or liberty, once and for all. that is preferable to the present irritable shilly-shally.' 'i know the alternative i should choose,' said julian. 'liberty?--the lure of the young,' said malteios, not unkindly. 'i said that i should scarcely deplore such an attempt, for it would fail; herakleion could never tolerate for long the independence of the islands. yes, it would surely fail. but from it good might emerge. a friendlier settlement, a better understanding, a more cheerful submission. believe me,' he added, seeing the cloud of obstinate disagreement upon julian's face, 'never break your heart over the failure. your islands would have learnt the lesson of the inevitable; and the great inevitable is perhaps the least intolerable of all human sorrows. there is, after all, a certain kindliness in the fate which lays the obligation of sheer necessity upon our courage.' for a moment his usual manner had left him; he recalled it with a short laugh. 'perhaps the thought that my long years of office may be nearly at an end betrays me into this undue melancholy,' he said flippantly; 'pay no attention, young man. indeed, whatever i may say, i know that you will cling to your idea of revolt. am i not right?' once more the keen, sly look was in his eyes, and julian knew that only the malteios who desired the rupture of the islands with his own political adversary, remained. he felt, in a way, comforted to be again upon the familiar ground; his conception of the man had been momentarily disarranged. 'your excellency is very shrewd,' he replied, politely and evasively. malteios shrugged and smiled the smile that had such real charm; and as he shrugged and smiled the discussion away into the region of such things dismissed, his glance travelled beyond julian to the door, his mouth curved into a more goatish smile amidst his beard, and his eyes narrowed into two slits till his whole face resembled the mask of the old faun that eve had drawn on the blotting paper. 'mademoiselle!' he murmured, advancing towards eve, who, dressed in white, appeared between the lapis-lazuli columns. iii madame lafarge gave a picnic which preceded the day of the elections, and to julian davenant it seemed that he was entering a cool, dark cavern roofed over with mysterious greenery after riding in the heat across a glaring plain. the transition from the white herakleion to the deep valley, shut in by steep, terraced hills covered with olives, ilexes, and myrtles--a valley profound, haunted, silent, hallowed by pools of black-green shadow--consciousness of the transition stole over him soothingly, as his pony picked its way down the stony path of the hill-side. he had refused to accompany the others. early in the morning he had ridden over the hills, so early that he had watched the sunrise, and had counted, from a summit, the houses on aphros in the glassy limpidity of the grecian dawn. the morning had been pure as the treble notes of a violin, the sea below bright as a pavement of diamonds. the islands lay, clear and low, delicately yellow, rose, and lilac, in the serene immensity of the dazzling waters. they seemed to him to contain every element of enchantment; cleanly of line as cameos, yet intangible as a mirage, rising lovely and gracious as aphrodite from the white flashes of their foam, fairy islands of beauty and illusion in a sea of radiant and eternal youth. a stream ran through the valley, and near the banks of the stream, in front of a clump of ilexes, gleamed the marble columns of a tiny ruined temple. julian turned his pony loose to graze, throwing himself down at full length beside the stream and idly pulling at the orchids and magenta cyclamen which grew in profusion. towards midday his solitude was interrupted. a procession of victorias accompanied by men on horseback began to wind down the steep road into the valley; from afar he watched them coming, conscious of distaste and boredom, then remembering that eve was of the party, and smiling to himself a little in relief. she would come, at first silent, unobtrusive, almost sulky; then little by little the spell of their intimacy would steal over him, and by a word or a glance they would be linked, the whole system of their relationship developing itself anew, a system elaborated by her, as he well knew; built up of personal, whimsical jokes; stimulating, inventive, she had to a supreme extent the gift of creating such a web, subtly, by meaning more than she said and saying less than she meant; giving infinite promise, but ever postponing fulfilment. 'a flirt?' he wondered to himself, lazily watching the string of carriages in one of which she was. but she was more elemental, more dangerous, than a mere flirt. on that account, and because of her wide and penetrative intelligence, he could not relegate her to the common category. yet he thought he might safely make the assertion that no man in herakleion had altogether escaped her attraction. he thought he might apply this generalisation from m. lafarge, or malteios, or don rodrigo valdez, down to the chasseur who picked up her handkerchief. (her handkerchief! ah, yes! she could always be traced, as in a paper-chase, by her scattered possessions--a handkerchief, a glove, a cigarette-case, a gardenia, a purse full of money, a powder-puff--frivolities doubly delightful and doubly irritating in a being so terrifyingly elemental, so unassailably and sarcastically intelligent.) eve, the child he had known unaccountable, passionate, embarrassing, who had written him the precocious letters on every topic in a variety of tongues, imaginative exceedingly, copiously illustrated, bursting occasionally into erratic and illegible verse; eve, with her desperate and excessive passions; eve, grown to womanhood, grown into a firebrand! he had been entertained, but at the same time slightly offended, to find her grown; his conception of her was disarranged; he had felt almost a sense of outrage in seeing her heavy hair piled upon her head; he had looked curiously at the uncovered nape of her neck, the hair brushed upwards and slightly curling, where once it had hung thick and plaited; he had noted with an irritable shame the softness of her throat in the evening dress she had worn when first he had seen her. he banished violently the recollection of her in that brief moment when in his anger he had lifted her out of her bed and had carried her across the room in his arms. he banished it with a shudder and a revulsion, as he might have banished a suggestion of incest. springing to his feet, he went forward to meet the carriages; the shadowed valley was flicked by the bright uniforms of the chasseurs on the boxes and the summer dresses of the women in the victorias; the laughter of the danish excellency already reached his ears above the hum of talk and the sliding hoofs of the horses as they advanced cautiously down the hill, straining back against their harness, and bringing with them at every step a little shower of stones from the rough surface of the road. the younger men, greeks, and secretaries of legations, rode by the side of the carriages. the danish excellency was the first to alight, fat and babbling in a pink muslin dress with innumerable flounces; julian turned aside to hide his smile. madame lafarge descended with her customary weightiness, beaming without benevolence but with a tyrannical proprietorship over all her guests. she graciously accorded her hand to julian. the chasseurs were already busy with wicker baskets. 'the return to nature,' alexander christopoulos whispered to eve. julian observed that eve looked bored and sulky; she detested large assemblies, unless she could hold their entire attention, preferring the more intimate scope of the _tête-à-tête_. amongst the largest gathering she usually contrived to isolate herself and one other, with whom she conversed in whispers. presently, he knew, she would be made to recite, or to tell anecdotes, involving imitation, and this she would perform, at first languidly, but warming with applause, and would end by dancing--he knew her programme! he rarely spoke to her, or she to him, in public. she would appear to ignore him, devoting herself to don rodrigo, or to alexander, or, most probably, to the avowed admirer of some other woman. he had frequently brought his direct and masculine arguments to bear against this practice. she listened without replying, as though she did not understand. fru thyregod was more than usually sprightly. 'now, armand, you lazy fellow, bring me my camera; this day has to be immortalised; i must have pictures of all you beautiful young men for my friends in denmark. fauns in a grecian grave! let me peep whether any of you have cloven feet.' madame lafarge put up her lorgnon, and said to the italian minister in a not very low voice,-- 'i am so fond of dear fru thyregod, but she is terribly vulgar at times.' there was a great deal of laughter over fru thyregod's sally, and some of the young men pretended to hide their feet beneath napkins. 'eve and julie, you must be the nymphs,' the danish excellency went on. eve took no notice; julie looked shy, and the sisters christopoulos angry at not being included. 'now we must all help to unpack; that is half the fun of the picnic,' said madame lafarge, in a business-like tone. under the glare of her lorgnon armand and madame delahaye attacked one basket; they nudged and whispered to one another, and their fingers became entangled under the cover of the paper wrappings. eve strolled away, valdez followed her. the persian minister who had come unobtrusively, after the manner of a humble dog, stood gently smiling in the background. julie lafarge never took her adoring eyes off eve. the immense grbits had drawn julian on one side, and was talking to him, shooting out his jaw and hitting julian on the chest for emphasis. fru thyregod, with many whispers, collected a little group to whom she pointed them out, and photographed them. 'really,' said the danish minister peevishly, to condesa valdez, 'my wife is the most foolish woman i know.' during the picnic every one was very gay, with the exception of julian, who regretted having come, and of miloradovitch, of whom eve was taking no notice at all. madame lafarge was especially pleased with the success of her expedition. she enjoyed the intimacy that existed amongst all her guests, and said as much in an aside to the roumanian minister. 'you know, _chère excellence_, i have known most of these dear friends so long; we have spent happy years together in different capitals; that is the best of diplomacy: _ce qu'il y a de beau dans la carrière c'est qu'on se retrouve toujours_.' 'it is not unlike a large family, one may say,' replied the roumanian. 'how well you phrase it!' exclaimed madame lafarge. 'listen, everybody: his excellency has made a real _mot d'esprit_, he says diplomacy is like a large family.' eve and julian looked up, and their eyes met. 'you are not eating anything, ardalion semeonovitch,' said armand (he had once spent two months in russia) to miloradovitch, holding out a plate of sandwiches. 'no, nor do i want anything,' said miloradovitch rudely, and he got up, and walked away by himself. 'dear me! _ces russes!_ what manners!' said madame lafarge, pretending to be amused; and everybody looked facetiously at eve. 'i remember once, when i was in russia, at the time that stolypin was prime minister,' don rodrigo began, 'there was a serious scandal about one of the empress's ladies-in-waiting and a son of old princess golucheff--you remember old princess golucheff, excellency? she was a bariatinsky, a very handsome woman, and serge radziwill killed himself on her account--he was a pole, one of the kieff radziwills, whose mother was commonly supposed to be _au mieux_ with stolypin (though stolypin was not at all that kind of man; he was _très province_), and most people thought that was the reason why serge occupied such a series of the highest court appointments, in spite of being a pole--the poles were particularly unpopular just then; i even remember that stanislas aveniev, in spite of having a russian mother--she was an orloff, and her jewels were proverbial even in petersburg--they had all been given her by the grand duke boris--stanislas aveniev was obliged to resign his commission in the czar's guard. however, casimir golucheff....' but everybody had forgotten the beginning of his story and only madame lafarge was left politely listening. julian overheard eve reproducing, in an undertone to armand, the style and manner of don rodrigo's conversation. he also became aware that, between her sallies, fru thyregod was bent upon retaining his attention for herself. he was disgusted with all this paraphernalia of social construction, and longed ardently for liberty on aphros. he wondered whether eve were truly satisfied, or whether she played the part merely with the humorous gusto of an artist, caught up in his own game; he wondered to what extent her mystery was due to her life's pretence? later, he found himself drifting apart with the danish excellency; he drifted, that is, beside her, tall, slack of limb, absent of mind, while she tripped with apparent heedlessness, but with actual determination of purpose. as she tripped she chattered. fair and silly, she demanded gallantry of men, and gallantry of a kind--perfunctory, faintly pitying, apologetic--she was accorded. she had enticed julian away, with a certain degree of skill, and was glad. eve had scowled blackly, in the one swift glance she had thrown them. 'your cousin enchants don rodrigo, it is clear,' fru thyregod said with malice as they strolled. julian turned to look back. he saw eve sitting with the spanish minister on the steps of the little temple. in front of the temple, the ruins of the picnic stained the valley with bright frivolity; bits of white paper fluttered, tablecloths remained spread on the ground, and laughter echoed from the groups that still lingered hilariously; the light dresses of the women were gay, and their parasols floated above them like coloured bubbles against the darkness of the ilexes. 'what desecration of the dryads' grove,' said fru thyregod, 'let us put it out of sight,' and she gave a little run forward, and then glanced over her shoulder to see if julian were following her. he came, unsmiling and leisurely. as soon as they were hidden from sight among the olives, she began to talk to him about himself, walking slowly, looking up at him now and then, and prodding meditatively with the tip of her parasol at the stones upon the ground. he was, she said, so free. he had his life before him. and she talked about herself, of the shackles of her sex, the practical difficulties of her life, her poverty, her effort to hide beneath a gay exterior a heart that was not gay. 'carl,' she said, alluding to her husband, 'has indeed charge of the affairs of norway and sweden also in herakleion, but herakleion is so tiny, he is paid as though he were a consul.' julian listened, dissecting the true from the untrue; although he knew her gaiety was no effort, but merely the child of her innate foolishness, he also knew that her poverty was a source of real difficulties to her, and he felt towards her a warm, though a bored and slightly contemptuous, friendliness. he listened to her babble, thinking more of the stream by which they walked, and of the little magenta cyclamen that grew in the shady, marshy places on its banks. fru thyregod was speaking of eve, a topic round which she perpetually hovered in an uncertainty of fascination and resentment. 'do you approve of her very intimate friendship with that singer, madame kato?' 'i am very fond of madame kato myself, fru thyregod.' 'ah, you are a man. but for eve ... a girl.... after all, what is madame kato but a common woman, a woman of the people, and the mistress of malteios into the bargain?' fru thyregod was unwontedly serious. julian had not yet realised to what extent alexander christopoulos had transferred his attentions to eve. 'you know i am an unconventional woman; every one who knows me even a little can see that i am unconventional. but when i see a child, a nice child, like your cousin eve, associated with a person like kato, i think to myself, "mabel, that is unbecoming."' she repeated,-- 'and yet i have been told that i was too unconventional. yes, carl has often reproached me, and my friends too. they say, "mabel, you are too soft-hearted, and you are too unconventional." what do you think?' julian ignored the personal. he said,-- 'i should not describe eve as a "nice child."' 'no? well, perhaps not. she is too ... too....' said fru thyregod, who, not having very many ideas of her own, liked to induce other people into supplying the missing adjective. 'she is too important,' julian said gravely. the adjective in this case was unexpected. the danish excellency could only say,-- 'i think i know what you mean.' julian, perfectly well aware that she did not, and caring nothing whether she did or no, but carelessly willing to illuminate himself further on the subject, pursued,-- 'her frivolity is a mask. her instincts alone are deep; _how_ deep, it frightens me to think. she is an artist, although, she may never produce art. she lives in a world of her own, with its own code of morals and values. the eve that we all know is a sham, the product of her own pride and humour. she is laughing at us all. the eve we know is entertaining, cynical, selfish, unscrupulous. the real eve is ...' he paused, and brought out his words with a satisfied finality, 'a rebel and an idealist.' then, glancing at his bewildered companion, he laughed and said,-- 'don't believe a word i say, fru thyregod: eve is nineteen, bent only upon enjoying her life to the full.' he knew, nevertheless, that he had swept together the loose wash of his thought into a concrete channel; and rejoiced. fru thyregod passed to a safer topic. she liked julian, and understood only one form of excitement. 'you bring with you such a breath of freshness and originality,' she said, sighing, 'into our stale little world.' his newly-found good humour coaxed him into responsiveness. 'no world can surely ever be stale to you, fru thyregod; i always think of you as endowed with perpetual youth and gaiety.' 'ah, julian, you have perfect manners, to pay so charming a compliment to an old woman like me.' she neither thought her world stale or little, nor herself old, but pathos had often proved itself of value. 'everybody knows, fru thyregod, that you are the life and soul of herakleion.' they had wandered into a little wood, and sat down on a fallen tree beside the stream. she began again prodding at the ground with her parasol, keeping her eyes cast down. she was glad to have captured julian, partly for her own sake, and partly because she knew that eve would be annoyed. 'how delightful to escape from all our noisy friends,' she said; 'we shall create quite a scandal; but i am too unconventional to trouble about that. i cannot sympathise with those limited, conventional folk who always consider appearances. i have always said, "one should be natural. life is too short for the conventions." although, i think one should refrain from giving pain. when i was a girl, i was a terrible tomboy.' he listened to her babble of coy platitudes, contrasting her with eve. 'i never lost my spirits,' she went on, in the meditative tone she thought suitable to _tête-à-tête_ conversations--it provoked intimacy, and afforded agreeable relief to her more social manner; a woman, to be charming, must be several-sided; gay in public, but a little wistful philosophy was interesting in private; it indicated sympathy, and betrayed a thinking mind,--'i never lost my spirits, although life has not always been very easy for me; still, with good spirits and perhaps a little courage one can continue to laugh, isn't that the way to take life? and on the whole i have enjoyed mine, and my little adventures too, my little harmless adventures; carl always laughs and says, "you will always have adventures, mabel, so i must make the best of it,"--he says that, though he has been very jealous at times. poor carl,' she said reminiscently, 'perhaps i have made him suffer; who knows?' julian looked at her; he supposed that her existence was made up of such experiments, and knew that the arrival of every new young man in herakleion was to her a source of flurry and endless potentialities which, alas, never fulfilled their promise, but which left her undaunted and optimistic for the next affray. 'why do i always talk about myself to you?' she said, with her little laugh; 'you must blame yourself for being too sympathetic.' he scarcely knew how their conversation progressed; he wondered idly whether eve conducted hers upon the same lines with don rodrigo valdez, or whether she had been claimed by miloradovitch, to whom she said she was engaged. did she care for miloradovitch? he was immensely rich, the owner of jewels and oil-mines, remarkably good-looking; dashing, and a gambler. at diplomatic gatherings he wore a beautiful uniform. julian had seen eve dancing with him; he had seen the russian closely following her out of a room, bending forward to speak to her, and her ironical eyes raised for an instant over the slow movement of her fan. he had seen them disappear together, and the provocative poise of her white shoulders, and the richness of the beautiful uniform, had remained imprinted on his memory. he awoke with dismay to the fact that fru thyregod had taken off her hat. she had a great quantity of soft, yellow hair into which she ran her fingers, lifting its weight as though oppressed. he supposed that the gesture was not so irrelevant to their foregoing conversation, of which he had not noticed a word, as it appeared to be. he was startled to find himself saying in a tone of commiseration,-- 'yes, it must be very heavy.' 'i wish that i could cut it all off,' fru thyregod cried petulantly. 'why, to amuse you, only look....' and to his horror she withdrew a number of pins and allowed her hair to fall in a really beautiful cascade over her shoulders. she smiled at him, parting the strands before her eyes. at that moment eve and miloradovitch came into view, wandering side by side down the path. of the four, miloradovitch alone was amused. julian was full of a shamefaced anger towards fru thyregod, and between the two women an instant enmity sprang into being like a living and visible thing. the russian drew near to fru thyregod with some laughing compliment; she attached herself desperately to him as a refuge from julian. julian and eve remained face to face with one another. 'walk with me a little,' she said, making no attempt to disguise her fury. 'my dear eve,' he said, when they were out of earshot, 'i should scarcely recognise you when you put on that expression.' he spoke frigidly. she was indeed transformed, her features coarsened and unpleasing, her soft delicacy vanished. he could not believe that he had ever thought her rare, exquisite, charming. 'i don't blame you for preferring fru thyregod,' she returned. 'i believe your vanity to be so great that you resent any man speaking to any other woman but yourself,' he said, half persuading himself that he was voicing a genuine conviction. 'very well, if you choose to believe that,' she replied. they walked a little way in angry silence. 'i detest all women,' he added presently. 'including me?' 'beginning with you.' he was reminded of their childhood with its endless disputes, and made an attempt to restore their friendship. 'come, eve, why are we quarrelling? i do not make you jealous scenes about miloradovitch.' 'far from it,' she said harshly. 'why should he want to marry you?' he began, his anger rising again. 'what qualities have you? clever, seductive, and entertaining! but, on the other hand, selfish, jealous, unkind, pernicious, indolent, vain. a bad bargain. if he knew you as well as i.... jealousy! it amounts to madness.' 'i am perhaps not jealous where miloradovitch is concerned,' she said. 'then spare me the compliment of being jealous of me. you wreck affection; you will wreck your life through your jealousy and exorbitance.' 'no doubt,' she replied in a tone of so much sadness that he became remorseful. he contrasted, moreover, her violence, troublesome, inconvenient, as it often was, with the standardised and distasteful little inanities of fru thyregod and her like, and found eve preferable. 'darling, you never defend yourself; it is very disarming.' but she would not accept the olive-branch he offered. 'sentimentality becomes you very badly, julian; keep it for fru thyregod.' 'we have had enough of fru thyregod,' he said, flushing. 'it suits you to say so; i do not forget so easily. really, julian, sometimes i think you very commonplace. from the moment you arrived until to-day, you have never been out of fru thyregod's pocket. like alexander, once. like any stray young man.' 'eve!' he said, in astonishment at the outrageous accusation. 'my little julian, have you washed the lap-dog to-day? carl always says, "mabel, you are fonder of your dogs than of your children--you are really dreadful," but i don't think that's quite fair,' said eve, in so exact an imitation of fru thyregod's voice and manner that julian was forced to smile. she went on,-- 'i expect too much of you. my imagination makes of you something which you are not. i so despise the common herd that i persuade myself that you are above it. i can persuade myself of anything,' she said scathingly, wounding him in the recesses of his most treasured vanity--her good opinion of him; 'i persuade myself that you are a titan amongst men, almost a god, but in reality, if i could see you without prejudice, what are you fit for? to be fru thyregod's lover!' 'you are mad,' he said, for there was no other reply. 'when i am jealous, i am mad,' she flung at him. 'but if you are jealous of me....' he said, appalled. 'supposing you were ever in love, your jealousy would know no bounds. it is a disease. it is the ruin of our friendship.' 'entirely.' 'you are inordinately perverse.' 'inordinately.' 'supposing i were to marry, i should not dare--what an absurd thought--to introduce you to my wife.' a truly terrible expression came into her eyes; they narrowed to little slits, and turned slightly inwards; as though herself aware of it, she bent to pick the little cyclamen. 'are you trying to tell me, julian....' 'you told me you were engaged to miloradovitch.' she stood up, regardless, and he saw the tragic pallor of her face. she tore the cyclamen to pieces beneath her white fingers. 'it is true, then?' she said, her voice dead. he began to laugh. 'you do indeed persuade yourself very easily.' 'julian, you must tell me. you must. is it true?' 'if it were?' 'i should have to kill you--or myself,' she replied with the utmost gravity. 'you are mad,' he said again, in the resigned tone of one who states a perfectly established fact. 'if i am mad, you are unutterably cruel,' she said, twisting her fingers together; 'will you answer me, yes or no? i believe it is true,' she rushed on, immolating herself, 'you have fallen in love with some woman in england, and she, naturally, with you. who is she? you have promised to marry her. you, whom i thought so free and splendid, to load yourself with the inevitable fetters!' 'i should lose caste in your eyes?' he asked, thinking to himself that eve was, when roused, scarcely a civilised being. 'but if you marry miloradovitch you will be submitting to the same fetters you think so degrading.' 'miloradovitch,' she said impatiently, 'miloradovitch will no more ensnare me than have the score of people i have been engaged to since i last saw you. you are still evading your answer.' 'you will never marry?' he dwelt on his discovery. 'nobody that i loved,' she replied without hesitation, 'but, julian, julian, you don't answer my question?' 'would you marry me if i wanted you to?' he asked carelessly. 'not for the world, but why keep me in suspense? only answer me, are you trying to tell me that you have fallen in love? if so, admit it, please, at once, and let me go; don't you see, i am leaving fru thyregod on one side, i ask you in all humility now, julian.' 'for perhaps the fiftieth time since you were thirteen,' he said, smiling. 'have you tormented me long enough?' 'very well: i am in love with the islands, and with nothing and nobody else.' 'then why had fru thyregod her hair down her back? you're lying to me, and i despise you doubly for it,' she reverted, humble no longer, but aggressive. 'fru thyregod again?' he said, bewildered. 'how little i trust you,' she broke out; 'i believe that you deceive me at every turn. kato, too; you spend hours in kato's flat. what do you do there? you write letters to people of whom i have never heard. you dined with the thyregods twice last week. kato sends you notes by hand from herakleion when you are in the country. you use the islands as dust to throw in my eyes, but i am not blinded.' 'i have had enough of this!' he cried. 'you are like everybody else,' she insisted; 'you enjoy mean entanglements, and you cherish the idea of marriage. you want a home, like everybody else. a faithful wife. children. i loathe children,' she said violently. 'you are very different from me. you are tame. i have deluded myself into thinking we were alike. you are tame, respectable. a good citizen. you have all the virtues. i will live to show you how different we are. ten years hence, you will say to your wife, "no, my dear, i really cannot allow you to know that poor eve." and your wife, well trained, submissive, will agree.' he shrugged his shoulders, accustomed to such storms, and knowing that she only sought to goad him into a rage. 'in the meantime, go back to fru thyregod; why trouble to lie to me? and to kato, go back to kato. write to the woman in england, too. i will go to miloradovitch, or to any of the others.' he was betrayed into saying,-- 'the accusation of mean entanglements comes badly from your lips.' in her heart she guessed pretty shrewdly at his real relation towards women: a self-imposed austerity, with violent relapses that had no lasting significance, save to leave him with his contemptuous distaste augmented. his mind was too full of other matters. for kato alone he had a profound esteem. eve answered his last remark,-- 'i will prove to you the little weight of my entanglements, by dismissing miloradovitch to-day; you have only to say the word.' 'you would do that--without remorse?' 'miloradovitch is nothing to me.' 'you are something to him--perhaps everything.' 'cela ne me regarde pas,' she replied. 'would you do as much for me? fru thyregod, for instance? or kato?' interested and curious, he said,-- 'to please you, i should give up kato?' 'you would not?' 'most certainly i should not. why suggest it? kato is your friend as much as mine. are all women's friendships so unstable?' 'be careful, julian: you are on the quicksands.' 'i have had enough of these topics,' he said, 'will you leave them?' 'no; i choose my own topics; you shan't dictate to me.' 'you would sacrifice miloradovitch without a thought, to please me--why should it please me?--but you would not forgo the indulgence of your jealousy! i am not grateful. our senseless quarrels,' he said, 'over which we squander so much anger and emotion.' but he did not stop to question what lay behind their important futility. he passed his hand wearily over his hair, 'i am deluded sometimes into believing in their reality and sanity. you are too difficult. you ... you distort and bewitch, until one expects to wake up from a dream. sometimes i think of you as a woman quite apart from other women, but at other times i think you live merely by and upon fictitious emotion and excitement. must your outlook be always so narrowly personal? kato, thank heaven, is very different. i shall take care to choose my friends amongst men, or amongst women like kato,' he continued, his exasperation rising. 'julian, don't be so angry: it isn't my fault that i hate politics.' he grew still angrier at her illogical short-cut to the reproach which lay, indeed, unexpressed at the back of his mind. 'i never mentioned politics. i know better. no man in his senses would expect politics from any woman so demoralisingly feminine as yourself. besides, that isn't your rôle. your rôle is to be soft, idle; a toy; a siren; the negation of enterprise. work and woman--the terms contradict one another. the woman who works, or who tolerates work, is only half a woman. the most you can hope for,' he said with scorn, 'is to inspire--and even that you do unconsciously, and very often quite against your will. you sap our energy; you sap and you destroy.' she had not often heard him speak with so much bitterness, but she did not know that his opinions in this more crystallised form dated from that slight moment in which he had divined her own untrustworthiness. 'you are very wise. i forget whether you are twenty-two or twenty-three?' 'oh, you may be sarcastic. i only know that i will never have my life wrecked by women. to-morrow the elections take place, and, after that, whatever their result, i belong to the islands.' 'i think i see you with a certain clearness,' she said more gently, 'full of illusions, independence, and young generosities--_nous passons tous par là_.' 'talk english, eve, and be less cynical; if i am twenty-two, as you reminded me, you are nineteen.' 'if you could find a woman who was a help and not a hindrance?' she suggested. 'ah!' he said, 'the blue bird! i am not likely to be taken in; i am too well on my guard.--look!' he added, 'fru thyregod and your russian friend; i leave you to them,' and before eve could voice her indignation he had disappeared into the surrounding woods. iv on the next day, the day of the elections, which was also the anniversary of the declaration of independence, herakleion blossomed suddenly, and from the earliest hour, into a striped and fluttering gaudiness. the sun shone down upon a white town beflagged into an astonishing gaiety. everywhere was whiteness, whiteness, and brilliantly coloured flags. white, green, and orange, dazzling in the sun, vivid in the breeze. and, keyed up to match the intensity of the colour, the band blared brassily, unremittingly, throughout the day from the centre of the _platia_. a parrot-town, glaring and screeching; a monkey-town, gibbering, excited, inconsequent. all the shops, save the sweet-shops, were shut, and the inhabitants flooded into the streets. not only had they decked their houses with flags, they had also decked themselves with ribbons, their women with white dresses, their children with bright bows, their carriages with paper streamers, their horses with sunbonnets. bands of young men, straw-hatted, swept arm-in-arm down the pavements, adding to the din with mouth organs, mirlitons, and tin trumpets. the trams flaunted posters in the colours of the contending parties. immense char-à-bancs, roofed over with brown holland and drawn by teams of mules, their harness hung with bells and red tassels, conveyed the voters to the polling-booths amid the cheers and imprecations of the crowd. herakleion abandoned itself deliriously to political carnival. in the immense, darkened rooms of the houses on the _platia_, the richer greeks idled, concealing their anxiety. it was tacitly considered beneath their dignity to show themselves in public during that day. they could but await the fruition or the failure of their activities during the preceding weeks. heads of households were for the most part morose, absorbed in calculations and regrets. old christopoulos, looking more bleached than usual, wished he had been more generous. that secretaryship for alexander.... in the great sala of his house he paced restlessly up and down, biting his finger nails, and playing on his fingers the tune of the many thousand drachmæ he might profitably have expended. the next election would not take place for five years. at the next election he would be a great deal more lavish. he had made the same resolution at every election during the past thirty years. in the background, respectful of his silence, themselves dwarfed and diminutive in the immense height of the room, little knots of his relatives and friends whispered together, stirring cups of tisane. heads were very close together, glances at old christopoulos very frequent. visitors, isolated or in couples, strolled in unannounced and informally, stayed for a little, strolled away again. a perpetual movement of such circulation rippled through the houses in the _platia_ throughout the day, rumour assiduous in its wake. fru thyregod alone, with her fat, silly laugh, did her best wherever she went to lighten the funereal oppression of the atmosphere. the greeks she visited were not grateful. unlike the populace in the streets, they preferred taking their elections mournfully. by midday the business of voting was over, and in the houses of the _platia_ the greeks sat round their luncheon-tables with the knowledge that the vital question was now decided, though the answer remained as yet unknown, and that in the polling-booths an army of clerks sat feverishly counting, while the crowd outside, neglectful of its meal, swarmed noisily in the hope of news. in the houses of the _platia_, on this one day of the year, the greeks kept open table. each vast dining-room, carefully darkened and indistinguishable in its family likeness from its neighbour in the house on either side, offered its hospitality under the inevitable chandelier. in each, the host greeted the new-comer with the same perfunctory smile. in each, the busy servants came and went, carrying dishes and jugs of orangeade--for levantine hospitality, already heavily strained, boggled at wine--among the bulky and old-fashioned sideboards. all joyousness was absent from these gatherings, and the closed shutters served to exclude, not only the heat, but also the strains of the indefatigable band playing on the _platia_. out in the streets the popular excitement hourly increased, for if the morning had been devoted to politics, the afternoon and evening were to be devoted to the annual feast and holiday of the declaration of independence. the national colours, green and orange, seemed trebled in the town. they hung from every balcony and were reproduced in miniature in every buttonhole. only here and there an islander in his fustanelle walked quickly with sulky and averted eyes, rebelliously innocent of the brilliant cocarde, and far out to sea the rainbow islands shimmered with never a flag to stain the distant whiteness of the houses upon aphros. the houses of the _platia_ excelled all others in the lavishness of their patriotic decorations. the balconies of the club were draped in green and orange, with the arms of herakleion arranged in the centre in electric lights for the evening illumination. the italian consulate drooped its complimentary flag. the house of platon malteios--premier or ex-premier? no one knew--was almost too ostentatiously patriotic. the cathedral, on the opposite side, had its steps carpeted with red and the spaciousness of its porch festooned with the colours. from the central window of the davenant house, opposite the sea, a single listless banner hung in motionless folds. it had, earlier in the day, occasioned a controversy. julian had stood in the centre of the frescoed drawing-room, flushed and constrained. 'father, that flag on our house insults the islands. it can be seen even from aphros!' 'my dear boy, better that it should be seen from aphros than that we should offend herakleion.' 'what will the islanders think?' 'they are accustomed to seeing it there every year.' 'if i had been at home....' 'when this house is yours, julian, you will no doubt do as you please; so long as it is mine, i beg you not to interfere.' mr davenant had spoken in his curtest tones. he had added,-- 'i shall go to the cathedral this afternoon.' the service in the cathedral annually celebrated the independence of herakleion. julian slipped out of the house, meaning to mix with the ill-regulated crowd that began to collect on the _platia_ to watch for the arrival of the notables, but outside the door of the club he was discovered by alexander christopoulos who obliged him to follow him upstairs to the christopoulos drawing-room. 'my father is really too gloomy for me to confront alone,' alexander said, taking julian's arm and urging him along; 'also i have spent the morning in the club, which exasperates him. he likes me to sit at home while he stands looking at me and mournfully shaking his head.' they came into the sala together, where old christopoulos paced up and down in front of the shuttered windows, and a score of other people sat whispering over their cups of tisane. white dresses, dim mirrors, and the dull gilt of furniture gleamed here and there in the shadows of the vast room. 'any news? any news?' the banker asked of the two young men. 'you know quite well, father, that no results are to be declared until seven o'clock this evening.' alexander opened a section of a venetian blind, and as a shaft of sunlight fell startlingly across the floor a blare of music burst equally startlingly upon the silence. 'the _platia_ is crowded already,' said alexander, looking out. the hum of the crowd became audible, mingled with the music; explosions of laughter, and some unexplained applause. the shrill cry of a seller of iced water rang immediately beneath the window. the band in the centre continued to shriek remorselessly an antiquated air of the paris boulevards. 'at what time is the procession due?' asked fru thyregod over julian's shoulder. 'at five o'clock; it should arrive at any moment,' julian said, making room for the danish excellency. 'i adore processions,' cried fru thyregod, clapping her hands, and looking brightly from julian to alexander. alexander whispered to julie lafarge, who had come up,-- 'i am sure fru thyregod has gone from house to house and from legation to legation, and has had a meal at each to-day.' somebody suggested,-- 'let us open the shutters and watch the procession from the balconies.' 'oh, what a good idea!' cried fru thyregod, clapping her hands again and executing a pirouette. down in the _platia_ an indefinite movement was taking place; the band stopped playing for the first time that day, and began shuffling with all its instruments to one side. voices were then heard raised in tones of authority. a cleavage appeared in the crowd, which grew in length and width as though a wedge were being gradually driven into that reluctant confusion of humanity. 'a path for the procession,' said old christopoulos, who, although not pleased at that frivolous flux of his family and guests on to the balconies of his house, had joined them, overcome by his natural curiosity. the path cut in the crowd now ran obliquely across the _platia_ from the end of the rue royale to the steps of the cathedral opposite, and upon it the confetti with which the whole _platia_ was no doubt strewn became visible. the police, with truncheons in their hands, were pressing the people back to widen the route still further. they wore their gala hats, three-cornered, with upright plumes of green and orange nodding as they walked. 'look at sterghiou,' said alexander. the chief of police rode vaingloriously down the route looking from left to right, and saluting with his free hand. the front of his uniform was crossed with broad gold hinges, and plaits of yellow braid disappeared mysteriously into various pockets. one deduced whistles; pencils; perhaps a knife. although he did not wear feathers in his hat, one knew that only the utmost self-restraint had preserved him from them. here the band started again with a march, and sterghiou's horse shied violently and nearly unseated him. 'the troops!' said old christopoulos with emotion. debouching from the rue royale, the army came marching four abreast. as it was composed of only four hundred men, and as it never appeared on any other day of the year, its general panaïoannou always mobilised it in its entirety on the national festival. this entailed the temporary closing of the casino in order to release the croupiers, who were nearly all in the ranks, and led to a yearly dispute between the general and the board of administration. 'there was once a croupier,' said alexander, 'who was admitted to the favour of a certain grand-duchess until the day when, indiscreetly coming into the dressing-room where the lady was arranging and improving her appearance, he said, through sheer force of habit, "madame, les jeux sont faits?" and was dismissed for ever by her reply, "rien ne va plus."' the general himself rode in the midst of his troops, in his sky-blue uniform, to which the fantasy of his buda-pesth costumier had added for the occasion a slung hussar jacket of white cloth. his gray moustache was twisted fiercely upwards, and curved like a scimitar across his face. he rode with his hand on his hip, slowly scanning the windows and balconies of the _platia_, which by now were crowded with people, gravely saluting his friends as he passed. around him marched his bodyguard of six, a captain and five men; the captain carried in one hand a sword, and in the other--nobody knew why--a long frond of palm. the entire army tramped by, hot, stout, beaming, and friendly. at one moment some one threw down a handful of coins from a window, and the ranks were broken in a scramble for the coppers. julian, who was leaning apart in a corner of his balcony, heard a laugh like a growl behind him as the enormous hand of grbits descended on his shoulder. 'remember the lesson, young man: if you are called upon to deal with the soldiers of herakleion, a fistful of silver amongst them will scatter them.' julian thought apprehensively that they must be overheard, but grbits continued in supreme unconsciousness,-- 'look at their army, composed of shop-assistants and croupiers. look at their general--a general in his spare moments, but in the serious business of his life a banker and an intriguer like the rest of them. i doubt whether he has ever seen anything more dead in his life than a dead dog in a gutter. i could pick him up and squash in his head like an egg.' grbits extended his arm and slowly unfolded the fingers of his enormous hand. at the same time he gave his great laugh that was like the laugh of a good-humoured ogre. 'at your service, young man,' he said, displaying the full breadth of his palm to julian, 'whenever you stand in need of it. the stavridists will be returned to-day; lose no time; show them your intentions.' he impelled julian forward to the edge of the balcony and pointed across to the davenant house. 'that flag, young man: see to it that it disappears within the hour after the results of the elections are announced.' the army was forming itself into two phalanxes on either side of the cathedral steps. panaïoannou caracoled up and down shouting his orders, which were taken up and repeated by the busy officers on foot. meanwhile the notables in black coats were arriving in a constant stream that flowed into the cathedral; old christopoulos had already left the house to attend the religious ceremony; the foreign ministers and consuls attended out of compliment to herakleion; madame lafarge had rolled down the route in her barouche with her bearded husband; malteios had crossed the _platia_ from his own house, and stavridis came, accompanied by his wife and daughters. still the band played on, the crowd laughed, cheered, or murmured in derision, and the strident cries of the water-sellers rose from all parts of the _platia_. suddenly the band ceased to play, and in the hush only the hum of the crowd continued audible. the religious procession came walking very slowly from the rue royale, headed by a banner and by a file of young girls, walking two by two, in white dresses, with wreaths of roses on their heads. as they walked they scattered sham roses out of baskets, the gesture reminiscent of the big picture in the senate-room. it was customary for the premier of the republic to walk alone, following these young girls, black and grave in his frock-coat after their virginal white, but on this occasion, as no one knew who the actual premier was, a blank space was left to represent the problematical absentee. following the space came the premier's habitual escort, a posse of police; it should have been a platoon of soldiers, but panaïoannou always refused to consent to such a diminution of his army. 'they say,' grbits remarked to julian in this connection, 'that the general withdraws even the sentries from the frontier to swell his ranks.' 'herakleion is open to invasion,' said julian, smiling. grbits replied sententiously, with the air of one creating a new proverb,-- 'herakleion is open to invasion, but who wants to invade herakleion?' the crowd watched the passage of the procession with the utmost solemnity. not a sound was now heard but the monotonous step of feet. religious awe had hushed political hilarity. archbishop and bishops; archmandrites and _papás_ of the country districts, passed in a mingling of scarlet, purple and black. all the pomp of herakleion had been pressed into service--all the clamorous, pretentious pomp, shouting for recognition, beating on a hollow drum; designed to impress the crowd; and perhaps, also, to impress, beyond the crowd, the silent islands that possessed no army, no clergy, no worldly trappings, but that suffered and struggled uselessly, pitiably, against the tinsel tyrant in vain but indestructible rebellion. * * * * * * as five o'clock drew near, the entire population seemed to be collected in the _platia_. the white streak that had marked the route of the procession had long ago disappeared, and the square was now, seen from above, only a dense and shifting mass of people. in the christopoulos drawing-room, where julian still lingered, talking to grbits and listening to the alternate foolishness, fanaticism, and ferocious good-humour of the giant, the greeks rallied in numbers with only one topic on their lips. old christopoulos was frankly biting his nails and glancing at the clock; alexander but thinly concealed his anxiety under a dribble of his usual banter. the band had ceased playing, and the subtle ear could detect an inflection in the very murmur of the crowd. 'let us go on to the balcony again,' grbits said to julian; 'the results will be announced from the steps of malteios' house.' they went out; some of the greeks followed them, and all pressed behind, near the window openings. 'it is a more than usually decisive day for herakleion,' said old christopoulos, and julian knew that the words were spoken at, although not to, him. he felt that the greeks looked upon him as an intruder, wishing him away so that they might express their opinions freely, but in a spirit of contrariness he remained obstinately. a shout went up suddenly from the crowd: a little man dressed in black, with a top-hat, and a great many white papers in his hand, had appeared in the frame of malteios' front-door. he stood on the steps, coughed nervously, and dropped his papers. 'inefficient little rat of a secretary!' cried alexander in a burst of fury. 'listen!' said grbits. a long pause of silence from the whole _platia_, in which one thin voice quavered, reaching only the front row of the crowd. 'stavridis has it,' grbits said quietly, who had been craning over the edge of the balcony. his eyes twinkled maliciously, delightedly, at julian across the group of mortified greeks. 'an immense majority,' he invented, enjoying himself. julian was already gone. slipping behind old christopoulos, whose saffron face had turned a dirty plum colour, he made his way downstairs and out into the street. a species of riot, in which the police, having failed successfully to intervene, were enthusiastically joining, had broken out in the _platia_. some shouted for stavridis, some for malteios; some railed derisively against the islands. people threw their hats into the air, waved their arms, and kicked up their legs. some of them were vague as to the trend of their own opinions, others extremely determined, but all were agreed about making as much noise as possible. julian passed unchallenged to his father's house. inside the door he found aristotle talking with three islanders. they laid hold of him, urgent though respectful, searching his face with eager eyes. 'it means revolt at last; you will not desert us, kyrie?' he replied,-- 'come with me, and you will see.' they followed him up the stairs, pressing closely after him. on the landing he met eve and kato, coming out of the drawing-room. the singer was flushed, two gold wheat-ears trembled in her hair, and she had thrown open the front of her dress. eve hung on her arm. 'julian!' kato exclaimed, 'you have heard, platon has gone?' in her excitement she inadvertently used malteios' christian name. 'it means,' he replied, 'that stavridis, now in power, will lose no time in bringing against the islands all the iniquitous reforms we know he contemplates. it means that the first step must be taken by us.' his use of the pronoun ranged himself, kato, aristotle, the three islanders, and the invisible islands into an instant confederacy. kato responded to it,-- 'thank god for this.' they waited in complete confidence for his next words. he had shed his aloofness, and all his efficiency of active leadership was to the fore. 'where is my father?' 'he went to the cathedral; he has not come home yet, kyrie.' julian passed into the drawing-room, followed by eve and kato and the four men. outside the open window, fastened to the balcony, flashed the green and orange flag of herakleion. julian took a knife from his pocket, and, cutting the cord that held it, withdrew flag and flag-staff into the room and flung it on to the ground. 'take it away,' he said to the islanders, 'or my father will order it to be replaced. and if he orders another to be hung out in its place,' he added, looking at them with severity, 'remember there is no other flag in the house, and none to be bought in herakleion.' at that moment a servant from the country-house came hurriedly into the room, drew julian unceremoniously aside, and broke into an agitated recital in a low voice. eve heard julian saying,-- 'nicolas sends for me? but he should have given a reason. i cannot come now, i cannot leave herakleion.' and the servant,-- 'kyrie, the major-domo impressed upon me that i must on no account return without you. something has occurred, something serious. what it is i do not know. the carriage is waiting at the back entrance; we could not drive across the _platia_ on account of the crowds.' 'i shall have to go, i suppose,' julian said to eve and kato. 'i will go at once, and will return, if possible, this evening. nicolas would not send without an excellent reason, though he need not have made this mystery. possibly a message from aphros.... in any case, i must go.' 'i will come with you,' eve said unexpectedly. v in almost unbroken silence they drove out to the country-house, in a hired victoria, to the quick, soft trot of the two little lean horses, away from the heart of the noisy town; past the race-course with its empty stands; under the ilex-avenue in a tunnel of cool darkness; along the road, redolent with magnolias in the warmth of the evening; through the village, between the two white lodges; and round the bend of the drive between the bushes of eucalyptus. eve had spoken, but he had said abruptly,-- 'don't talk; i want to think,' and she, after a little gasp of astonished indignation, had relapsed languorous into her corner, her head propped on her hand, and her profile alone visible to her cousin. he saw, in the brief glance that he vouchsafed her, that her red mouth looked more than usually sulky, in fact not unlike the mouth of a child on the point of tears, a very invitation to inquiry, but, more from indifference than deliberate wisdom, he was not disposed to take up the challenge. he too sat silent, his thoughts flying over the day, weighing the consequences of his own action, trying to forecast the future. he was far away from eve, and she knew it. at times he enraged and exasperated her almost beyond control. his indifference was an outrage on her femininity. she knew him to be utterly beyond her influence: taciturn when he chose, ill-tempered when he chose, exuberant when he chose, rampageous, wild; insulting to her at moments; domineering whatever his mood, and regardless of her wishes; yet at the same time unconscious of all these things. alone with her now, he had completely forgotten her presence by his side. her voice broke upon his reflections,-- 'thinking of the islands, julian?' and her words joining like a cogwheel smoothly on to the current of his mind, he answered naturally,-- 'yes,' 'i thought as much. i have something to tell you. you may not be interested. i am no longer engaged to miloradovitch.' 'since when?' 'since yesterday evening. since you left me, and ran away into the woods. i was angry, and vented my anger on him.' 'was that fair?' 'he has you to thank. it has happened before--with others.' roused for a second from his absorption, he impatiently shrugged his shoulders, and turned his back, and looked out over the sea. eve was again silent, brooding and resentful in her corner. presently he turned towards her, and said angrily, reverting to the islands,-- 'you are the vainest and most exorbitant woman i know. you resent one's interest in anything but yourself.' as she did not answer, he added,-- 'how sulky you look; it's very unbecoming.' was no sense of proportion or of responsibility ever to weigh upon her beautiful shoulders? he was irritated, yet he knew that his irritation was half-assumed, and that in his heart he was no more annoyed by her fantasy than by the fantasy of herakleion. they matched each other; their intangibility, their instability, were enough to make a man shake his fists to heaven, yet he was beginning to believe that their colour and romance--for he never dissociated eve and herakleion in his mind--were the dearest treasures of his youth. he turned violently and amazingly upon her. 'eve, i sometimes hate you, damn you; but you are the rainbow of my days.' she smiled, and, enlightened, he perceived with interest, curiosity, and amused resignation, the clearer grouping of the affairs of his youthful years. fantasy to youth! sobriety to middle-age! carried away, he said to her,-- 'eve! i want adventure, eve!' her eyes lit up in instant response, but he could not read her inward thought, that the major part of his adventure should be, not aphros, but herself. he noted, however, her lighted eyes, and leaned over to her. 'you are a born adventurer, eve, also.' she remained silent, but her eyes continued to dwell on him, and to herself she was thinking, always sardonic although the matter was of such perennial, such all-eclipsing importance to her,-- 'a la bonne heure, he realises my existence.' 'what a pity you are not a boy; we could have seen the adventure of the islands through together.' ('the islands always!' she thought ruefully.) 'i should like to cross to aphros to-night,' he murmured, with absent eyes.... ('gone again,' she thought. 'i held him for a moment.') when they reached the house no servants were visible, but in reply to the bell a young servant appeared, scared, white-faced, and, as rapidly disappearing, was replaced by the old major-domo. he burst open the door into the passage, a crowd of words pressing on each other's heels in his mouth; he had expected julian alone; when he saw eve, who was idly turning over the letters that awaited her, he clapped his hand tightly over his lips, and stood, struggling with his speech, balancing himself in his arrested impetus on his toes. 'well, nicolas?' said julian. the major-domo exploded, removing his hand from his mouth,-- 'kyrie! a word alone....' and as abruptly replaced the constraining fingers. julian followed him through the swing door into the servants' quarters, where the torrent broke loose. 'kyrie, a disaster! i have sent men with a stretcher. i remained in the house myself looking for your return. father paul--yes, yes, it is he--drowned--yes, drowned--at the bottom of the garden. come, kyrie, for the love of god. give directions. i am too old a man. god be praised, you have come. only hasten. the men are there already with lanterns.' he was clinging helplessly to julian's wrist, and kept moving his fingers up and down julian's arm, twitching fingers that sought reassurance from firmer muscles, in a distracted way, while his eyes beseechingly explored julian's face. julian, shocked, jarred, incredulous, shook off the feeble fingers in irritation. the thing was an outrage on the excitement of the day. the transition to tragedy was so violent that he wished, in revolt, to disbelieve it. 'you must be mistaken, nicolas!' 'kyrie, i am not mistaken. the body is lying on the shore. you can see it there. i have sent lanterns and a stretcher. i beg of you to come.' he spoke, tugging at julian's sleeve, and as julian remained unaccountably immovable he sank to his knees, clasping his hands and raising imploring eyes. his fustanelle spread its pleats in a circle on the stone floor. his story had suddenly become vivid to julian with the words, 'the body is lying on the shore'; 'drowned,' he had said before, but that had summoned no picture. the body was lying on the shore. the body! paul, brisk, alive, familiar, now a body, merely. the body! had a wave, washing forward, deposited it gently, and retreated without its burden? or had it floated, pale-faced under the stars, till some man, looking by chance down at the sea from the terrace at the foot of the garden, caught that pale, almost phosphorescent gleam rocking on the swell of the water? the old major-domo followed julian's stride between the lemon-trees, obsequious and conciliatory. the windows of the house shone behind them, the house of tragedy, where eve remained as yet uninformed, uninvaded by the solemnity, the reality, of the present. later, she would have to be told that a man's figure had been wrenched from their intimate and daily circle. the situation appeared grotesquely out of keeping with the foregoing day, and with the wide and gentle night. from the paved walk under the pergola of gourds rough steps led down to the sea. julian, pausing, perceived around the yellow squares of the lanterns the indistinct figures of men, and heard their low, disconnected talk breaking intermittently on the continuous wash of the waves. the sea that he loved filled him with a sudden revulsion for the indifference of its unceasing movement after its murder of a man. it should, in decency, have remained quiet, silent; impenetrable, unrepentant, perhaps; inscrutable, but at least silent; its murmur echoed almost as the murmur of a triumph.... he descended the steps. as he came into view, the men's fragmentary talk died away; their dim group fell apart; he passed between them, and stood beside the body of paul. death. he had never seen it. as he saw it now, he thought that he had never beheld anything so incontestably real as its irrevocable stillness. here was finality; here was defeat beyond repair. in the face of this judgment no revolt was possible. only acceptance was possible. the last word in life's argument had been spoken by an adversary for long remote, forgotten; an adversary who had remained ironically dumb before the babble, knowing that in his own time, with one word, he could produce the irrefutable answer. there was something positively satisfying in the faultlessness of the conclusion. he had not thought that death would be like this. not cruel, not ugly, not beautiful, not terrifying--merely unanswerable. he wondered now at the multitude of sensations that had chased successively across his mind or across his vision: the elections, fru thyregod, the jealousy of eve, his incredulity and resentment at the news, his disinclination for action, his indignation against the indifference of the sea; these things were vain when here, at his feet, lay the ultimate solution. paul lay on his back, his arms straight down his sides, and his long, wiry body closely sheathed in the wet soutane. the square toes of his boots stuck up, close together, like the feet of a swathed mummy. his upturned face gleamed white with a tinge of green in the light of the lanterns, and appeared more luminous than they. so neat, so orderly he lay; but his hair, alone disordered, fell in wet red wisps across his neck and along the ground behind his head. at that moment from the direction of herakleion there came a long hiss and a rush of bright gold up into the sky; there was a crackle of small explosions, and fountains of gold showered against the night as the first fireworks went up from the quays. rockets soared, bursting into coloured stars among the real stars, and plumes of golden light spread themselves dazzlingly above the sea. faint sounds of cheering were borne upon the breeze. the men around the body of the priest waited, ignorant and bewildered, relieved that some one had come to take command. their eyes were bent upon julian as he stood looking down; they thought he was praying for the dead. presently he became aware of their expectation, and pronounced with a start,-- 'bind up his hair!' fingers hastened clumsily to deal with the stringy red locks; the limp head was supported, and the hair knotted somehow into a semblance of its accustomed roll. the old major-domo quavered in a guilty voice, as though taking the blame for carelessness,-- 'the hat is lost, kyrie.' julian let his eyes travel over the little group of men, islanders all, with an expression of searching inquiry. 'which of you made this discovery?' it appeared that one of them, going to the edge of the sea in expectation of the fireworks, had noticed, not the darkness of the body, but the pallor of the face, in the water not far out from the rocks. he had waded in and drawn the body ashore. dead paul lay there deaf and indifferent to this account of his own finding. 'no one can explain....' ah, no! and he, who could have explained, was beyond the reach of their curiosity. julian looked at the useless lips, unruffled even by a smile of sarcasm. he had known paul all his life, had learnt from him, travelled with him, eaten with him, chaffed him lightly, but never, save in that one moment when he had gripped the priest by the wrist and had looked with steadying intention into his eyes, had their intimate personalities brushed in passing. julian had no genius for friendship.... he began to see that this death had ended an existence which had run parallel with, but utterly walled off from, his own. in shame the words tore themselves from him,-- 'had he any trouble?' the men slowly, gravely, mournfully shook their heads. they could not tell. the priest had moved amongst them, charitable, even saintly; yes, saintly, and one did not expect confidences of a priest. a priest was a man who received the confidences of other men. julian heard, and, possessed by a strong desire, a necessity, for self-accusation, he said to them in a tone of urgent and impersonal justice, as one who makes a declaration, expecting neither protest nor acquiescence,-- 'i should have inquired into his loneliness.' they were slightly startled, but, in their ignorance, not over-surprised, only wondering why he delayed in giving the order to move the body on to the stretcher and carry it up to the church. farther up the coast, the rockets continued to soar, throwing out bubbles of green and red and orange, fantastically tawdry. julian remained staring at the unresponsive corpse, repeating sorrowfully,-- 'i should have inquired--yes, i should have inquired--into his loneliness.' he spoke with infinite regret, learning a lesson, shedding a particle of his youth. he had taken for granted that other men's lives were as promising, as full of dissimulated eagerness, as his own. he had walked for many hours up and down paul's study, lost in an audible monologue, expounding his theories, tossing his rough head, emphasising, enlarging, making discoveries, intent on his egotism, hewing out his convictions, while the priest sat by the table, leaning his head on his hand, scarcely contributing a word, always listening. during those hours, surely, his private troubles had been forgotten? or had they been present, gnawing, beneath the mask of sympathy? a priest was a man who received the confidences of other men! 'carry him up,' julian said, 'carry him up to the church.' he walked away alone as the dark cortège set itself in movement, his mind strangely accustomed to the fact that paul would no longer frequent their house and that the long black figure would no longer stroll, tall and lean, between the lemon-trees in the garden. the fact was more simple and more easily acceptable than he could have anticipated. it seemed already quite an old-established fact. he remembered with a shock of surprise, and a raising of his eyebrows, that he yet had to communicate it to eve. he knew it so well himself that he thought every one else must know it too. he was immeasurably more distressed by the tardy realisation of his own egotism in regard to paul, than by the fact of paul's death. he walked very slowly, delaying the moment when he must speak to eve. he sickened at the prospect of the numerous inevitable inquiries that would be made to him by both his father and his uncle. he would never hint to them that the priest had had a private trouble. he rejoiced to remember his former loyalty, and to know that eve remained ignorant of that extraordinary, unexplained conversation when paul had talked about the mice. mice in the church! he, julian, must see to the decent covering of the body. and of the face, especially of the face. an immense golden wheel flared out of the darkness; whirled, and died away above the sea. in the dim church the men had set down the stretcher before the iconostase. julian felt his way cautiously amongst the rush-bottomed chairs. the men were standing about the stretcher, their fishing caps in their hands, awed into a whispering mysticism which julian's voice harshly interrupted,-- 'go for a cloth, one of you--the largest cloth you can find.' he had spoken loudly in defiance of the melancholy peace of the church, that received so complacently within its ready precincts the visible remains from which the spirit, troubled and uncompanioned in life, had fled. he had always thought the church complacent, irritatingly remote from pulsating human existence, but never more so than now when it accepted the dead body as by right, firstly within its walls, and lastly within its ground, to decompose and rot, the body of its priest, among the bodies of other once vital and much-enduring men. 'kyrie, we can find only two large cloths, one a dust-sheet, and one a linen cloth to spread over the altar. which are we to use?' 'which is the larger?' 'kyrie, the dust-sheet, but the altar-cloth is of linen edged with lace.' 'use the dust-sheet; dust to dust,' said julian bitterly. shocked and uncomprehending, they obeyed. the black figure now became a white expanse, under which the limbs and features defined themselves as the folds sank into place. 'he is completely covered over?' 'completely, kyrie.' 'the mice cannot run over his face?' 'kyrie, no!' 'then no more can be done until one of you ride into herakleion for the doctor.' he left them, re-entering the garden by the side-gate which paul had himself constructed with his capable, carpenter's hands. there was now no further excuse for delay; he must exchange the darkness for the unwelcome light, and must share out his private knowledge to eve. those men, fisher-folk, simple folk, had not counted as human spectators, but rather as part of the brotherhood of night, nature, and the stars. he waited for eve in the drawing-room, having assured himself that she had been told nothing, and there, presently, he saw her come in, her heavy hair dressed high, a fan and a flower drooping from her hand, and a fringed spanish shawl hanging its straight silk folds from her escaping shoulders. before her indolence, and her slumbrous delicacy, he hesitated. he wildly thought that he would allow the news to wait. tragedy, reality, were at that moment so far removed from her.... she said in delight, coming up to him, and forgetful that they were in the house in obedience to a mysterious and urgent message,-- 'julian, have you seen the fireworks? come out into the garden. we'll watch.' he put his arm through her bare arm,-- 'eve, i must tell you something.' 'fru thyregod?' she cried, and the difficulty of his task became all but insurmountable. 'something serious. something about father paul.' her strange eyes gave him a glance of undefinable suspicion. 'what about him?' 'he has been found, in the water, at the bottom of the garden.' 'in the water?' 'in the sea. drowned.' he told her all the circumstances, doggedly, conscientiously, under the mockery of the tinsel flames that streamed out from the top of the columns, and of the distant lights flashing through the windows, speaking as a man who proclaims in a foreign country a great truth bought by the harsh experience of his soul, to an audience unconversant with his alien tongue. this truth that he had won, in the presence of quiet stars, quieter death, and simple men, was desecrated by its recital to a vain woman in a room where the very architecture was based on falsity. still he persevered, believing that his own intensity of feeling must end in piercing its way to the foundations of her heart. he laid bare even his harassing conviction of his neglected responsibility,-- 'i should have suspected ... i should have suspected....' he looked at eve; she had broken down and was sobbing, paul's name mingled incoherently with her sobs. he did not doubt that she was profoundly shocked, but with a new-found cynicism he ascribed her tears to shock rather than to sorrow. he himself would have been incapable of shedding a single tear. he waited quietly for her to recover herself. 'oh, julian! poor paul! how terrible to die like that, alone, in the sea, at night....' for a moment her eyes were expressive of real horror, and she clasped julian's hand, gazing at him while all the visions of her imagination were alive in her eyes. she seemed to be on the point of adding something further, but continued to cry for a few moments, and then said, greatly sobered, 'you appear to take for granted that he has killed himself?' he considered this. up to the present no doubt whatever had existed in his mind. the possibility of an accident had not occurred to him. the very quality of repose and peace that he had witnessed had offered itself to him as the manifest evidence that the man had sought the only solution for a life grown unendurable. he had acknowledged the man's wisdom, bowing before his recognition of the conclusive infallibility of death as a means of escape. cowardly? so men often said, but circumstances were conceivable--circumstances in the present case unknown, withheld, and therefore not to be violated by so much as a hazarded guess--circumstances were conceivable in which no other course was to be contemplated. he replied with gravity,-- 'i do believe he put an end to his life.' the secret reason would probably never be disclosed; even if it came within sight, julian must now turn his eyes the other way. the secret which he might have, nay, should have, wrenched from his friend's reserve while he still lived, must remain sacred and unprofaned now that he was dead. not only must he guard it from his own knowledge, but from the knowledge of others. with this resolution he perceived that he had already blundered. 'eve, i have been wrong; this thing must be presented as an accident. i have no grounds for believing that he took his life. i must rely on you to support me. in fairness on poor paul.... he told me nothing. a man has a right to his own reticence.' he paused, startled at the truth of his discovery, and cried out, taking his head between his hands,-- 'oh god! the appalling loneliness of us all!' he shook his head despairingly for a long moment with his hands pressed over his temples. dropping his hands with a gesture of discouragement and lassitude, he regarded eve. 'i've found things out to-night, i think i've aged by five years. i know that paul suffered enough to put an end to himself. we can't tell what he suffered from. i never intended to let you think he had suffered. we must never let any one else suspect it. but imagine the stages and degrees of suffering which led him to that state of mind; imagine his hours, his days, and specially his nights. i looked on him as a village priest, limited to his village; i thought his long hair funny; god forgive me, i slightly despised him. you, eve, you thought him ornamental, a picturesque appendage to the house. and all that while, he was moving slowly towards the determination that he must kill himself.... perhaps, probably, he took his decision yesterday, when you and i were at the picnic. when fru thyregod.... for months, perhaps, or for years, he had been living with the secret that was to kill him. he knew, but no one else knew. he shared his knowledge with no one. i think i shall never look at a man again without awe, and reverence, and terror.' he was trembling strongly, discovering his fellows, discovering himself, his glowing eyes never left eve's face. he went on talking rapidly, as though eager to translate all there was to translate into words before the aroused energy deserted him. 'you vain, you delicate, unreal thing, do you understand at all? have you ever seen a dead man? you don't know the meaning of pain. you inflict pain for your amusement. you thing of leisure, you toy! your deepest emotion is your jealousy. you can be jealous even where you cannot love. you make a plaything of men's pain--you woman! you can change your personality twenty times a day. you can't understand a man's slow, coherent progression; he, always the same person, scarred with the wounds of the past. to wound you would be like wounding a wraith.' under the fury of his unexpected outburst, she protested,-- 'julian, why attack me? i've done, i've said, nothing.' 'you listened uncomprehendingly to me, thinking if you thought at all, that by to-morrow i should have forgotten my mood of to-night. you are wrong. i've gone a step forward to-day. i've learnt.... learnt, i mean, to respect men who suffer. learnt the continuity and the coherence of life. days linked to days. for you, an episode is an isolated episode.' he softened. 'no wonder you look bewildered. if you want the truth, i am angry with myself for my blindness towards paul. poor little eve! i only meant half i said.' 'you meant every word; one never speaks the truth so fully as when one speaks it unintentionally.' he smiled, but tolerantly and without malice. 'eve betrays herself by the glibness of the axiom. you know nothing of truth. but i've seen truth to-night. all paul's past life is mystery, shadow, enigma to me, but at the same time there is a central light--blinding, incandescent light--which is the fact that he suffered. suffered so much that, a priest, he preferred the supreme sin to such suffering. suffered so much that, a man, he preferred death to such suffering! all his natural desire for life was conquered. that irresistible instinct, that primal law, that persists even to the moment when darkness and unconsciousness overwhelm us--the fight for life, the battle to retain our birthright--all this was conquered. the instinct to escape from life became stronger than the instinct to preserve it! isn't that profoundly illuminating?' he paused. 'that fact sweeps, for me, like a great searchlight over an abyss of pain. the pain the man must have endured before he arrived at such a reversal of his religion and of his most primitive instinct! his world was, at the end, turned upside down. a terrifying nightmare. he took the only course. you cannot think how final death is--so final, so simple. so simple. there is no more to be said. i had no idea....' he spoke himself with the simplicity he was trying to express. he said again, candidly, evenly, in a voice from which all the emotion had passed,-- 'so simple.' they were silent for a long time. he had forgotten her, and she was wondering whether she dared now recall him to the personal. she had listened, gratified when he attacked her, resentful when he forgot her, bored with his detachment, but wise enough to conceal both her resentment and her boredom. she had worshipped him in his anger, and had admired his good looks in the midst of his fire. she had been infinitely more interested in him than in paul. shocked for a moment by paul's death, aware of the stirrings of pity, she had quickly neglected both for the sake of the living julian. she reviewed a procession of phrases with which she might recall his attention. 'you despise me, julian.' 'no, i only dissociate you. you represent a different sphere. you belong to herakleion. i love you--in your place.' 'you are hurting me.' he put his hands on her shoulders and turned her towards the fight. she let him have his way, with the disconcerting humility he had sometimes found in her. she bore his inspection mutely, her hands dropping loosely by her sides, fragile before his strength. he found that his thoughts had swept back, away from death, away from paul, to her sweetness and her worthlessness. 'many people care for you--more fools they,' he said. 'you and i, eve, must be allies now. you say i despise you. i shall do so less if i can enlist your loyalty in paul's cause. he has died as the result of an accident. are you to be trusted?' he felt her soft shoulders move in the slightest shrug under the pressure of his hands. 'do you think,' she asked, 'that you will be believed?' 'i shall insist upon being believed. there is no evidence--is there?--to prove me wrong.' as she did not answer, he repeated his question, then released her in suspicion. 'what do you know? tell me!' after a very long pause, he said quietly,-- 'i understand. there are many ways of conveying information. i am very blind about some things. heavens! if i had suspected that truth, either you would not have remained here, or paul would not have remained here. a priest! unheard of.... a priest to add to your collection. first miloradovitch, now paul. moths pinned upon a board. he loved you? oh,' he cried in a passion, 'i see it all: he struggled, you persisted--till you secured him. a joke to you. not a joke now--surely not a joke, even to you--but a triumph. am i right? a triumph! a man, dead for you. a priest. you allowed me to talk, knowing all the while.' 'i am very sorry for paul,' she said absently. he laughed at the pitiably inadequate word. 'have the courage to admit that you are flattered. more flattered than grieved. sorry for paul--yes, toss him that conventional tribute before turning to the luxury of your gratified vanity. that such things can be! surely men and women live in different worlds?' 'but, julian, what could i do?' 'he told you he loved you?' she acquiesced, and he stood frowning at her, his hands buried in his pockets and his head thrust forward, picturing the scenes, which had probably been numerous, between her and the priest, letting his imagination play over the anguish of his friend and eve's indifference. that she had not wholly discouraged him, he was sure. she would not so easily have let him go. julian was certain, as though he had observed their interviews from a hidden corner, that she had amusedly provoked him, watched him with half-closed, ironical eyes, dropped him a judicious word in her honeyed voice, driven him to despair by her disregard, raised him to joy by her capricious friendliness. they had had every opportunity for meeting. eve was strangely secretive. all had been carried on unsuspected. at this point he spoke aloud, almost with admiration,-- 'that you, who are so shallow, should be so deep!' a glimpse of her life had been revealed to him, but what secrets remained yet hidden? the veils were lifting from his simplicity; he contemplated, as it were, a new world--eve's world, ephemerally and clandestinely populated. he contemplated it in fascination, acknowledging that here was an additional, a separate art, insistent for recognition, dominating, imperative, forcing itself impudently upon mankind, exasperating to the straight-minded because it imposed itself, would not be denied, was subtle, pretended so unswervingly to dignity that dignity was accorded it by a credulous humanity--the art which eve practised, so vain, so cruel, so unproductive, the most fantastically prosperous of impostors! she saw the marvel in his eyes, and smiled slightly. 'well, julian?' 'i am wondering,' he cried, 'wondering! trying to pierce to your mind, your peopled memory, your present occupation, your science. what do you know? what have you heard? what have you seen? you, so young.... who are not young. how many secrets like the secret of paul are buried away in your heart? that you will never betray? do you ever look forward to the procession of your life? you, so young. i think you have some extraordinary, instinctive, inherited wisdom, some ready-made heritage, bequeathed to you by generations, that compensates for the deficiencies of your own experience. because you are so young. and so old, that i am afraid.' 'poor julian,' she murmured. a gulf of years lay between them, and she spoke to him as a woman to a boy. he was profoundly shaken, while she remained quiet, gently sarcastic, pitying towards him, who, so vastly stronger than she, became a bewildered child upon her own ground. he had seen death, but she had seen, toyed with, dissected the living heart. she added, 'don't try to understand. forget me and be yourself. you are annoying me.' she had spoken the last words with such impatience, that, torn from his speculations, he asked,-- 'annoying you? why?' after a short hesitation she gave him the truth,-- 'i dislike seeing you at fault.' he passed to a further bewilderment. 'i want you infallible.' rousing herself from the chair where she had been indolently lying, she said in the deepest tones of her contralto voice,-- 'julian, you think me worthless and vain; you condemn me as that without the charity of any further thought. you are right to think me heartless towards those i don't love. you believe that i spend my life in vanity. julian, i only ask to be taken away from my life; i have beliefs, and i have creeds, both of my own making, but i'm like a ship without a rudder. i'm wasting my life in vanity. i'm capable of other things. i'm capable of the deepest good, i know, as well as of the most shallow evil. nobody knows, except perhaps kato a little, how my real life is made up of dreams and illusions that i cherish. people are far more unreal to me than my own imaginings. one of my beliefs is about you. you mustn't ever destroy it. i believe you could do anything.' 'no, no,' he said, astonished. but she insisted, lit by the flame of her conviction. 'yes, anything. i have the profoundest contempt for the herd--to which you don't belong. i have believed in you since i was a child; believed in you, i mean, as something olympian of which i was frightened. i have always known that you would justify my faith.' 'but i am ordinary, normal!' he said, defending himself. he mistrusted her profoundly; wondered what attack she was engineering. experience of her had taught him to be sceptical. 'ah, don't you see, julian, when i am sincere?' she said, her voice breaking. 'i am telling you now one of the secrets of my heart, if you only knew it. the gentle, the amiable, the pleasant--yes, they're my toys. i'm cruel, i suppose. i'm always told so. i don't care; they're worth nothing. it does their little souls good to pass through the mill. but you, my intractable julian....' 'kyrie,' said nicolas, appearing, 'tsantilas tsigaridis, from aphros, asks urgently whether you will receive him?' 'bring him in,' said julian, conscious of relief, for eve's words had begun to trouble him. outside, the fireworks continued to flash like summer lightning. vi tsigaridis came forward into the room, his fishing cap between his fingers, and his white hair standing out in bunches of wiry curls round his face. determination was written in the set gravity of his features, even in the respectful bow with which he came to a halt before julian. interrupted in their conversation, eve had fallen, back, half lying, in her arm-chair, and julian, who had been pacing up and down, stood still with folded arms, a frown cleaving a deep valley between his brows. he spoke to tsigaridis,-- 'you asked for me, tsantilas?' 'i am a messenger, kyrie.' he looked from the young man to the girl, his age haughty towards their youth, his devotion submissive towards the advantage of their birth. he said to julian, using almost the same words as he had used once before,-- 'the people of aphros are the people of your people,' and he bowed again. julian had recovered his self-possession; he no longer felt dazed and bewildered as he had felt before eve. in speaking to tsigaridis he was speaking of things he understood. he knew very well the summons tsigaridis was bringing him, the rude and fine old man, single-sighted as a prophet, direct and unswerving in the cause he had at heart. he imagined, with almost physical vividness, the hand of the fisherman on his shoulder, impelling him forward. 'kyrie,' tsigaridis continued, 'to-day the flag of herakleion flew from the house of your honoured father until you with your own hand threw it down. i was in herakleion, where the news was brought to me, and there is no doubt that by now it is known also on aphros. your action can be interpreted only in one way. i know that to-day'--he crossed himself devoutly--'father paul, who was our friend and yours, has met his death; i break in upon your sorrow; i dared not wait; even death must not delay me. kyrie, i come to bring you back to aphros.' 'i will go to-night,' said julian without hesitation. 'my father and my uncle are in herakleion, and i will start from here before they can stop me. have you a boat?' 'i can procure one,' said tsigaridis, very erect, and looking at julian with shining eyes. 'then i will meet you at the private jetty in two hours' time. we shall be unnoted in the darkness, and the illuminations will be over by then.' 'assuredly,' said the fisherman. 'we go in all secrecy,' julian added. 'tsantilas, listen: can you distribute two orders for me by nightfall? i understand that you have organised a system of communications?' the old man's face relaxed slowly from its stern dignity; it softened into a mixture of slyness and pride and tenderness--the tenderness of a father for his favourite child. almost a smile struggled with his lips. a strange contortion troubled his brows. slowly and portentously, he winked. 'then send word to aphros,' said julian, 'that no boat be allowed to leave the islands, and send word round the mainland recalling every available islander. is it possible? i know that every islander in herakleion to-night is sitting with boon companions in buried haunts, talking, talking, talking. call them together, tsantilas.' 'it will be done, kyrie.' 'and madame kato--she must be informed.' 'kyrie, she sends you a message that she leaves herakleion by to-night's train for athens. when her work is done in athens, she also will return to aphros.' tsigaridis took a step forward and lifted julian's hands to his lips as was his wont. he bowed, and with his patriarchal gravity left the room. julian in a storm of excitement flung himself upon his knees beside eve's chair. 'eve!' he cried. 'oh, the wild adventure! do you understand? it has come at last. paul--i had almost forgotten the islands for him, and now i must forget him for the islands. too much has happened to-day. to-morrow all herakleion will know that the islands have broken away, and that i and every islander are upon aphros. they will come at first with threats; they will send representatives. i shall refuse to retract our declaration. then they will begin to carry out their threats. panaïoannou--think of it!--will organise an attack with boats.' he became sunk in practical thought, from which emerging he said more slowly and carefully, 'they will not dare to bombard the island because they know that italy and greece are watching every move, and with a single man-of-war could blow the whole town of herakleion higher than mount mylassa. kato will watch over us from athens.... they will dare to use no more than reasonable violence. and they will never gain a footing.' eve was leaning forward; she put both hands on his shoulders as he knelt. 'go on talking to me,' she said, 'my darling.' in a low, intense voice, with unseeing eyes, he released all the flood of secret thought that he had, in his life, expressed only to paul and to kato. 'i went once to aphros, more than a year ago; you remember. they asked me then, through tsigaridis, whether i would champion them if they needed championship. i said i would. father was very angry. he is incomprehensibly cynical about the islands, so cynical that i have been tempted to think him merely mercenary, anxious to live at peace with herakleion for the sake of his profits. he is as cynical as malteios, or any stay-in-power politician here. he read me a lecture and called the people a lot of rebellious good-for-nothings. eve, what do i care? one thing is true, one thing is real: those people suffer. everything on earth is empty, except pain. paul suffered, so much that he preferred to die. but a whole people doesn't die. i went away to england, and i put herakleion aside, but at the bottom of my heart i never thought of anything else; i knew i was bound to those people, and i lived, i swear to you, with the sole idea that i should come back, and that this adventure of rescue would happen some day exactly as it is happening now. i thought of kato and of tsigaridis as symbolical, almost mythological beings; my tutelary deities; kato vigorous, and tsigaridis stern. eve, i would rather die than read disappointment in that man's eyes. i never made him many promises, but he must find me better than my word.' he got up and walked once or twice up and down the room, beating his fist against his palm and saying,-- 'whatever good i do in my life, will be done in the islands.' he came back and stood by eve. 'eve, yesterday morning when i rode over the hills i saw the islands lying out in the sea.... i thought of father, cynical and indifferent, and of stavridis, a self-seeker. i wondered whether i should grow into that. i thought that in illusion lay the only loveliness.' 'ah, how i agree!' she said fervently. he dropped on his knees again beside her, and she put her fingers lightly on his hair. 'when tsigaridis came, you were telling me that you believed in me--heaven knows why. for my part, i only believe that one can accomplish when one has faith in a cause, and is blind to one's own fate. and i believe that the only cause worthy of such faith, is the redemption of souls from pain. i set aside all doubt. i will listen to no argument, and i will walk straight towards the object i have chosen. if my faith is an illusion, i will make that illusion into a reality by the sheer force of my faith.' he looked up at eve, whose eyes were strangely intent on him. 'you see,' he said, fingering the fringe of her spanish shawl, 'herakleion is my battleground, and if i am to tilt against windmills it must be in herakleion. i have staked out herakleion for my own, as one stakes out a claim in a gold-mining country. the islands are the whole adventure of youth for me.' 'and what am i?' she murmured to him. he looked at her without appearing to see her; he propped his elbow on her knee, leant his chin in his palm, and went on talking about the islands. 'i know that i am making the thing into a religion, but then i could never live, simply drifting along. aimless.... i don't understand existence on those terms. i am quite prepared to give everything for my idea; father can disinherit me, and i know i am very likely to be killed. i don't care. i may be mistaken; i may be making a blunder, an error of judgment. i don't care. those people are mine. those islands are my faith. i am blind.' 'and you enjoy the adventure,' she said. 'of course, i enjoy the adventure. but there is more in it than that,' he said, shaking his head; 'there is conviction, burnt into me. fanatical. whoever is ready to pay the ultimate price for his belief, has a right to that belief. heaven preserve me,' he cried, showing his fist, 'from growing like father, or malteios, or stavridis. eve, you understand.' she murmured again,-- 'and what am i? what part have i got in this world of yours?' again he did not appear to hear her, but making an effort to get up, he said,-- 'i promised to meet tsantilas, and i must go,' but she pressed her hands on his shoulders and held him down. 'stay a little longer. i want to talk to you.' kneeling there, he saw at last that her mouth was very resolute and her eyes full of a desperate decision. she sat forward in her chair, so close to him that he felt the warmth of her body, and saw that at the base of her throat a little pulse was beating quickly. 'what is it, eve?' 'this,' she said, 'that if i let you go i may never see you again. how much time have you?' he glanced at the heavy clock between the lapis columns. 'an hour and a half.' 'give me half an hour.' 'do you want to stop me from going?' 'could i stop you if i tried?' 'i should never listen to you.' 'julian,' she said, 'i rarely boast, as you know, but i am wondering now how many people in herakleion would abandon their dearest ideals for me? if you think my boast is empty--remember paul.' he paused for a moment, genuinely surprised by the point of view she presented to him. 'but i am different,' he said then, quite simply and with an air of finality. she laughed a low, delighted laugh. 'you have said it: you are different. of course you are different. so different, that you never notice me. people cringe to me--oh, i may say this to you--but you, julian, either you are angry with me or else you forget me.' she looked at the clock, and for the first time a slight loss of self-assurance came over her, surprising and attractive in her, who seemed always to hold every situation in such contemptuous control. 'only half an hour,' she said, 'and i have to say to you all that which i have been at such pains to conceal--hoping all the while that you would force the gates of my concealment, trample on my hypocrisy!' her eyes lost their irony and became troubled; she gazed at him with the distress of a child. he was uneasily conscious of his own embarrassment; he felt the shame of taking unawares the self-reliant in a moment of weakness, the mingled delight and perplexity of the hunter who comes suddenly upon the nymph, bare and gleaming, at the edge of a pool. all instinct of chivalry urged him to retreat until she should have recovered her self-possession. he desired to help her, tender and protective; and again, relentlessly, he would have outraged her reticence, forced her to the uttermost lengths of self-revelation, spared her no abasement, enjoyed her humiliation. simultaneously, he wanted the triumph over her pride, the battle joined with a worthy foe; and the luxury of comforting her new and sudden pathos, as he alone, he knew, could comfort it. she summoned in him, uncivilised and wholly primitive, a passion of tyranny and a passion of possessive protection. he yielded to the former, and continued to look at her in expectation, without speaking. 'help me a little, julian,' she murmured piteously, keeping her eyes bent on her hands, which were lying in her lap. 'look back a little, and remember me. i can remember you so well: coming and going and disregarding me, or furiously angry with me; very often unkind to me; tolerant of me sometimes; negligently, insultingly, certain of me always!' 'we used to say that although we parted for months, we always came together again.' she raised her eyes, grateful to him, as he still knelt on the floor in front of her, but he was not looking at her; he was staring at nothing, straight in front of him. 'julian,' she said, and spoke of their childhood, knowing that her best hope lay in keeping his thoughts distant from the present evening. her distress, which had been genuine, had passed. she had a vital game to play, and was playing it with the full resources of her ability. she swept the chords lightly, swift to strike again that chord which had whispered in response. she bent a little closer to him. 'i have always had this belief in you, of which i told you. you and i both have in us the making of fanatics. we never have led, and never should lead, the tame life of the herd.' she touched him with that, and regained command over his eyes, which this time she held unswervingly. but, having forced him to look at her, she saw a frown gathering on his brows; he sprang to his feet, and made a gesture as if to push her from him. 'you are playing with me; if you saw me lying dead on that rug you would turn from me as indifferently as from paul.' at this moment of her greatest danger, as he stood towering over her, she dropped her face into her hands, and he looked down only upon the nape of her neck and her waving hair. before he could speak she looked up again, her eyes very sorrowful under plaintive brows. 'do i deserve that you should say that to me? i never pretended to be anything but indifferent to those i didn't love. i should have been more hypocritical. you despise me now, so i pay the penalty of my own candour. i have not the pleasant graces of a fru thyregod, julian; not towards you, that is. i wouldn't offer you the insult of an easy philandering. i might make your life a burden; i might even kill you. i know i have often been impossible towards you in the past. i should probably be still more impossible in the future. if i loved you less, i should, no doubt, love you better. you see that i am candid.' he was struck, and reflected: she spoke truly, there was indeed a vein of candour which contradicted and redeemed the petty deceits and untruthfulnesses which so exasperated and offended him. but he would not admit his hesitation. 'i have told you a hundred times that you are cruel and vain and irredeemably worthless.' she answered after a pause, in the deep and wonderful voice which she knew so well how to use,-- 'you are more cruel than i; you hurt me more than i can say.' he resisted his impulse to renounce his words, to pretend that he had chosen them in deliberate malice. as he said nothing, she added,-- 'besides, have i ever shown myself any of those things to you? i haven't been cruel to you; i haven't even been selfish; you have no right to find fault with me.' she had blundered; he flew into a rage. 'your damned feminine reasoning! your damned personal point of view! i can see well enough the fashion in which you treat other men. i don't judge you only by your attitude towards myself.' off her guard, she was really incapable of grasping his argument; she tried to insist, to justify herself, but before his storm of anger she cowered away. 'julian, how you frighten me.' 'you only pretend to be frightened.' 'you are brutal; you mangle every word i say,' she said hopelessly. he had reduced her to silence; he stood over her threateningly, much as a tamer of wild beasts who waits for the next spring of the panther. desperate, her spirit flamed up again, and she cried,-- 'you treat me monstrously; i am a fool to waste my time over you; i am accustomed to quite different treatment.' 'you are spoilt; you are accustomed to flattery--flattery which means less than nothing,' he sneered, stamping upon her attempt at arrogance. 'ah, julian!' she said, suddenly and marvellously melting, and leaning forward she stretched out both hands towards him, so that he was obliged to take them, and she drew him down to his knees once more beside her, and smiled into his eyes, having taken command and being resolved that no crisis of anger should again arise to estrange them, 'i shall never have flattery from you, shall i? my turbulent, impossible julian, whose most meagre compliment i have treasured ever since i can remember! but it is over now, my time of waiting for you'--she still held his hands, and the smile with which she looked at him transfigured all her face. he was convinced; he trembled. he strove against her faintly,-- 'you choose your moment badly; you know that i must leave for aphros.' 'you cannot!' she cried in indignation. as his eyes hardened, she checked herself; she knew that for her own safety she must submit to his will without a struggle. spoilt, irrational as she was, she had never before so dominated her caprice. her wits were all at work, quick slaves to her passion. 'of course you must go,' she said. she played with his fingers, her head bent low, and he was startled by the softness of her touch. 'what idle hands,' he said, looking at them; 'you were vain of them, as a child.' but she did not wish him to dwell upon her vanity. 'julian, have i not been consistent, all my life? are you taking me seriously? do you know that i am betraying all the truth? one hasn't often the luxury of betraying all the truth. i could betray even greater depths of truth, for your sake. are you treating what i tell you with the gravity it deserves? you must not make a toy of my secret. i have no strength of character, julian. i suppose, in its stead, i have been given strength of love. do you want what i offer you? will you take the responsibility of refusing it?' 'is that a threat?' he asked, impressed and moved. she shrugged slightly and raised her eyebrows; he thought he had never so appreciated the wonderful mobility of her face. 'i am nothing without the person i love. you have judged me yourself: worthless--what else?--cruel, vain. all that is true. hitherto i have tried only to make the years pass by. do you want me to return to such an existence?' his natural vigour rebelled against her frailty. 'you are too richly gifted, eve, to abandon yourself to such slackness of life.' 'i told you i had no strength of character,' she said with bitterness, 'what are my gifts, such as they are, to me? you are the thing i want.' 'you could turn your gifts to any account.' 'with you, yes.' 'no, independently of me or any other human being. one stands alone in work. work is impersonal.' 'nothing is impersonal to me,' she replied morosely, 'that's my tragedy.' she flung out her hands. 'julian, i cherish such endless dreams! i loathe my life of petty adventures; i undertake them only in order to forget the ideal which until now has been denied me. i have crushed down the vision of life with you, but always it has remained at the back of my mind, so wide, so open, a life so free and so full of music and beauty, julian! i would work--for you. i would create--for you. i don't want to marry you, julian. i value my freedom above all things. bondage is not for you or me. but i'll come with you anywhere--to aphros if you like.' 'to aphros?' he repeated. 'why not?' she put in, with extraordinary skill,-- 'i belong to the islands no less than you.' privately she thought,-- 'if you knew how little i cared about the islands!' he stared at her, turning her words over in his mind. he was as reckless as she, but conscientiously he suggested,-- 'there may be danger.' 'i am not really a coward, only in the unimportant things. and you said yourself that they could never invade the island,' she added with complete confidence in his statement. he dreamt aloud,-- 'i have only just found her. this is herakleion! she might, who knows? be of use to aphros.' she wondered which consideration weighed most heavily with him. 'you were like my sister,' he said suddenly. she gave a rueful smile, but said nothing. 'no, no!' he cried, springing up. 'this can never be; have you bewitched me? let me go, eve; you have been playing a game with me.' she shook her head very slowly and tears gathered in her eyes. 'then the game is my whole life, julian; put me to any test you choose to prove my sincerity.' she convinced him against his will, and he resented it. 'you have deceived me too often.' 'i have been obliged to deceive you, because i could not tell you the truth.' 'very plausible,' he muttered. she waited, very well acquainted with the vehemence of his moods and reactions. she was rewarded; he said next, with laughter lurking in his eyes,-- 'ever since i can remember, i have quarrelled with you several times a day.' 'but this evening we have no time to waste in quarrelling,' she replied, relieved, and stretching out her hands to him again. as he took them, she added in a low voice, 'you attract me fatally, my refractory julian.' 'we will go to aphros,' he said, 'as friends and colleagues.' 'on any terms you choose to dictate,' she replied with ironical gravity. a flash of clear-sightedness pierced his attempt at self-deception; he saw the danger into which they were deliberately running, he and she, alone amidst fantastic happenings, living in fairyland, both headstrong and impatient creatures, unaccustomed to forgo their whims, much less their passions.... he was obliged to recognise the character of the temple which stood at the end of the path they were treading, and of the deity to whom it was dedicated; he saw the temple with the eyes of his imagination as vividly as his mortal eyes would have seen it: white and lovely amongst cypresses, shadowy within; they would surely enter. eve he certainly could not trust; could he trust himself? his honesty answered no. she observed the outward signs of what was passing in his mind, he started, he glanced at her, a look of horror and vigorous repudiation crossed his face, his eyes dwelt on her, then she saw--for she was quick to read him--by the slight toss of his head that he had banished sagacity. 'come on to the veranda,' she said, tugging at his hand. they stood on the veranda, watching the lights in the distance; the sky dripped with gold; balls of fire exploded into sheaves of golden feathers, into golden fountains and golden rain; golden slashes like the blades of scimitars cut across the curtain of night. eve cried out with delight. fiery snakes rushed across the sky, dying in a shower of sparks. at one moment the whole of the coast-line was lit up by a violet light, which most marvellously gleamed upon the sea. 'fairyland!' cried eve, clapping her hands. she had forgotten aphros. she had forgotten paul. the fireworks were over. tsigaridis pulled strongly and without haste at his oars across a wide sea that glittered now like black diamonds under the risen moon. the water rose and fell beneath the little boat as gently and as regularly as the breathing of a sleeper. in a milky sky, spangled with stars, the immense moon hung flat and motionless, casting a broad path of rough silver up the blackness of the waters, and illuminating a long stretch of little broken clouds that lay above the horizon like the vertebræ of some gigantic crocodile. the light at the tip of the pier showed green, for they saw it still from the side of the land, but as they drew farther out to sea and came on a parallel line with the light, they saw it briefly half green, half ruby; then, as they passed it, looking back they saw only the ruby glow. tsigaridis rowed steadily, silently but for the occasional drip of the water with the lifting of an oar, driving his craft away from the lights of the mainland--the stretch of herakleion along the coast--towards the beckoning lights in the heart of the sea. for ahead of them clustered the little yellow lights of the sheerly-rising village on aphros; isolated lights, three or four only, low down at the level of the harbour, then, after a dark gap representing the face of the cliff, the lights in the houses, irregular, tier above tier. but it was not to these yellow lights that the glance was drawn. high above them all, upon the highest summit of the island, flared a blood-red beacon, a fierce and solitary stain of scarlet, a flame like a flag, like an emblem, full of hope as it leapt towards the sky, full of rebellion as it tore its angry gash across the night. in the moonlight the tiny islands of the group lay darkly outlined in the sea, but the moonlight, placid and benign, was for them without significance: only the beacon, insolently red beneath the pallor of the moon, burned for them with a message that promised to all men strife, to others death, and to the survivors liberty. the form of aphros was no more than a silhouette under the moon, a silhouette that rose, humped and shadowy, bearing upon its crest that flower of flame; dawn might break upon an island of the purest loveliness, colour blown upon it as upon the feathers of a bird, fragile as porcelain, flushed as an orchard in blossom; to-night it lay mysterious, unrevealed, with that single flame as a token of the purpose that burned within its heart. tenderness, loveliness, were absent from the dark shape crowned by so living, so leaping an expression of its soul. here were resolution, anticipation, hope, the perpetual hope of betterment, the undying chimera, the sublime illusion, the lure of adventure to the rebel and the idealist alike. the flame rang out like a bugle call in the night, its glare in the darkness becoming strident indeed as the note of a bugle in the midst of silence. a light breeze brushed the little boat as it drew away from the coast, and tsigaridis with a word of satisfaction shipped his oars and rose, the fragile craft rocking as he moved; eve and julian, watching from the prow, saw a shadow creep along the mast and the triangular shape of a sail tauten itself darkly against the path of the moon. tsigaridis sank back into an indistinguishable block of intenser darkness in the darkness at the bottom of the boat. a few murmured words had passed,-- 'i will take the tiller, tsigaridis.' 'malista, kyrie,' and the silence had fallen again, the boat sailing strongly before the breeze, the beacon high ahead, and the moon brilliant in the sky. eve, not daring to speak, glanced at julian's profile as she sat beside him. he was scowling. had she but known, he was intensely conscious of her nearness, assailed again with that now familiar ghost, the ghost of her as he had once held her angrily in his arms, soft, heavy, defenceless; and his fingers as they closed over the tiller closed as delicately as upon the remembered curves of her body; she had taken off her hat, and the scent of her hair reached him, warm, personal she was close to him, soft, fragrant, silent indeed, but mysteriously alive; the desire to touch her grew, like the desire of thirst; life seemed to envelop him with a strange completeness. still a horror held him back: was it eve, the child to whom he had been brotherly? or eve, the woman? but in spite of his revulsion--for it was not his habit to control his desires--he changed the tiller to the other hand, and his free arm fell round her shoulders; he felt her instant yielding, her movement nearer towards him, her shortened breath, the falling back of her head; he knew that her eyes were shut; his fingers moulded themselves lingeringly round her throat; she slipped still lower within the circle of his arm, and his hand, almost involuntarily, trembled over the softness of her breast. part iii--aphros i in the large class-room of the school-house the dejected group of greek officials sat among the hideous yellow desks and benches of the school-children of aphros. passion and indignation had spent themselves fruitlessly during the preceding evening and night. to do the islanders justice, the greeks had not been treated with incivility. but all demands for an interview with the highest authority were met not only with a polite reply that the highest authority had not yet arrived upon the island, but also a refusal to disclose his name. the greek officials, having been brought from their respective lodgings to the central meeting-point of the school, had been given the run of two class-rooms, one for the men, of whom there were, in all, twenty, and one for the women, of whom there were only six. they were told that they might communicate, but that armed guards would be placed in both rooms. they found most comfort in gathering, the six-and-twenty of them, in the larger class-room, while the guards, in their kilted dresses, sat on chairs, two at each entrance, with suspiciously modern and efficient-looking rifles laid across their knees. a large proportion of the officials were, naturally, those connected with the school. they observed morosely that all notices in the pure greek of herakleion had already been removed, also the large lithographs of malteios and other former presidents, so that the walls of pitch pine--the school buildings were modern, and of wood--were now ornamented only with maps, anatomical diagrams, and some large coloured plates published by some english manufacturing firm for advertisement; there were three children riding a gray donkey, and another child trying on a sun-bonnet before a mirror; but any indication of the relationship of aphros to herakleion there was none. 'it is revolution,' the postmaster said gloomily. the guards would not speak. their natural loquacity was in abeyance before the first fire of their revolutionary ardour. from vine-cultivators they had become soldiers, and the unfamiliarity of the trade filled them with self-awe and importance. outside, the village was surprisingly quiet; there was no shouting, no excitement; footsteps passed rapidly to and fro, but they seemed to be the footsteps of men bent on ordered business; the greeks could not but be impressed and disquieted by the sense of organisation. 'shall we be allowed to go free?' they asked the guards. 'you will know when he comes,' was all the guards would reply. 'who is he?' 'you will know presently.' 'has he still not arrived?' 'he has arrived.' 'we heard nothing; he must have arrived during the night.' to this they received no answer, nor any to their next remark,-- 'why so much mystery? it is, of course, the scatterbrained young englishman.' the guards silently shrugged their shoulders, as much as to say, that any one, even a prisoner, had a right to his own opinion. the school clock pointed to nine when the first noise of agitation began in the street. it soon became clear that a large concourse of people was assembling in the neighbourhood of the school; a slight excitement betrayed itself by some shouting and laughter, but a voice cried 'silence!' and silence was immediately produced. those within the school heard only the whisperings and rustlings of a crowd. they were not extravagantly surprised, knowing the islanders to be an orderly, restrained, and frugal race, their emotions trained into the sole channel of patriotism, which here was making its supreme demand upon their self-devotion. the greeks threw wondering glances at the rifles of the guards. ostensibly school-teachers, post and telegraph clerks, and custom-house officers, they were, of course, in reality the spies of the government of herakleion, and as such should have had knowledge of the presence of such weapons on the island. they reflected that, undesirable as was a prolonged imprisonment in the school-house, at the mercy of a newly-liberated and probably rancorous population, a return to herakleion might prove a no less undesirable fate at the present juncture. outside, some sharp words of command were followed by the click of weapons on the cobblestones; the postmaster looked at the chief customs-house clerk, raised his eyebrows, jerked his head, and made a little noise: 'tcha!' against his teeth, as much as to say, 'the deceitful villains! under our noses!' but at the back of his mind was, 'no further employment, no pension, for any of us.' a burst of cheering followed in the street. the voice cried 'silence!' again, but this time was disregarded. the cheering continued for some minutes, the women's note joining in with the men's deep voices, and isolated words were shouted, all with the maximum of emotion. the greeks tried to look out of the windows, but were prevented by the guards. some one in the street began to speak, when the cheering had died away, but through the closed windows it was impossible to distinguish the words. a moment's hush followed this speaking, and then another voice began, reading impressively--it was obvious, from the unhesitating and measured scansion, that he was reading. sections of his address, or proclamation, whichever it was, were received with deep growls of satisfaction from the crowd. at one moment he was wholly interrupted by repeated shouts of 'viva! viva! viva!' and when he had made an end thunderous shouts of approval shook the wooden building. the greeks were by now very pale; they could not tell whether this proclamation did not contain some reference, some decision, concerning themselves. after the proclamation, another voice spoke, interrupted at every moment by various cries of joy and delight, especially from the women; the crowd seemed alternately rocked with enthusiasm, confidence, fire, and laughter. the laughter was not the laughter of amusement so much as the grim laughter of resolution and fraternity; an extraordinarily fraternal and unanimous spirit seemed to prevail. then silence again, broken by voices in brief confabulation, and then the shifting of the crowd which, to judge from the noise, was pressing back against the school-buildings in order to allow somebody a passage down the street. the door opened, and zapantiotis, appearing, announced,-- 'prisoners, the president.' the word created a sensation among the little herd of hostages, who, for comfort and protection, had instinctively crowded together. they believed themselves miraculously rescued, at least from the spite and vengeance of the islanders, and expected to see either malteios or stavridis, frock-coated and top-hatted, in the doorway. instead, they saw julian davenant, flushed, untidy, bareheaded, and accompanied by two immense islanders carrying rifles. he paused and surveyed the little speechless group, and a faint smile ran over his lips at the sight of the confused faces of his prisoners. they stared at him, readjusting their ideas: in the first instance they had certainly expected julian, then for one flashing moment they had expected the president of herakleion, then they were confronted with julian. a question left the lips of the postmaster,-- 'president of what?' perhaps he was tempted madly to think that neither malteios, nor stavridis, but julian, had been on the foregoing day elected president of herakleion. zapantiotis answered gravely,-- 'of the archipelago of san zacharie.' 'are we all crazy?' cried the postmaster. 'you see, gentlemen,' said julian, speaking for the first time, 'that the folly of my grandfather's day has been revived.' he came forward and seated himself at the schoolmaster's desk, his bodyguard standing a little behind him, one to each side. 'i have come here,' he said, 'to choose amongst you one representative who can carry to herakleion the terms of the proclamation which has just been read in the market-place outside. these terms must be communicated to the present government. zapantiotis, hand the proclamation to these gentlemen.' the outraged greeks came closer together to read the proclamation over each other's shoulder; it set forth that the islands constituting the archipelago of san zacharie, and including the important island of aphros, by the present proclamation, and after long years of oppression, declared themselves a free and independent republic under the presidency of julian henry davenant, pending the formation of a provisional government; that if unmolested they were prepared to live in all peace and neighbourly good-fellowship with the republic of herakleion, but that if molested in any way they were equally prepared to defend their shores and their liberty to the last drop of blood in the last man upon the islands. there was a certain nobleness in the resolute gravity of the wording. julian wore a cryptic smile as he watched the greeks working their way through this document, which was in the italianate greek of the islands. their fingers pointed certain paragraphs out to one another, and little repressed snorts came from them, snorts of scorn and of indignation, and glances were flung at julian lounging indifferently in the schoolmaster's chair. the doors had been closed to exclude the crowd, and of the islanders, only zapantiotis and the guards remained in the room. although it was early, the heat was beginning to make itself felt, and the flies were buzzing over the window-panes. 'if you have finished reading, gentlemen,' said julian presently, 'i shall be glad if you will decide upon a representative, as i have much to attend to; a boat is waiting to take him and these ladies to the shore.' immense relief was manifested by the ladies. 'this thing,' said the head of the school, hitting the proclamation with his closed fingers, 'is madness; i beg you, young man--i know you quite well--to withdraw before it is too late.' 'i can have no argument; i give you five minutes to decide,' julian replied, laying his watch on the desk. his followers had no longer cause to fret against his indecision. seeing him determined, the greeks excitedly conferred; amongst them the idea of self-preservation, rather than of self-immolation, was obviously dominant. herakleion, for all the displeasure of the authorities, was, when it came to the point, preferable to aphros in the hands of the islanders and their eccentric, if not actually bloodthirsty, young leader. the postmaster presented himself as senior member of the group; the schoolmaster as the most erudite, therefore the most fitted to represent his colleagues before the senate; the head clerk of the customs-house urged his claim as having the longest term of official service. the conference degenerated into a wrangle. 'i see, gentlemen, that i must take the decision out of your hands,' julian said at length, breaking in upon them, and appointed the customs-house clerk. but in the market-place, whither the greek representative and the women of the party were instantly hurried, the silent throng of population waited in packed and coloured ranks. the men stood apart, arms folded, handkerchiefs bound about their heads under their wide straw hats--they waited, patient, confident, unassuming. none of them was armed with rifles, although many carried a pistol or a long knife slung at his belt; the customs-house clerk, through all his confusion of mingled terror and relief, noted the fact; if he delivered it at a propitious moment, it might placate an irate senate. no rifles, or, at most, eight in the hands of the guards! order would very shortly be restored in aphros. nevertheless, that sense of organisation, of discipline, of which the greeks had been conscious while listening to the assembling of the crowd through the boards of the school-house, was even more apparent here upon the market-place. these islanders knew their business. a small file of men detached itself as an escort for the representative and the women. julian came from the school at the same moment with his two guards, grim and attentive, behind him. a movement of respect produced itself in the crowd. the customs-house clerk and his companions were not allowed to linger, but were marched away to the steps which led down to the jetty. they carried away with them as their final impression of aphros the memory of the coloured throng and of julian, a few paces in advance, watching their departure. the proclamation, the scene in the school-house, remained as the prelude to the many pictures which populated julian's memory, interchangeably, of that day. he saw himself, speaking rarely, but, as he knew, to much purpose, seated at the head of a table in the village assembly-room, and, down each side of the table, the principal men of the islands, tsigaridis and zapantiotis on his either hand, grave counsellors; he heard their speech, unreproducibly magnificent, because a bodyguard of facts supported every phrase; because, in the background, thronged the years of endurance and the patient, steadfast hope. he heard the terms of the new constitution, and the oath of resolution to which every man subscribed. with a swimming brain, and his eyes fixed upon the hastily-restored portrait of his grandfather, he heard the references to himself as head of the state--a state in which the citizens numbered perhaps five thousand. he heard his own voice, issuing orders whose wisdom was never questioned: no boat to leave the islands, no boats to be admitted to the port, without his express permission, a system of sentries to be instantly instituted and maintained, day and night. as he delivered these orders, men rose in their places, assuming the responsibility, and left the room to execute them without delay. he saw himself later, still accompanied by tsigaridis and zapantiotis, but having rid himself of his two guards, in the interior of the island, on the slopes where the little rough stone walls retained the terraces, and where between the trunks of the olive-trees the sea moved, blue and glittering, below. here the island was dry and stony; mule-paths, rising in wide, low steps, wandered up the slopes and lost themselves over the crest of the hill. a few goats moved restlessly among cactus and bramble-bushes, cropping at the prickly stuff, and now and then raising their heads to bleat for the kids that, more light-hearted because not under the obligation of searching for food amongst the vegetation, leapt after one another, up and down, in a happy chain on their little stiff certain legs from terrace to terrace. an occasional cypress rose in a dark spire against the sky. across the sea, the town of herakleion lay, white, curved, and narrow, with its coloured sunblinds no bigger than butterflies, along the strip of coast that mount mylassa so grudgingly allowed it. the stepped paths being impassable for carts, tsigaridis had collected ten mules with panniers, that followed in a string. julian rode ahead upon another mule; zapantiotis walked, his tall staff in his hand, and his dog at his heels. julian remembered idly admiring the health which enabled this man of sixty-five to climb a constantly-ascending path under a burning sun without showing any signs of exhaustion. as they went, the boy in charge of the mules droned out a mournful native song which julian recognised as having heard upon the lips of kato. the crickets chirped unceasingly, and overhead the seagulls circled uttering their peculiar cry. they had climbed higher, finally leaving behind them the olive-terraces and coming to a stretch of vines, the autumn vine-leaves ranging through every shade of yellow, red, and orange; here, away from the shade of the olives, the sun burned down almost unbearably, and the stones of the rough walls were too hot for the naked hand to touch. here it was that the grapes were spread out, drying into currants--a whole terrace heaped with grapes, over which a party of young men, who sat playing at dice beneath a rough shelter made out of reeds and matting, were mounting guard. julian, knowing nothing of this business, and present only out of interested curiosity, left the command to zapantiotis. a few stone-pines grew at the edge of the terrace; he moved his mule into their shade while he watched. they had reached the summit of the island--no doubt, if he searched far enough, he would come across the ruins of last night's beacon, but he preferred to remember it as a living thing rather than to stumble with his foot against ashes, gray and dead; he shivered a little, in spite of the heat, at the thought of that flame already extinguished--and from the summit he could look down upon both slopes, seeing the island actually as an island, with the sea below upon every side, and he could see the other islands of the group, speckled around, some of them too tiny to be inhabited, but all deserted now, when in the common cause every soul had been summoned by the beacon, the preconcerted signal, to aphros. he imagined the little isolated boats travelling across the moonlit waters during the night, as he himself had travelled; little boats, each under its triangular sail, bearing the owner, his women, his children, and such poor belongings as he could carry, making for the port or the creeks of aphros, relying for shelter upon the fraternal hospitality of the inhabitants. no doubt they, like himself, had travelled with their eyes upon the beacon.... the young men, grinning broadly and displaying a zest they would not have contributed towards the mere routine of their lives, had left their skeleton shelter and had fallen to work upon the heaps of drying grapes with their large, purple-stained, wooden shovels. zapantiotis leant upon his staff beside julian's mule. 'see, kyrie!' he had said. 'it was a crafty thought, was it not? ah, women! only a woman could have thought of such a thing.' 'a woman?' 'anastasia kato,' the overseer had replied, reverent towards the brain that had contrived thus craftily for the cause, but familiar towards the great singer--of whom distinguished european audiences spoke with distant respect--as towards a woman of his own people. he probably, julian had reflected, did not know of her as a singer at all. beneath the grapes rifles were concealed, preserved from the fruit by careful sheets of coarse linen; rifles, gleaming, modern rifles, laid out in rows; a hundred, two hundred, three hundred; julian had no means of estimating. he had dismounted and walked over to them; the young men were still shovelling back the fruit, reckless of its plenty, bringing more weapons and still more to light. he had bent down to examine more closely. 'italian,' he had said then, briefly, and had met tsigaridis' eye, had seen the slow, contented smile which spread on the old man's face, and which he had discreetly turned aside to conceal. then julian, with a glimpse of all those months of preparation, had ridden down from the hills, the string of mules following his mule in single file, the shining barrels bristling out of the panniers, and in the market-place he had assisted, from the height of his saddle, at the distribution of the arms. two hundred and fifty, and five hundred rounds of ammunition to each.... he thought of the nights of smuggling represented there, of the catch of fish--the 'quick, shining harvest of the sea'--beneath which lay the deadlier catch that evaded the eyes of the customs-house clerks. he remembered the robbery at the casino, and was illuminated. money had not been lacking. these were not the only pictures he retained of that day; the affairs to which he was expected to attend seemed to be innumerable; he had sat for hours in the village assembly-room, while the islanders came and went, surprisingly capable, but at the same time utterly reliant upon him. throughout the day no sign came from herakleion. julian grew weary, and could barely restrain his thoughts from wandering to eve. he would have gone to her room before leaving the house in the morning, but she had refused to see him. consequently the thought of her had haunted him all day. one of the messages which reached him as he sat in the assembly-room had been from her: would he send a boat to herakleion for nana? he had smiled, and had complied, very much doubting whether the boat would ever be allowed to return. the message had brought him, as it were, a touch from her, a breath of her personality which clung about the room long after. she was near at hand, waiting for him, so familiar, yet so unfamiliar, so undiscovered. he felt that after a year with her much would still remain to be discovered; that there was, in fact, no end to her interest and her mystery. she was of no ordinary calibre, she who could be, turn by turn, a delicious or plaintive child, a woman of ripe seduction, and--in fits and starts--a poet in whose turbulent and undeveloped talent he divined startling possibilities! when she wrote poetry she smothered herself in ink, as he knew; so mingled in her were the fallible and the infallible. he refused to analyse his present relation to her; a sense, not of hypocrisy, but of decency, held him back; he remembered all too vividly the day he had carried her in his arms; his brotherliness had been shocked, offended, but since then the remembrance had persisted and had grown, and now he found himself, with all that brotherliness of years still ingrained in him, full of thoughts and on the brink of an adventure far from brotherly. he tried not to think these thoughts. he honestly considered them degrading, incestuous. but his mood was ripe for adventure; the air was full of adventure; the circumstances were unparalleled; his excitement glowed--he left the assembly-room, walked rapidly up the street, and entered the davenant house, shutting the door behind him. the sounds of the street were shut out, and the water plashed coolly in the open courtyard; two pigeons walked prinking round the flat edge of the marble basin, the male cooing and bowing absurdly, throwing out his white chest, ruffling his tail, and putting down his spindly feet with fussy precision. when julian appeared, they fluttered away to the other side of the court to resume their convention of love-making. evening was falling, warm and suave, and overhead in the still blue sky floated tiny rosy clouds. in the cloisters round the court the frescoes of the life of saint benedict looked palely at julian, they so faded, so washed-out, he so young and so full of strength. their pallor taught him that he had never before felt so young, so reckless, or so vigorous. he was astonished to find eve with the son of zapantiotis, learning from him to play the flute in the long, low room which once had been the refectory and which ran the full length of the cloisters. deeply recessed windows, with heavy iron gratings, looked down over the roofs of the village to the sea. in one of these windows eve leaned against the wall holding the flute to her lips, and young zapantiotis, eager, handsome, showed her how to place her fingers upon the holes. she looked defiantly at julian. 'nico has rescued me,' she said; 'but for him i should have been alone all day. i have taught him to dance.' she pointed to a gramophone upon a table. 'where did that come from?' julian said, determined not to show his anger before the islander. 'from the café,' she replied. 'then nico had better take it back; they will need it.' julian said, threats in his voice, 'and he had better see whether his father cannot find him employment; we have not too many men.' 'you left me the whole day,' she said when nico had gone; 'i am sorry i came with you, julian; i would rather go back to herakleion; even nana has not come. i did not think you would desert me.' he looked at her, his anger vanished, and she was surprised when he answered her gently, even amusedly,-- 'you are always delightfully unexpected and yet characteristic of yourself: i come back, thinking i shall find you alone, perhaps glad to see me, having spent an unoccupied day, but no, i find you with the best-looking scamp of the village, having learnt from him to play the flute, taught him to dance, and borrowed a gramophone from the local café!' he put his hands heavily upon her shoulders with a gesture she knew of old. 'i suppose i love you,' he said roughly, and then seemed indisposed to talk of her any more, but told her his plans and arrangements, to which she did not listen. they remained standing in the narrow window-recess, leaning, opposite to one another, against the thick stone walls of the old genoese building. through the grating they could see the sea, and, in the distance, herakleion. 'it is sufficiently extraordinary,' he remarked, gazing across the bay, 'that herakleion has made no sign. i can only suppose that they will try force as soon as panaïoannou can collect his army, which, as it was fully mobilised no later than yesterday, ought not to take very long.' 'will there be fighting?' she asked, with a first show of interest. 'i hope so,' he replied. 'i should like you to fight,' she said. swaying as he invariably did between his contradictory opinions of her, he found himself inwardly approving her standpoint, that man, in order to be worthy of woman, must fight, or be prepared to fight, and to enjoy the fighting. from one so self-indulgent, so pleasure-loving, so reluctant to face any unpleasantness of life, he might pardonably have expected the less heroic attitude. if she resented his absence all day on the business of preparations for strife, might she not equally have resented the strife that called him from her side? he respected her appreciation of physical courage, and remodelled his estimate to her advantage. to his surprise, the boat he had sent for nana returned from herakleion. it came, indeed, without nana, but bearing in her place a letter from his father:-- 'dear julian,--by the courtesy of m. stavridis--by whose orders this house is closely guarded, and for which i have to thank your folly--i am enabled to send you this letter, conditional on m. stavridis's personal censorship. your messenger has come with your astonishing request that your cousin's nurse may be allowed to return with the boat to aphros. i should have returned with it myself in the place of the nurse, but for m. stavridis's very natural objection to my rejoining you or leaving herakleion. 'i am at present too outraged to make any comment upon your behaviour. i try to convince myself that you must be completely insane. m. stavridis, however, will shortly take drastic steps to restore you to sanity. i trust only that no harm will befall you--for i remember still that you are my son--in the process. in the meantime, i demand of you most urgently, in my own name and that of your uncle and aunt, that you will send back your cousin without delay to herakleion. m. stavridis has had the great kindness to give his consent to this. a little consideration will surely prove to you that in taking her with you to aphros you have been guilty of a crowning piece of folly from every point of view. i know you to be headstrong and unreflecting. try to redeem yourself in this one respect before it is too late. 'i fear that i should merely be wasting my time by attempting to dissuade you from the course you have chosen with regard to the islands. my poor misguided boy, do you not realise that your effort is _bound_ to end in disaster, and will serve but to injure those you most desire to help? 'i warn you, too, most gravely and solemnly, that your obstinacy will entail _very serious consequences_ for yourself. i shall regret the steps i contemplate taking, but i have the interest of our family to consider, and i have your uncle's entire approval. 'i am very deeply indebted to m. stavridis, who, while unable to neglect his duty as the first citizen of herakleion, has given me every proof of his personal friendship and confidence. w. davenant.' julian showed this letter to eve. 'what answer shall you send?' 'this,' he replied, tearing it into pieces. 'you are angry. oh, julian, i love you for being reckless.' 'i see red. he threatens me with disinheriting me. he takes good care to remain in stavridis' good books himself. do you want to go back?' 'no, julian.' 'of course, father is quite right: i am insane, and so are you. but, after all, you will run no danger, and as far compromising you, that is absurd: we have often been alone together before now. besides,' he added brutally, 'you said yourself you belonged to the islands no less than i; you can suffer for them a little if necessary.' 'i make no complaint,' she said with an enigmatic smile. they dined together near the fountain in the courtyard, and overhead the sky grew dark, and the servant brought lighted candles for the table. julian spoke very little; he allowed himself the supreme luxury of being spoilt by a woman who made it her business to please him; observing her critically, appreciatively; acknowledging her art; noting with admiration how the instinct of the born courtesan filled in the gaps in the experience of the child. he was, as yet, more mystified by her than he cared to admit. but he yielded himself to her charm. the intimacy of this meal, their first alone together, enveloped him more and more with the gradual sinking of night, and his observant silence, which had originated with the deliberate desire to test her skill and also to indulge his own masculine enjoyment, insensibly altered into a shield against the emotion which was gaining him. the servant had left them. the water still plashed into the marble basin. the candles on the table burned steadily in the unruffled evening, and under their light gleamed the wine--rough, native wine, red and golden--in the long-necked, transparent bottles, and the bowl of fruit: grapes, a cut melon, and bursting figs, heaped with the lavishness of plenty. the table was a pool of light, but around it the court and cloisters were full of dim, mysterious shadows. opposite julian, eve leaned forward, propping her bare elbows on the table, disdainfully picking at the fruit, and talking. he looked at her smooth, beautiful arms, and little white hands that he had always loved. he knew that he preferred her company to any in the world. her humour, her audacity, the width of her range, the picturesqueness of her phraseology, her endless inventiveness, her subtle undercurrent of the personal, though 'you' or 'i' might be entirely absent from her lips all seemed to him wholly enchanting. she was a sybarite of life, an artist; but the glow and recklessness of her saved her from all taint of intellectual sterility. he knew that his life had been enriched and coloured by her presence in it; that it would, at any moment, have become a poorer, a grayer, a less magical thing through the loss of her. he shut his eyes for a second as he realised that she could be, if he chose, his own possession, she the elusive and unattainable; he might claim the redemption of all her infinite promise; might discover her in the rôle for which she was so obviously created; might violate the sanctuary and tear the veils from the wealth of treasure hitherto denied to all; might exact for himself the first secrets of her unplundered passion. he knew her already as the perfect companion, he divined her as the perfect mistress; he reeled and shrank before the unadmitted thought, then looked across at her where she sat with an open fig half-way to her lips, and knew fantastically that they were alone upon an island of which he was all but king. 'a deserted city,' she was saying, 'a city of portuguese settlers; pink marble palaces upon the edge of the water; almost crowded into the water by the encroaching jungle; monkeys peering through their ruined windows; on the sand, great sleepy tortoises; and, twining in and out of the broken doorways of the palaces, orchids and hibiscus--that is trincomali! would you like the tropics, i wonder, julian? their exuberance, their vulgarity?... one buys little sacks full of precious stones; one puts in one's hand, and lets the sapphires and the rubies and the emeralds run through one's fingers.' their eyes met; and her slight, infrequent confusion overcame her.... 'you aren't listening,' she murmured. 'you were only fifteen when you went to ceylon,' he said, gazing at the blue smoke of his cigarette. 'you used to write to me from there. you had scarlet writing-paper. you were a deplorably affected child.' 'yes,' she said, 'the only natural thing about me was my affectation.' they laughed, closely, intimately. 'it began when you were three,' he said, 'and insisted upon always wearing brown kid gloves; your voice was even deeper then than it is now, and you always called your father robert.' 'you were five; you used to push me into the prickly pear.' 'and you tried to kill me with a dagger; do you remember?' 'oh, yes,' she said quite gravely, 'there was a period when i always carried a dagger.' 'when you came back from ceylon you had a tiger's claw.' 'with which i once cut my initials on your arm.' 'you were very theatrical.' 'you were very stoical.' again they laughed. 'when you went to ceylon,' he said, 'one of the ship's officers fell in love with you; you were very much amused.' 'the only occasion, i think, julian, when i ever boasted to you of such a thing? you must forgive me--il ne faut pas m'en vouloir--remember i was only fifteen.' 'such things amuse you still,' he said jealously. 'c'est possible,' she replied. he insisted,-- 'when did you really become aware of your own heartlessness?' she sparkled with laughter. 'i think it began life as a sense of humour,' she said, 'and degenerated gradually into its present state of spasmodic infamy.' he had smiled, but she saw his face suddenly darken, and he got up abruptly, and stood by the fountain, turning his back on her. 'my god,' she thought to herself in terror, 'he has remembered paul.' she rose also, and went close to him, slipping her hand through his arm, endeavouring to use, perhaps unconsciously, the powerful weapon of her physical nearness. he did not shake away her hand, but he remained unresponsive, lost in contemplation of the water. she hesitated as to whether she should boldly attack the subject--she knew her danger; he would be difficult to acquire, easy to lose, no more tractable than a young colt--then in the stillness of the night she faintly heard the music of the gramophone playing in the village café. 'come into the drawing-room and listen to the music, julian,' she said, pulling at his arm. he came morosely; they exchanged the court with its pool of light for the darkness of the drawing-room; she felt her way, holding his hand, towards a window seat; sat down, and pulled him down beside her; through the rusty iron grating they saw the sea, lit up by the rising moon. 'we can just hear the music,' she whispered. her heart was beating hard and fast: they had been as under a spell, so close were they to one another, but now she was bitterly conscious of having lost him. she knew that he had slipped from the fairyland of aphros back to the world of principles, of morals both conventional and essential. in fairyland, whither she had enticed him, all things were feasible, permissible, even imperative. he had accompanied her, she thought, very willingly, and they had strayed together down enchanted paths, abstaining, it is true, from adventuring into the perilous woods that surrounded them, but hand in hand, nevertheless, their departure from the path potential at any rate, if not imminent. they had been alone; she had been so happy, so triumphant. now he had fled her, back to another world inhabited by all the enemies she would have had him forget: her cruelties, her vanities--her vanities! he could never reconcile her vanities and her splendour; he was incapable of seeing them both at the same time; the one excluded the other, turn and turn about, in his young eyes; her deceptions, her evasions of the truth, the men she had misled, the man, above all, that she had killed and whose death she had accepted with comparative indifference. these things rose in a bristling phalanx against her, and she faced them, small, afraid, and at a loss. for she was bound to admit their existence, and the very vivid, the very crushing, reality of their existence, all-important to her, in julian's eyes; although she herself might be too completely devoid of moral sense, in the ordinary acceptance of the word, to admit any justification for his indignation. she knew with sorrow that they would remain for ever as a threat in the background, and that she would be fortunate indeed if in that background she could succeed in keeping them more or less permanently. her imagination sighed for a potion of forgetfulness. failing that, never for an instant must she neglect her rôle of calypso. she knew that on the slightest impulse to anger on julian's part--and his impulses to anger were, alas, both violent and frequent--all those enemies in their phalanx would instantly rise and range themselves on his side against her. coaxed into abeyance, they would revive with fatal ease. she knew him well in his present mood of gloom. she was afraid, and a desperate anxiety to regain him possessed her. argument, she divined, would be futile. she whispered his name. he turned on her a face of granite. 'why have you changed?' she said helplessly. 'i was so happy, and you are making me so miserable.' 'i have no pity for you,' he said, 'you are too pitiless yourself to deserve any.' 'you break my heart when you speak to me like that.' 'i should like to break it,' he replied, unmoved. she did not answer, but presently he heard her sobbing. full of suspicion, he put out his hand and felt the tears running between her fingers. 'i have made you cry,' he said. 'not for the first time,' she answered. she knew that he was disconcerted, shaken in his harshness, and added,-- 'i know what you think of me sometimes, julian. i have nothing to say in my own defence. perhaps there is only one good thing in me, but that you must promise me never to attack.' 'what is it?' 'you sound very sceptical,' she answered wistfully. 'my love for you; let us leave it at that.' 'i wonder!' he said; and again, 'i wonder!...' she moved a little closer to him, and leaned against him, so that her hair brushed his cheek. awkwardly and absent-mindedly, he put his arms round her; he could feel her heart beating through her thin muslin shirt, and lifting her bare arm in his hand he weighed it pensively; she lay against him, allowing him to do as he pleased; physically he held her nearer, but morally he was far away. humiliating herself, she lay silent, willing to sacrifice the pride of her body if therewith she might purchase his return. but he, awaking with a start from his brooding grievances, put her away from him. if temptation was to overcome him, it must rush him by assault; not thus, sordid and unlit.... he rose, saying,-- 'it is very late; you must go to bed; good-night.' ii panaïoannou attempted a landing before sunrise on the following day. a few stars were still visible, but the moon was paling, low in the heavens, and along the eastern horizon the sky was turning rosy and yellow above the sea. earth, air, and water were alike bathed in purity and loveliness. julian, hastily aroused, remembered the islands as he had seen them from the mainland on the day of madame lafarge's picnic. in such beauty they were lying now, dependent on his defence.... excited beyond measure, he dressed rapidly, and as he dressed he heard the loud clanging of the school bell summoning the men to arms; he heard the village waking, the clatter of banging doors, of wooden soles upon the cobbles, and excited voices. he rushed from his room into the passage, where he met eve. she was very pale, and her hair was streaming round her shoulders. she clung to him. 'oh, julian, what is it? why are they ringing the bells? why are you dressed? where are you going?' he explained, holding her, stroking her hair. 'boats have been sighted, setting out from herakleion; i suppose they think they will take us by surprise. you know, i have told off two men to look after you; you are to go into the little hut which is prepared for you in the very centre of the island. they will never land, and you will be perfectly safe there. i will let you know directly they are driven off. you must let me go, darling.' 'oh, but you? but you?' she cried desperately. 'they won't come near me,' he replied laughing. 'julian, julian,' she said, holding on to his coat as he tried to loosen her fingers, 'julian, i want you to know: you're all my life, i give you myself, on whatever terms you like, for ever if you like, for a week if you like; you can do with me whatever you choose; throw me away when you've done with me; you think me worthless; i care only for you in the world.' he was astonished at the starkness and violence of the passion in her eyes and voice. 'but i am not going into any danger,' he said, trying to soothe her. 'for god's sake, kiss me,' she said, distraught, and seeing that he was impatient to go. 'i'll kiss you to-night,' he answered tempestuously, with a ring of triumph as one who takes a decision. 'no, no: now.' he kissed her hair, burying his face in its thickness. 'this attack is a comedy, not a tragedy,' he called back to her as he ran down the stairs. the sentry who had first sighted the fleet of boats was still standing upon his headland, leaning on his rifle, and straining his eyes over the sea. julian saw him thus silhouetted against the morning sky. day was breaking as julian came up the mule-path, a score of islanders behind him, walking with the soft, characteristic swishing of their white woollen skirts, and the slight rattle of slung rifles. all paused at the headland, which was above a little rocky creek; the green and white water foamed gently below. out to sea the boats were distinctly visible, dotted about the sea, carrying each a load of men; there might be twenty or thirty, with ten or fifteen men in each. 'they must be out of their senses,' tsigaridis growled; 'their only hope would have lain in a surprise attack at night--which by the present moonlight would indeed have proved equally idle--but at present they but expose themselves to our butchery.' 'the men are all at their posts?' julian asked. 'malista, kyrie, malista.' they remained for a little watching the boats as the daylight grew. the colours of the dawn were shifting, stretching, widening, and the water, turning from iron-gray to violet, began along the horizon to reflect the transparency of the sky. the long, low, gray clouds caught upon their edges an orange flush; a sudden bar of gold fell along the line where sky and water met; a drift of tiny clouds turned red like a flight of flamingoes; and the blue began insensibly to spread, pale at first, then deepening as the sun rose out of the melting clouds and flooded over the full expanse of sea. to the left, the coast of the mainland, with mount mylassa soaring, and herakleion at its base, broke the curve until it turned at an angle to run northward. smoke began to rise in steady threads of blue from the houses of herakleion. the red light died away at the tip of the pier. the gulls circled screaming, flashes of white and gray, marbled birds; and beyond the thin line of foam breaking against the island the water was green in the shallows. all round aphros the islanders were lying in pickets behind defences, the naturally rocky and shelving coast affording them the command of every approach. the port, which was the only really suitable landing-place, was secure, dominated as it was by the village; no boat could hope to live for five minutes under concentrated rifle fire from the windows of the houses. the other possible landing-places--the creeks and little beaches--could be held with equal ease by half a dozen men with rifles lying under shelter upon the headlands or on the ledges of the rocks. julian was full of confidence. the danger of shelling he discounted, firstly because herakleion possessed no man-of-war, or, indeed, any craft more formidable than the police motor-launch, and secondly because the authorities in herakleion knew well enough that italy, for reasons of her own, neither wholly idealistic nor disinterested, would never tolerate the complete destruction of aphros. moreover, it would be hopeless to attempt to starve out an island whose population lived almost entirely upon the fish caught round their own shores, the vegetables and fruit grown upon their own hillsides, the milk and cheeses from their own rough-feeding goats, and the occasional but sufficient meat from their own sheep and bullocks. 'kyrie,' said tsigaridis, 'should we not move into shelter?' julian abandoned the headland regretfully. for his own post he had chosen the davenant house in the village. he calculated that panaïoannou, unaware of the existence of a number of rifles on the island, would make his first and principal attempt upon the port, expecting there to encounter a hand to hand fight with a crowd diversely armed with knives, stones, pitchforks, and a few revolvers--a brief, bloody, desperate resistance, whose term could be but a matter of time, after which the village would fall into the hands of the invaders and the rebellion would be at an end. at most, panaïoannou would argue, the fighting would be continued up into the main street of the village, the horizontal street that was its backbone, terminating at one end by the market-place above the port, and at the other by the davenants' house; and ramifications of fighting--a couple of soldiers here and there pursuing a fleeing islander--up the sloping, narrow, stepped streets running between the houses, at right angles from the main street, up the hill. julian sat with his rifle cocked across his knees in one of the window recesses of his own house, and grinned as he anticipated panaïoannou's surprise. he did not want a massacre of the fat, well-meaning soldiers of herakleion--the casino, he reflected, must be closed to-day, much to the annoyance of the gambling dagos; however, they would have excitement enough, of another kind, to console them--he did not want a massacre of the benevolent croupier-soldiers he had seen parading the _platia_ only two days before, but he wanted them taught that aphros was a hornets' nest out of which they had better keep their fingers. he thought it extremely probable that after a first repulse they would refuse to renew the attack. they liked well enough defiling across the _platia_ on independence day, and recognising their friends amongst the admiring crowd, but he doubted whether they would appreciate being shot down in open boats by an enemy they could not even see. in the distance, from the windows of his own house, he heard firing, and from the advancing boats he could see spurts of smoke. he discerned a commotion in one boat; men got up and changed places, and the boat turned round and began to row in the opposite direction. young zapantiotis called to him from another window,-- 'you see them, kyrie? some one has been hit.' julian laughed exultantly. on a table near him lay a crumpled handkerchief of eve's, and a gardenia; he put the flower into his buttonhole. behind all his practical plans and his excitement lay the memory of his few words with her in the passage; under the stress of her emotion she had revealed a depth and vehemence of truth that he hitherto scarcely dared to imagine. to-day would be given to him surely more than his fair share for any mortal man: a fight, and the most desirable of women! he rejoiced in his youth and his leaping blood. yet he continued sorry for the kindly croupier-soldiers. the boats came on, encouraged by the comparative silence on the island. julian was glad it was not the fashion among the young men of herakleion, his friends, to belong to the army. he wondered what grbits was thinking of him. he was probably on the quay, watching through a telescope. or had the expedition been kept a secret from the still sleeping herakleion? surely! for he could distinguish no crowd upon the distant quays across the bay. a shot rang out close at hand, from some window of the village, and in one of the foremost boats he saw a man throw up his hands and fall over backwards. he sickened slightly. this was inevitable, he knew, but he had no lust for killing in this cold-blooded fashion. kneeling on the window-seat he took aim between the bars of the grating, and fired a quantity of shots all round the boat; they splashed harmlessly into the water, but had the effect he desired; the boat turned round in retreat. firing crackled now from all parts of the island. the casualties in the boats increased. in rage and panic the soldiers fired wildly back at the island, especially at the village; bullets ping-ed through the air and rattled on the roofs; occasionally there came a crash of broken glass. once julian heard a cry, and, craning his head to look down the street, he saw an islander lying on his face on the ground between the houses with his arms outstretched, blood running freely from his shoulder and staining his white clothes. 'my people!' julian cried in a passion, and shot deliberately into a boat-load of men. 'god!' he said to himself a moment later, 'i've killed him.' he laid down his rifle with a gesture of horror, and went out into the courtyard where the fountain still played and the pigeons prinked and preened. he opened the door into the street, went down the steps and along the street to where the islander lay groaning, lifted him carefully, and dragged him into the shelter of the house. zapantiotis met him in the court. 'kyrie,' he said, scared and reproachful, 'you should have sent me.' julian left him to look after the wounded man, and returned to the window; the firing had slackened, for the boats were now widely dispersed over the sea, offering only isolated targets at a considerable distance. time had passed rapidly, and the sun had climbed high overhead. he looked at the little dotted boats, bearing their burden of astonishment, death, and pain. was it possible that the attack had finally drawn away? at that thought, he regretted that the fighting had not given an opportunity of a closer, a more personal struggle. an hour passed. he went out into the village, where life was beginning to flow once more into the street and market-place; the villagers came out to look at their broken windows, and their chipped houses; they were all laughing and in high good-humour, pointing proudly to the damage, and laughing like children to see that in the school-house, which faced the sea and in which the remaining greek officials were still imprisoned, nearly all the windows were broken. julian, shaking off the people, men and women, who were trying to kiss his hands or his clothes, appeared briefly in the class-room to reassure the occupants. they were all huddled into a corner, behind a barricade of desks and benches. the one guard who had been left with them had spent his time inventing terrible stories for their distress. the wooden wall opposite the windows was pocked in two or three places by bullets. as julian came out again into the market-place he saw old tsigaridis riding down on his great white mule from the direction of the hills, accompanied by two runners on foot. he waited while the mule picked its way carefully and delicately down the stepped path that led from the other side of the market-place up into the interior of the island. 'they are beaten off, tsantilas.' 'no imprudences,' said the grave old man, and recommended to the people, who came crowding round his mule, to keep within the shelter of their houses. 'but, tsantilas, we have the boats within our sight; they cannot return without our knowledge in ample time to seek shelter.' 'there is one boat for which we cannot account--the motor-boat--it is swift and may yet take us by surprise,' tsigaridis replied pessimistically. he dismounted from his mule, and walked up the street with julian by his side, while the people, crestfallen, dispersed with lagging footsteps to their respective doorways. the motor-launch, it would appear, had been heard in the far distance, 'over there,' said tsigaridis, extending his left arm; the pickets upon the eastern coasts of the island had distinctly heard the echo of its engines--it was, fortunately, old and noisy--but early in the morning the sound had ceased, and since then had not once been renewed. tsigaridis inferred that the launch was lying somewhere in concealment amongst the tiny islands, from where it would emerge, unexpectedly and in an unexpected place, to attack. 'it must carry at least fifty men,' he added. julian revelled in the news. a motor-launch with such a crew would provide worthier game than little cockleshell rowing-boats. panaïoannou himself might be of the party. julian saw the general already as his prisoner. he remembered eve. so long as the launch lay in hiding he could not allow her to return to the village. it was even possible that they might have a small gun on board. he wanted to see her, he ached with the desire to see her, but, an instinctive epicurean, he welcomed the circumstances that forced him to defer their meeting until nightfall.... he wrote her a note on a leaf of his pocket-book, and despatched it to her by one of tsigaridis' runners. the hours of waiting fretted him, and to ease his impatience he started on a tour of the island with tsigaridis. they rode on mules, nose to tail along the winding paths, not climbing up into the interior, but keeping to the lower track that ran above the sea, upon the first flat ledge of the rock, all around the island. in some places the path was so narrow and so close to the edge that julian could, by leaning sideways in his saddle, look straight down the cliff into the water swirling and foaming below. he was familiar with almost every creek, so often had he bathed there as a boy. looking at the foam, he murmured to himself,-- 'aphros....' there were no houses here among the rocks, and no trees, save for an occasional group of pines, whose little cones clustered among the silvery branches, quite black against the sky. here and there, above creeks or the little sandy beaches where a landing for a small boat would have been possible, the picket of islanders had come out from their shelter behind the boulders, and were sitting talking on the rocks, holding their rifles upright between their knees, while a solitary sentinel kept watch at the extremity of the point, his kilted figure white as the circling seagulls or as the foam. a sense of lull and of siesta lay over the afternoon. at every picket julian asked the same question, and at every picket the same answer was returned,-- 'we have heard no engines since earliest morning, kyrie.' round the curve of the island, the first tiny, uninhabited islands came into view. some of them were mere rocks sticking up out of the sea; others, a little larger, grew a few trees, and a boat could have hidden, invisible from aphros, on their farther side. julian looked longingly at the narrow stretches of water which separated them. he even suggested starting to look for the launch. 'it would be madness, kyrie.' above a little bay, where the ground sloped down less abruptly, and where the sand ran gently down under the thin wavelets, they halted with the picket of that particular spot. their mules were led away by a runner. julian enjoyed sitting amongst these men, hearing them talk, and watching them roll cigarette after cigarette with the practised skill of their knotty fingers. through the sharp lines of their professional talk, and the dignity of their pleasant trades--for they were all fishermen, vintagers, or sheep and goat-herds--he smiled to the hidden secret of eve, and fancied that the soft muslin of her garments brushed, as at the passage of a ghost, against the rude woollen garments of the men; that her hands, little and white and idle, fluttered over their hardened hands; that he alone could see her pass amongst their group, smile to him, and vanish down the path. he was drowsy in the drowsy afternoon; he felt that he had fought and had earned his rest, and, moreover, was prepared to rise from his sleep with new strength to fight again. rest between a battle and a battle. strife, sleep, and love; love, sleep, and strife; a worthy plan of life! he slept. when he woke the men still sat around him, talking still of their perennial trades, and without opening his eyes he lay listening to them, and thought that in such a simple world the coming and going of generations was indeed of slight moment, since in the talk of crops and harvests, of the waxing and waning of moons, of the treachery of the sea or the fidelity of the land, the words of the ancestor might slip unchanged as an inheritance to grandson and great-grandson. of such kindred were they with nature, that he in his half-wakefulness barely distinguished the voices of the men from the wash of waves on the shore. he opened his eyes. the sun, which he had seen rising out of the sea in the dawn, after sweeping in its great flaming arc across the sky, had sunk again under the horizon. heavy purple clouds like outpoured wine stained the orange of the west. the colour of the sea was like the flesh of a fig. unmistakably, the throb of an engine woke the echoes between the islands. all eyes met, all voices hushed; tense, they listened. the sound grew; from a continuous purr it changed into separate beats. by mutual consent, and acting under no word of command, the men sought the cover of their boulders, clambering over the rocks, carrying their rifles with them, white, noiseless, and swift. julian found himself with three others in a species of little cave the opening of which commanded the beach; the cave was low, and they were obliged to crouch; one man knelt down at the mouth with his rifle ready to put to his shoulder. julian could smell, in that restricted place, the rough smell of their woollen clothes, and the tang of the goat which clung about one man, who must be a goat-herd. then before their crouching position could begin to weary them, the beat of the engines became insistent, imminent; and the launch shot round the curve, loaded with standing men, and heading directly for the beach. a volley of fire greeted them, but the soldiers were already overboard, waist-deep in water, plunging towards the shore with their rifles held high over their heads, while the crew of the launch violently reversed the engines and drove themselves off the sand by means of long poles, to save the launch from an irrevocable grounding. the attack was well planned, and executed by men who knew intimately the lie of the coast. with loud shouts, they emerged dripping from the water on to the beach. they were at least forty strong; the island picket numbered only a score, but they had the advantage of concealment. a few of the soldiers dropped while yet in the water; others fell forward on to their faces with their legs in the water and their heads and shoulders on dry land; many gained a footing but were shot down a few yards from the edge of the sea; the survivors flung themselves flat behind hummocks of rock and fired in the direction of the defending fire. everything seemed to have taken place within the compass of two or three minutes. julian had himself picked off three of the invaders; his blood was up, and he had lost all the sickening sense of massacre he had felt during the early part of the day. he never knew how the hand to hand fight actually began; he only knew that suddenly he was out of the cave, in the open, without a rifle, but with his revolver in his grasp, backed and surrounded by his own shouting men, and confronted by the soldiers of herakleion, heavily impeded by their wet trousers, but fighting sheerly for their lives, striving to get at him, losing their heads and aiming wildly, throwing aside their rifles and grappling at last bodily with their enemies, struggling not to be driven back into the sea, cursing the islanders, and calling to one another to rally, stumbling over the dead and the wounded. julian scarcely recognised his own voice in the shout of, 'aphros!' he was full of the lust of fighting; he had seen men roll over before the shot of his revolver, and had driven them down before the weight of his fist. he was fighting joyously, striking among the waves of his enemies as a swimmer striking out against a current. all his thought was to kill, and to rid his island of these invaders; already the tide had turned, and that subtle sense of defeat and victory that comes upon the crest of battle was infusing respectively despair and triumph. there was now no doubt in the minds of either the attackers or the defenders in whose favour the attack would end. there remained but three alternatives: surrender, death, or the sea. already many were choosing the first, and those that turned in the hope of regaining the launch were shot down or captured before they reached the water. the prisoners, disarmed, stood aside in a little sulky group under the guard of one islander, watching, resignedly, and with a certain indifference born of their own secession from activity, the swaying clump of men, shouting, swearing, and stumbling, and the feeble efforts of the wounded to drag themselves out of the way of the trampling feet. the sand of the beach was in some places, where blood had been spilt, stamped into a dark mud. a wounded soldier, lying half in and half out of the water, cried out pitiably as the salt water lapped over his wounds. the decision was hastened by the crew of the launch, who, seeing a bare dozen of their companions rapidly overpowered by a superior number of islanders, and having themselves no fancy to be picked off at leisure from the shore, started their engines and made off to sea. at that a cry of dismay went up; retreat, as an alternative, was entirely withdrawn; death an empty and unnecessary display of heroism; surrender remained; they chose it thankfully. iii julian never knew, nor did he stop to inquire, why eve had returned to the village without his sanction. he only knew that as he came up the street, escorted by all the population, singing, pressing around him, taking his hands, throwing flowers and even fruit in his path, holding up their children for him to touch, he saw her standing in the doorway of their house, the lighted courtyard yellow behind her. she stood there on the highest of the three steps, her hands held out towards him. he knew, too, although no word was spoken, that the village recognised them as lovers. he felt again the triumphant completeness of life; a fulfilment, beyond the possibility of that staid world that, somewhere, moved upon its confused, mercenary, mistaken, and restricted way. here, the indignities of hypocrisy were indeed remote. there, men shorn of candour entangled the original impulse of their motives until in a sea of perplexity they abandoned even to the ultimate grace of self-honesty; here, in an island of enchantment, he had fought for his dearest and most constituent beliefs--o honourable privilege! unhindered and rare avowal!--fought, not with secret weapons, but with the manhood of his body; and here, under the eyes of fellow-creatures, their presence no more obtrusive than the presence of the sea or the evening breeze, under their unquestioning eyes he claimed the just reward, the consummation, the right of youth, which in that pharisaical world would have been denied him. eve herself was familiar with his mood. whereas he had noted, marvelled, and rejoiced at the simplicity with which they came together, before that friendly concourse of people, she had stretched out her hands to him with an unthinking gesture of possession. she had kept her counsel during the unpropitious years, with a secrecy beyond the determination of a child; but here, having gained him for her own; having enticed him into the magical country where the standards drew near to her own standards; where she, on the one hand, no less than he upon the other, might fight with the naked weapons of nature for her desires and beliefs--here she walked at home and without surprise in the perfect liberty; that liberty which he accepted with gratitude, but she as a right out of which man elsewhere was cheated. he had always been surprised, on the rare occasions when a hint of her philosophy, a fragment of her creed, had dropped from her lips unawares. from these fragments he had been incapable of reconstructing the whole. he had judged her harshly, too young and too ignorant to query whether the falseness of convention cannot drive those, temperamentally direct and uncontrolled, into the self-defence of a superlative falseness.... he had seen her vanity; he had not seen what he was now, because himself in sympathy, beginning to apprehend, her whole-heartedness that was, in its way, so magnificent. very, very dimly he apprehended; his apprehension, indeed, limited chiefly to the recognition of a certain correlation in her to the vibrant demands alive in him: he asked from her, weakness to fling his strength into relief; submission to entice his tyranny; yet at the same time, passion to match his passion, and mettle to exalt his conquest in his own eyes; she must be nothing less than the whole grace and rarity of life for his pleasure; flattery, in short, at once subtle and blatant, supreme and meticulous, was what he demanded, and what she was, he knew, so instinctively ready to accord. as she put her hand into his, he felt the current of her pride as definitely as though he had seen a glance of understanding pass between her and the women of the village. he looked up at her, smiling. she had contrived for herself a garment out of some strip of dark red silk, which she had wound round her body after the fashion of an indian sari; in the opening of that sombre colour her throat gleamed more than usually white, and above her swathed slenderness her lips were red in the pallor of her face, and her waving hair held glints of burnish as the leaves of autumn. she was not inadequate in her anticipation of his unspoken demands: the exploitation of her sensuous delicacy was all for him--for him! he had expected, perhaps, that after her proud, frank welcome before the people, she would turn to him when they were alone; but he found her manner full of a deliberate indifference. she abstained even from any allusion to her day's anxiety. he was reminded of all their meetings when, after months, she betrayed no pleasure at his return, but rather avoided him, and coldly disregarded his unthinking friendliness. many a time, as a boy, he had been hurt and puzzled by this caprice, which, ever meeting him unprepared, was ever renewed by her. to-night he was neither hurt nor puzzled, but with a grim amusement accepted the pattern she set; he could allow her the luxury of a superficial control. with the harmony between them, they could play the game of pretence. he delighted in her unexpectedness. her reticence stirred him, in its disconcerting contrast with his recollection of her as he had left her that morning. she moved from the court into the drawing-room, and from the drawing-room back into the court, and he followed her, impersonal as she herself, battening down all outward sign of his triumph, granting her the grace of that epicurean and ironic chivalry. he knew their quietness was ominous. they moved and spoke like people in the near, unescapable neighbourhood of a wild beast, whose attention they must on no account arouse, whose presence they must not mention, while each intensely aware of the peril, and each alive to the other's knowledge of it. she spoke and laughed, and he, in response to her laughter, smiled gravely; silence fell, and she broke it; she thought that he took pleasure in testing her power of reviving their protective talk; the effort increased in difficulty; he seemed to her strangely and paralysingly sinister. harmony between them! if such harmony existed, it was surely the harmony of hostility. they were enemies that evening, not friends. if an understanding existed, it was, on her part, the understanding that he was mocking her; on his part, the understanding that she, in her fear, must preserve the veneer of self-assurance, and that some fundamental convention--if the term was not too inherently contradictory--demanded his co-operation. he granted it. on other occasions his manner towards her might be rough, violent, uncontrolled; this evening it was of an irreproachable civility. for the first time in her life she felt herself at a disadvantage. she invented pretext after feverish pretext for prolonging their evening. she knew that if she could once bring a forgetful laugh to julian's lips, she would fear him less; but he continued to smile gravely at her sallies, and to watch her with that same unbending intent. in the midst of her phrase she would look up, meet his eyes bent upon her, and forget her words in confusion. once he rose, and stretched his limbs luxuriously against the background of the open roof and the stars; she thought he would speak, but to her relief he sat down again in his place, removed his eyes from her, and fell to the dissection, grain by grain, of a bunch of grapes. she continued to speak; she talked of kato, even of alexander christopoulos; she scarcely knew he was not listening to her until he broke with her name into the heart of her sentence, unaware that he interrupted. he stood up, came round to her chair, and put his hand upon her shoulder; she could not control her trembling. he said briefly, but with all the repressed triumph ringing in his voice, 'eve, come'; and without a word she obeyed, her eyes fastened to his, her breath shortened, deceit fallen from her, nothing but naked honesty remaining. she had lost even her fear of him. in their stark desire for each other they were equals. he put out his hand and extinguished the candles; dimness fell over the court. 'eve,' he said, still in that contained voice, 'you know we are alone in this house.' she acquiesced, 'i know,' not meaning to speak in a whisper, but involuntarily letting the words glide out with her breath. as he paused, she felt his hand convulsive upon her shoulder; her lids lay shut upon her eyes like heavy petals. presently he said wonderingly,-- 'i have not kissed you.' 'no,' she replied, faint, yet marvellously strong. he put his arm round her, and half carried her towards the stairs. 'let me go,' she whispered, for the sake of his contradiction. 'no,' he answered, holding her more closely to him. 'where are you taking me, julian?' he did not reply, but together they began to mount the stairs, she failing and drooping against his arm, her eyes still closed and her lips apart. they reached her room, bare, full of shadows, whitewashed, with the windows open upon the black moonlit sea. 'eve!' he murmured exultantly. 'aphros!...' iv the lyric of their early days of love piped clear and sweet upon the terraces of aphros. their surroundings entered into a joyous conspiracy with their youth. between halcyon sky and sea the island lay radiantly; as it were suspended, unattached, coloured like a rainbow, and magic with the enchantment of its isolation. the very foam which broke around its rocks served to define, by its lacy fringe of white, the compass of the magic circle. to them were granted solitude and beauty beyond all dreams of lovers. they dwelt in the certainty that no intruder could disturb them--save those intruders to be beaten off in frank fight--no visitor from the outside world but those that came on wings, swooping down out of the sky, poising for an instant upon the island, that halting place in the heart of the sea, and flying again with restless cries, sea-birds, the only disturbers of their peace. from the shadow of the olives, or of the stunted pines whose little cones hung like black velvet balls in the transparent tracery of the branches against the sky, they lay idly watching the gulls, and the tiny white clouds by which the blue was almost always flaked. the population of the island melted into a harmony with nature like the trees, the rocks and boulders, or the roving flocks of sheep and herds of goats. eve and julian met with neither curiosity nor surprise; only with acquiescence. daily as they passed down the village street, to wander up the mule-tracks into the interior of aphros, they were greeted by smiles and devotion that were as unquestioning and comfortable as the shade of the trees or the cool splash of the water; and nightly as they remained alone together in their house, dark, roofed over with stars, and silent but for the ripple of the fountain, they could believe that they had been tended by invisible hands in the island over which they reigned in isolated sovereignty. they abandoned themselves to the unbelievable romance. he, indeed, had striven half-heartedly; but she, with all the strength of her nature, had run gratefully, nay, clamantly, forward, exacting the reward of her patience, demanding her due. she rejoiced in the casting aside of shackles which, although she had resolutely ignored them in so far as was possible, had always irked her by their latent presence. at last she might gratify to the full her creed of living for and by the beloved, in a world of beauty where the material was denied admittance. in such a dream, such an ecstasy of solitude, they gained marvellously in one another's eyes. she revealed to julian the full extent of her difference and singularity. for all their nearness in the human sense, he received sometimes with a joyful terror the impression that he was living in the companionship of a changeling, a being strayed by accident from another plane. the small moralities and tendernesses of mankind contained no meaning for her. they were burnt away by the devastating flame of her own ideals. he knew now, irrefutably, that she had lived her life withdrawn from all but external contact with her surroundings. her sensuality, which betrayed itself even in the selection of the arts she loved, had marked her out for human passion. he had observed her instinct to deck herself for his pleasure; he had learnt the fastidious refinement with which she surrounded her body. he had marked her further instinct to turn the conduct of their love into a fine art. she had taught him the value of her reserve, her evasions, and of her sudden recklessness. he never discovered, and, no less epicurean than she, never sought to discover, how far her principles were innate, unconscious, or how far deliberate. they both tacitly esteemed the veil of some slight mystery to soften the harshness of their self-revelation. he dared not invoke the aid of unshrinking honesty to apportion the values between their physical and their mental affinity. what was it, this bond of flesh? so material, yet so imperative, so compelling, as to become almost a spiritual, not a bodily, necessity? so transitory, yet so recurrent? dying down like a flame, to revive again? so unimportant, so grossly commonplace, yet creating so close and tremulous an intimacy? this magic that drew together their hands like fluttering butterflies in the hours of sunlight, and linked them in the abandonment of mastery and surrender in the hours of night? that swept aside the careful training, individual and hereditary, replacing pride by another pride? this unique and mutual secret? this fallacious yet fundamental and dominating bond? this force, hurling them together with such cosmic power that within the circle of frail human entity rushed furiously the tempest of an inexorable law of nature? they had no tenderness for one another. such tenderness as might have crept into the relationship they collaborated in destroying, choosing to dwell in the strong clean air of mountain-tops, shunning the ease of the valleys. violence was never very far out of sight. they loved proudly, with a flame that purged all from their love but the essential, the ideal passion. 'i live with a mænad,' he said, putting out his hand and bathing his fingers in her loosened hair. from the rough shelter of reeds and matting where they idled then among the terraced vineyards, the festoons of the vines and the bright reds and yellows of the splay leaves, brilliant against the sun, framed her consonant grace. the beautiful shadows of lacing vines dappled the ground, and the quick lizards darted upon the rough terrace walls. he said, pursuing his thought,-- 'you have never the wish of other women--permanency? a house with me? never the inkling of such a wish?' 'trammels!' she replied, 'i've always hated possessions.' he considered her at great length, playing with her hair, fitting his fingers into its waving thicknesses, putting his cheek against the softness of her cheek, and laughing. 'my changeling. my nymph,' he said. she lay silent, her arms folded behind her head, and her eyes on him as he continued to utter his disconnected sentences. 'where is the eve of herakleion? the mask you wore! i dwelt only upon your insignificant vanity, and in your pride you made no defence. most secret pride! incredible chastity of mind! inviolate of soul, to all alike. inviolate. most rare restraint! the expansive vulgarity of the crowd! my eve....' he began again,-- 'so rarely, so stainlessly mine. beyond mortal hopes. you allowed all to misjudge you, myself included. you smiled, not even wistfully, lest that betray you, and said nothing. you held yourself withdrawn. you perfected your superficial life. that profound humour.... i could not think you shallow--not all your pretence could disguise your mystery--but, may i be forgiven, i have thought you shallow in all but mischief. i prophesied for you'--he laughed--'a great career as a destroyer of men. a great courtesan. but instead i find you a great lover. _une grande amoureuse._' 'if that is mischievous,' she said, 'my love for you goes beyond mischief; it would stop short of no crime.' he put his face between his hands for a second. 'i believe you; i know it.' 'i understand love in no other way,' she said, sitting up and shaking her hair out of her eyes; 'i am single-hearted. it is selfish love: i would die for you, gladly, without a thought, but i would sacrifice my claim on you to no one and to nothing. it is all-exorbitant. i make enormous demands. i must have you exclusively for myself.' he teased her,-- 'you refuse to marry me.' she was serious. 'freedom, julian! romance! the world before us, to roam at will; fairs to dance at; strange people to consort with, to see the smile in their eyes, and the tolerant "lovers!" forming on their lips. to tweak the nose of propriety, to snatch away the chair on which she would sit down! who in their senses would harness the divine courser to a mail-cart?' she seemed to him lit by an inner radiance, that shone through her eyes and glowed richly in her smile. 'vagabond!' he said. 'is life to be one long carnival?' 'and one long honesty. i'll own you before the world--and court its disapproval. i'll release you--no, i'll leave you--when you tire of me. i wouldn't clip love's golden wings. i wouldn't irk you with promises, blackmail you into perjury, wring from you an oath we both should know was made only to be broken. we'll leave that to middle-age. middle-age--i have been told there is such a thing? sometimes it is fat, sometimes it is wan, surely it is always dreary! it may be wise and successful and contented. sometimes, i'm told, it even loves. we are young. youth!' she said, sinking her voice, 'the winged and the divine.' when he talked to her about the islands, she did not listen, although she dared not check him. he talked, striving to interest her, to fire her enthusiasm. he talked, with his eyes always upon the sea, since some obscure instinct warned him not to keep them bent upon her face; sometimes they were amongst the vines, which in the glow of their september bronze and amber resembled the wine flowing from their fruits, and from here the sea shimmered, crudely and cruelly blue between those flaming leaves, undulating into smooth, nacreous folds; sometimes they were amongst the rocks on the lower levels, on a windier day, when white crests spurted from the waves, and the foam broke with a lacy violence against the island at the edge of the green shallows; and sometimes, after dusk, they climbed to the olive terraces beneath the moon that rose through the trees in a world strangely gray and silver, strangely and contrastingly deprived of colour. he talked, lying on the ground, with his hands pressed close against the soil of aphros. its contact gave him the courage he needed.... he talked doggedly; in the first week with the fire of inspiration, after that with the perseverance of loyalty. these monologues ended always in the same way. he would bring his glance from the sea to her face, would break off his phrase in the middle, and, coming suddenly to her, would cover her hair, her throat, her mouth, with kisses. then she would turn gladly and luxuriously towards him, curving in his arms, and presently the grace of her murmured speech would again bewitch him, until upon her lips he forgot the plea of aphros. there were times when he struggled to escape her, his physical and mental activity rebelling against the subjection in which she held him. he protested that the affairs of the islands claimed him; that herakleion had granted but a month for negotiations; precautions must be taken, and the scheme of government amplified and consolidated. then the angry look came over her face, and all the bitterness of her resentment broke loose. having captured him, much of her precocious wisdom seemed to have abandoned her. 'i have waited for you ten years, yet you want to leave me. do i mean less to you than the islands? i wish the islands were at the bottom of the sea instead of on the top of it.' 'be careful, eve.' 'i resent everything which takes you from me,' she said recklessly. another time she cried, murky with passion,-- 'always these councils with tsigaridis and the rest! always these secret messages passing between you and kato! give me that letter.' he refused, shredding kato's letter and scattering the pieces into the sea. 'what secrets have you with kato, that you must keep from me?' 'they would have no interest for you,' he replied, remembering that she was untrustworthy--that canker in his confidence. the breeze fanned slightly up the creek where they were lying on the sand under the shadow of a pine, and out in the dazzling sea a porpoise leapt, turning its slow black curve in the water. the heat simmered over the rocks. 'we share our love,' he said morosely, 'but no other aspect of life. the islands are nothing to you. an obstacle, not a link.' it was a truth that he rarely confronted. 'you are wrong: a background, a setting for you, which i appreciate.' 'you appreciate the picturesque. i know. you are an artist in appreciation of the suitable stage-setting. but as for the rest....' he made a gesture full of sarcasm and renunciation. 'give me up, julian, and all my shortcomings. i have always told you i had but one virtue. i am the first to admit the insufficiency of its claim. give yourself wholly to your islands. let me go.' she spoke sadly, as though conscious of her own irremediable difference and perversity. 'yet you yourself--what were your words?--said you believed in me; you even wrote to me, i remember still, "conquer, shatter, demolish!" but i must always struggle against you, against your obstructions. what is it you want? liberty and irresponsibility, to an insatiable degree!' 'because i love you insatiably.' 'you are too unreasonable sometimes' ('reason!' she interrupted with scorn, 'what has reason got to do with love?') 'you are unreasonable to grudge me every moment i spend away from you. won't you realise that i am responsible for five thousand lives? you must let me go now; only for an hour. i promise to come back to you in an hour.' 'are you tired of me already?' 'eve....' 'when we were in herakleion, you were always saying you must go to kato; now you are always going to some council; am i never to have you to myself?' 'i will go only for an hour. i _must_ go, eve, my darling.' 'stay with me, julian. i'll kiss you. i'll tell you a story.' she stretched out her hands. he shook his head, laughing, and ran off in the direction of the village. when he returned, she refused to speak to him. but at other times they grew marvellously close, passing hours and days in unbroken union, until the very fact of their two separate personalities became an exasperation. then, silent as two souls tortured, before a furnace, they struggled for the expression that ever eludes; the complete, the satisfying expression that shall lay bare one soul to another soul, but that, ever failing, mockingly preserves the unwanted boon of essential mystery. that dumb frenzy outworn, they attained, nevertheless, to a nearer comradeship, the days, perhaps, of their greatest happiness, when with her reckless fancy she charmed his mind; he thought of her then as a vagrant nymph, straying from land to land, from age to age, decking her spirit with any flower she met growing by the way, chastely concerned with the quest of beauty, strangely childlike always, pure as the fiercest, tallest flame. he could not but bow to that audacity, that elemental purity, of spirit. untainted by worldliness, greed, or malice.... the facts of her life became clearer to him, startling in their consistency. he could not associate her with possessions, or a fixed abode, she who was free and elusive as a swallow, to whom the slightest responsibility was an intolerable and inadmissible yoke from beneath which, without commotion but also without compunction, she slipped. on no material point could she be touched--save her own personal luxury, and that seemed to grow with her, as innocent of effort as the colour on a flower; she kindled only in response to music, poetry, love, or laughter, but then with what a kindling! she flamed, she glowed; she ranged over spacious and fabulous realms; her feet never touched earth, they were sandal-shod and carried her in the clean path of breezes, and towards the sun, exalted and ecstatic, breathing as the common air the rarity of the upper spaces. at such times she seemed a creature blown from legend, deriving from no parentage; single, individual, and lawless. he found that he had come gradually to regard her with a superstitious reverence. he evolved a theory, constructed around her, dim and nebulous, yet persistent; perforce nebulous, since he was dealing with a matter too fine, too subtle, too unexplored, to lend itself to the gross imperfect imprisonment of words. he never spoke of it, even to her, but staring at her sometimes with a reeling head he felt himself transported, by her medium, beyond the matter-of-fact veils that shroud the limit of human vision. he felt illuminated, on the verge of a new truth; as though by stretching out his hand he might touch something no hand of man had ever touched before, something of unimaginable consistency, neither matter nor the negation of matter; as though he might brush the wings of truth, handle the very substance of a thought.... he felt at these times like a man who passes through a genuine psychical experience. yes, it was as definite as that; he had the glimpse of a possible revelation. he returned from his vision--call it what he would, vision would serve as well as any other word--he returned with that sense of benefit by which alone such an excursion--or was it incursion?--could be justified. he brought back a benefit. he had beheld, as in a distant prospect, a novel balance and proportion of certain values. that alone would have left him enriched for ever. practical as he could be, theories and explorations were yet dear to him: he was an inquisitive adventurer of the mind no less than an active adventurer of the world. he sought eagerly for underlying truths. his apparently inactive moods were more accurately his fallow moods. his thought was as an ardent plough, turning and shifting the loam of his mind. yet he would not allow his fancy to outrun his conviction; if fancy at any moment seemed to lead, he checked it until more lumbering conviction could catch up. they must travel ever abreast, whip and reins alike in his control. youth--were the years of youth the intuitive years of perception? were the most radiant moments the moments in which one stepped farthest from the ordered acceptance of the world? moments of danger, moments of inspiration, moments of self-sacrifice, moments of perceiving beauty, moments of love, all the drunken moments! eve moved, he knew, permanently upon that plane. she led an exalted, high-keyed inner life. the normal mood to her was the mood of a sensitive person caught at the highest pitch of sensibility. was she unsuited to the world and to the necessities of the world because she belonged, not here, but to another sphere apprehended by man only in those rare, keen moments that julian called the drunken moments? apprehended by poet or artist--the elect, the aristocracy, the true path-finders among the race of man!--in moments when sobriety left them and they passed beyond? was she to blame for her cruelty, her selfishness, her disregard for truth? was she, not evil, but only alien? to be forgiven all for the sake of the rarer, more distant flame? was the standard of cardinal virtues set by the world the true, the ultimate standard? was it possible that eve made part of a limited brotherhood? was indeed a citizen of some advanced state of such perfection that this world's measures and ideals were left behind and meaningless? meaningless because unnecessary in such a realm of serenity? aphros, then--the liberty of aphros--and aphros meant to him far more than merely aphros--that was surely a lovely and desirable thing, a worthy aim, a high beacon? if eve cared nothing for the liberty of aphros, was it because in _her_ world (he was by now convinced of its existence) there was no longer any necessity to trouble over such aims, liberty being as natural and unmeditated as the air in the nostrils? (not that this would ever turn him from his devotion; at most he could look upon aphros as a stage upon the journey towards that higher aim--the stage to which he and his like, who were nearly of the elect, yet not of them, might aspire. and if the day should ever come when disillusion drove him down; when, far from becoming a citizen of eve's far sphere, he should cease to be a citizen even of aphros and should become a citizen merely of the world, no longer young, no longer blinded by ideals, no longer nearly a poet, but merely a grown, sober man--then he would still keep aphros as a bright memory of what might have been, of the best he had grasped, the possibility which in the days of youth had not seemed too extravagantly unattainable.) but in order to keep his hold upon this world of eve's, which in his inner consciousness he already recognised as the most valuable rift of insight ever vouchsafed to him, it was necessary that he should revolutionise every ancient gospel and reputable creed. the worth of eve was to him an article of faith. his intimacy with her was a privilege infinitely beyond the ordinary privilege of love. whatever she might do, whatever crime she might commit, whatever baseness she might perpetrate, her ultimate worth, the core, the kernel, would remain to him unsullied and inviolate. this he knew blindly, seeing it as the mystic sees god; and knew it the more profoundly that he could have defended it with no argument of reason. what then? the poet, the creator, the woman, the mystic, the man skirting the fringes of death--were they kin with one another and free of some realm unknown, towards which all, consciously or unconsciously, were journeying? where the extremes of passion (he did not mean only the passion of love), of exaltation, of danger, of courage and vision--where all these extremes met--was it there, the great crossways where the moral ended, and the divine began? was it for eve supremely, and to a certain extent for all women and artists--the visionaries, the lovely, the graceful, the irresponsible, the useless!--was it reserved for them to show the beginning of the road? youth! youth and illusion! to love eve and aphros! when those two slipped from him he would return sobered to the path designated by the sign-posts and milestones of man, hoping no more than to keep as a gleam within him the light glowing in the sky above that unattainable but remembered city. he returned to earth; eve was kneading and tormenting a lump of putty, and singing to herself meanwhile; he watched her delicate, able hands, took one of them, and held it up between his eyes and the sun. 'your fingers are transparent, they're like cornelian against the light,' he said. she left her hand within his grasp, and smiled down at him. 'how you play with me, julian,' she said idly. 'you're such a delicious toy.' 'only a toy?' he remembered the intricate, untranslatable thoughts he had been thinking about her five minutes earlier, and began to laugh to himself. 'a great deal more than a toy. once i thought of you only as a child, a helpless, irritating, adorable child, always looking for trouble, and turning to me for help when the trouble came.' 'and then?' 'then you made me think of you as a woman,' he replied gravely. 'you seemed to hesitate a good deal before deciding to think of me as that.' 'yes, i tried to judge our position by ordinary codes; you must have thought me ridiculous.' 'i did, darling.' her mouth twisted drolly as she said it. 'i wonder now how i could have insulted you by applying them to you,' he said with real wonderment; everything seemed so clear and obvious to him now. 'why, how do you think of me now?' 'oh, god knows!' he replied. 'i've called you changeling sometimes, haven't i?' he decided to question her. 'tell me, eve, how do you explain your difference? you outrage every accepted code, you see, and yet one retains one's belief in you. is one simply deluded by your charm? or is there a deeper truth? can you explain?' he had spoken in a bantering tone, but he knew that he was trying an experiment of great import to him. 'i don't think i'm different, julian; i think i feel things strongly, no more.' 'or else you don't feel them at all.' 'what do you mean?' 'well--paul,' he said reluctantly. 'you have never got over that, have you?' 'exactly!' he exclaimed. 'it seems to you extraordinary that i should still remember paul, or that his death should have made any impression upon me. i ought to hate you for your indifference. sometimes i have come very near to hating you. but now--perhaps my mind is getting broader--i blame you for nothing because i believe you are simply not capable of understanding. but evidently you can't explain yourself. i love you!' he said, 'i love you!' he knew that her own inability to explain herself--her unself-consciousness--had done much to strengthen his new theories. the flower does not know why or how it blossoms.... on the day that he told her, with many misgivings, that kato was coming to aphros, she uttered no word of anger, but wept despairingly, at first without speaking, then with short, reiterated sentences that wrung his heart for all their unreason,-- 'we were alone. i was happy as never in my life. i had you utterly. we were alone. alone! alone!' 'we will tell kato the truth,' he soothed her; 'she will leave us alone still.' but it was not in her nature to cling to straws of comfort. for her, the sunshine had been unutterably radiant; and for her it was now proportionately blackened out. 'we were alone,' she repeated, shaking her head with unspeakable mournfulness, the tears running between her fingers. for the first time he spoke to her with a moved, a tender compassion, full of reverence. 'your joy ... your sorrow ... equally overwhelming and tempestuous. how you feel--you tragic child! yesterday you laughed and made yourself a crown of myrtle.' she refused to accompany him when he went to meet kato, who, after a devious journey from athens, was to land at the rear of the island away from the curiosity of herakleion. she remained in the cool house, sunk in idleness, her pen and pencil alike neglected. she thought only of julian, absorbingly, concentratedly. her past life appeared to her, when she thought of it at all, merely as a period in which julian had not loved her, a period of waiting, of expectancy, of anguish sometimes, of incredible reticence supported only by the certainty which had been her faith and her inspiration.... to her surprise, he returned, not only with kato but with grbits. every word and gesture of the giant demonstrated his enormous pleasure. his oddly mongolian face wore a perpetual grin of triumphant truancy. his good-humour was not to be withstood. he wrung eve's hands, inarticulate with delight. kato, her head covered with a spangled veil--julian had never seen her in a hat--stood by, looking on, her hands on her hips, as though grbits were her exhibit. her little eyes sparkled with mischief. 'he is no longer an officer in the serbian army,' she said at last, 'only a free-lance, at julian's disposal. is it not magnificent? he has sent in his resignation. his career is ruined. the military representative of serbia in herakleion!' 'a free-lance,' grbits repeated, beaming down at julian. (it annoyed eve that he should be so much the taller of the two). 'we sent you no word, not to lessen your surprise,' said kato. they stood, all four, in the courtyard by the fountain. 'i told you on the day of the elections that when you needed me i should come,' grbits continued, his grin widening. 'of course, you are a supreme fool, grbits,' said kato to him. 'yes,' he replied, 'thank heaven for it.' 'in athens the sympathy is all with the islands,' said kato. she had taken off her veil, and they could see that she wore the gold wheat-ears in her hair. her arms were, as usual, covered with bangles, nor had she indeed made any concessions to the necessities of travelling, save that on her feet, instead of her habitual square-toed slippers, she wore long, hideous, heelless, elastic-sided boots. eve reflected that she had grown fatter and more stumpy, but she was, as ever, eager, kindly, enthusiastic, vital; they brought with them a breath of confidence and efficiency, those disproportionately assorted travelling companions; julian felt a slight shame that he had neglected the islands for eve; and eve stood by, listening to their respective recitals, to grbits' startling explosions of laughter, and kato's exuberant joy, tempered with wisdom. they both talked at once, voluble and excited; the wheat-ears trembled in kato's hair, grbits' white regular teeth flashed in his broad face, and julian, a little bewildered, turned from one to the other with his unsmiling gravity. 'i mistrust the forbearance of herakleion,' kato said, a great weight of meditated action pressing on behind her words; 'a month's forbearance! in athens innumerable rumours were current: of armed ships purchased from the turks, even of a gun mounted on mylassa--but that i do not believe. they have given you, you say, a month in which to come to your senses. but they are giving themselves also a month in which to prepare their attack,' and she plied him with practical questions that demonstrated her clear familiarity with detail and tactic, while grbits contributed nothing but the cavernous laugh and ejaculations of his own unquestioning optimism. v the second attack on aphros was delivered within a week of their arrival. eve and kato, refusing the retreat in the heart of the island, spent the morning together in the davenant house. in the distance the noise of the fighting alternately increased and waned; now crackling sharply, as it seemed, from all parts of the sea, now dropping into a disquieting silence. at such times eve looked mutely at the singer. kato gave her no comfort, but, shaking her head and shrugging her shoulders, expressed only her ignorance. she found that she could speak to julian sympathetically of eve, but not to eve sympathetically of julian. she had made the attempt, but after the pang of its effort, had renounced it. their hostility smouldered dully under the shelter of their former friendship. now, alone in the house, they might indeed have remained for the most time apart in separate rooms, but the common anxiety which linked them drew them together, so that when kato moved eve followed her, unwillingly, querulously; and expressions of affection were even forced from them, of which they instantly repented, and by some phrase of veiled cruelty sought to counteract. no news reached them from outside. every man was at his post, and julian had forbidden all movement about the village. by his orders also the heavy shutters had been closed over the windows of the davenant drawing-room, where eve and kato sat, with the door open on to the courtyard for the sake of light, talking spasmodically, and listening to the sounds of the firing. at the first quick rattle kato had said, 'machine-guns,' and eve had replied, 'yes; the first time--when we were here alone--he told me they had a machine-gun on the police-launch;' then kato said, after a pause of firing, 'this time they have more than one.' eve raised tormented eyes. 'anastasia, he said he would be in shelter.' 'would he remain in shelter for long?' kato replied scornfully. eve said,-- 'he has grbits with him.' kato, crushing down the personal preoccupation, dwelt ardently on the fate of her country. she must abandon to eve the thought of julian, but of the islands at least she might think possessively, diverting to their dear though inanimate claim all the need of passion and protection humanly denied her. from a woman of always intense patriotism, she had become a fanatic. starved in one direction, she had doubled her energy in the other, realising, moreover, the power of that bond between herself and julian. she could have said with thorough truthfulness that her principal cause of resentment against eve was eve's indifference towards the islands--a loftier motive than the more human jealousy. she had noticed julian's reluctance to mention the islands in eve's presence. alone with herself and grbits, he had never ceased to pour forth the flood of his scheme, both practical and utopian, so that kato could not be mistaken as to the direction of his true preoccupations. she had seen the vigour he brought to his governing. she had observed with a delighted grin to grbits that, despite his socialistic theories, julian had in point of fact instituted a complete and very thinly-veiled autocracy in hagios zacharie. she had seen him in the village assembly, when, in spite of his deferential appeals to the superior experience of the older men, he steered blankly past any piece of advice that ran contrary to the course of his own ideas. she knew that, ahead of him, when he should have freed himself finally of herakleion (and that he would free himself he did not for a moment doubt), he kept always the dream of his tiny, ideal state. she revered his faith, his energy, and his youth, as the essence in him most worthy of reverence. and she knew that eve, if she loved these things in him, loved them only in theory, but in practice regarded them with impatient indifference. they stole him away, came between him and her.... kato knew well eve's own ideals. courage she exacted. talents she esteemed. genius, freedom, and beauty she passionately worshipped as her gods upon earth. but she could tolerate nothing material, nor any occupation that removed her or the other from the blind absorption of love. kato sighed. far otherwise would she have cared for julian! she caught sight of herself in a mirror, thick, squat, black, with little sparkling eyes; she glanced at eve, glowing with warmth, sleek and graceful as a little animal, idle and seductive. outside a crash of firing shook the solid house, and bullets rattled upon the roofs of the village. it was intolerable to sit unoccupied, working out bitter speculations, while such activity raged around the island. to know the present peril neither of julian nor of aphros! to wait indefinitely, probably all day, possibly all night! 'anastasia, sing.' kato complied, as much for her own sake as for eve's. she sang some of her own native songs, then, breaking off, she played, and eve drew near to her, lost and transfigured by the music; she clasped and unclasped her hands, beautified by her ecstasy, and kato's harsh thoughts vanished; eve was, after all, a child, an all too loving and passionate child, and not, as kato sometimes thought her, a pernicious force of idleness and waste. wrong-headed, tragically bringing sorrow upon herself in the train of her too intense emotions.... continuing to play, kato observed her, and felt the light eager fingers upon her arm. 'ah, kato, you make me forget. like some drug of forgetfulness that admits me to caves of treasure. underground caves heaped with jewels. caves of the winds; zephyrs that come and go. i'm carried away into oblivion.' 'tell me,' kato said. obedient to the lead of the music, eve wandered into a story,-- 'riding on a winged horse, he swept from east to west; he looked down upon the sea, crossed by the wake of ships, splashed here and there with islands, washing on narrow brown stretches of sand, or dashing against the foot of cliffs--you hear the waves breaking?--and he saw how the moon drew the tides, and how ships came to rest for a little while in harbours, but were homeless and restless and free; he passed over the land, swooping low, and he saw the straight streets of cities, and the gleam of fires, the neat fields and guarded frontiers, the wider plains; he saw the gods throned on ida, wearing the clouds like mantles and like crowns, divinely strong or divinely beautiful; he saw things mean and magnificent; he saw the triumphal procession of a conqueror, with prisoners walking chained to the back of his chariot, and before him white bulls with gilded horns driven to the sacrifice, and children running with garlands of flowers; he saw giants hammering red iron in northern mountains; he saw all the wanderers of the earth; io the tormented, and all gipsies, vagabonds, and wastrels: all jongleurs, poets, and mountebanks; he saw these wandering, but all the staid and solemn people lived in the cities and counted the neat fields, saying, "this shall be mine and this shall be yours." and sometimes, as he passed above a forest, he heard a scurry of startled feet among crisp leaves, and sometimes he heard, which made him sad, the cry of stricken trees beneath the axe.' she broke off, as kato ceased playing. 'they are still firing,' she said. 'things mean and magnificent,' quoted kato slowly. 'why, then, withhold julian from the islands?' she had spoken inadvertently. consciousness of the present had jerked her back from remembrance of the past, when eve had come almost daily to her flat in herakleion, bathing herself in the music, wrapped up in beauty; when their friendship had hovered on the boundaries of the emotional, in spite of--or perhaps because of?--the thirty years that lay between them. 'i heard the voice of my fantastic eve, of whom i once thought,' she added, fixing her eyes on eve, 'as the purest of beings, utterly removed from the sordid and the ugly.' eve suddenly flung herself on her knees beside her. 'ah, kato,' she said, 'you throw me off my guard when you play to me. i'm not always hard and calculating, and your music melts me. it hurts me to be, as i constantly am, on the defensive. i'm too suspicious by nature to be very happy, kato. there are always shadows, and ... and tragedy. please don't judge me too harshly. tell me what you mean by sordid and ugly--what is there sordid or ugly in love?' kato dared much; she replied in a level voice,-- 'jealousy. waste. exorbitance. suspicion. i am sometimes afraid of your turning julian into another of those men who hoped to find their inspiration in a woman, but found only a hindrance.' she nodded sagely at eve, and the gold wheat-ears trembled in her hair. eve darkened at julian's name; she got up and stood by the door looking into the court. kato went on,-- 'you are so much of a woman, eve, that it becomes a responsibility. it is a gift, like genius. and a great gift without a great soul is a curse, because such a gift is too strong to be disregarded. it's a force, a danger. you think i am preaching to you'--eve would never know what the words were costing her--'but i preach only because of my belief in julian--and in you,' she hastened to add, and caught eve's hand; 'don't frown, you child. look at me; i have no illusions and no sensitiveness on the score of my own appearance; look at me hard, and let me speak to you as a sexless creature.' eve was touched in spite of her hostility. she was also shocked and distressed. there was to her, so young herself, so insolently vivid in her sex-pride, something wrong and painful in kato's renouncement of her right. she had a sense of betrayal. 'hush, anastasia,' she whispered. they were both extremely moved, and the constant volleys of firing played upon their nerves and stripped reserve from them. 'you don't realise,' said kato, who had, upon impulse, sacrificed her pride, and beaten down the feminine weakness she branded as unworthy, 'how finely the balance, in love, falters between good and ill. you, eve, are created for love; any one who saw you, even without speaking to you, across a room, could tell you that.' she smiled affectionately; she had, at that moment, risen so far above all personal vanity that she could bring herself to smile affectionately at eve. 'you said, just now, with truth i am sure, that shadows and tragedy were never very far away from you; you're too _rare_ to be philosophical. i wish there were a word to express the antithesis of a philosopher; if i could call you by it, i should have said all that i could wish to say about you, eve. i'm so much afraid of sorrow for you and julian....' 'yes, yes,' said eve, forgetting to be resentful, 'i am afraid, too; it overcomes me sometimes; it's a presentiment.' she looked really haunted, and kato was filled with an immense pity for her. 'you mustn't be weak,' she said gently. 'presentiment is only a high-sounding word for a weak thought.' 'you are so strong and sane, kato; it is easy for you to be--strong and sane.' they broke off, and listened in silence to an outburst of firing and shouts that rose from the village. grbits burst into the room early in the afternoon, his flat sallow face tinged with colour, his clothes torn, and his limbs swinging like the sails of a windmill. in one enormous hand he still brandished a revolver. he was triumphantly out of breath. 'driven off!' he cried. 'they ran up a white flag. not one succeeded in landing. not one.' he panted between every phrase. 'julian--here in a moment. i ran. negotiations now, we hope. sea bobbing with dead.' 'our losses?' said kato sharply. 'few. all under cover,' grbits replied. he sat down, swinging his revolver loosely between his knees, and ran his fingers through his oily black hair, so that it separated into straight wisps across his forehead. he was hugely pleased and good-humoured, and grinned widely upon eve and kato. 'good fighting--though too much at a distance. julian was grazed on the temple--told me to tell you,' he added, with the tardy haste of a child who has forgotten to deliver a message. 'we tied up his head, and it will be nothing of a scratch.--driven off! they have tried and failed. the defence was excellent. they will scarcely try force again. i am sorry i missed the first fight. i could have thrown those little fat soldiers into the sea with one hand, two at a time.' kato rushed up to grbits and kissed him; they were like children in their large, clumsy excitement. julian came in, his head bandaged; his unconcern deserted him as he saw kato hanging over the giant's chair. he laughed out loud. 'a miscellaneous fleet!' he cried. 'coastal steamers, fort tugs, old chirkets from the bosphorus--who was the admiral, i wonder?' 'panaïoannou,' cried grbits, 'his uniform military down one side, and naval down the other.' 'their white flag!' said julian. 'sterghiou's handkerchief!' said grbits. 'coaling steamers, mounting machine-guns,' julian continued. 'stavridis must have imagined that,' said kato. 'play us a triumphal march, anastasia!' said grbits. kato crashed some chords on the piano; they all laughed and sang, but eve, who had taken no part at all, remained in the window-seat staring at the ground and her lips trembling. she heard julian's voice calling her, but she obstinately shook her head. he was lost to her between kato and grbits. she heard them eagerly talking now, all three, of the negotiations likely to follow. she heard the occasional shout with which grbits recalled some incident in the fighting, and julian's response. she felt that her ardent hatred of the islands rose in proportion to their ardent love. 'he cares nothing for me,' she kept repeating to herself, 'he cares for me as a toy, a pastime, nothing more; he forgets me for kato and the islands. the islands hold his true heart. i am the ornament to his life, not life itself. and he is all my life. he forgets me....' pride alone conquered her tears. later, under cover of a white flag, the ex-premier malteios was landed at the port of aphros, and was conducted--since he insisted that his visit was unofficial--to the davenant house. peace and silence reigned. grbits and kato had gone together to look at the wreckage, and eve, having watched their extraordinary progress down the street until they turned into the market-place, was alone in the drawing-room. julian slept heavily, his arms flung wide, on his bed upstairs. zapantiotis, who had expected to find him in the court or in the drawing-room, paused perplexed. he spoke to eve in a low voice. 'no,' she said, 'do not wake mr davenant,' and, raising her voice, she added, 'his excellency can remain with me.' she was alone in the room with malteios, as she had desired. 'but why remain thus, as it were, at bay?' he said pleasantly, observing her attitude, shrunk against the wall, her hand pressed to her heart. 'you and i were friends once, mademoiselle. madame?' he substituted. 'mademoiselle,' she replied levelly. 'ah? other rumours, perhaps--no matter. here upon your island, no doubt, different codes obtain. far be it from me to suggest.... an agreeable room,' he said, looking round, linking his fingers behind his back, and humming a little tune; 'you have a piano, i see; have you played much during your leisure? but, of course, i was forgetting: madame kato is your companion here, is she not? and to her skill a piano is a grateful ornament. ah, i could envy you your evenings, with kato to make your music. paris cries for her; but no, she is upon a revolutionary island in the heart of the Ægean! paris cries the more. her portrait appears in every paper. madame kato, when she emerges, will find her fame carried to its summit. and you, mademoiselle eve, likewise something of a heroine.' 'i am here in the place of my cousin,' eve said, looking across at the ex-premier. he raised his eyebrows, and, in a familiar gesture, smoothed away his beard from his rosy lips with the tips of his fingers. 'is that indeed so? a surprising race, you english. very surprising. you assume or bequeath very lightly the mantle of government, do you not? am i to understand that you have permanently replaced your cousin in the--ah!--presidency of hagios zacharie?' 'my cousin is asleep; there is no reason why you should not speak to me in his absence.' 'asleep? but i must see him, mademoiselle.' 'if you will wait until he wakes.' 'hours, possibly!' 'we will send to wake him in an hour's time. can i not entertain you until then?' she suggested, her natural coquetry returning. she left the wall against which she had been leaning, and, coming across to malteios, gave him her fingers with a smile. the ex-premier had always figured picturesquely in her world. 'mademoiselle,' he said, kissing the fingers she gave him, 'you are as delightful as ever, i am assured.' they sat, malteios impatient and ill at ease, unwilling to forego his urbanity, yet tenacious of his purpose. in the midst of the compliments he perfunctorily proffered, he broke out,-- 'children! _ces gosses.... mais il est fou, voyons, votre cousin_. what is he thinking about? he has created a ridiculous disturbance; well, let that pass; we overlook it, but this persistence.... where is it all to end? obstinacy feeds and grows fat upon obstinacy; submission grows daily more impossible, more remote. his pride is at stake. a threat, well and good; let him make his threat; he might then have arrived at some compromise. i, possibly, might myself have acted as mediator between him and my friend and rival, gregori stavridis. in fact, i am here to-day in the hope that my effort will not come too late. but after so much fighting! tempers run high no doubt in the islands, and i can testify that they run high in herakleion. anastasia--probably you know this already--madame kato's flat is wrecked. yes, the mob. we are obliged to keep a cordon of police always before your uncle's house. neither he nor your father and mother dare to show themselves at the windows. it is a truly terrible state of affairs.' he reverted to the deeper cause of his resentment,-- 'i could have mediated, in the early days, so well between your cousin and gregori stavridis. pity, pity, pity!' he said, shaking his head and smiling his benign, regretful smile that to-day was tinged with a barely concealed bitterness, 'a thousand pities, mademoiselle.' he began again, his mind on herakleion,-- 'i have seen your father and mother, also your uncle. they are very angry and impotent. because the people threw stones at their windows and even, i regret to say, fired shots into the house from the _platia_, the windows are all boarded over and they live by artificial light. i have seen them breakfasting by candles. yes. your, father, your mother, and your uncle, breakfasting together in the drawing-room with lighted candles on the table. i entered the house from the back. your father said to me apprehensively, "i am told madame kato's flat was wrecked last night?" and your mother said, "outrageous! she is infatuated, either with those islands or with that boy. she will not care. all her possessions, littering the quays! an outrage." your uncle said to me, "see the boy, malteios! talk to him. we are hopeless." indeed they appeared hopeless, although not resigned, and sat with their hands hanging by their sides instead of eating their eggs; your mother, even, had lost her determination. 'i tried to reassure them, but a rattle of stones on the boarded windows interrupted me. your uncle got up and flung away his napkin. "one cannot breakfast in peace," he said petulantly, as though that constituted his most serious grievance. he went out of the room, but the door had scarcely closed behind him before it reopened and he came back. he was quite altered, very irritable, and all his courteous gravity gone from him. "see the inconvenience," he said to me, jerking his hands, "all the servants have gone with my son, all damned islanders." i found nothing to say.' 'kato may return to herakleion with you?' eve suggested after a pause during which malteios recollected himself, and tried to indicate by shrugs and rueful smiles that he considered the bewilderment of the davenants a deplorable but nevertheless entertaining joke. at the name of kato a change came over his face. 'a fanatic, that woman,' he replied; 'a martyr who will rejoice in her martyrdom. she will never leave aphros while the cause remains.--a heroic woman,' he said, with unexpected reverence. he looked at eve, his manner veering again to the insinuating and the crafty; his worse and his better natures were perpetually betraying themselves. 'would she leave aphros? no! would your cousin leave aphros? no! they have between them the bond of a common cause. i know your cousin. he is young enough to be an idealist. i know madame kato. she is old enough to applaud skilfully. hou!' he spread his hands. 'i have said enough.' eve revealed but little interest, though for the first time during their interview her interest was passionately aroused. malteios watched her, new schemes germinating in his brain; they played against one another, their hands undeclared, a blind, tentative game. this conversation, which had begun as it were accidentally, fortuitously, turned to a grave significance along a road whose end lay hidden far behind the hills of the future. it led, perhaps, nowhere. it led, perhaps.... eve said lightly,-- 'i am outdistanced by kato and my cousin; i don't understand politics, or those impersonal friendships.' 'mademoiselle,' malteios replied, choosing his words and infusing into them an air of confidence, 'i tell you an open secret, but one to which i would never refer save with a sympathetic listener like yourself, when i tell you that for many years a friendship existed between myself and madame kato, political indeed, but not impersonal. madame kato,' he said, drawing his chair a little nearer and lowering his voice, 'is not of the impersonal type.' eve violently rebelled from his nearness; fastidious, she loathed his goatish smile, his beard, his rosy lips, but she continued to smile to him, a man who held, perhaps, one of julian's secrets. she was aware of the necessity of obtaining that secret. of the dishonour towards julian, sleeping away his hurts and his fatigue in the room above, she was blindly unaware. love to her was a battle, not a fellowship. she must know! already her soul, eagerly receptive and bared to the dreaded blow, had adopted the theory of betrayal. in the chaos of her resentments and suspicions, she remembered how kato had spoken to her in the morning, and without further reflection branded that conversation as a blind. she even felt a passing admiration for the other woman's superior cleverness. she, eve, had been completely taken in.... so she must contend, not only against the islands, but against kato also? anguish and terror rushed over her. she scarcely knew what she believed or did not believe, only that her mind was one seething and surging tumult of mistrust and all-devouring jealousy. she was on the point of abandoning her temperamentally indirect methods, of stretching out her hands to malteios, and crying to him for the agonising, the fiercely welcome truth, when he said,-- 'impersonal? do you, mademoiselle, know anything of your sex? ah, charming! disturbing, precious, indispensable, even heroic, tant que vous voudrez, but impersonal, no! man, yes, sometimes. woman, never. never.' he took her hand, patted it, kissed the wrist, and murmured, 'chère enfant, these are not ideas for your pretty head.' she knew from experience that his preoccupation with such theories, if no more sinister motive, would urge him towards a resumption of the subject, and after a pause full of cogitation he continued,-- 'follow my advice, mademoiselle: never give your heart to a man concerned in other affairs. you may love, both of you, but you will strive in opposite directions. your cousin, for example.... and yet,' he mused, 'you are a woman to charm the leisure of a man of action. the toy of a conqueror.' he laughed. 'fortunately, conquerors are rare.' but she knew he hovered round the image of julian. 'believe me, leave such men to such women as kato; they are more truly kin. you--i discover you--are too exorbitant; love would play too absorbing a rôle. you would tolerate no rival, neither a person nor a fact. your eyes smoulder; i am near the truth?' 'one could steal the man from his affairs,' she said almost inaudibly. 'the only hope,' he replied. a long silence fell, and his evil benevolence gained on her; on her aroused sensitiveness his unspoken suggestions fell one by one as definitely as the formulated word. he watched her; she trembled, half compelled by his gaze. at length, under the necessity of breaking the silence, she said,-- 'kato is not such a woman; she would resent no obstacle.' 'wiser,' he added, 'she would identify herself with it.' he began to banter horribly,-- 'ah, child, eve, child made for love, daily bless your cousinship! bless its contemptuous security. smile over the confabulations of kato and your cousin. smile to think that he, she, and the islands are bound in an indissoluble triology. if there be jealousy to suffer, rejoice in that it falls, not to your share, but to mine, who am old and sufficiently philosophical. age and experience harden, you know. else, i could not see anastasia kato pass to another with so negligible a pang. yet the imagination makes its own trouble. a jealous imagination.... very vivid. pictures of anastasia kato in your cousin's arms--ah, crude, crude, i know, but the crudity of the jealous imagination is unequalled. not a detail escapes. that is why i say, bless your cousinship and its security.' he glanced up and met her tortured eyes. 'as i bless my philosophy of the inevitable,' he finished softly, caressing her hand which he had retained all the while. no effort at 'impossible!' escaped her; almost from the first she had blindly adopted his insinuations. she even felt a perverse gratitude towards him, and a certain fellowship. they were allies. her mind was now set solely upon one object. that self-destruction might be involved did not occur to her, nor would she have been deterred thereby. like samson, she had her hands upon the columns.... 'madame kato lives in this house?' asked malteios, as one who has been following a train of thought. she shook her head, and he noticed that her eyes were turned slightly inwards, as with the effort of an immense concentration. 'you have power,' he said with admiration. bending towards her, he began to speak in a very low, rapid voice; she sat listening to him, by no word betraying her passionate attention, nodding only from time to time, and keeping her hands very still, linked in her lap. only once she spoke, to ask a question, 'he would leave herakleion?' and malteios replied, 'inevitably; the question of the islands would be for ever closed for him;' then she said, producing the words from afar off, 'he would be free,' and malteios, working in the dark, following only one of the two processes of her thought, reverted to kato; his skill could have been greater in playing upon the instrument, but even so it sufficed, so taut was the stringing of the cords. when he had finished speaking, she asked him another question, 'he could never trace the thing to me?' and he reassured her with a laugh so natural and contemptuous that she, in her ingenuity, was convinced. all the while she had kept her eyes fastened on his face, on his rosy lips moving amongst his beard, that she might lose no detail of his meaning or his instructions, and at one moment he had thought, 'there is something terrible in this child,' but immediately he had crushed the qualm, thinking, 'by this recovery, if indeed it is to be, i am a made man,' and thanking the fate that had cast this unforeseen chance across his path. finally she heard his voice change from its earnest undertone to its customary platitudinous flattery, and turning round she saw that julian had come into the room, his eyes already bent with brooding scorn upon the emissary. vi she was silent that evening, so silent that grbits, the unobservant, commented to kato; but after they had dined, all four, by the fountain in the court, she flung aside her preoccupation, laughed and sang, forced kato to the piano, and danced with reckless inspiration to the accompaniment of kato's songs. julian, leaning against a column, watched her bewildering gaiety. she had galvanised grbits into movement--he who was usually bashful with women, especially with eve, reserving his enthusiasm for julian--and as she passed and re-passed before julian in the grasp of the giant she flung at him provocative glances charged with a special meaning he could not interpret; in the turn of her dance he caught her smile and the flash of her eyes, and smiled in response, but his smile was grave, for his mind ran now upon the crisis with herakleion, and, moreover, he suffered to see eve so held by grbits, her turbulent head below the giant's shoulder, and regretted that her gaiety should not be reserved for him alone. across the court, through the open door of the drawing-room, he could see kato at the piano, full of delight, her broad little fat hands and wrists racing above the keyboard, her short torso swaying to the rhythm, her rich voice humming, and the gold wheat ears shaking in her hair. she called to him, and, drawing a chair close to the piano, he sat beside her, but through the door he continued to stare at eve dancing in the court. kato said as she played, her perception sharpened by the tormented watch she kept on him,-- 'eve celebrates your victory of yesterday,' to which he replied, deceived by the kindly sympathy in her eyes,-- 'eve celebrates her own high spirits and the enjoyment of a new partner; my doings are of the last indifference to her.' kato played louder; she bent towards him,-- 'you love her so much, julian?' he made an unexpected answer,-- 'i believe in her.' kato, a shrewd woman, observed him, thinking,--'he does not; he wants to convince himself.' she said aloud, conscientiously wrenching out the truth as she saw it,-- 'she loves you; she is capable of love such as is granted to few; that is the sublime in her.' he seized upon this, hungrily, missing meanwhile the sublime in the honesty of the singer,-- 'since i am given so much, i should not exact more. the islands.... she gives all to me. i ought not to force the islands upon her.' 'grapes of thistles,' kato said softly. 'you understand,' he murmured with gratitude. 'but why should she hamper me, anastasia? are all women so irrational? what am i to believe?' 'we are not so irrational as we appear,' kato said, 'because our wildest sophistry has always its roots in the truth of instinct.' eve was near them, crying out,-- 'a tarantella, anastasia!' julian sprang up; he caught her by the wrist,-- 'gipsy!' 'come with the gipsy?' she whispered. her scented hair blew near him, and her face was upturned, with its soft, sweet mouth. 'away from aphros?' he said, losing his head. 'all over the world!' he was suddenly swept away by the full force of her wild, irresponsible seduction. 'anywhere you choose, eve.' she triumphed, close to him, and wanton. 'you'd sacrifice aphros to me?' 'anything you asked for,' he said desperately. she laughed, and danced away, stretching out her hands towards him,-- 'join in the saraband, julian?' she was alone in her room. her emotion and excitement were so intense that they drained her of physical strength, leaving her faint and cold; her eyes closed now and then as under the pressure of pain; she yawned, and her breath came shortly between her lips; she sat by the open window, rose to move about the room, sat again, rose again, passed her hand constantly over her forehead, or pressed it against the base of her throat. the room was in darkness; there was no moon, only the stars hung over the black gulf of the sea. she could see the long, low lights of herakleion, and the bright red light of the pier. she could hear distant shouting, and an occasional shot. in the room behind her, her bed was disordered. she wore only her spanish shawl thrown over her long nightgown; her hair hung in its thick plait. sometimes she formed, in a whisper, the single word, 'julian!' she thought of julian. julian's rough head and angry eyes. julian when he said, 'i shall break you,' like a man speaking to a wild young supple tree. (her laugh of derision, and her rejoicing in her secret fear!) julian in his lazy ownership of her beauty. julian when he allowed her to coax him from his moroseness. julian when she was afraid of him and of the storm she had herself aroused: julian passionate.... julian whom she blindly wanted for herself alone. that desire had risen to its climax. the light of no other consideration filtered through into her closely shuttered heart. she had waited for julian, schemed for julian, battled for julian; this was the final battle. she had not foreseen it. she had tolerated and even welcomed the existence of the islands until she began to realise that they took part of julian from her. then she hated them insanely, implacably; including kato, whom julian had called their tutelary deity, in that hatred. had julian possessed a dog, she would have hated that too. the ambitions she had vaguely cherished for him had not survived the test of surrendering a portion of her own inordinate claim. she had joined battle with the islands as with a malignant personality. she was fighting them for the possession of julian as she might have fought a woman she thought more beautiful, more unscrupulous, more appealing than herself, but with very little doubt of ultimate victory. julian would be hers, at last; more completely hers than he had been even in those ideal, uninterrupted days before grbits and kato came, the days when he forgot his obligations, almost his life's dream for her. love all-eclipsing.... she stood at the window, oppressed and tense, but in the soft silken swaying of her loose garments against her limbs she still found a delicately luxurious comfort. julian had been called away, called by the violent hammering on the house-door; it had then been after midnight. two hours had passed since then. no one had come to her, but she had heard the tumult of many voices in the streets, and by leaning far out of the window she could see a great flare burning up from the market-place. she had thought a house might be on fire. she could not look back over her dispositions; they had been completed in a dream, as though under direct dictation. it did not occur to her to be concerned as to their possible miscarriage; she was too ignorant of such matters, too unpractical, to be troubled by any such anxiety. she had carried out malteios' instructions with intense concentration; there her part had ended. the fuse which she had fired was burning.... if julian would return, to put an end to her impatience! (down in the market-place the wooden school-buildings flamed and crackled, redly lighting up the night, and fountains of sparks flew upward against the sky. the lurid market-place was thronged with sullen groups of islanders, under the guard of the soldiers of herakleion. in the centre, on the cobbles, lay the body of tsigaridis, on his back, arms flung open, still, in the enormous pool of blood that crept and stained the edges of his spread white fustanelle. many of the islanders were not fully dressed, but had run out half-naked from their houses, only to be captured and disarmed by the troops; the weapons which had been taken from them lay heaped near the body of tsigaridis, the light of the flames gleaming along the blades of knives and the barrels of rifles, and on the bare bronzed chests of men, and limbs streaked with trickles of bright red blood. they stood proudly, contemptuous of their wounds, arms folded, some with rough bandages about their heads. panaïoannou, leaning both hands on the hilt of his sword, and grinning sardonically beneath his fierce moustaches, surveyed the place from the steps of the assembly-room). eve in her now silent room realised that all sounds of tumult had died away. a shivering came over her, and, impelled by a suddenly understood necessity, she lit the candles on her dressing-table and, as the room sprang into light, began flinging the clothes out of the drawers into a heap in the middle of the floor. they fluttered softly from her hands, falling together in all their diverse loveliness of colour and fragility of texture. she paused to smile to them, friends and allies. she remembered now, with the fidelity of a child over a well-learnt lesson, the final words of malteios, 'a boat ready for you both to-night, secret and without delay,' as earlier in the evening she had remembered his other words, 'midnight, at the creek at the back of the islands ...'; she had acted upon her lesson mechanically, and in its due sequence, conscientious, trustful. she stood amongst her clothes, the long red sari which she had worn on the evening of julian's first triumph drooping from her hand. they foamed about her feet as she stood doubtfully above them, strangely brilliant herself in her spanish shawl. they lay in a pool of rich delicacy upon the floor. they hung over the backs of chairs, and across the tumbled bed. they pleased her; she thought them pretty. stooping, she raised them one by one, and allowed them to drop back on to the heap, aware that she must pack them and must also dress herself. but she liked their butterfly colours and gentle rustle, and, remembering that julian liked them too, smiled to them again. he found her standing there amongst them when after a knock at her door he came slowly into her room. he remained by the door for a long while looking at her in silence. she had made a sudden, happy movement towards him, but inexplicably had stopped, and with the sari still in her hand gazed back at him, waiting for him to speak. he looked above all, mortally tired. she discovered no anger in his face, not even sorrow; only that mortal weariness. she was touched; she to whom those gentler emotions were usually foreign. 'julian?' she said, seized with doubt. 'it is all over,' he began, quite quietly, and he put his hand against his forehead, which was still bandaged, raising his arm with the same lassitude; 'they landed where young zapantiotis was on guard, and he let them through; they were almost at the village before they were discovered. there was very little fighting. they have allowed me to come here. they are waiting for me downstairs. i am to leave.' 'yes,' she said, and looked down at her heap of clothes. he did not speak again, and gradually she realised the implication of his words. 'zapantiotis....' she said. 'yes,' he said, raising his eyes again to her face, 'yes, you see, zapantiotis confessed it all to me when he saw me. he was standing amongst a group of prisoners, in the market-place, but when i came by he broke away from the guards and screamed out to me that he had betrayed us. betrayed us. he said he was tempted, bribed. he said he would cut his own throat. but i told him not to do that.' she began to tremble, wondering how much he knew. he added, in the saddest voice she had ever heard,-- 'zapantiotis, an islander, could not be faithful.' then she was terrified; she did not know what was coming next, what would be the outcome of this quietness. she wanted to go towards him, but she could only remain motionless, holding the sari up to her breast as a means of protection. 'at least,' he said, 'old zapantiotis is dead, and will never know about his son. where can one look for fidelity? tsigaridis is dead too, and grbits. i am ashamed of being alive.' she noticed then that he was disarmed. 'why do you stand over there, julian?' she said timidly. 'i wonder how much you promised zapantiotis?' he said in a speculative voice; and next, stating a fact, 'you were, of course, acting on malteios' suggestion.' 'you know?' she breathed. she was quite sure now that he was going to kill her. 'zapantiotis tried to tell me that too--in a strange jumble of confessions. but they dragged him away before he could say more than your bare name. that was enough for me. so i know, eve.' 'is that all you were going to say?' he raised his arms and let them fall. 'what is there to say?' knowing him very well, she saw that his quietness was dropping from him; she was aware of it perhaps before he was aware of it himself. his eyes were losing their dead apathy, and were travelling round the room; they rested on the heap of clothes, on her own drawing of himself hanging on the wall, on the disordered bed. they flamed suddenly, and he made a step towards her. 'why? why? why?' he cried out with the utmost anguish and vehemence, but stopped himself, and stood with clenched fists. she shrank away. 'all gone--in an hour!' he said, and striding towards her he stood over her, shaken with a tempest of passion. she shrank farther from him, retreating against the wall, but first she stooped and gathered her clothes around her again, pressing her back against the wall and cowering with the clothes as a rampart round her feet. but as yet full realisation was denied her; she knew that he was angry, she thought indeed that he might kill her, but to other thoughts of finality she was, in all innocence, a stranger. he spoke incoherently, saying, 'all gone! all gone!' in accents of blind pain, and once he said, 'i thought you loved me,' putting his hands to his head as though walls were crumbling. he made no further reproach, save to repeat, 'i thought the men were faithful, and that you loved me,' and all the while he trembled with the effort of his self-control, and his twitching hands reached out towards her once or twice, but he forced them back. she thought, 'how angry he is! but he will forget, and i shall make up to him for what he has lost.' so, between them, they remained almost silent, breathing hard, and staring at one another. 'come, put up your clothes quickly,' he said at last, pointing; 'they want us off the island, and if we do not go of our own accord they will tie our hands and feet and carry us to the boat. let us spare ourselves that ludicrous scene. we can marry in athens to-morrow.' 'marry?' she repeated. 'naturally. what else did you suppose? that i should leave you? now? put up your clothes. shall i help you? come!' 'but--marry, julian?' 'clearly: marry,' he replied in a harsh voice, and added, 'let us go. for god's sake, let us go now! i feel stunned, i mustn't begin to think. let us go.' he urged her towards the door. 'but we had nothing to do with marriage,' she whispered. he cried, so loudly and so bitterly that she was startled,-- 'no, we had to do only with love--love and rebellion! and both have failed me. now, instead of love, we must have marriage; and instead of rebellion, law. i shall help on authority, instead of opposing it.' he broke down and buried his face in his hands. 'you no longer love me,' she said slowly, and her eyes narrowed and turned slightly inwards in the way malteios had noticed. 'then the islands....' he pressed both hands against his temples and screamed like one possessed, 'but they were all in all in all! it isn't the thing, it's the soul behind the thing. in robbing me of them you've robbed me of more than them--you've robbed me of all the meaning that lay behind them.' he retained just sufficient self-possession to realise this. 'i knew you were hostile, how could i fail to know it? but i persuaded myself that you were part of aphros, part of all my beliefs, even something beyond all my beliefs. i loved you, so you and they had to be reconciled. i reconciled you in secret. i gave up mentioning the islands to you because it stabbed me to see your indifference. it destroyed the illusion i was cherishing. so i built up fresh, separate illusions about you. i have been living on illusions, now i have nothing left but facts. i owe this to you, to you, to you!' 'you no longer love me,' she said again. she could think of nothing else. she had not listened to his bitter and broken phrases. 'you no longer love me, julian.' 'i was so determined that i would be deceived by no woman, and like every one else i have fallen into the trap. because you were you, i ceased to be on my guard. oh, you never pretended to care for aphros; i grant you that honesty; but i wanted to delude myself and so i was deluded. i told myself marvellous tales of your rarity; i thought you were above even aphros. i am punished for my weakness in bringing you here. why hadn't i the strength to remain solitary? i reproach myself; i had not the right to expose my islands to such a danger. but how could i have known? how could i have known?' 'clearly you no longer love me,' she said for the third time. 'zapantiotis sold his soul for money--was it money you promised him?' he went on. 'so easily--just for a little money! his soul, and all of us, for money. money, father's god; he's a wise man, father, to serve the only remunerative god. was it money you promised zapantiotis?' he shouted at her, seizing her by the arm, 'or was he, perhaps, like paul, in love with you? did you perhaps promise him yourself? how am i to know? there may still be depths in you--you woman--that i know nothing about. did you give yourself to zapantiotis? or is he coming to-night for his reward? did you mean to ship me off to athens, you and your accomplices, while you waited here in this room--_our_ room--for your lover?' 'julian!' she cried--he had forced her on to her knees--'you are saying monstrous things.' 'you drive me to them,' he replied; 'when i think that while the troops were landing you lay in my arms, here, knowing all the while that you had betrayed me--i could believe anything of you. monstrous things! do you know what monstrous things i am thinking? that you shall not belong to zapantiotis, but to me. yes, to me. you destroy love, but desire revives, without love; horrible, but sufficient. that's what i am thinking. i dare say i could kiss you still, and forget. come!' he was beside himself. 'your accusations are so outrageous,' she said, half-fainting, 'your suggestions are obscene, julian; i would rather you killed me at once.' 'then answer me about zapantiotis. how am i to know?' he repeated, already slightly ashamed of his outburst, 'i'm readjusting my ideas. tell me the truth; i scarcely care.' 'believe what you choose,' she replied, although he still held her, terrified, on the ground at his feet, 'i have more pride than you credit me with--too much to answer you.' 'it was money,' he said after a pause, releasing her. she stood up; reaction overcame her, and she wept. 'julian, that you should believe that of me! you cut me to the quick--and i gave myself to you with such pride and gladness' she added almost inaudibly. 'forgive me; i suppose you, also, have your own moral code; i have speculated sufficiently about it, heaven knows, but that means very little to me now,' he said, more quietly, and with even a spark of detached interest and curiosity. but he did not pursue the subject. 'what do you want done with your clothes? we have wasted quite enough time.' 'you want me to come with you?' 'you sound incredulous; why?' 'i know you have ceased to love me. you spoke of marrying me. your love must have been a poor flimsy thing, to topple over as it has toppled! mine is more tenacious, alas. it would not depend on outside happenings.' 'how dare you accuse me?' he said,' you destroy and take from me all that i care for' ('yes,' she interpolated, as much bitterness in her voice as in his own--but all the time they were talking against one another--'you cared for everything but me'), 'then you brand my love for you as a poor flimsy thing. if you have killed it, you have done so by taking away the one thing....' 'that you cared for more than for me,' she completed. 'with which i would have associated you. you yourself made that association impossible. you hated the things i loved. now you've killed those things, and my love for you with them. you've killed everything i cherished and possessed.' 'dead? irretrievably?' she whispered. 'dead.' he saw her widened and swimming eyes, and added, too much stunned for personal malice, yet angry because of the pain he was suffering,-- 'you shall never be jealous of me again. i think i've loved all women, loving you--gone through the whole of love, and now washed my hands of it; i've tested and plumbed your vanity, your hideous egotism'--she was crying like a child, unreservedly, her face hidden against her arm--'your lack of breadth in everything that was not love.' as he spoke, she raised her face and he saw light breaking on her--although it was not, and never would be, precisely the light he desired. it was illumination and horror; agonised horror, incredulous dismay. her eyes were streaming with tears, but they searched him imploringly, despairingly, as in a new voice she said,-- 'i've hurt you, julian ... how i've hurt you! hurt you! i would have died for you. can't i put it right? oh, tell me! will you kill me?' and she put her hand up to her throat, offering it. 'julian, i've hurt you ... my own, my julian. what have i done? what madness made me do it? oh, what is there now for me to do? only tell me; i do beseech you only to tell me. shall i go--to whom?--to malteios? i understand nothing; you must tell me. i wanted you so greedily; you must believe that. anything, anything you want me to do.... it wasn't sufficient, to love you, to want you; i gave you all i had, but it wasn't sufficient. i loved you wrongly, i suppose; but i loved you, i loved you!' he had been angry, but now he was seized with a strange pity; pity of her childish bewilderment: the thing that she had perpetrated was a thing she could not understand. she would never fully understand.... he looked at her as she stood crying, and remembered her other aspects, in the flood-time of her joy, careless, radiant, irresponsible; they had shared hours of illimitable happiness. 'eve! eve!' he cried, and through the wrenching despair of his cry he heard the funeral note, the tear of cleavage like the downfall of a tree. he took her in his arms and made her sit upon the bed; she continued to weep, and he sat beside her, stroking her hair. he used terms of endearment towards her, such as he had never used in the whole course of their passionate union, 'eve, my little eve'; and he kept on repeating, 'my little eve,' and pressing her head against his shoulder. they sat together like two children. presently she looked up, pushing back her hair with a gesture he knew well. 'we both lose the thing we cared most for upon earth, julian: you lose the islands, and i lose you.' she stood up, and gazed out of the window towards herakleion. she stood there for some time without speaking, and a fatal clearness spread over her mind, leaving her quite strong, quite resolute, and coldly armoured against every shaft of hope. 'you want me to marry you,' she said at length. 'you must marry me in athens to-morrow, if possible, and as soon as we are married we can go to england.' 'i utterly refuse,' she said, turning round towards him. he stared at her; she looked frail and tired, and with one small white hand held together the edges of her spanish shawl. she was no longer crying. 'do you suppose,' she went on, 'that not content with having ruined the beginning of your life for you--i realise it now, you see--i shall ruin the rest of it as well? you may believe me or not, i speak the truth like a dying person when i tell you i love you to the point of sin; yes, it's a sin to love as i love you. it's blind, it's criminal. it's my curse, the curse of eve, to love so well that one loves badly. i didn't see. i wanted you too blindly. even now i scarcely understand how you can have ceased to love me.--no, don't speak. i do understand it--in a way; and yet i don't understand it. i don't understand that an idea can be dearer to one than the person one loves.... i don't understand responsibilities; when you've talked about responsibilities i've sometimes felt that i was made of other elements than you.... but you're a man, and i'm a woman; that's the rift. perhaps it's a rift that can never be bridged. never mind that. julian, you must find some more civilised woman than myself; find a woman who will be a friend, not an enemy. love makes me into an enemy, you see. find somebody more tolerant, more unselfish. more maternal. yes, that's it,' she said, illuminated, 'more maternal; i'm only a lover, not a mother. you told me once that i was of the sort that sapped and destroyed. i'll admit that, and let you go. you mustn't waste yourself on me. but, oh, julian,' she said, coming close to him, 'if i give you up--because in giving you up i utterly break myself--grant me one justice: never doubt that i loved you. promise me, julian. i shan't love again. but don't doubt that i loved you; don't argue to yourself, "she broke my illusions, therefore she never loved me," let me make amends for what i did, by sending you away now without me.' 'i was angry; i was lying; i wanted to hurt you as you had hurt me,' he said desperately. 'how can i tell what i have been saying to you? i've been dazed, struck.... it's untrue that i no longer love you. i love you, in spite, in spite.... love can't die in an hour.' 'bless you,' she said, putting her hand for a moment on his head, 'but you can't deceive me. oh,' she hurried on, 'you might deceive yourself; you might persuade yourself that you still loved me and wanted me to go with you; but i know better. i'm not for you. i'm not for your happiness, or for any man's happiness. you've said it yourself: i am different. i let you go because you are strong and useful--oh, yes, useful! so disinterested and strong, all that i am not--too good for me to spoil. you have nothing in common with me. who has? i think i haven't any kindred. i love you! i love you better than myself!' he stood up; he stammered in his terror and earnestness, but she only shook her head. 'no, julian.' 'you're too strong,' he cried, 'you little weak thing; stronger than i.' she smiled; he was unaware of the very small reserve of her strength. 'stronger than you,' she repeated; 'yes.' again he implored her to go with him; he even threatened her, but she continued to shake her head and to say in a faint and tortured voice,-- 'go now, julian; go, my darling; go now, julian.' 'with you, or not at all.' he was at last seriously afraid that she meant what she said, 'without me.' 'eve, we were so happy. remember! only come; we shall be as happy again.' 'you mustn't tempt me; it's cruel,' she said, shivering. 'i'm human.' 'but i love you!' he said. he seized her hands, and tried to drag her towards the door. 'no,' she answered, putting him gently away from her. 'don't tempt me, julian, don't; let me make amends in my own way.' her gentleness and dignity were such that he now felt reproved, and, dimly, that the wrong done was by him towards her, not by her towards him. 'you are too strong--magnificent, and heartbreaking,' he said in despair. 'as strong as a rock,' she replied, looking straight at him and thinking that at any moment she must fall. but still she forced her lips to a smile of finality. 'think better of it,' he was beginning, when they heard a stir of commotion in the court below. 'they are coming for you!' she cried out in sudden panic. 'go; i can't face any one just now....' he opened the door on to the landing. 'kato!' he said, falling back. eve heard the note of fresh anguish in his voice. kato came in; even in that hour of horror they saw that she had merely dragged a quilt round her shoulders, and that her hair was down her back. in this guise her appearance was indescribably grotesque. 'defeated, defeated,' she said in lost tones to julian. she did not see that they had both involuntarily recoiled before her; she was beyond such considerations. 'anastasia,' he said, taking her by the arm and shaking her slightly to recall her from her bemusement, 'here is something more urgent--thank god, you will be my ally--eve must leave aphros with me; tell her so, tell her so; she refuses.' he shook her more violently with the emphasis of his words. 'if he wants you....' kato said, looking at eve, who had retreated into the shadows and stood there, half fainting, supporting herself against the back of a chair. 'if he wants you....' she repeated, in a stupid voice, but her mind was far away. 'you don't understand, anastasia,' eve answered; 'it was i that betrayed him.' again she thought she must fall. 'she is lying!' cried julian. 'no,' said eve. she and kato stared at one another, so preposterously different, yet with currents of truth rushing between them. 'you!' kato said at last, awaking. 'i am sending him away,' said eve, speaking as before to the other woman. 'you!' said kato again. she turned wildly to julian. 'why didn't you trust yourself to me, julian, my beloved?' she cried; 'i wouldn't have treated you so, julian; why didn't you trust yourself to me?' she pointed at eve, silent and brilliant in her coloured shawl; then, her glance falling upon her own person, so sordid, so unkempt, she gave a dreadful cry and looked around as though seeking for escape. the other two both turned their heads away; to look at kato in that moment was more than they could bear. presently they heard her speaking again; her self-abandonment had been brief; she had mastered herself, and was making it a point of honour to speak with calmness. 'julian, the officers have orders that you must leave the island before dawn; if you do not go to them, they will fetch you here. they are waiting below in the courtyard now. eve,'--her face altered,--'eve is right: if she has indeed done as she says, she cannot go with you. she is right; she is more right, probably, than she has ever been in her life before or ever will be again. come, now; i will go with you.' 'stay with eve, if i go,' he said. 'impossible!' replied kato, instantly hardening, and casting upon eve a look of hatred and scorn. 'how cruel you are, anastasia!' said julian, making a movement of pity towards eve. 'take him away, anastasia,' eve murmured, shrinking from him. 'see, she understands me better than you do, and understands herself better too,' said kato, in a tone of cruel triumph; 'if you do not come, julian, i shall send up the officers.' as she spoke she went out of the room, her quilt trailing, and her heel-less slippers clacking on the boards. 'eve, for the last time....' a cry was wrenched from her,-- 'go! if you pity me!' 'i shall come back.' 'oh, no, no!' she replied, 'you'll never come back. one doesn't live through such things twice.' she shook her head like a tortured animal that seeks to escape from pain. he gave an exclamation of despair, and, after one wild gesture towards her, which she weakly repudiated, he followed kato. eve heard their steps upon the stairs, then crossing the courtyard, and the tramp of soldiers; the house-door crashed massively. she stooped very slowly and mechanically, and began to pick up the gay and fragile tissue of her clothes. vii she laid them all in orderly fashion across the bed, smoothing out the folds with a care that was strangely opposed to her usual impatience. then she stood for some time drawing the thin silk of the sari through her fingers and listening for sounds in the house; there were none. the silence impressed her with the fact that she was alone. 'gone!' she thought, but she made no movement. her eyes narrowed and her mouth became contracted with pain. 'julian ...' she murmured, and, finding some slippers, she thrust her bare feet into them with sudden haste and threw the corner of her shawl over her shoulder. she moved now with feverish speed; any one seeing her face would have exclaimed that she was not in conscious possession of her will, but would have shrunk before the force of her determination. she opened the door upon the dark staircase and went rapidly down; the courtyard was lit by a torch the soldiers had left stuck and flaring in a bracket. she had some trouble with the door, tearing her hands and breaking her nails upon the great latch, but she felt nothing, dragged it open, and found herself in the street. at the end of the street she could see the glare from the burning buildings of the market-place, and could hear the shout of military orders. she knew she must take the opposite road; malteios had told her that. 'go by the mule-path over the hill; it will lead you straight to the creek where the boat will be waiting,' he had said. 'the boat for julian and me,' she kept muttering to herself as she speeded up the path stumbling over the shallow steps and bruising her feet upon the cobbles. it was very dark. once or twice as she put out her hand to save herself from falling she encountered only a prickly bush of aloe or gorse, and the pain stung her, causing a momentary relief. 'i mustn't hurry too much,' she said to herself, 'i mustn't arrive at the creek before they have pushed off the boat. i mustn't call out....' she tried to compare her pace with that of julian, kato, and the officers, and ended by sitting down for a few minutes at the highest point of the path, where it had climbed over the shoulder of the island, and was about to curve down upon the other side. from this small height, under the magnificent vault studded with stars, she could hear the sigh of the sea and feel the slight breeze ruffling her hair. 'without julian, without julian--no, never,' she said to herself, and that one thought revolved in her brain. 'i'm alone,' she thought, 'i've always been alone.... i'm an outcast, i don't belong here....' she did not really know what she meant by this, but she repeated it with a blind conviction, and a terrible loneliness overcame her. 'oh, stars!' she said aloud, putting up her hands to them, and again she did not know what she meant, either by the words or the gesture. then she realised that it was dark, and standing up she thought, 'i'm frightened,' but there was no reply to the appeal for julian that followed immediately upon the thought. she clasped her shawl round her, and tried to stare through the night; then she thought 'people on the edge of death have no need to be frightened,' but for all that she continued to look fearfully about her, to listen for sounds, and to wish that julian would come to take care of her. she went down the opposite side of the hill less rapidly than she had come up. she knew she must not overtake julian and his escort. she did not really know why she had chosen to follow them, when any other part of the coast would have been equally suitable for what she had determined to do. but she kept thinking, as though it brought some consolation, 'he passed along this path five--ten--minutes ago; he is there somewhere, not far in front of me.' and she remembered how he had begged her to go with him. ' ... but i couldn't have gone!' she cried, half in apology to the dazzling happiness she had renounced, 'i was a curse to him--to everything i touch. i could never have controlled my jealousy, my exorbitance.... he asked me to go, to be with him always,' she thought, sobbing and hurrying on; and she sobbed his name, like a child, 'julian! julian! julian!' presently the path ceased to lead downhill and became flat, running along the top of the rocky cliff about twenty feet above the sea. she moved more cautiously, knowing that it would bring her to the little creek where the boat was to be waiting; as she moved she blundered constantly against boulders, for the path was winding and in the starlight very difficult to follow. she was still fighting with herself, 'no, i could not go with him; i am not fit.... i don't belong here....' that reiterated cry. 'but without him--no, no, no! this is quite simple. will he think me bad? i hope not; i shall have done what i could....' her complexity had entirely deserted her, and she thought in broad, childish lines. 'poor eve!' she thought suddenly, viewing herself as a separate person, 'she was very young' (in her eyes youth amounted to a moral virtue), 'julian, julian, be a little sorry for her,--i was cursed, i was surely cursed,' she added, and at that moment she found herself just above the creek. the path descended to it in rough steps, and with a beating heart she crept down, helping herself by her hands, until she stood upon the sand, hidden in the shadow of a boulder. the shadows were very black and hunched, like the shadows of great beasts. she listened, the softness of her limbs pressed against the harshness of the rocks. she heard faint voices, and, creeping forward, still keeping in the shadows, she made out the shape of a rowing-boat filled with men about twenty yards from the shore. 'kato has gone with him!' was her first idea, and at that all her jealousy flamed again--the jealousy that, at the bottom of her heart, she knew was groundless, but could not keep in check. anger revived her--'am i to waste myself on him?' she thought, but immediately she remembered the blank that that one word 'never!' could conjure up, and her purpose became fixed again. 'not life without him,' she thought firmly and unchangeably, and moved forward until her feet were covered by the thin waves lapping the sandy edge of the creek. she had thrown off her shoes, standing barefoot on the soft wet sand. here she paused to allow the boat to draw farther away. she knew that she would cry out, however strong her will, and she must guard against all chance of rescue. she waited at the edge of the creek, shivering, and drawing her silk garments about her, and forcing herself to endure the cold horror of the water washing round her ankles. how immense was the night, how immense the sea!--the oars in the boat dipped regularly; by now it was almost undistinguishable in the darkness. 'what must i do?' she thought wildly, knowing the moment had come. 'i must run out as far as i can....' she sent an unuttered cry of 'julian!' after the boat, and plunged forward; the coldness of the water stopped her as it reached her waist, and the long silk folds became entangled around her limbs, but she recovered herself and fought her way forward. instinctively she kept her hands pressed against her mouth and nostrils, and her staring eyes tried to fathom this cruelly deliberate death. then the shelving coast failed her beneath her feet; she had lost the shallows and was taken by the swell and rhythm of the deep. a thought flashed through her brain, 'this is where the water ceases to be green and becomes blue'; then in her terror she lost all self-control and tried to scream; it was incredible that julian, who was so near at hand, should not hear and come to save her; she felt herself tiny and helpless in that great surge of water; even as she tried to scream she was carried forward and under, in spite of her wild terrified battle against the sea, beneath the profound serenity of the night that witnessed and received her expiation. glasgow: w. collins sons and co. ltd. joan of the sword hand _works by the same author._ the stickit minister. the raiders. the playactress. the lilac sunbonnet. bog-myrtle and peat. the men of the moss hags. cleg kelly. the grey man. lads' love. lochinvar. the standard bearer. the red axe. the black douglas. ione march. kit kennedy. sweetheart travellers. sir toady lion. [illustration: "she met on the middle flight a grey-bearded man." (page .) _frontispiece_] joan of the sword hand by s. r. crockett london ward, lock & co., limited new york and melbourne _the illustrations to this edition of "joan of the sword hand" are by frank richards._ contents chap. page i. the hall of the guard ii. the baiting of the sparhawk iii. joan draws first blood iv. the cozening of the ambassador v. johann the secretary vi. an ambassador's ambassador vii. h.r.h. the princess impetuosity viii. johann in the summer palace ix. the rose garden x. prince wasp xi. the kiss of the princess margaret xii. joan forswears the sword xiii. the sparhawk in the toils xiv. at the high altar xv. what joan left behind xvi. prince wasp's compact xvii. woman's wilfulness xviii. captains boris and jorian promote peace xix. joan stands within her danger xx. the chief captain's treachery xxi. isle rugen xxii. the house on the dunes xxiii. the face that looked into joan's xxiv. the secret of theresa von lynar xxv. borne on the great wave xxvi. the girl beneath the lamp xxvii. wife and priest xxviii. the red lion flies at kernsberg xxix. the greeting of the princess margaret xxx. love's clear eye xxxi. the royal minx xxxii. the princess margaret is in a hurry xxxiii. a wedding without a bridegroom xxxiv. little johannes rode xxxv. a perilous honeymoon xxxvi. the black death xxxvii. the dropping of a cloak xxxviii. the return of the bride xxxix. prince wasp stings xl. the loves of priest and wife xli. theresa keeps troth xlii. the wordless man takes a prisoner xliii. to the rescue xliv. the ukraine cross xlv. the truth-speaking of boris and jorian xlvi. the fear that is in love xlvii. the broken bond xlviii. joan governs the city xlix. the wooing of boris and jorian l. the din of battle li. theresa's treachery lii. the margraf's powder chests liii. the head of the church visible epilogue of explication chapter i the hall of the guard loud rang the laughter in the hall of the men-at-arms at castle kernsberg. there had come an embassy from the hereditary princess of plassenburg, recently established upon the throne of her ancestors, to the duchess joan of hohenstein, ruler of that cluster of hill statelets which is called collectively masurenland, and which includes, besides hohenstein the original eagle's eyrie, kernsberg also, and marienfield. above, in the hall of audience, the ambassador, one leopold von dessauer, a great lord and most learned councillor of state, sat alone with the young duchess. they were eating of the baked meats and drinking the good rhenish up there. but, after all, it was much merrier down below with werner von orseln, alt pikker, peter balta, and john of thorn, though what they ate was mostly but plain ox-flesh, and their drink the strong ale native to the hill lands, which is called wendish mead. "get you down, captains jorian and boris," the young duchess had commanded, looking very handsome and haughty in the pride of her twenty years, her eight strong castles, and her two thousand men ready to rise at her word; "down to the hall of guard, where my officers send round the wassail. if they do not treat you well, e'en come up and tell it to me." "good!" responded the two soldiers of the princess of plassenburg, turning them about as if they had been hinged on the same stick, and starting forward with precisely the same stiff hitch from the halt, they made for the door. "but stay," joan of hohenstein had said, ere they reached it, "here are a couple of rings. my father left me one or two such. fit them upon your fingers, and when you return give them to the maidens of your choice. is there by chance such an one, captain jorian, left behind you at plassenburg?" "aye, madam," said jorian, directing his left eye, as he stood at attention, a little slantwise in the direction of his companion. "what is her name?" "gretchen is her name," quoth the soldier. "and yours, captain boris?" the second automaton, a little slower of tongue than his companion, hesitated a moment. "speak up," said his comrade, in an undergrowl; "say 'katrin.'" "katrin!" thundered captain boris, with bluff apparent honesty. "it is well," said the duchess joan; "i think no less of a sturdy soldier for being somewhat shamefaced as to the name of his sweetheart. here is a ring apiece which will not shame your maidens in far plassenburg, as you walk with them under the lime-trees, or buy ribbons for them in the booths that cluster about the minster walls." the donor looked at the rings again. she espied the letters of a posy upon them. "ha!" she cried, "captain boris, what said you was the name of your betrothed?" "good lord!" muttered boris lowly to himself, "did i not tell the woman even now?--gretchen!" "hut, you fool!" jorian's undergrowl came to his ear, "katrin--not gretchen; gretchen is mine." "i mean katrin, my lady duchess," said boris, putting a bold face on the mistake. the young mistress of the castle smiled. "thou art a strange lover," she said, "thus to forget the name of thy mistress. but here is a ring with a k writ large upon it, which will serve for thy katherina. and here, captain jorian, is one with a g scrolled in gothic, which thou wilt doubtless place with pride upon the finger of mistress gretchen among the rose gardens of plassenburg." "good!" said jorian and boris, making their bows together; "we thank your most gracious highness." "back out, you hulking brute!" the undertone came again from jorian; "she will be asking us for their surnames if we bide a moment longer. now then, we are safe through the door; right about, boris, and thank heaven she had not time for another question, or we were men undone!" and with their rings upon their little fingers the two burly captains went down the narrow stair of castle kernsberg, nudging each other jovially in the dark places as if they had again been men-at-arms and no captains, as in the old days before the death of karl the usurper and the coming back of the legitimate princess helene into her rights. being arrived at the hall beneath they soon found themselves the centre of a hospitable circle. gruff, bearded wendish men were these officers of the young duchess; not a butterfly youngling or a courtly carpet knight among them, but men tanned like shipmen of the baltic, soldiers mostly who had served under her father henry, foraging upon occasion as far as the mark in one direction and into bor-russia in the other, men grounded and compacted after the hearts of jorian and boris. it was small wonder that amid such congenial society the ex-men-at-arms found themselves presently very much at home. scarcely were they seated when jorian began to brag of the gift the duchess had given him for the maiden of his troth. "and boris here, that hulking cobold, that hans klapper upon the housetops, had well-nigh spoiled the jest; for when her ladyship asked him a second time in her sweet voice for the name of his 'betrothed,' he must needs lay his tongue to 'gretchen,' instead of 'katrin,' as he had done at the first!" then all suddenly the bearded, burly officers of the duchess joan looked at each other with a little scared expression on their faces, through which gradually glimmered up a certain grim amusement. werner von orseln, the eldest and gravest of all, glanced round the full circle of his mess. then he looked back at the two captains of the embassy guard of plassenburg with a pitying glance. "and you lied about your sweethearts to the duchess joan?" he said. "ha, ha! yes! i trow yes," quoth jorian jovially. "wine may be dear, but this ring will pay the sweets of many a night!" "ha, ha! it will, will it?" said werner, the chief captain, grimly. "aye, truly," echoed boris, the mead beginning to work nuttily under his steel cap, "when we melt this--ha, ha!--katrin's jewel, we'll quaff many a beaker. the rhenish shall flow-ow-ow! and peg and moll and elisabet shall be there--yes, and many a good fellow-ow-ow----" "shut the door!" quoth werner, the chief captain, at this point. "sit down, gentlemen!" but jorian and boris were not to be so easily turned aside. "call in the ale-drawer--the tapster, the pottler, the over-cellarer, whatever you call him. for we would have more of his vintage. why, is this a night of jewels, and shall we not melt them? we may chance to get another for a second mouthful of lies to-morrow morning. a good duchess as ever was--a soft princess, a princess most gullible is this of yours, gentlemen of the eagle's nest, kerns of kernsberg!" "sit down," said werner yet more gravely. "captains jorian and boris, you do not seem to know that you are no longer in plassenburg. the broom bush does not keep the cow betwixt kernsberg and hohenstein. here are no tables of karl the miller's son to hamper our liege mistress. do you know that you have lied to her and made a jest of it?" "aye," cried jorian, holding his ring high; "a sweet, easy maid, this of yours, as ever was cozened. an easy service yours must be. lord! i could feather my nest well inside a year--one short year with such a mistress would do the business. why, she will believe anything!" "so," said werner von orseln grimly, "you think so, do you, captains boris and jorian, of the embassy staff? well, listen!" he spoke very slowly, leaning towards them and punctuating his meaning upon the palm of his left hand with the fingers of his right. "if i, werner of orseln, were now to walk upstairs, and in so many words tell my lady, 'the sweet, easy princess,' as you name her, joan of the sword hand, as we are proud----" "_joan of the sword hand! hoch!_" the men-at-arms at the lower table, the bearded captains at the high board, the very page boys lounging and scuffling in the niches, rose to their feet at the name, pronounced in a voice of thunder-pride by chief captain werner. "joan of the sword hand! _hoch!_ hent yourselves up, wends! up, plassenburg! joan of the sword hand! our lady joan! _hoch!_ and three times _hoch_!" the hurrahs ran round the oak-panelled hall. jorian and boris looked at each other with surprise, but they were stout fellows, and took matters, even when most serious, pretty much as they came. "i thank you, gentlemen, on behalf of my lady, in whose name i command here," said werner, bowing ceremoniously to all around, while the others settled themselves to listen. "now, worthy soldiers of plassenburg," he went on, "be it known to you that if (to suppose a case which will not happen) i were to tell our lady joan what you have confessed to us here and boasted of--that you lied and double lied to her--i lay my life and the lives of these good fellows that the pair of you would be aswing from the corner gallery of the lion's tower in something under five minutes." "aye, and a good deed it were, too!" chorussed the round table of the guard hall. "heaven send it, the jackanapes! to rail at our duchess!" jorian rose to his feet. "up, boris!" he cried; "no bor-russian, no kern of hohenstein that ever lived, shall overcrow a captain of the armies of plassenburg and a soldier of the princess helene--heaven bless her! take your ring in your hand, boris, for we will go up straightway, you and i. and we will tell the lady duchess joan that, having no sweetheart of legal standing, and no desire for any, we choused her into the belief that we would bestow her rings upon our betrothed in the rose-gardens of plassenburg. then will we see if indeed we shall be aswing in five minutes. ready, boris?" "aye, thrice ready, jorian!" "about, then! quick march!" a great noise of clapping rose all round the hall as the two stout soldiers set themselves to march up the staircase by which they had just descended. "stand to the doors!" cried werner, the chief captain; "do not let them pass. up and drink a deep cup to them, rather! to captains jorian and boris of plassenburg, brave fellows both! charge your tankards. the mead of wendishland shall not run dry. fill them to the brim. a caraway seed in each for health's sake. there! now to the honour and long lives of our guests. jorian and boris--_hoch_!" "_jorian and boris--hoch!_" the toast was drunk amid multitudinous shoutings and handshakings. the two men had stopped, perforce, for the doors were in the hands of the soldiers of the guard, and the pike points clustered thick in their path. they turned now in the direction of the high table from which they had risen. "deal you so with your guests who come on embassy?" said jorian, smiling. "first you threaten them with hanging, and then you would make them drunk with mead as long in the head as the devil of trier that deceived the archbishop-elector and gat the holy coat for a foot-warmer!" "sit down, gentlemen, and i also will sit. now, hearken well," said werner; "these honest fellows of mine will bear me out that i lie not. you have done bravely and spoken up like good men taken in a fault. but we will not permit you to go to your deaths. for our lady joan--god bless her!--would not take a false word from any--no, not if it were on twelfth night or after a christmas merry-making. she would not forgive it from your old longbeard upstairs, whose business it is--that is, if she found it out. 'to the gallows!' she would say, and we--why then we should sorrow for having to hasten the stretching of two good men. but what would you, gentlemen? we are her servants and we should be obliged to do her will. keep your rings, lads, and keep also your wits about you when the duchess questions you again. nay, when you return to plassenburg, be wise, seek out a gretchen and a katrin and bestow the rings upon them--that is, if ever you mean again to stand within the danger of joan of the sword hand in this her castle of kernsberg." "gretchens are none so scarce in plassenburg," muttered jorian. "i think we can satisfy a pair of them--but at a cheaper price than a ring of rubies set in gold!" chapter ii the baiting of the sparhawk "bring in the danish sparhawk, and we will bait him!" said werner. "we have shown our guests but a poor entertainment. bring in the sparhawk, i say!" at this there ensued unyoked merriment. each stout lad, from one end of the hall to the other, undid his belt as before a nobler course and nudged his fellow. "'ware, i say, stand clear! here comes the wild boar of the ardennes, the wolf of thuringia, the bear from the forests of bor-russia! stand clear--stand clear!" cried werner von orseln, laughing and pretending to draw a dagger to provide for his own safety. the inner door which led from the hall of the men-at-arms to the dungeons of the castle was opened, and all looked towards it with an air of great amusement and expectation. "now we shall have some rare sport," each man said to his neighbour, and nodded. "the baiting of the sparhawk! the sparhawk comes!" jorian and boris looked with interest in the direction of the door through which such a remarkable bird was to arrive. they could not understand what all the pother could be about. "what the devil----?" said jorian. and, not to be behindhand, "what the devil----?" echoed boris. for mostly these two ran neck and neck from drop of flag to winning-post. through the black oblong of the dungeon doorway there came a lad of seventeen or eighteen, tall, slim, dark-browed, limber. he walked between a pair of men-at-arms, who held his wrists firmly at either side. his hands were chained together, and from between them dangled a spiked ball that clanked heavily on the floor as he stumbled forward rather than walked into the room. he had black hair that waved from his forehead in a backward sweep, a nose of slightly roman shape, which, together with his bold eagle's eyes, had obtained him the name of the spar or sparrow-hawk. and on his face, handsome enough though pale, there was a look of haughty disdain and fierce indignation such as one may see in the demeanour of a newly prisoned bird of prey, which hath not yet had time to forget the blue empyrean spaces and the stoop with half-closed wings upon the quarry trembling in the vale. "ha, sparhawk!" cried werner, "how goes it, sparhawk? any less bold and peremptory than when last we met? your servant, count maurice von lynar! we pray you dance for us the danish dance of shuffle-board, count maurice, if so your excellency pleases!" the lad looked up the table and down with haughty eyes that deigned no answer. werner von orseln turned to his guests and said, "this sparhawk is a little dane we took on our last excursion to the north. it is only in that direction we can lead the foray, since you have grown so law-abiding and strong in plassenburg and the mark. his uncles and kinsfolk were all killed in the defence of castle lynar, on the northern haff. we know not which of these had also the claim of fatherhood upon him. at all events, his grandad had a manor there, and came from the jutland sand-dunes to build a castle upon the baltic shores. but he had better have stayed at home, for he would not pay the peace geld to our henry. so the lion roared, and we went to castle lynar and made an end--save of this spitting sparhawk, whom our master would not let us kill, and whom now we keep with clipped wings for our sport." the lad listened with erected head and haughty eyes to the tale, but answered not a word. "now," cried werner, with his cup in his hand and his brows bent upon the youth, "dance for us as you used to do upon the baltic, when the maids came in fresh from their tiring and the newest kirtles were donned. dance, i say! foot it for your life!" the lad maurice von lynar stood with his bold eyes upon his tormentors. "curs of bor-russia," he said at last, in speech that trembled with anger, "you may vex the soul of a danish gentleman with your aspersions, you may wound his body, but you will never be able to stand up to him in battle. you will never be worthy to eat or drink with him, to take his hand in comradeship, or to ride a tilt with him. pigs of the sty you are, man by man of you--wends and boors, and no king's gentlemen." "bravo!" said boris, under his breath, "that is none so dustily said for a junker!" "silence with that tongue of yours!" muttered his mate. "dost want to be yawing out of that window presently, with the wind spinning you about and about like a capon on a jack-spit? they are uncanny folk, these of the woman's castle--not to trust to. one knows not what they may do, nor where their jest may end." "hans trenck, lift this springald's pretty wrist-bauble!" said werner. a laughing man-at-arms went up, his partisan still over his shoulder, and laying his hand upon the chain which depended between the manacled wrists of the boy maurice, he strove to lift the spiked ball. "what!" cried werner, "canst thou, pap-backed babe, not lift that which the noble count maurice of lynar has perforce to carry about with him all day long? down with your weapon, man, and to it like an apothecary compounding some blister for stale fly-blown rogues!" at the word the man laid down his partisan and lifted the ball high between his two hands. "now dance!" commanded werner von orseln, "dance the danish milkmaid's coranto, or i will bid him drop it on your toes. dost want them jellied, man?" "drop, and be damned in your low-born souls!" cried the lad fiercely. "untruss my hands and let me loose with a sword, and ten yards clear on the floor, and, by saint magnus of the isles, i will disembowel any three of you!" "you will not dance?" said werner, nodding at him. "i will see you fry in hell fire first!" "down with the ball, hans trenck!" cried werner. "he that will not dance at castle kernsberg must learn at least to jump." the man-at-arms, still grinning, lifted the ball a little higher, balancing it in one hand to give it more force. he prepared to plump it heavily upon the undefended feet of young maurice. "'ware toes, sparhawk!" cried the soldiers in chorus, but at that moment, suddenly kicking out as far as his chains allowed, the boy took the stooping lout on the face, and incontinently widened the superficial area of his mouth. he went over on his back amid the uproarious laughter of his fellows. "ha! hans trenck, the sparhawk hath spurred you, indeed! a brave sparhawk! down went poor hans trenck like a barndoor fowl!" the fellow rose, spluttering angrily. "hold his legs, some one," he said, "i'll mark his pretty feet for him. he shall not kick so free another time." a couple of his companions took hold of the boy on either side, so that he could not move his limbs, and hans again lifted high the ball. "shall we stand this? they call this sport!" said boris; "shall i pink the brutes?" "sit down and shut your eyes. our prince hugo will harry this nest of thieves anon. for the present we must bear their devilry if we want to escape hanging!" "now then, for marrow and mashed trotters!" cried hans, spitting the blood from the split corners of his mouth. "_halt!_" chapter iii joan draws first blood the word of command came full and strong from the open doorway of the hall. hans trenck came instantly to the salute with the ball in his hand. he had no difficulty in lifting it now. in fact, he did not seem able to let it down. every man in the hall except the two captains of plassenburg had risen to his feet and stood as if carved in marble. for there in the doorway, her slim figure erect and exceedingly commanding, and her beautiful eyes shining with indignation, stood the duchess joan of hohenstein. "joan of the sword hand!" said jorian, enraptured. "gott, what a wench!" in stern silence she advanced into the hall, every man standing fixed at attention. "good discipline!" said boris. "shut your mouth!" responded jorian. "keep your hand so, hans trenck," said their mistress; "give me your sword, werner! you shall see whether i am called joan of the sword hand for naught. you would torture prisoners, would you, after what i have said? hold up, i say, hans trenck!" and so, no man saying her nay, the girl took the shining blade and, with a preliminary swish through the air and a balancing shake to feel the elastic return, she looked at the poor knave fixed before her in the centre of the hall with his wrist strained to hold the prisoner's ball aloft at the stretch of his arm. what wonder if it wavered like a branch in an uncertain wind? "steady there!" said joan. and she drew back her arm for the stroke. the young dane, who, since her entrance, had looked at nothing save the radiant beauty of the figure before him, now cried out, "for heaven's sake, lady, do not soil the skirts of your dress with his villain blood. he but obeyed his orders. let me be set free, and i will fight him or any man in the castle. and if i am beaten, let them torture me till i am carrion fit only to be thrown into the castle ditch." the duchess paused and leaned on the sword, holding it point to the floor. "by whose orders was this thing done?" she demanded. the lad was silent. he disdained to tell tales even on his enemies. was he not a gentleman and a dane? "by mine, my lady!" said werner von orseln, a deep flush upon his manly brow. the girl looked severely at him. she seemed to waver. "good, then!" she said, "the dane shall fight werner for his life. loose him and chafe his wrists. ho! there--bring a dozen swords from the armoury!" the flush was now rising to the boy's cheek. "i thank you, duchess," he said. "i ask no more than this." "faith, the sparhawk is not tamed yet," said boris; "we shall see better sport ere all be done!" "hold thy peace," growled jorian, "and look." * * * * * "out into the light!" cried the young duchess joan, pointing the way with werner's sword, which she still held in her hand. and going first she went forth from the hall of the soldiery, down the broad stairs, and soon through a low-arched door with a sculptured coat-of-arms over it, out into the quadrangle of the courtyard. "and now we will see this prisoner of ours, this cock of the danish marches, make good his words. that, surely, is better sport than to drop caltrops upon the toes of manacled men." werner followed unwillingly and with deep flush of shame upon his brow. "my lady," he said, going up to his mistress, "i do not need to prove my courage after i have served kernsberg and hohenstein for thirty-eight years--or well-nigh twice the years you have lived--fought for you and your father and shed my blood in a score of pitched battles, to say nothing of forays. of course i will fight, but surely this young cockerel might be satisfied to have his comb cut by younger hands." "was yours the order concerning the dropping of the ball?" asked the duchess joan. the grey-headed soldier nodded grimly. "i gave the order," he said briefly. "then by st. ursula and her boneyard, you must stand to it!" cried this fiery young woman. "else will i drub you with the flat of your own sword!" werner bowed with a slightly ironic smile on his grizzled face. "as your ladyship wills," he said; "i do not give you half obedience. if you say that i am to get down on my knees and play cat's cradle with the kernsberg bairns, i will do it!" joan of the sword here looked calmly at him with a certain austerity in her glance. "why, of course you would!" she said simply. meanwhile the lad had been freed from his bonds and stood with a sword in his hand suppling himself for the work before him with quick little guards and feints and attacks. there was a proud look in his eyes, and as his glance left the duchess and roved round the circle of his foes, it flashed full, bold, and defiant. werner turned to a palish lean bohemian who stood a little apart. "peter balta," he said, "will you be my second? agreed! and who will care for my honourable opponent?" "do not trouble yourself--that will arrange itself!" said joan to her chief captain. with that she flashed lightfoot into one of the low doors which led into the flanking turrets of the quadrangle, and in a tierce of seconds she was out again, in a forester's dress of green doublet and broad pleated kirtle that came to her knee. "i myself," she said, challenging them with her eyes, "will be this young man's second, in this place where he has so many enemies and no friends." as the forester in green and the prisoner stood up together, the guards murmured in astonishment at the likeness between them. "had this dane and our joan been brother and sister, they could not have favoured each other more," they said. a deep blush rose to the youth's swarthy face. "i am not worthy," he said, and kept his eyes upon the lithe figure of the girl in its array of well-fitting velvet. "i cannot thank you!" he said again. "tut," she answered, "worthy--unworthy--thank--unthank--what avail these upon the mountains of kernsberg and in the castle of joan of the sword hand? a good heart, a merry fight, a quick death! these are more to the purpose than many thanks and compliments. peter balta, are you seconding werner? come hither. let us try the swords, you and i. will not these two serve? guard! well smitten! there, enough. what, you are touched on the sword arm? faith, man, for the moment i forgot that it was not you and i who were to drum. this tickling of steel goes to my head like wine and i am bound to forget. i am sorry--but, after all, a day or two in a sling will put your arm to rights again, peter. these are good swords. now then, maurice von lynar--werner. at the salute! ready! fall to!" the burly figure of the captain werner von orseln and the slim arrowy swiftness of maurice the dane were opposed in the clear shadow of the quadrangle, where neither had any advantage of light, and the swords of their seconds kept them at proper distance according to the fighting rules of the time. "i give the sparhawk five minutes," said boris to jorian, after the first parry. it was little more than formal and gave no token of what was to follow. yet for full twenty minutes werner von orseln, the oldest sworder of all the north, from the marshes of wilna to the hills of silesia, could do nothing but stand on the defensive, so fierce and incessant were the attacks of the young dane. but werner did not give back. he stood his ground, warily, steadfastly, with a half smile on his face, a wall of quick steel in front of him, and the point of his adversary's blade ever missing him an inch at this side, and coming an inch short upon that other. the dane kept as steadily to the attack, and made his points as much by his remarkable nimbleness upon his feet as by the lightning rapidity of his sword-play. "the kernsberger is playing with him!" said boris, under his breath. jorian nodded. he had no breath to waste. "but he is not going to kill him. he has not the death in his eye!" boris spoke with judgment, for so it proved. werner lifted an eyebrow for the fraction of a second towards his mistress. and then at the end of the next rally his sword just touched his young adversary on the shoulder and the blood answered the thrust, staining the white underdoublet of the dane. then werner threw down his sword and held out his hand. "a well-fought rally," he said; "let us be friends. we need lads of such metal to ride the forays from the hills of kernsberg. i am sorry i baited you, sparhawk!" "a good fight clears all scores!" replied the youth, smiling in his turn. "bring a bandage for his shoulder, peter balta!" cried joan. "mine was the cleaner stroke which went so near your great muscle, but werner's is somewhat the deeper. you can keep each other company at the dice-box these next days. and, as i warrant neither of you has a lübeck guilder to bless yourself with, you can e'en play for love till you wear out the pips with throwing." "then i am not to go back to the dungeon?" said the lad, one reason of whose wounding had been that he also lifted his eyes for a moment to those of his second. "to prison--no," said joan; "you are one of us now. we have blooded you. do you take service with me?" "i have no choice--your father left me none!" the lad replied, quickly altering his phrase. "castle lynar is no more. my grandfather, my father, and my uncles are all dead, and there is small service in going back to denmark, where there are more than enough of hungry gentlemen with no wealth but their swords and no living but their gentility. if you will let me serve in the ranks, duchess joan, i shall be well content!" "i also," said joan heartily. "we are all free in kernsberg, even if we are not all equal. we will try you in the ranks first. go to the men's quarters. george the hussite, i deliver him to you. see that he does not get into any more quarrels till his arm is better, and curb my rascals' tongues as far as you can. remember who meddles with the principal must reckon with the second." chapter iv the cozening of the ambassador the next moment joan had disappeared, and when she was seen again she had assumed the skirt she had previously worn over her dress of forester, and was again the sedate lady of the castle, ready to lead the dance, grace the banquet, or entertain the high state's councillor of plassenburg, leopold von dessauer. but when she went upstairs she met on the middle flight a grey-bearded man with a skull cap of black velvet upon his head. his dress also was of black, of a distinguishing plain richness and dignity. "whither away, ambassador?" she cried gaily at the sight of him. "to see to your principal's wound and that of the other whom your sword countered in the trial bout!" "what? you saw?" said the duchess, with a quick flush. "i am indeed privileged not to be blind," said dessauer; "and never did i see a sight that contented me more." "and you stood at the window saying in your heart (nay, do not deny it) 'unwomanly--bold--not like my lady the princess of plassenburg. she would not thus ruffle in the courtyard with the men-at-arms!'" "i said no such thing," said the high councillor. "i am an old man and have seen many fair women, many sweet princesses, each perfect to their lovers, some of them even perfect to their lords. but i have never before seen a duchess joan of hohenstein." "ambassador," cried the girl, "if you speak thus and with that flash of the eye, i shall have to bethink me whether you come not as an ambassador for your own cause." "i would that i were forty years younger and a prince in my own right, instead of a penniless old baron. why, then, i would not come on any man's errand--no, nor take a refusal even from your fair lips!" "i declare," said the duchess joan impetuously, "you should have no refusal from me. you are the only man i have ever met who can speak of love and yet be tolerable. it is a pity that my father left me the evil heritage that i must wed the prince of courtland or lose my dominions!" at the sound of the name of her predestined husband a sudden flashing thought seemed to wake in the girl's breast. "my lord," she said, "is it true that you go to courtland after leaving our poor eagle's nest up here on the cliffs of the kernsberg?" von dessauer bowed, smiling at her. he was not too old to love beauty and frankness in women. "it is true that i have a mission from my prince and princess to the prince of courtland and wilna. but----" joan of the sword clasped her hands and drew a long breath. "i would not ask it of any man in the world but yourself," she said, "but will you let me go with you?" "my dear lady," said dessauer, with swift deprecation, "to go with the ambassador of another power to the court and palace of the man you are to marry--that were a tale indeed, salt enough even for the princes of ritterdom. as it is----" the duchess looked across at dessauer with great haughtiness. "as it is, they talk more than enough about me already," she said. "well--i know, and care not. i am no puling maid that waits till she is authorised by a conclave of the empire before she dares wipe her nose when she hath a cold in the head. joan of the sword hand cares not what any prince may say--from yours of plassenburg, him of the red axe, to the fat margraf george." "oh, our prince, he says naught, but does much," said dessauer. "he hath been a rough blade in his time, but karl the miller's son mellowed him, and by now his own princess hath fairly civilised him." "well," said joan of the sword, with determination, "then it is settled. i am coming with you to courtland." a shade of anxiety passed over dessauer's countenance. "my lady," he answered, "you let me use many freedoms of speech with you. it is the privilege of age and frailty. but let me tell you that the thing is plainly foolish. hardly under the escort of the empress herself would it be possible for you to visit, without scandal, the court of the prince of courtland and wilna. but in the train of an envoy of plassenburg, even if that ambassador be poor old leopold von dessauer, the thing, i must tell you, is frankly impossible." "well, i am coming, at any rate!" said joan, as usual rejecting argument and falling back upon assertion. "make your count with that, friend of mine, whether you are shocked or no. it is the penalty a respectable diplomatist has to pay for cultivating the friendship of lone females like joan of hohenstein." von dessauer held up his hands in horror that was more than half affected. "my girl," he said, "i might be your grandfather, it is true, but do not remind me of it too often. but if i were your great-great-grandfather the thing you propose is still impossible. think of what the margraf george and his chattering train would say!" "think of what every fathead princeling and beer-swilling ritter from here to basel would say!" cried joan, with her pretty nose in the air. "let them say! they will not say anything that i care the snap of my finger for. and in their hearts they will envy you the experience--shall we say the privilege?" "nay, i thought not of myself, my lady," said dessauer, "for an old man, a mere anatomy of bones and parchment, i take strange pleasure in your society--more than i ought, i tell you frankly. you are to me more than a daughter, though i am but a poor baron of plassenburg and the faithful servant of the princess helene. it is for your own sake that i say you cannot come to wilna with me. shall the future princess of courtland and wilna ride in the train of an ambassador of plassenburg to the palace in which she is soon to reign as queen?" "i said not that i would go as the duchess," joan replied, speaking low. "you say that you saw me at the fight in the courtyard out there. if you will not have the duchess joan von hohenstein, what say you to the sparhawk's second, johann the squire?" dessauer started. "you dare not," he said; "why, there is not a lady in the german land, from bohemia to the baltic, that dares do as much." "ladies," flashed joan--"i am sick for ever of hearing that a lady must not do this or that, go here or there, because of her so fragile reputation. she may do needlework or embroider altar-cloths, but she must not shoot with a pistolet or play with a sword. well, i am a lady; let him counter it who durst. and i cannot broider altar-cloths and i will not try--but i can shoot with any man at the flying mark. she must have a care for her honour, which (poor, feckless wretch!) will be smirched if she speaks to any as a man speaks to his fellows. faith! for me i would rather die than have such an egg-shell reputation. i can care for mine own. i need none to take up my quarrel. if any have a word to say upon the repute of joan of the sword hand--why, let him say it at the point of her rapier." the girl stood up, tall and straight, her head thrown back as it were at the world, with an exact and striking counterpart of the defiance of the young dane in the presence of his enemies an hour before. dessauer stood wavering. with quick tact she altered her tone, and with a soft accent and in a melting voice she added, "ah, let me come. i will make such a creditable squire all in a suit of blue and silver, with just a touch of nutty juice upon my face that my old nurse knows the secret of." still dessauer stood silent, weighing difficulties and chances. "i tell you what," she cried, pursuing her advantage, "i will see the man i am to marry as men see him, without trappings and furbelows. and if you will not take me, by my faith! i will send werner there, whom you saw fight the dane, as my own envoy, and go with him as a page. on the honour of henry the lion, my father, i will do it!" von dessauer capitulated. "a wilful woman"--he smiled--"a wilful, wilful woman. well, i am not responsible for aught of this, save for my own weakness in permitting it. it is a madcap freak, and no good will come of it." "but you will like it!" she said. "oh, yes, you will like it very much. for, you see, you are fond of madcaps." chapter v johann the secretary ten miles outside the boundary of the little hill state of kernsberg, the embassage of plassenburg was met by another cavalcade bearing additional instructions from the princess helene. the leader was a slender youth of middle height, the accuracy of whose form gave evidence of much agility. he was dark-skinned, of an olive complexion, and with closely cropped black hair which curled crisply about his small head. his eyes were dark and fine, looking straightly and boldly out upon all comers. with him, as chiefs of his escort, were those two silent men jorian and boris, who had, as it was reported, ridden to plassenburg for instructions. none of those who followed dessauer had ever before set eyes upon this youth, who came with fresh despatches, and, in consequence, great was the consternation and many the surmises as to who he might be who stood so high in favour with the prince and princess. but his very first words made the matter clear. "your excellency," he said to the ambassador, "i bring you the most recent instructions from their highnesses hugo and helene of plassenburg. they sojourn for the time being in the city of thorn, where they build a new palace for themselves. i was brought from hamburg to be one of the master-builders. i have skill in plans, and i bring you these for your approval and in order to go over the rates of cost with you, as treasurer of plassenburg and the wolfsmark." dessauer took, with every token of deference, the sheaf of papers so carefully enwrapt and sealed with the seal of plassenburg. "i thank you for your diligence, good master architect," he said; "i shall peruse these at my leisure, and, i doubt not, call upon you frequently for explanations." the young man rode on at his side, modestly waiting to be questioned. "what is your name, sir?" asked dessauer, so that all the escort might hear. "i am called johann pyrmont," said the youth promptly, and with engaging frankness; "my father is a hamburg merchant, trading to the spanish ports for oil and wine, but i follow him not. i had ever a turn for drawing and the art of design!" "also for having your own way, as is common with the young," said the ambassador, smiling shrewdly. "so, against your father's will, you apprenticed yourself to an architect?" the young man bowed. "nay, sir," he said, "but my good father could deny me nothing on which i had set my mind." "not he," muttered dessauer under his breath; "no, nor any one else either!" so, bridle by jingling bridle, they rode on over the interminable plain till kernsberg, with its noble crown of towers, became first grey and afterwards pale blue in the utmost distance. then, like a tall ship at sea, it sank altogether out of sight. and still they rode on through the marshy hollows, round innumerable little wildfowl-haunted lakelets, and so over the sandy, rolling dunes to the city of courtland, where was abiding the prince of that rich and noble principality. it had been a favourite scheme of dead princes of courtland to unite to their fat acres and populous mercantile cities the hardy mountaineers and pastoral uplands of kernsberg. but though wilna and courtland were infinitely more populous, the eagle's nest was ill to pull down, and hitherto the best laid plans for their union had invariably fallen through. but there had come to joan's father, henry called the lion, and the late prince michael of courtland a better thought. one had a daughter, the other a son. neither was burdened with any law of succession, salic or other. they held their domains by the free tenure of the sword. they could leave their powers to whomsoever they would, not even the emperor having the right to say, "what doest thou?" so with that frank carelessness of the private feelings of the individual which has ever distinguished great politicians, they decreed that, as a condition of succession, their male and female heirs should marry each other. this bond of heritage-brotherhood, as it was called, had received the sanction of the emperor in full diet, and now it wanted only that the duchess joan of hohenstein should be of age, in order that the provinces might at last be united and the long wars of highland and lowland make an end. the scheme had taken everything into consideration except the private character of the persons principally affected, prince louis of courtland and the young duchess joan. as they came nearer to the ancient city of courtland, it spread like a metropolis before the eyes of the embassy of the prince and princess of plassenburg. the city stretched from the rock whereon the fortress-palace was built, along a windy, irregular ridge. innumerable crow-stepped gables were set at right angles to the street. the towers of the minster rose against the sky at the lower end, and far to the southward the palace of the cardinal archbishop cast peaked shadows from its many towers, walled and cinctured like a city within a city. it was a far-seen town this of courtland, populous, prosperous, defenced. its clear and broad river was navigable for any craft of the time, and already it threatened to equal if not to outstrip in importance the free cities of the hanseatic league--so far, at least, as the trade of the baltic was concerned. courtland had long been considered too strong to be attacked, save from the polish border, while the adhesion of kernsberg, and the drafting of the duchess's hardy fighting mountaineers into the lowland armies would render the princedom safe for many generations. pity it was that plans so far-reaching and purposes so politic should be dependent upon the whims of a girl! but then it is just such whims that make the world interesting. * * * * * it was the last day of the famous tournament of the black eagle in the princely city of courtland. prince louis had sent out an escort to bring in the travellers and conduct them with honour to the seats reserved for them. the ambassador and high councillor of plassenburg must be received with all observance. he had, he gave notice, brought a secretary with him. for so the young architect was now styled, in order to give him an official position in the mission. the prince had also sent a request that, as this was the day upon which all combatants wore plain armour and jousted unknown, for that time being the ambassador should accept other escort and excuse him coming to receive him in person. they would meet at dinner on the morrow, in the great hall of the palace. the city was arrayed in flaming banners, some streaming high from the lofty towers of the cathedral, while others (in streets into which the wind came only in puffs) more languidly and luxuriously unfolded themselves, as the black eagle on its ground of white everywhere took the air. all over the city a galaxy of lighter silk and bunting, pennons, bannerettes, parti-coloured streamers of the national colours danced becking and bowing from window and roof-tree. yet there was a curious silence too in the streets, as they rode towards the lists of the black eagle, and when at last they came within hearing of the hum of the thousands gathered there, they understood why the city had seemed so unwontedly deserted. the courtlanders surrounded the great oval space of the lists in clustered myriads, and their eyes were bent inwards. it was the crisis of the great _mêlée_. scarcely an eye in all that assembly was turned towards the strangers, who passed quite unobserved to their reserved places in the prince's empty box. only his sister margaret, throned on high as queen of beauty, looked down upon them with interest, seeing that they were men who came, and that one at least was young. it was a gay and changeful scene. in the brilliant daylight of the lists a hundred knights charged and recharged. those who had been unhorsed drew their swords and attacked with fury others of the enemy in like case. the air resounded with the clashing of steel on steel. fifty knights with white plumes on their helmets had charged fifty wearing black, and the combat still raged. the shouts of the people rang in the ears of the ambassador of plassenburg and his secretary, as they seated themselves and looked down upon the tide of combat over the flower-draped balustrades of their box. "the blacks have it!" said dessauer after regarding the _mêlée_ with interest. "we have come in time to see the end of the fray. would that we had also seen the shock!" and indeed the blacks seemed to have carried all before them. they were mostly bigger and stronger built men, knights of the landward provinces, and their horses, great solid-boned saxon chargers, had by sheer weight borne their way through the lighter ranks of the baltic knights on the white horses. not more than half a dozen of these were now in saddle, and all over the field were to be seen black knights receiving the submission of knights whose broken spears and tarnished plumes showed that they had succumbed in the charge to superior weight of metal. for, so soon as a knight yielded, his steed became the property of his victorious foe, and he himself was either carried or limped as best he could to the pavilion of his party, there to remove his armour and send it also to the victor--to whom, in literal fact, belonged the spoils. of the half-dozen white knights who still kept up the struggle, one shone pre-eminent for dashing valour. his charger surged hither and thither through the crowd, his spear was victorious and unbroken, and the boldest opponent thought it politic to turn aside out of his path. set upon by more than a score of riders, he still managed to evade them, and even when all his side had submitted and he alone remained--at the end of the lists to which he had been driven, he made him ready for a final charge into the scarce broken array of his foes, of whom more than twenty remained still on horseback in the field. but though his spear struck true in the middle of his immediate antagonist's shield and his opponent went down, it availed the brave white knight nothing. for at the same moment half a score of lances struck him on the shield, on the breastplate, on the vizor bars of his helmet, and he fell heavily to the earth. nevertheless, scarcely had he touched the ground when he was again on his feet. sword in hand, he stood for a moment unscathed and undaunted, while his foes, momentarily disordered by the energy of the charge, reined in their steeds ere they could return to the attack. "oh, well ridden!" "greatly done!" "a most noble knight!" these were the exclamations which came from all parts of the crowd which surged about the barriers on this great day. "i would that i were down beside him with a sword in my hand also!" said the young architect, master johann pyrmont, secretary of the embassage of plassenburg. "'tis well you are where you are, madcap, sitting by an old man's side, instead of fighting by that of a young one," growled dessauer. "else then, indeed, the bent would be on fire." but at this moment the princess margaret, sister of the reigning prince, rose in her place and threw down the truncheon, which in such cases stops the combat. "the black knights have won," so she gave her verdict, "but there is no need to humiliate or injure a knight who has fought so well against so many. let the white knight come hither--though he be of the losing side. his is the reward of highest honour. give him a steed, that he may come and receive the meed of bravest in the tourney!" the knights of the black were manifestly a little disappointed that after their victory one of their opponents should be selected for honour. but there was no appeal from the decision of the queen of love and beauty. for that day she reigned alone, without council or diet imperial. the black riders had therefore to be contented with their general victory, which, indeed, was indisputable enough. the white knight came near and said something in a low voice, unheard by the general crowd, to the princess. "i insist," she said aloud; "you must unhelm, that all may see the face of him who has won the prize." whereat the knight bowed and undid his helmet. a closely-cropped fair-haired head was revealed, the features clearly chiselled and yet of a grave and massive beauty, the head of a marble emperor. "my brother--you!" cried margaret of courtland in astonishment. the voice of the princess had also something of disappointment in it. clearly she had wished for some other to receive the honour, and the event did not please her. but it was otherwise with the populace. "the young prince! the young prince!" cried the people, surging impetuously about the barriers. "glory to the noble house of courtland and to the brave prince." the ambassador looked curiously at his secretary. that youth was standing with eyes brilliant as those of a man in fever. his face had paled even under its dusky tan. his lips quivered. he straightened himself up as brave and generous men do when they see a deed of bravery done by another, or like a woman who sees the man she loves publicly honoured. "the prince!" said johann pyrmont, in a voice hoarse and broken; "it is the prince himself." and on his high seat the state's councillor, leopold von dessauer, smiled well pleased. "this turns out better than i had expected," he muttered. "god himself favours the drunkard and the madcap. only wise men suffer for their sins--aye, and often for those of other people as well." chapter vi an ambassador's ambassador after the tourney of the black eagle, leopold von dessauer had gone to bed early, feeling younger and lighter than he had done for years. part of his scheme for these northern provinces of his fatherland consisted in gradual substitution of a few strong states for many weak ones. for this reason he smiled when he saw the eyes of his secretary shining like stars. it would yet more have rejoiced him had he known how uneasy lay that handsome head on its pillow. aye, even in pain it would have pleasured him. for von dessauer was lying awake and thinking of the strange chances which help or mar the lives of men and women, when a sudden sense of shock, a numbness spreading upwards through his limbs, the rising of rheum to his eyes, and a humming in his ears, announced the approach of one of those attacks to which he had been subject ever since he had been wounded in a duel some years before--a duel in which his present prince and his late master, karl the miller's son, had both been engaged. the ambassador called for jorian in a feeble voice. that light-sleeping soldier immediately answered him. he had stretched himself out, wrapped in a blanket for all covering, on the floor of the antechamber in dessauer's lodging. in a moment, therefore, he presented himself at the door completely dressed. a shake and a half-checked yawn completed his inexpensive toilet, for jorian prided himself on not being what he called "a pretty-pretty captainet." "your excellency needs me?" he said, standing at the salute as if it had been the morning guard changing at the palace gate. "give me my case of medicine," said the old man; "that in the bag of rough silesian leather. so! i feel my old attack coming upon me. it will be three days before i can stir. yet must these papers be put in the hands of the prince early this morning. ah, there is my little johann; i was thinking about her--him, i mean. well, he shall have his chance. this foul easterly wind may yet blow us all good!" he made a wry face as a twinge of pain caught him. it passed and he resumed. "go, jorian," he said, "tap light upon his chamber door. if he chance to be in the deep sleep of youth and health--not yet distempered by thought and love, by old age and the eating of many suppers--rap louder, for i must see him forthwith. there is much to set in order ere at nine o'clock he must adjourn to the summer palace to meet the prince." so in a trice jorian was gone and at the door of the architect-secretary, he of the brown skin and greekish profile. johann pyrmont was, it appeared, neither in bed nor yet asleep. instead, he had been standing at the window watching the brighter stars swim up one by one out of the east. the thoughts of the young man were happy thoughts. at last he was in the capital city of the princes of courtland. his many days' journey had not been in vain. almost in the first moment he had seen the noble youthful prince and his sister, and he was prepared to like them both. life held more than the preparation of plans and the ordering of bricklayers at their tasks. there was in it, strangely enough, a young man with closely cropped head whom johann had seen storm through the ranks of the fighting-men that day, and afterwards receive the guerdon of the bravest. though what difference these things made to an architect of hamburg town it was difficult (on the face of things) to perceive. nevertheless, he stood and watched the east. it was five of a clear autumnal morning, and a light chill breath blew from the point at which the sun would rise. a pale moon in her last quarter was tossed high among the stars, as if upborne upon the ebbing tide of night. translucent greyness filled the wide plain of courtland, and in the scattered farms all about the lights, which signified early horse-tending and the milking of kine, were already beginning to outrival the waning stars. orion, with his guardian four set wide about him, tingled against the face of the east, and the electric lamp of sirius burnt blue above the horizon. the lightness and the hope of breathing morn, the scent of fields half reaped, the cool salt wind from off the sea, filled the channels of the youth's life. it was good to be alive, thought johann pyrmont, architect of hamburg, or otherwise. jorian rapped low, with more reverence than is common from captains to secretaries of legations. the young man was leaning out of the window and did not hear. the ex-man-at-arms rapped louder. at the sound johann pyrmont clapped his hand to the hip where his sword should have been. "who is there?" he asked, turning about with keen alertness, and in a voice which seemed at once sweeter and more commanding than even the most imperious master-builder would naturally use to his underlings. "i--jorian! his excellency is taken suddenly ill and bade me come for you." immediately the secretary opened the door, and in a few seconds stood at the old man's bedside. here they talked low to each other, the young man with his hand laid tenderly on the forehead of his elder. only their last words concern us at present. "this will serve to begin my business and to finish yours. thereafter the sooner you return to kernsberg the better. remember the moon cannot long be lost out of the sky without causing remark." the young man received the ambassador's papers and went out. dessauer took a composing draught and lay back with a sigh. "it is humbling," he said to jorian, "that to compose young wits you must do it through the heart, but in the case of the old through the stomach." "'tis a strange draught _he_ hath gotten," said the soldier, indicating the door by which the secretary had gone forth. "if i be not mistaken, much water shall flow under bridge ere his sickness be cured." as soon as he had reached his own chamber johann laid the papers upon the table without glancing at them. he went again to the window and looked across the city. during his brief absence the stars had thinned out. even the moon was now no brighter than so much grey ash. but the east had grown red and burned a glorious arch of cool brightness, with all its cloud edges teased loosely into fretted wisps and flakes of changeful fire. the wind began to blow more largely and statedly before the coming of the sun. johann drew a long breath and opened wide both halves of the casement. "to-day i shall see the prince!" he said. it was exactly nine of the clock when he set out for the palace. he was attired in the plain black dress of a secretary, with only the narrowest corded edge and collar of rough-scrolled gold. the slimness of his waist was filled in so well that he looked no more than a well-grown, clean-limbed stripling of twenty. a plain sword in a scabbard of black leather was belted to his side, and he carried his papers in his hand sealed with seals and wrapped carefully about with silken ties. yet, for all this simplicity, the eyes of johann pyrmont were so full of light, and his beauty of face so surprising, that all turned to look after him as he went by with a free carriage and a swing to his gait. even the market girls ran together to gaze after the young stranger. maids of higher degree called sharply to each other and crowded the balconies to look down upon him. but through the busy morning tumult of the streets johann pyrmont walked serene and unconscious. was not he going to the summer palace to see the prince? at the great door of the outer pavilion he intimated his desire to the officer in charge of the guard. "which prince?" said the officer curtly. "why," answered the secretary, with a glad heart, "there is but one--he who won the prize yesterday at the tilting!" "god's truth!--and you say true!" ejaculated the guardsman, starting. "but who are you who dares blurt out on the steps of the palace of courtland that which ordinary men--aye, even good soldiers--durst scarcely think in their own hearts?" "i am secretary of the noble ambassador of plassenburg, and i come to see the prince!" "you are a limber slip to be so outspoken," said the man; "but remember that you could be right easily broken on the wheel. so have a care of those slender limbs of yours. keep them for the maids of your plassenburg!" and with the freedom of a soldier he put his hand about the neck of johann pyrmont, laying it upon his far shoulder with the easy familiarity of an elder, who has it in his power to do a kindness to a younger. instinctively johann slipped aside his shoulder, and the officer's hand after hanging a moment suspended in the air, fell to his side. the courtlander laughed aloud. "what!" he cried, "is my young cock of plassenburg so mightily particular that he cannot have an honest soldier's hand upon his shoulder?" "i am not accustomed," said johann pyrmont, with dignity, "to have men's hands upon my shoulder. it is not our plassenburg custom!" the soldier laughed a huge earth-shaking laugh of merriment. "faith!" he cried, "you are early begun, my lad, that men's hands are so debarred. 'not our custom!' says he. why, i warrant, by the fashion of your countenance, that the hands of ladies are not so unwelcome. ha! you blush! here, paul strelitz, come hither and see a young gallant that blushes at a word, and owns that he is more at home with ladies than with rough soldiers." a great bearded bor-russian came out of the guard-room, stretching himself and yawning like one whose night has been irregular. "what's ado?--what is't, that you fret a man in his beauty-sleep?" he said. "oh, this young gentleman! yes, i saw him yesterday, and the princess margaret saw him yesterday, too. does he go to visit her so early this morning? he loses no time, i' faith! but he had better keep out of the way of the wasp, if the princess gives him many of those glances of hers, half over her shoulder--you know her way, otto." at this the first officer reiterated his jest about his hand on johann's shoulder, being of that mighty faction which cannot originate the smallest joke without immediately wearing it to the bone. the secretary began to be angry. his temper was not long at the longest. he had not thought of having to submit to this when he became a secretary. "i am quite willing, sir captain," he said, with haughty reserve, "that your hand should be--where it ought to be--on your sword handle. for in that case my hand will also be on mine, and very much at your service. but in my country such liberties are not taken between strangers!" "what?" cried otto the guardsman, "do men not embrace one another when they meet, and kiss each other on either cheek at parting? how then, so mighty particular about hands on shoulders? answer me that, my young secretary." "for me," said johann, instantly losing his head in the hotness of his indignation, "i would have you know that i only kiss ladies, or permit them to kiss me!" the courtlander and the bor-russian roared unanimously. "is he not precious beyond words, this youngling, eh, paul strelitz?" cried the first. "i would we had him at our table of mess. what would our commander say to that? how he would gobble and glower? 'as for me, i only kiss ladies!' can you imagine it, paul?" but just then there came a clatter of horse's hoofs across the wide spaces of the palace front, into which the bright forenoon sun was now beating, and a lady of tall figure and a head all a-ripple with sunny, golden curls dashed up at a canter, the stones spraying forward and outward as she reined her horse sharply with her hands low. "the princess margaret!" said the first officer. "stand to it, paul. be a man, secretary, and hold your tongue." the two officers saluted stiffly, and the lady looked about for some one to help her to descend. she observed johann standing, still haughtily indignant, by the gate. "come hither!" she said, beckoning with her finger. "give me your hand!" she commanded. the secretary gave it awkwardly, and the princess plumped rather sharply to the ground. "what! do they not teach you how to help ladies to alight in plassenburg?" queried the princess. "you accompany the new ambassador, do you not?" "you are the first i ever helped in my life," said johann simply. "mostly----" "what! i am the first? you jest. it is not possible. there are many ladies in plassenburg, and i doubt not they have noted and distinguished a handsome youth like you." the secretary shook his head. "not so," he said, smiling; "i have never been so remarked by any lady in plassenburg in my life." the courtlander, standing stiff at the salute, turned his head the least fraction of an inch towards paul strelitz the bor-russian. "he sticks to it. lord! i wish that i could lie like that! i would make my fortune in a trice," he muttered. "'as for me, i only kiss ladies!' did you hear him, paul?" "i hear him. he lies like an archbishop--a divine liar," muttered the bor-russian under his breath. "well, at any rate," said the princess, never taking her eyes off the young man's face, "you will be good enough to escort me to the prince's room." "i am going there myself," said the secretary curtly. "certainly they do not teach you to say pretty things to ladies," answered the princess. "i know many that could have bettered that speech without stressing themselves. yet, after all, i know not but i like your blunt way best!" she added, after a pause, again smiling upon him. as she took the young man's arm, a cavalier suddenly dashed up on a smoking horse, which had evidently been ridden to his limit. he was of middle size, of a figure exceedingly elegant, and dressed in the highest fashion. he wore a suit of black velvet with yellow points and narrow braidings also of yellow, a broad golden sash girt his waist, his face was handsome, and his mustachios long, fierce, and curling. his eye glittered like that of a snake, with a steady chill sheen, unpleasant to linger upon. he swung from his horse, casting the reins to the nearest soldier, who happened to be our courtland officer otto, and sprang up the steps after the princess and her young escort. "princess," he said hastily, "princess margaret, i beg your pardon most humbly that i have been so unfortunate as to be late in my attendance upon you. the prince sent for me at the critical moment, and i was bound to obey. may i now have the honour of conducting you to the summer parlour?" the princess turned carelessly, or rather, to tell it exactly, she turned her head a little back over her shoulder with a beautiful gesture peculiar to herself. "i thank you," she said coldly, "i have already requested this gentleman to escort me. i shall not need you, prince ivan." and she went in, bending graciously and even confidingly towards the secretary, on whose arm her hand reposed. the cavalier in banded yellow stood a moment with an expression on his face at once humorous and malevolent. he gazed after the pair till the door swung to and they disappeared. then he turned bitterly towards the nearest officer. "tell me," he said, "who is the lout in black, that looks like a priest-cub out for a holiday?" "he is the secretary of the embassy of plassenburg," said otto the guardsman, restraining a desire to put his information in another form. he did not love this imperious cavalier; he was a courtlander and holding a muscovite's horse. the conjunction brought something into his throat. "ha," said the young man in black and yellow, still gazing at the closed door, "i think i shall go into the rose-garden; i may have something further to say to the most honourable the secretary of the embassy of plassenburg!" and summoning the officer with a curt monosyllable to bring his horse, he mounted and rode off. "i wonder he did not give me a silver groat," said the courtlander. "the secretary sparrow may be dainty and kiss only ladies, but this prince of muscovy has not pretty manners. i hope he does not marry the princess after all." "not with her goodwill, i warrant," said paul strelitz; "either you or i would have a better chance, unless our prince ludwig compel her to it for the good of the state!" "prince wasp seemed somewhat disturbed in his mind," said the courtlander, chuckling. "i wish i were on guard in the rose-garden to see the meeting of master prettyman and his royal highness the hornet of muscovy!" [illustration: "he gazed after the pair till the door swung to." [_page _]] chapter vii h.r.h. the princess impetuosity the princess margaret spoke low and confidentially to the secretary of embassy as they paced along. johann pyrmont felt correspondingly awkward. for one thing, the pressure of the princess's hand upon his arm distracted him. he longed to have her on his other side. "you are noble?" she said, with a look down at him. "of course!" said the secretary quickly. the opposite had never occurred to him. he had not considered the pedigree of travelling merchants or hamburg architects. the princess thought it was not at all of course, but continued-- "i understand--you would learn diplomacy under a man so wise as the high councillor von dessauer. i have heard of such sacrifices. my brother, who is very learned, went to italy, and they say (though he only laughs when i ask him) worked with his hands in one of the places where they print the new sort of books instead of writing them. is it not wonderful?" "and he is so brave," said the secretary, whose interest suddenly increased; "he won the tournament yesterday, did he not? i saw you give him the crown of bay. i had not thought so brave a man could be learned also." "oh, my brother has all the perfections, yet thinks more of every shaveling monk and unfledged chorister than of himself. i will introduce you to him now. i am a pet of his. you will love him, too--when you know him, that is!" "devoutly do i hope so!" said the secretary under his breath. but the princess heard him. "of course you will," she said gaily; "i love him, therefore so will you!" "an agreeable princess--i shall get on well with her!" thought johann pyrmont. then the attention of his companion flagged and she was silent and distrait for a little, as they paced through courts and colonnades which to the secretary seemed interminable. the princess silently indicated the way by a pressure upon his arm which was almost more than friendly. "we walk well together," she said presently, rousing herself from her reverie. "yes," answered the secretary, who was thinking that surely it was a long way to the summer parlour, where he was to meet the prince. "i fear," said the princess margaret quaintly, "that you are often in the habit of walking with ladies! your step agrees so well with mine!" "i never walk with any others," the secretary answered without thought. "what?" cried the princess, quickly taking away her hand, "and you swore to me even now that you never helped a lady from her horse in your life!" it was an _impasse_, and the secretary, recalled to himself, blushed deeply. "i see so few ladies," he stammered, in a tremor lest he should have betrayed himself. "i live in the country--only my maid----" "heaven's own sunshine!" cried the princess. "have the pretty young men of plassenburg maids and tirewomen? small wonder that so few of them ever visit us! no blame that you stay in that happy country!" the secretary recovered his presence of mind rapidly. "i mean," he explained, "the old woman bette, my nurse, who, though now i am grown up, comes every night to see that i have all i want and to fold my clothes. i have no other women about me." "you are sure that bette, who comes for your clothes and to see that you have all you want, is old?" persisted the princess, keeping her eyes sharply upon her companion. "she is so old that i never remember her to have been any younger," replied the secretary, with an air of engaging candour. "i believe you," cried the outspoken princess; "no one can lie with such eyes. strange that i should have liked you from the first. stranger that in an hour i should tell you so. your arm!" the secretary immediately put his hand within the arm of the princess margaret, who turned upon him instantly in great astonishment. "is that also a plassenburg custom?" she said sharply. "was it old bette who taught you thus to take a lady's arm? it is otherwise thought of in our ignorant courtland!" the young man blushed and looked down. "i am sorry," he said; "it is a common fashion with us. i crave your pardon if in aught i have offended." the princess margaret looked quizzically at her companion. "i' faith," she said, "i have ever had a curiosity about foreign customs. this one i find not amiss. do it again!" and with her own princessly hand she took johann's slender brown fingers and placed them upon her arm. "these are fitter for the pen than for the sword!" she said, a saying which pleased the owner of them but little. the courtlander otto, who had been on guard at the gate, had meantime been relieved, and now followed the pair through the corridors to the summer palace upon an errand which he had speciously invented. at this point he stood astonished. "i would that prince wasp were here. we should see his sting. he is indeed a marvel, this fellow of plassenburg. glad am i that he does not know little lenchen up in the kaiser platz. no one of us would have a maid to his name, if this gamester abode in courtland long and made the running in this style!" the princess and her squire now went out into the open air. for she had led him by devious ways almost round the entire square of the palace buildings. they passed into a thick avenue of acacias and yews, through the arcades of which they walked silently. for the princess was content, and the secretary afraid of making any more mistakes. so he let the foreign custom go at what it might be worth, knowing that if he tried to better it, ten to one a worse thing might befall. "i have changed my mind," said the princess, suddenly stopping and turning upon her companion; "i shall not introduce you to my brother. if you come from the ambassador, you must have matters of importance to speak of. i will rest me here in an arbour and come in later. then, if you are good, you shall perhaps be permitted to reconduct me to my lodging, and as we go, teach me any other pleasant foreign customs!" the secretary bowed, but kept his eyes on the ground. "you do not say that you are glad," cried the princess, coming impulsively a step nearer. "i tell you there is not one youth----but no matter. i see that it is your innocence, and i am not sure that i do not like you the better for it." behind an evergreen, otto the courtlander nearly discovered himself at this declaration. "his innocence--magnificent karl the great! his plassenburger's innocence--god wot! he will not die of it, but he may be the death of me. oh, for the opinion of prince wasp of muscovy upon such innocence." "come," said the princess, holding out her hands, "bid me goodbye as you do in your country. there is the prince my brother's horse at the door. you must hasten, or he will be gone ere you do your message." at this the heart of the youth gave a great leap. "the prince!" he cried, "he will be gone!" and would have bolted off without a word. "never mind the prince--think of me," commanded the princess, stamping her foot. "give me your hand. i am not accustomed to ask twice. bid me goodbye." with his eyes on the white charger by the door the secretary hastily took the princess by both hands. then, with his mind still upon the departing prince, he drew her impulsively towards him, kissed her swiftly upon both cheeks, and finished by imprinting his lips heartily upon her mouth! then, still with swift impulse and an ardent glance upward at the palace front, he ran in the direction of the steps of the summer palace. the princess margaret stood rooted to the ground. a flush of shame, anger, or some other violent emotion rose to her brow and stayed there. then she called to mind the straightforward unclouded eyes, the clear innocence of the youth's brow, and the smile came back to her lips. "after all, it is doubtless only his foreign custom," she mused. then, after a pause, "i like foreign customs," she added, "they are interesting to learn!" behind his tree the courtlander stood gasping with astonishment, as well he might. "god never made such a fellow," he said to himself. "well might he say he never kissed any but ladies. such abilities were lost upon mere men. an hour's acquaintance--nay, less--and he hath kissed the princess margaret upon the mouth. and she, instead of shrieking and calling the guard to have the insulter thrust into the darkest dungeon, falls to musing and smiling. a devil of a secretary this! of a certainty i must have little lenchen out of town!" chapter viii johann in the summer palace at the door of the summer palace not a soul was on guard. a great quiet surrounded it. the secretary could hear the gentle lapping of the river over the parapet, for the little pavilion had been erected overhanging the water, and the leaves of the linden-trees rustled above. these last were still clamorous with the hum of bees, whose busy wings gave forth a sort of dull booming roar, comparable only to the distant noise of breakers when a roller curls slowly over and runs league-long down the sandy beach. it was with a beating heart that johann pyrmont knocked. "enter!" said a voice within, with startling suddenness. and opening the door and grasping his papers, the secretary suddenly found himself in the presence of the hero of the tournament. the prince was standing by a desk covered with books and papers. in his hand he held a quill, wherewith he had been writing in a great book which lay on a shelf at his elbow. for a moment the secretary could not reconcile this monkish occupation with his idea of the gallant white-plumed knight whom he had seen flash athwart the lists, driving a clean furrow through the hostile ranks with his single spear. but he remembered his sister's description, and looked at him with the reverence of the time for one to whom all knowledge was open. "you have business with me, young sir?" said the prince courteously, turning upon the youth a regard full of dignity and condescension. the knees of johann pyrmont trembled. for a full score of moments his tongue refused its office. "i come," he said at last, "to convey these documents to the noble prince of courtland and wilna." he gained courage as he spoke, for he had carefully rehearsed this speech to dessauer. "i am acting as secretary to the ambassador--in lieu of a better. these are the proposals concerning alliance between the realms proposed by our late master, the prince karl, before his death; and now, it is hoped, to be ratified and carried out between courtland and plassenburg under his successors, the princess helene and her husband." the tall fair-haired prince listened carefully. his luminous and steady eyes seemed to pierce through every disguise and to read the truth in the heart of the young architect-secretary. he took the papers from the hand of johann pyrmont, and laid them on a desk beside him, without, however, breaking the seals. "i will gladly take charge of such proposals. they do as much credit, i doubt not, to the sagacity of the late prince, your great master, as to the kindness and good-feeling of our present noble rulers. but where is the ambassador? i had hoped to see high councillor von dessauer for my own sake, as well as because of the ancient kindliness and correspondence that there was between him and my brother." "his brother," thought the secretary. "i did not know he had a brother--a lad, i suppose, in whom dessauer hath an interest. he is ever considerate to the young!" but aloud he answered, "i grieve to tell you, my lord, that the high councillor von dessauer is not able to leave his bed this morning. he caught a chill yesterday, either riding hither or at the tourney, and it hath induced an old trouble which no leech has hitherto been skilful enough to heal entirely. he will, i fear, be kept close in his room for several days." "i also am grieved," said the prince, with grave regret, seeing the youth's agitation, and liking him for it. "i am glad he keeps the art to make himself so beloved. it is one as useful as it is unusual in a diplomatist!" then with a quick change of subject habitual to the man, he said, "how found you your way hither? the corridors are both confusing and intricate, and the guards ordinarily somewhat exacting." the tall youth smiled. "i was in the best hands," he said. "your sister, the princess margaret, was good enough to direct me, being on her way to her own apartment." "ah!" muttered the prince, smiling as if he knew his sister, "this is the way to the princess's apartments, is it? the moscow road to rome, i wot!" he said no more, but stood regarding the youth, whose blushes came and went as he stood irresolute before him. "a modest lad," said the prince to himself; "this ingenuousness is particularly charming in a secretary of legation. i must see more of him." suddenly a thought crossed his mind. "why, did i not hear that you came to us by way of kernsberg?" he said. the blushes ceased and a certain pallor showed under the tan which overspread the young man's face as the prince continued to gaze fixedly at him. he could only bow in assent. "then, doubtless, you would see the duchess joan?" he continued. "is she very beautiful? they say so." "i do not think so. i never thought about it at all!" answered the secretary. suddenly he found himself plunged into deep waters, just as he had seen the port of safety before him. the prince laughed, throwing back his head a little. "that is surely a strange story to bring here to courtland," he said, "whither the lady is to come as a bride ere long! especially strange to tell to me, who----" "i ask your pardon," said johann pyrmont; "your highness must bear with me. i have never done an errand of such moment before, having mostly spent my life among soldiers and ("he was on his guard now") in a fortress. for diplomacy and word-play i have no skill--no, nor any liking!" "you have chosen your trade strangely, then," smiled the prince, "to proclaim such tastes. wherefore are you not a soldier?" "i am! i am!" cried johann eagerly; "at least, as much as it is allowed to one of my--of my strength to be." "can you fence?" asked the prince, "or play with the broad blade?" "i can do both!" "then," continued his inquisitor, "you must surely have tried yourself against the duchess joan. they say she has wonderful skill. joan of the sword hand, i have heard her called. you have often fenced with her?" "no," said the secretary, truthfully, "i have never fenced with the duchess joan." "so," said the prince, evidently in considerable surprise; "then you have certainly often seen her fence?" "i have never seen the duchess fence, but i have often seen others fence with her." "you practise casuistry, surely," cried the prince. "i do not quite follow the distinction." but, nevertheless, the secretary knew that the difference existed. he would have given all the proceeds and emoluments of his office to escape at this moment, but the eye of the prince was too steady. "i doubt not, young sir," he continued, "that you were one of the army of admirers which, they say, continually surrounds the duchess of hohenstein!" "indeed, you are in great error, my lord," said johann pyrmont, with much earnestness and obvious sincerity; "i never said one single word of love to the lady joan--no, nor to any other woman!" "no," said a new voice from the doorway, that of the princess margaret, "but doubtless you took great pleasure in teaching them foreign customs. and i am persuaded you did it very well, too!" the prince left his desk for the first time and came smilingly towards his sister. as he stooped to kiss her hand, johann observed that his hair seemed already to be thin upon the top of his head. "he is young to be growing bald," he said to himself; "but, after all" (with a sigh), "that does not matter in a man so noble of mien and in every way so great a prince." the impulsive princess margaret scarcely permitted her hand to be kissed. she threw her arms warmly about her brother's neck, and then as quickly releasing him, she turned to the secretary, who stood deferentially looking out at the window, that he might not observe the meeting of brother and sister. "i told you he was my favourite brother, and that you would love him, too," she said. "you must leave your dull plassenburg and come to courtland. i, the princess, ask you. do you promise?" "i think i shall come again to courtland," answered the secretary very gravely. "this young man knows the duchess joan of hohenstein," said the prince, still smiling quietly; "but i do not think he admires her very greatly--an opinion he had better keep to himself if he would have a quiet life of it in courtland!" "indeed," said the princess brusquely. "i wonder not at it. i hear she is a forward minx, and at any rate she shall never lord it over me. i will run away with a dog-whipper first." "your husband would have occasion for the exercise of his art, sister mine!" said the prince. "but, indeed, you must not begin by misliking the poor young maid that will find herself so far from home." "oh," cried the princess, laughing outright, "i mislike her not a whit. but there is no reason in the world why, because you are all ready to fall down and worship, this young man or any other should be compelled to do likewise." and right princess-like she looked as she pouted her proud little lips and with her foot patted the polished oak. "but," she went on again to her brother, "your poor beast out there hath almost fretted himself into ribands by this time. if you have done with this noble youth, i have a fancy to hear him tell of the countries wherein he has sojourned. and, in addition, i have promised to show him the carp in the ponds. you have surely given him a great enough dose of diplomatics and canon law by this time. you have, it seems to me, spent half the day in each other's society." "on the contrary," returned the prince, smiling again, but going towards the desk to put away the papers which dessauer's secretary had brought--"on the contrary, we talked almost solely about women--a subject not uncommon when man meets man." "but somewhat out of keeping with the dignity of your calling, my brother!" said the princess pointedly. "and wherefore?" he said, turning quickly with the papers still in his hand. "if to guide, to advise, to rule, are of my profession, surely to speak of women, who are the more important half of the human race, cannot be foreign to my calling!" "come," she said, hearing the words without attending to the sense, "i also like things foreign. the noble secretary has promised to teach me some more of them!" the tolerant prince laughed. he was evidently accustomed to his sister's whims, and, knowing how perfectly harmless they were, he never interfered with them. "a good day to you," he said to the young man, by way of dismissal. "if i do not see you again before you leave, you must promise me to come back to the wedding of the duchess johanna. in that event you must do me the honour to be my guest on that occasion." the red flooded back to johann's cheek. "i thank you," he said, bowing; "i _will_ come back to the wedding of the duchess joan." "and you promise to be my guest? i insist upon it," continued the kindly prince, willing to gratify his sister, who was smiling approval, "i insist that you shall let me be your host." "i hope to be your guest, most noble prince," said the secretary, looking up at him quickly as he went through the door. it was a singular look. for a moment it checked and astonished the prince so much that he stood still on the threshold. "where have i seen a look like that before?" he mused, as he cast his memory back into the past without success. "surely never on any man's face?" which, after all, was likely enough. then putting the matter aside as curious, but of no consequence, the prince rode away towards that part of the city from which the towers of the minster loomed up. a couple of priests bowed low before him as he passed, and the people standing still to watch his broad shoulders and erect carriage, said one to the other, "alas! alas! the truest prince of them all--to be thus thrown away!" and these were the words which the secretary heard from a couple of guards who talked at the gate of the rose-garden, as they, too, stood looking after the prince. "wait," said johann pyrmont to himself; "wait, i will yet show them whether he is thrown away or not." chapter ix the rose garden the rose garden of the summer palace of courtland was a paradise made for lovers' whisperings. even now, when the chills of autumn had begun to blow through its bowers, it was over-clambered with late-blooming flowers. its bowers were creeper-tangled. trees met over paths bedded with fallen petals, making a shade in sunshine, a shelter in rain, and delightful in both. it was natural that so fair a princess, taking such a sudden fancy to a young man, should find her way where the shade was deepest and the labyrinth most entangled. but this secretary johann of ours, being creditably hard of heart, would far rather have hied him straight back to old dessauer with his news. more than anything he desired to be alone, that he might think over the events of the morning. but the princess margaret had quite other intentions. "do you know," she began, "that i might well have lodged you in a dungeon cell for that which in another had been dire insolence?" they were pacing a long dusky avenue of tall yew-trees. the secretary turned towards her the blank look of one whose thoughts have been far away. but the princess rattled on, heedless of his mood. "nevertheless, i forgive you," she said; "after all, i myself asked you to teach me your foreign customs. if any one be to blame, it is i. but one thing i would impress upon you, sir secretary: do not practise these outland peculiarities before my brothers. either of them might look with prejudice upon such customs being observed generally throughout the city. i came back chiefly to warn you. we do not want that handsome head of yours (which i admit is well enough in its way, as, being a man, you are doubtless aware) to be taken off and stuck on a pole over the strasburg gate!" it was with an effort that the secretary detached himself sufficiently from his reveries upon the interview in the summer palace to understand what the princess was driving at. "all this mighty pother, just because i kissed her on the cheek," he thought. "a princess of courtland is no such mighty thing--and why should i not?--oh, of course, i had forgotten again. i am not now the person i was." but how can we tell with what infinite condescension the princess took the young man's hand and read his fortune, dwelling frowningly on the lines of love and life? "you have too pretty a hand for a man," she said; "why is it hard here and here?" "that is from the sword grip," said the secretary, with no small pride. "do you, then, fence well? i wish i could see you," she cried, clapping her hands. "how splendid it would be to see a bout between you and prince wasp--that is, the prince ivan of muscovy, i mean. he is a great fencer, and also desires to be a great friend of mine. he would give something to be sitting here teaching me how they take hands and bid each other goodbye in bearland. they rub noses, i have heard say, a custom which, to my thinking, would be more provocative than satisfactory. i like your plassenburg fashion better." whereat, of course there was nothing for it but that the secretary should arouse himself out of his reverie and do his part. if the princess of courtland chose to amuse herself with him, well, it was harmless on either side--even more so than she knew. soon he would be far away. meanwhile he must not comport himself like a puking fool. "i think in somewise it were possible to improve upon the customs even of plassenburg," said the princess margaret, after certain experiments; "but tell me, since you say that we are to be friends, and i have admitted your plea, what is your fortune? nay, do you know that i do not even know your name--at least, not from your own lips." for, headlong as she had proved herself in making love, yet a vein of baltic practicality was hidden beneath the princess's impetuosity. "my father was the count von löen, and i am his heir!" said the secretary carefully; "but i do not usually call myself so. there are reasons why i should not." which there were, indeed--grave reasons, too. "then you are the count von löen?" said the princess. "i seem to have heard that name somewhere before. tell me, are you the count von löen?" "i am certainly the heir to that title," said the secretary, grilling within and wishing himself a thousand miles away. "i must go directly and tell my brother. he will be back from the cathedral by this time. i am sure he did not know. and the estates--a little involved, doubtless, like those of most well-born folk in these ill days? are they in your sole right?" "the estates are extensive. they are not encumbered so far as i know. they are all in my own right," explained the newly styled count with perfect truth. but within he was saying, "god help me! i get deeper and deeper. what a whirling chaos a single lie leads one into! heaven give me speedy succour out of this!" and as he thought of his troubles, the noble count, the swordsman, the learned secretary, could scarce restrain a desire to break out into hysterical sobbing. a new thought seemed to strike the princess as he was speaking. "but so young, so handsome," she murmured, "so apt a pupil at love!" then aloud she said, "you are not deceiving me? you are not already betrothed?" "not to any woman!" said the deceitful count, picking his words with exactness. the gay laugh of the princess rang out prompt as an echo. "i did not expect you to be engaged to a man!" she cried. "but now conduct me to the entrance of my chambers" (here she reached him her hand). "i like you," she added frankly, looking at him with unflinching eyes. "i am of the house of courtland, and we are accustomed to say what we think--the women of us especially. and sooner than carry out this wretched contract and marry the prince wasp, i will do even as i said to my brother, i will run away and wed a dog-whipper! but perhaps i may do better than either!" she said in her heart, nodding determinedly as she looked at the handsome youth before her, who now stood with his eyes downcast upon the ground. they were almost out of the yew-tree walk, and the voice of the princess carried far, like that of most very impulsive persons. it reached the ears of a gay young fashionable, who had just dismounted at the gate which led from the rose garden into the wing of the palace inhabited by the princess margaret and her suite. "now," said the princess, "i will show you how apt a pupil i make. tell me whether this is according to the best traditions of plassenburg!" and taking his face between her hands she kissed him rapidly upon either cheek and then upon the lips. "there!" she said, "i wonder what my noble brothers would say to that! i will show them that margaret of courtland can choose both whom she will kiss and whom she will marry!" and flashing away from him like a bright-winged bird she fled upward into her chambers. then, somewhat dazed by the rapid succession of emotions, johann the secretary stepped out of the green gloom of the yew-tree walk into the broad glare of the september sun and found himself face to face with prince wasp. chapter x prince wasp now ivan, prince of muscovy, had business in courtland very clear and distinct. he came to woo the princess margaret, which being done, he wished to be gone. there was on his side the certainty of an excellent fortune, a possible succession, and, in any case, a pretty and wilful wife. but as he thought on that last the wasp smiled to himself. in moscow there were many ways, once he had her there, of taming the most wilful of wives. as to the inheritance--well, it was true there were two lives between; but one of these, in prince ivan's mind, was as good as nought, and the other----in addition, the marriage had been arranged by their several fathers, though not under the same penalty as that which threatened the prince of courtland and joan duchess of hohenstein. prince wasp had not favourably impressed the family at the palace. his manners had the strident edge and blatant self-assertion of one who, unlicensed at home, has been flattered abroad, deferred to everywhere, and accustomed to his own way in all things. nevertheless, ivan had managed to make himself popular with the townsfolk, on account of the largesse which he lavished and the custom which his numerous suite brought to the city. specially, he had been successful in attaching the rabble of the place to his cause; and already he had headed off two other wooers who had come from the south to solicit the smiles of the princess margaret. "so," he said, as he faced the secretary, now somewhat compositely styled--johann, count von löen, "so, young springald, you think to court a foolish princess. you play upon her with your pretty words and graceful compliments. that is an agreeable relaxation enough. it passes the time better than fumbling with papers in front of an escritoire. only--you have in addition to reckon with me, ivan, hereditary prince of muscovy." and with a sweep of his hand across his body he drew his sword from its sheath. the sword of the young secretary came into his hand with equal swiftness. but he answered nothing. a curious feeling of detachment crept over him. he had held the bare sword before in presence of an enemy, but never till now unsupported. "i do you the honour to suppose you noble," said prince wasp, "otherwise i should have you flogged by my lacqueys and thrown into the town ditch. i have informed you of my name and pretensions to the hand of the princess margaret, whom you have insulted. i pray you give me yours in return." "i am called johann, count von löen," answered the secretary as curtly as possible. "pardon the doubt which is in my mind," said the prince of muscovy, with a black sneering bitterness characteristic of him, "but though i am well versed in all the noble families of the north, and especially in those of plassenburg, where i resided a full year in the late prince's time, i am not acquainted with any such title." "nevertheless, it is mine by right and by birthright," retorted the secretary, "as i am well prepared to maintain with my sword in the meantime. and, after, you can assure yourself from the mouth of the high state's councillor dessauer that the name and style are mine. your ignorance, however, need not defer your chastisement." "follow me, count von löen," said the prince; "i am too anxious to deal with your insolence as it deserves to quarrel as to names or titles, legal or illegitimate. my quarrel is with your fascinating body and prettyish face, the beauty of which i will presently improve with some good northland steel." and with his lithe and springy walk the prince of muscovy passed again along the alleys of the rose garden till he reached the first open space, where he turned upon the secretary. "we are arrived," he said; "our business is so pressing, and will be so quickly finished, that there is no need for the formality of seconds. though i honour you by crossing my sword with yours, it is a mere formality. i have such skill of the weapon, as i daresay report has told you, that you may consider yourself dead already. i look upon your chastisement no more seriously than i might the killing of a fly that has vexed me with its buzzing. guard!" but johann pyrmont had been trained in a school which permitted no such windy preludes, and with the fencer's smile on his face he kept his silence. his sword would answer all such boastings, and that in good time. and so it fell out. from the very first crossing of the swords prince wasp found himself opposed by a quicker eye, a firmer wrist, a method and science infinitely superior to his own. his most dashing attack was repelled with apparent ease, yet with a subtlety which interposed nothing but the most delicate of guards and parries between prince ivan and victory. this gradually infuriated the prince, till suddenly losing his temper he stamped his foot in anger and rushed upon his foe with the true muscovite fire. then, indeed, had johann need of all his most constant practice with the sword, for the sting of the wasp flashed to kill as he struck straight at the heart of his foe. [illustration: "the prince staggered." [_page _]] but lo! the blade was turned aside, the long-delayed answering thrust glittered out, and the secretary's sword stood a couple of handbreadths in the boaster's shoulder. with an effort johann recovered his blade and stood ready for the ripost; but the wound was more than enough. the prince staggered, cried out some unintelligible words in the muscovite language, and pitched forward slowly on his face among the trampled leaves and blown rose petals of the palace garden. the secretary grew paler than his wont, and ran to lift his fallen enemy. but, all unseen, other eyes had watched the combat, and from the door by which they had entered, and from behind the trees of the surrounding glade, there came the noise of pounding footsteps and fierce cries of "seize him! kill him! tear him to pieces! he has slain the good prince, the friend of the people! the prince ivan is dead!" and ere the secretary could touch the body of his unconscious foe, or assure himself concerning his wound, he found himself surrounded by a yelling crowd of city loafers and gallows'-rats, many of them rag-clad, others habited in heterogeneous scraps of cast-off clothing, or articles snatched from clothes-lines and bleaching greens--long-mourned, doubtless, by the good wives of courtland. the secretary eyed this unkempt horde with haughty scorn, and his fearless attitude, as he striped his stained sword through his handkerchief and threw the linen away, had something to do with the fact that the rabble halted at the distance of half-a-dozen yards and for many minutes contented themselves with hurling oaths and imprecations at him. johann pyrmont kept his sword in his hand and stood by the body of his fallen foe in disdainful silence till the arrival of fresh contingents through the gate aroused the halting spirit of the crowd. knives and sword-blades began to gleam here and there in grimy hands where at first there had been only staves and chance-snatched gauds of iron. "at him! down with him! he can only strike once!" these and similar cries inspirited the rabble of courtland, great haters of the plassenburg and the teutonic west, to rush in and make an end. at last they did come on, not all together, but in irregular undisciplined rushes. johann's sword streaked out this way and that. there was an answering cry of pain, a turmoil among the assailants as a wounded man whirled his way backward out of the press. but this could not last for long. the odds were too great. the droning roar of hate from the edges of the crowd grew louder as new and ever newer accretions joined themselves to its changing fringes. then suddenly came a voice. "back, on your lives, dogs and traitors! germans to the rescue! danes, teuts, northmen to the rescue!" following the direction of the sound, johann saw a young man drive through the press, his sword bare in his hand, his eyes glittering with excitement. it was the danish prisoner of the guard-hall at kernsberg, that same sparhawk who had fought with werner von orseln. the crowd stared back and forth betwixt him and that other whom he came to succour. far more than ever his extraordinary likeness to the secretary appeared. apparent enough at any time, it was accentuated now by similarity of clothing. for, like johann pyrmont, the sparhawk was attired in a black doublet and trunk hose of scholastic cut, and as they stood back to back, little difference could be noted between them, save that the newcomer was a trifle the taller. "saint michael and all holy angels!" cried the leader of the crowd, "can it be that there are scores of these plassenburg black crows in courtland, slaying whom they will? here be two of them as like as two peas, or a couple of earthen pipkins from the same potter's wheel!" the dane flung a word over his shoulder to his companion. "pardon me, your grace," said the sparhawk, "if i stand back to back with you. they are dangerous. we must watch well for any chance of escape." the secretary did not answer to this strange style of address, but placed himself back to back with his ally, and their two bright blades waved every way. only that of johann pyrmont was already reddened well-nigh half its length. a second time the courage of the crowd worked itself up, and they came on. "death to the russ, to the lovers of russians!" cried the sparhawk, and his blade dealt thrusts right and left. but the pressure increased every moment. those behind cried, "kill them!" for they were out of reach of those two shining streaks of steel. those before would gladly have fallen behind, but could not for the forward thrust of their friends. still the ring narrowed, and the pair of gallant fighters would doubtlessly have been swept away had not a diversion come to alter the face of things. out of the gate which led to the wing of the palace occupied by the princess margaret burst a little company of halberdiers, at sight of whom the crowd gave suddenly back. the princess herself was with them. "take all prisoners, and bring them within," she cried. "well you know that my brother is from home, or you dare not thus brawl in the very precincts of the palace!" and at her words the soldiers advanced rapidly. a further diversion was caused by the sparhawk suddenly cleaving a way through the crowd and setting off at full speed in the direction of the river. whereupon the rabble, glad to combine personal safety with the pleasures of the chase, took to their heels after him. but, light and unexpected in motion as his namesake, the sparhawk skimmed down the alleys, darted sideways through gates which he shut behind him with a clash of iron, and finally plunged into the green rush of the alla, swimming safe and unhurt to the further shore, whither, in the absence of boats at this particular spot, none could pursue him. chapter xi the kiss of the princess margaret the princess and her guard were left alone with the secretary and the unconscious body of the prince of muscovy. "sirrah," she cried severely to the former, "is this the first use you make of our hospitality, thus to brawl in the street underneath my very windows with our noble guest the prince ivan? take him to my brother's room, and keep him safely there to await our lord's return. we shall see what the prince will say to this. and as for this wounded man, take him to his own apartments, and let a surgeon be sent to him. only not in too great a hurry!" she added as an afterthought to the commander of her little company of palace guards. so, merely detailing half a dozen to carry the prince to his chambers, the captain of the guard conducted the secretary to the very room in which an hour before he had met the brother of the princess. here he was confined, with a couple of guards at the door. nor had he been long shut up before he heard the quick step of the princess coming along the passage-way. he could distinguish it a long way off, for the summer palace was built mostly of wood, and every sound was clearly audible. "so," she said, as soon as the door was shut, "you have killed prince wasp!" "i trust not," said the secretary gravely; "i meant only to wound him. but as he attacked me i could not do otherwise than defend myself." "tut," cried the princess, "i hope you have killed him. it will be good riddance, and most like the muscovites will send an army--which, with your plassenburg to help us, will make a pretty fight. it serves him right, in any event, for prince wasp must always be thrusting his sting into honest folk. he will be none the worse for some of his own poison applied at a rapier's point to keep him quiet for some few days." but johann was not in a mood to relish the jubilation of the princess. he grew markedly uneasy in his mind. every moment he anticipated that the prince would return. a trial would take place, and he did not know what might not be discovered. the princess margaret delivered him from his anxiety. "the laws are strict against duelling," she continued. "the prince ivan is in high favour with my elder brother, and it will be well that you should be seen no more in courtland--for the present, that is. but in a little the prince wasp will die or he will recover. in either case the affair will blow over. then you will come back to teach me more foreign customs." she smiled and held out her hand. johann kissed it, perhaps without the fervour which might have been expected from a brisk young man thus highly favoured by the fairest and sprightliest of princesses. "to-night," she went on, "there will be a boat beneath that window. it will be manned by those whom i can trust. a ladder of rope will be thrown to your casement. by it you will descend, and with a good horse and a sufficient escort you can ride either to plassenburg--or to kernsberg, which is nearer, and tell joan of the sword hand that her sister the princess margaret sends you to her. i will give you a letter to the minx, though i am sure i shall not like her. she is so forward, they say. but be ready at the hour of midnight. who was that youth who fled as we came up?" "a danish knight who came hither in our train from kernsberg," replied johann. "but for him i should have been lost indeed!" "i must have a horse also for him!" cried the princess. "he will surely be on the watch and join you, knowing that his danger is as great as yours. hearken--they are mourning for their precious prince wasp. to-morrow they will howl louder if by good hap he goes home to--purgatory!" and through the open windows came a sound of distant shoutings as they carried the wounded prince to his lodgings. "now," said the princess, "for the present fare you well--in the colder fashion of courtland this time, for the sake of the guards at the door. but remember that you are more than ever plighted to me to be my instructor, dear count von löen!" she went to the door, and with her fingers on the handle she turned her about with a pretty vixenish expression. "i am so glad you stung the wasp. i love you for it!" she said. but after she had vanished with these words the secretary grew more and more downcast in spirit. even this naïve declaration of affection failed to cheer him. he sat down and gave himself up to the most melancholy anticipations. at six a servitor silently entered with a well-chosen and beautifully cooked meal, of which the secretary partook sparingly. at seven it grew dark, and at ten all was quiet in the city. the river rushed swiftly beneath, and the noise of it, as the water lapped against the foundations of the summer palace, helped to disguise the sound of oars, as the boat, a dark shadow upon greyish water, detached itself from the opposite shore and approached the window from whose open casement johann pyrmont looked out. [illustration: "the secretary found himself swaying over the dark water." [_page _]] a low whistle came from underneath, and presently followed the soft reeving _whisk_ of a coil of rope as it passed through the window and fell at his feet. the secretary looked about for something to fasten it to, and finally decided upon the iron uprights of the great desk at which the prince had stood earlier in the day. no sooner was this done than johann set his foot on the top round and began to descend. it was with a sudden emptiness at the pit of the stomach and a great desire to cry out for some one to hold the ladder steady that the secretary found himself swaying over the dark water. the boat seemed very far away, a mere spot of blackness upon the river's face. but presently, and while making up his mind to practise the gymnastic of rope ladders quietly at home, he made out a man holding the ladder, while two others with grappled boat-hooks kept the boat steady fore and aft. a shrouded figure sat in the stern. the secretary seemed rather to find himself in a boat which rose swiftly to meet him than to descend into it. he was handed from one to the other of the rowers till he reached the shrouded figure in the stern, out of the folds of whose enveloping cloak a small warm hand shot forth and pulled him down upon the seat. "draw this corner about you, count," a low voice whispered; and in another moment johann found himself under the shelter of one cloak with that daring slip of nobility, the princess margaret of courtland. "i was obliged to come; there is no danger. these fellows are of my household and devoted to me. i did not dare to risk anything going wrong. besides, i am a princess, and--why need not i say it?--i wanted to come. i wanted to see you again, though, indeed, there is small chance of that in such a night. and 'tis as well, for i am sure my hair is blown every way about my face." "the horses are over there," she added after a pause; "we are almost at the shore now--alas, too quickly! but i must not keep you. i want you to come back the sooner. and remember, if prince wasp gets better and worries me too much, or my brother is unkind and insists upon marrying me to the bear, i will take one or two of these fellows and come to seek you at plassenburg, so make your reckoning with that, sir count von löen. as i said, what is the use of being a princess if you cannot marry whom you will? most, i know, marry whom they are told; but then they have not the spirit of a baltic weevil, let alone that of margaret of courtland." they touched the shore almost at the place where the sparhawk had landed in the morning when he escaped from the city rabble, and a stone's-throw further up the bank they found the horses waiting, ready caparisoned for the journey. two men were, by the princess's orders, to accompany johann. but with great thoughtfulness she had provided a fourth horse for the companion who, equally with himself, was under the ban of the law for wounding the lieges of the prince of courtland within the precincts of the palace. "he cannot have gone far," said the princess. "he would certainly conceal himself till nightfall in the first convenient hiding-place. he will be on the look-out for any chance to release you." and the event proved the wisdom of her prophecy. for as soon as he had distinguished the slim figure of the secretary landing from the boat the sparhawk appeared on the crest of the hill, though for the moment he was still unseen by those below. "goodbye! for the present, goodbye, dear princess," said johann, with his heart in his voice. "god knows, i can never thank or repay you. my heart is heavy for that. i am unworthy of all your goodness. it is not as you think----" he paused for words which might warn without revealing his secret; but the princess, never long silent, struck in. "let there be no talk of parting except for the moment," she said. "go, you are my knight. perhaps one day, if you do not forget me, i may be yet far kinder to you!" and with a most tender kiss and a little sob the princess sent her lover, more and more downcast and discouraged by reason of her very kindness, upon his way. so much did his obvious depression affect margaret of courtland, that after the secretary, with one of the men-at-arms leading the spare horse, had reached the top of the river bank, she suddenly bade the rowers wait a moment before casting loose from the land. "your sword! your sword!" she called aloud, risking any listener in her eagerness; "you have forgotten your sword." now it chanced that the sparhawk had already come up with the little party of travellers. he kissed the hand of johann pyrmont, placed him on his beast, and was preparing to mount his steed with a glad heart, when the voice from beneath startled him. "do not trouble, i will bring the sword," said the sparhawk to johann, with his usual impetuosity, putting the reins into the secretary's hands. and without a moment's hesitation he flung himself down the bank. the princess had leaped nimbly ashore, and was standing with the sheathed sword in her hand. when she saw the figure came bounding towards her down the pebbly bank, she gave a little cry, and dropping the scabbard, threw her arms impulsively about the sparhawk's neck. "i could not let you go like that--without ever telling you that i loved you--really, i mean," she whispered, while the youth stood petrified with astonishment, without sound or motion. "i will marry none but you--neither prince ivan nor another. a woman should not tell a man that, i know, lest he despise her; but a princess may, if the man dare not tell her." * * * * * "and what answered you?" asked the secretary of his companion, as they rode together through the night out on their road to kernsberg. "why, i said nothing--speech was not needed," quoth the dane coolly. "she kissed you?" "well," said the sparhawk, "i could not help that, could i?" "but what said you to that?" "why, of course, i kissed her back again, as a man ought!" he made answer. "poor princess," mused the secretary; "it is more than i could ever have done for her!" aloud he said, "but you do not love her--you had not seen her before! why then did you kiss her?" for these things are hidden from women. the dane shrugged his shoulders in the dark. "well, i take what the gods send," he replied. "she was a pretty girl, and her princess-ship made no difference in her kissing so far as i could see. i serve you to the death, my lady duchess; but if a princess loves me by the way--why, i am ready to indulge her to the limit of her desirings!" "you are indeed an accommodating youth," sighed the secretary, and forthwith returned to his own melancholy thoughts. and ever as they rode westward they heard all around them the rustle of corn in the night wind. stacks of hay shed a sweet scent momently athwart their path, and more than once fruit-laden branches swept across their faces. for they were passing through the garden of the baltic, and its fresh beauty was never fresher than on that september night when these four rode out of courtland towards the distant blue hills on which was perched kernsberg, built like an eagle's nest on a crag overfrowning the wealthier plain. at the first boundaries of the group of little hill principalities the two soldiers were dismissed, suitably rewarded by johann, to carry the news of safety back to their wayward and impulsive mistress. and thence-forward the sparhawk and the secretary rode on alone. at the little châlet among the hills where the duchess joan had so suddenly disappeared they found two of her tire-maidens and an aged nurse impatiently awaiting their mistress. to them entered that composite and puzzling youth the ex-architect and secretary of the embassy of plassenburg, johann, count von löen. and wonder of wonders, in an hour afterwards joan of the sword hand was riding eagerly towards her capital city with her due retinue, as if she had merely been taking a little summer breathing space at a country seat. her entrance created as little surprise as her exit. for as to her exits and entrances alike the duchess consulted no man, much less any woman. werner von orseln saluted as impassively as if he had seen his mistress an hour before, and the acclamations of the guard rang out as cheerfully as ever. joan felt her spirits rise to be once more in her own land and among her own folk. nevertheless, there was a new feeling in her heart as she thought of the day of her marriage, when the long-planned bond of brotherhood-heritage should at last be carried out, and she should indeed become the mistress of that great land into which she had ventured so strangely, and the bride of the prince--her prince, the most noble man on whom her eyes had ever rested. then her thoughts flew to the princess who had delivered her out of peril so deadly, and her soul grew sick and sad within her, not at all lest her adventure should be known. she cared not so much about that now. (perhaps some day she would even tell him herself when--well, _after_!) but since she had ridden to courtland, joan, all untouched before, had grown suddenly very tender to the smarting of another woman's heart. "it is in no wise my fault," she told herself, which in a sense was true. but conscience, being a thing not subject to reason, dealt not a whit the more easily with her on that account. it was six months afterwards that the sparhawk, who had been given the command of a troop of good hohenstein lancers, asked permission to go on a journey. he had been palpably restless and uneasy ever since his return, and in spite of immediate favour and the prospect of yet further promotion, he could not settle to his work. "whither would you go?" asked his mistress. "to courtland," he confessed, somewhat reluctantly, looking down at the peaked toe of his tanned leather riding-boot. "and what takes you to courtland?" said joan; "you are in danger there. besides, even if you could, would you leave my service and engage with some other?" "nay, my lady," he burst out, "that will not i, so long as life lasts. but--but the truth is"--he hesitated as he spoke--"i cannot get out of my mind the princess who kissed me in the dark. the like never happened before to any man. i cannot forget her, do what i will. no, nor rest till i have looked upon her face." "wait," said joan. "only wait till the spring and it is my hap to ride to courtland for my marriage day. then i promise you you shall see somewhat of her--the lord send that it be not more than enough!" so through many bitter winter days the sparhawk abode at the castle of kernsberg, ill content. chapter xii joan forswears the sword it was not in accordance with etiquette that two such nobly born betrothed persons, to be allied for reasons of high state policy, should visit each other openly before the day of marriage; but many letters and presents had at various times come to kernsberg, all bearing witness to the lover-like eagerness of the prince of courtland and of his desire to possess so fair a bride, especially one who was to bring him so coveted a possession as the hill provinces of kernsberg and hohenstein. amongst other things he had forwarded portraits of himself, drawn with such skill as the artists of the baltic at that time possessed, of a man in armour, with a countenance of such wooden severity that it might stand (as the duchess openly declared) just as well for werner, her chief captain, or any other man of war in full panoply. "but," said joan within herself, "what care i for armour black or armour white? mine eyes have seen--and my heart does not forget." then she smiled and for a while forgot the coming inevitable disappointment of the princess margaret, which troubled her much at other times. the winter was unusually long and fierce in the mountains of kernsberg that year, and even along the baltic shores the ice packed thicker and the snow lay longer by a full month than usual. it was the end of may, and the full bursting glory of a northern spring, when at last the bridal cavalcade wound down from the towers of the castle of kernsberg. four hundred riders there were, every man arrayed like a prince in the colours of hohenstein--four fairest maids to be bridesmaids to their duchess, and as many matrons of rank and years to bring their mistress with dignity and discretion to her new home. but the people and the rough soldiers openly mourned for joan of the sword hand. "the princess of courtland will not be the same thing!" they said. and they were right, for since the last time she rode out joan had thought many thoughts. could it be that she was indeed that reckless maid who once had vowed that she would go and look once at the man her father had bidden her marry, and then, if she did not like him, would carry him off and clap him into a dungeon till he had paid a swinging ransom? but the knight of the white plume, and the interview she had had with a certain prince in the summer palace of courtland, had changed all that. now she would be sober, grave--a fit mate for such a man. almost she blushed to recall her madcap feats of only a year ago. as they approached the city, and each night brought them closer to the great day, joan rode more by herself, or talked with the young dane, maurice von lynar, of the princess margaret--without, however, telling him aught of the rose garden or the expositions of foreign customs which had preceded the duel with the wasp. the heart of the duchess beat yet faster when at last the day of their entry arrived. as they rode toward the gate of courtland they were aware of a splendid cavalcade which came out to receive them in the name of the prince, and to conduct them with honour to the palace prepared for them. in the centre of a brilliant company rode the princess margaret, in a well-fitting robe of pale blue broidered with crimson, while behind and about her was such a galaxy of the fashion and beauty of a court, that had not joan remembered and thought on the summer parlour and the man who was waiting for her in the city, she had almost bidden her four hundred riders wheel to the right about, and gallop straight back to kernsberg and the heights of rustic hohenstein. at sight of the duchess's party the princess alighted from off her steed with the help of a cavalier. at the same moment joan of the sword hand leaped down of her own accord and came forward to meet her new sister. the two women kissed, and then held each other at arm's length for the luxury of a long look. the face of the princess showed a trace of emotion. she appeared to be struggling with some recollection she was unable to locate with precision. "i hope you will be very happy with my brother," she faltered; then after a moment she added, "have you not perchance a brother of your own?" but before joan could reply the representative of the prince had come forward to conduct the bride-elect to her rooms, and the princess gave place to him. but all the same she kept her eyes keenly about her, and presently they rested with a sudden brightness upon the young dane, maurice von lynar, at the head of his troop of horse. he was near enough for her to see his face, and it was with a curious sense of strangeness that she saw his eyes fixed upon herself. "he is different--he is changed," she said to herself; "but how--wait till we get to the palace, and i shall soon find out!" and immediately she caused it to be intimated that all the captains of troops and the superior officers of the escort of the duchess joan were to be entertained at the palace of the princess margaret. so that at the moment when joan was taking a first survey of her chambers, which occupied one entire wing of the palace of the princes of courtland, margaret the impetuous had already commanded the presence of the count von löen, one of the commanders of the bridal escort. the young officer entrusted with the message returned almost immediately, to find his mistress impatiently pacing up and down. "well?" she said, halting at the upper end of the reception-room and looking at him. "your highness," he said, "there is no count von löen among the officers of kernsberg!" margaret of courtland stamped her foot. "i expected as much," she said. "he shall pay for this. why, man, i saw him with my own eyes an hour ago--a young man, slender, sits erect in his saddle, of a dark allure, and with eyes like those of an eagle." a flush came over the youth's face. "does he look like the brother of the duchess joan?" he said. "that is the man--count von löen or no. that is the man, i tell you. bring him immediately to me." the young officer smiled. "methinks he will come readily enough. he started forward as if to follow me when first i told my message. but when i mentioned the name of the count von löen he stood aside in manifest disappointment." "at all events, bring him instantly!" commanded the princess. the officer bowed low and retired. the princess margaret smiled to herself. "it is some more of their precious state secrets," she said. "well--i love secrets, and i can keep them too; but only my own, or those that are told to me. and i will make my gentleman pay for playing off his counts von löen on me!" presently she heard heavy footsteps approaching the door. "come in--come in straightway," she said in a loud, clear voice; "i have a word to speak with you, sir count--who yet deny that you are a count. and, prithee, to how many silly girls have you taught the foreign fashions of linked arms, and all that most pleasant ceremony of leave-taking in kernsberg and plassenburg?" then the sparhawk had his long-desired view in full daylight of the woman whose lips, touched once under cloud of night, had dominated his fancy and enslaved his will during all the weary months of winter. also he had before him, though he knew it not, a somewhat difficult and complicated explanation. chapter xiii the sparhawk in the toils the princess margaret was standing by the window as the young man entered. her golden curls flashed in the late sunshine, which made a kind of haze of light about her head as she turned the resentful brilliance of her eyes upon maurice von lynar. "is it a safe thing, think you, sir count, to jest with a princess in her own land and then come back to flout her for it?" maurice understood her to refer to the kiss given and returned in the darkness of the night. he knew not of how many other indiscretions he was now to bear the brunt, or he had turned on the spot and fled once more across the river. "my lady," he said, "if i offended you once, it was not done intentionally, but by mistake." "by mistake, sir! have a care. i may have been indiscreet, but i am not imbecile." "the darkness of the night----" faltered von lynar, "let that be my excuse." "pshaw!" flashed the princess, suddenly firing up; "do you not see, man, that you cannot lie yourself out of this? and, indeed, what need? if _i_ were a secretary of embassy, and a princess distinguished me with her slightest favour, methinks when next i came i would not meanly deny her acquaintance!" von lynar was distressed, and fortunately for himself his distress showed in his face. "princess," he said, standing humbly before her, "i did wrong. but consider the sudden temptation, the darkness of the night----" "the darkness of the night," she said, stamping her foot, and in an instinctively mocking tone; "you are indeed well inspired. you remind me of what i ventured that you should be free. the darkness of the night, indeed! i suppose that is all that sticks in your memory, because you gained something tangible by it. you have forgotten the walk through the corridors of the palace, all you taught me in the rose garden, and--and--how apt a pupil you said i was. pray, good master forgetfulness, who hath forgotten all these things, forgotten even his own name, tell me what you did in courtland eight months ago?" "i came--i came," faltered the sparhawk, fearful of yet further committing himself, "i came to find and save my dear mistress." "your--dear--mistress?" the princess spoke slowly, and the blue eyes hardened till they overtopped and beat down the bold black ones of maurice von lynar; "and you dare to tell me this--me, to whom you swore that you had never loved woman in the world before, never spoken to them word of wooing or compliment! out of my sight, fellow! the prince, my brother, shall deal with you." then all suddenly her pride utterly gave way. the disappointment was too keen. she sank down on a silk-covered ottoman by the window side, sobbing. "oh, that i could kill you now, with my hands--so," she said in little furious jerks, gripping at the pillow; "i hate you, thus to put a shame upon me--me, margaret of courtland. could it have been for such a thing as you that i sent away the prince of muscovy--yes, and many others--because i could not forget you? and after all----!" now maurice von lynar was not quick in discernment where woman was concerned, but on this occasion he recognised that he was blindly playing the hand of another--a hand, moreover, of which he could not hope to see the cards. he did the only thing which could have saved him with the princess. he came near and sank on one knee before her. "madam," he said humbly and in a moving voice, "i beseech you not to be angry--not to condemn me unheard. in the sense of being in love, i never loved any but yourself. i would rather die than put the least slight upon one so surpassingly fair, whose memory has never departed from me, sleeping or waking, whose image, dimly seen, has never for a moment been erased from my heart's tablets." the princess paused and lifted her eyes till they dwelt searchingly upon him. his obvious sincerity touched her willing heart. "but you said just now that you came to courtland to see 'your dear mistress?'" the young man put his hand to his head. "you must bear with me," he said, "if perchance for a little my words are wild. i had, indeed, no right to speak of you as my dear mistress." "oh, it was of me that you spoke," said the princess, smiling a little; "i begin to understand." "of what other could i speak?" said the shameless von lynar, who now began to feel his way a little clearer. "i have indeed been very ill, and when i am in straits my head is still unsettled. oftentimes i forget my very name, so sharp a pang striking through my forehead that i dote and stare and forget all else. it springs from a secret wound that at the time i knew nothing of." "yes--yes, i remember. in the duel with the wasp--in the yew-tree walk it happened. tell me, is it dangerous? did it well-nigh cost you your life?" the youth modestly hung down his head. this sudden spate of falsehood had come upon him, as it were, from the outside. "if the truth will not help me," he muttered, "why, i can lie with any man. else wherefore was i born a dane? but, by my faith, my mistress must have done some rare tall lying on her own account, and now i am reaping that which she hath sown." as he kneeled thus the princess bent over him with a quizzical expression on her face. "you are sure that you speak the truth now? your wound is not again causing you to dote?" "nay," said the sparhawk; "indeed, 'tis almost healed." "where was the wound?" queried the princess anxiously. "there were two," answered von lynar diplomatically; "one in my shoulder at the base of my neck, and the other, more dangerous because internal, on the head itself." "let me see." she came and stood above him as he put his hand to the collar of his doublet, and, unfastening a tie, he slipped it down a little and showed her at the spring of his neck werner von orseln's thrust. "and the other," she said, covering it up with a little shudder, "that on the head, where is it?" the youth blushed, but answered valiantly enough. "it never was an open wound, and so is a little difficult to find. here, where my hand is, above my brow." "hold up your head," said the princess. "on which side was it? on the right? strange, i cannot find it. you are too far beneath me. the light falls not aright. ah, that is better!" she kneeled down in front of him and examined each side of his head with interest, making as she did so, many little exclamations of pity and remorse. "i think it must be nearer the brow," she said at last; "hold up your head--look at me." von lynar looked at the princess. their position was one as charming as it was dangerous. they were kneeling opposite to one another, their faces, drawn together by the interest of the surgical examination, had approached very close. the dark eyes looked squarely into the blue. with stuff so inflammable, fire and tow in such immediate conjunction, who knows what conflagration might have ensued had von lynar's eyes continued thus to dwell on those of the princess? but the young man's gaze passed over her shoulder. behind margaret of courtland he saw a man standing at the door with his hand still on the latch. a dark frown overspread his face. the princess, instantly conscious that the interest had gone out of the situation, followed the direction of von lynar's eyes. she rose to her feet as the young dane also had done a moment before. maurice recognised the man who stood by the door as the same whom he had seen on the ground in the yew-tree walk when he and joan of the sword hand had faced the howling mob of the city. for the second time prince wasp had interfered with the amusements of the princess margaret. that lady looked haughtily at the intruder. "to what," she said, "am i so fortunate as to owe the unexpected honour of this visit?" "i came to pay my respects to your highness," said prince wasp, bowing low. "i did not know that the princess was amusing herself. it is my ill-fortune, not my fault, that i interrupted at a point so full of interest." it was the truth. the point was decidedly interesting, and therein lay the sting of the situation, as probably the wasp knew full well. "you are at liberty to leave me now," said the princess, falling back on a certain haughty dignity which she kept in reserve behind her headlong impulsiveness. "i obey, madam," he replied; "but first i have a message from the prince your brother. he asks you to be good enough to accompany his bride to the minster to-morrow. he has been ill all day with his old trouble, and so cannot wait in person upon his betrothed. he must abide in solitude for this day at least. your highness is apparently more fortunate!" the purpose of the insult was plain; but the princess margaret restrained herself, not, however, hating the insulter less. [illustration: "the lady looked haughtily at the intruder." [_page _]] "i pray you, prince ivan," she said, "return to my brother and tell him that his commands are ever an honour, and shall be obeyed to the letter." she bowed in dignified dismissal. prince wasp swept his plumed hat along the floor with the profundity of his retiring salutation, and in the same moment he flashed out his sting. "i leave your highness with less regret because i perceive that solitude has its compensations!" he said. the pair were left alone, but all things seemed altered now. margaret of courtland was silent and distrait. von lynar had a frown upon his brow, and his eyes were very dark and angry. "next time i must kill the fellow!" he muttered. he took the hand of the princess and respectfully kissed it. "i am your servant," he said; "i will do your bidding in all things, in life or in death. if i have forgotten anything, in aught been remiss, believe me that it was fate and not i. i will never presume, never count on your friendship past your desire, never recall your ancient goodness. i am but a poor soldier, yet at least i can faithfully keep my word." the princess withdrew her hand as if she had been somewhat fatigued. "do not be afraid," she said a little bitterly, "i shall not forget. _i_ have not been wounded in the head! _only in the heart!_" she added, as she turned away. chapter xiv at the high altar when maurice von lynar reached the open air he stood for full five minutes, light-headed in the rush of the city traffic. the loud iteration of rejoicing sounded heartless and even impertinent in his ear. the world had changed for the young dane since the count von löen had been summoned by the princess margaret. he cast his mind back over the interview, but failed to disentangle anything definite. it was a maze of impressions out of which grew the certainty that, safely to play his difficult part, he must obtain the whole confidence of the duchess joan. he looked about for the prince of muscovy, but failed to see him. though not anxious about the result, he was rather glad, for he did not want another quarrel on his hands till after the wedding. he would see the princess margaret there. if he played his cards well with the bride, he might even be sent for to escort her. so he made his way to the magnificent suite of apartments where the duchess was lodged. the prince had ordered everything with great consideration. her own horsemen patrolled the front of the palace, and the courtland guards were for the time being wholly withdrawn. [illustration: "joan of hohenstein stood, looking out upon the river." [_page _]] it seemed strange that joan of the sword hand, who not so long ago had led many a dashing foray and been the foremost in many a brisk encounter, should be a bride! it could not be that once he had imagined her the fairest woman under the sun, and himself, for her sake, the most miserable of men. thus do lovers deceive themselves when the new has come to obliterate the old. some can even persuade themselves that the old never had any existence. the young dane found the duchess walking up and down on the noble promenade which faces the river to the west. for the water curved in a spacious elbow about the city of courtland, and the summer palace was placed in the angle. maurice von lynar stood awhile respectfully waiting for the duchess to recognise him. werner, john of thorn, or any of her kernsberg captains would have gone directly up to her. but this youth had been trained in another school. joan of hohenstein stood a while without moving, looking out upon the river. she thought with a kind of troubled shyness of the morrow, oft dreamed of, long expected. she saw the man whom she was not known ever to have seen--the noble young man of the tournament, the gracious prince of the summer parlour, courteous and dignified alike to the poor secretary of embassy and to his sister the princess margaret of courtland. surely there never was any one like him--proudly thought this girl, as she looked across the river at the rich plain studded with far-smiling farms and fields just waking to life after their long winter sleep. "ah, von lynar, my brave dane, what good wind blows you here?" she cried. "i declare i was longing for some one to talk to." a consciousness of need which had only just come to her. "i have seen the princess margaret," said the youth slowly, "and i think that she must mistake me for some other person. she spoke things most strange to me to hear. but fearing i might meddle with affairs wherewith i had no concern, i forebore to correct her." the eyes of the duchess danced. a load seemed suddenly lifted off her mind. "was she very angry?" she queried. "very!" returned von lynar, smiling in recognition of her smile. "what said the princess?" "first she would have it that my name and style were those of the count von löen. then she reproached me fiercely because i denied it. after that she spoke of certain foreign customs she had been taught, recalled walks through corridors and rose gardens with me, till my head swam and i knew not what to answer." joan of the sword hand laughed a merry peal. "the count von löen, did she say?" she meditated. "well, so you are the count von löen. i create you the count von löen now. i give you the title. it is mine to give. by to-morrow i shall have done with all these things. and since as the count von löen i drank the wine, it is fair that you, who have to pay the reckoning, should be the count von löen also." "my family is noble, and i am the sole heir--that is, alive," said maurice, a little drily. to his mind the grandson of count von lynar, of the order of the dannebrog, had no need of any other distinction. "but i give you also therewith the estates which pertain to the title. they are situated on the borders of reichenau. i am so happy to-night that i would like to make all the world happy. i am sorry for all the folk i have injured!" "love changes all things," said the dane sententiously. the duchess looked at him quickly. "you are in love--with the princess margaret?" she said. the youth blushed a deep crimson, which flooded his neck and dyed his dusky skin. "poor maurice!" she said, touching his bowed head with her hand, "your troubles will not be to seek." "my lady," said the youth, "i fear not trouble. i have promised to serve the princess in all things. she has been very kind to me. she has forgiven me all." "so--you are anxious to change your allegiance," said the duchess. "it is as well that i have already made you count von löen, and so in a manner bound you to me, or you would be going off into another's service with all my secrets in your keeping. not that it will matter very much--after to-morrow!" she added, with a glance at the wing of the palace which held the summer parlour. "but how did you manage to appease her? that is no mean feat. she is an imperious lady and quick of understanding." then maurice von lynar told his mistress of his most allowable falsehoods, and begged her not to undeceive the princess, for that he would rather bear all that she might put upon him than that she should know he had lied to her. "do not be afraid," said the duchess, laughing, "it was i who tangled the skein. so far you have unravelled it very well. the least i can do is to leave you to unwind it to the end, my brave count von löen." so they parted, the duchess to her apartment, and the young man to pace up and down the stone-flagged promenade all night, thinking of the distracting whimsies of the princess margaret, of the hopelessness of his love, and, most of all, of how daintily exquisite and altogether desirable was her beauty of face, of figure, of temper, of everything! for the sparhawk was not a lover to make reservations. * * * * * the morning of the great day dawned cool and grey. a sunshade of misty cloud overspread the city and tempered the heat. it had come up with the morning wind from the baltic, and by eight the ships at the quays, and the tall beflagged festal masts in the streets through which the procession was to pass, ran clear up into it and were lost, so that the standards and pennons on their tops could not be seen any more than if they had been amongst the stars. the streets were completely lined with the folk of the city of courtland as the princess margaret, with the sparhawk and his company of lances clattering behind her, rode to the entrance of the palace where abode the bride-elect. "who is that youth?" asked margaret of courtland of joan, as they came out together; she looked at the dane--"he at the head of your first troops? he looks like your brother." "he has often been taken for such!" said the bride. "he is called the count von löen!" the princess did not reply, and as the two fair women came out arm in arm, a sudden glint of sunlight broke through the leaden clouds and fell upon them, glorifying the white dress of the one, and the blue and gold apparel of the other. the bells of the minster clanged a changeful thunder of brazen acclaim as the bride set out for the first time (so they told each other on the streets) to see her promised husband. "'twas well we did not so manage our affairs, hans," said a fishmonger's wife, touching her husband's arm archly. "yea, wife," returned the seller of fish; "whatever thou beest, at least i cannot deny that i took thee with my eyes open!" they reached the rathhaus, and the clamour grew louder than ever. presently they were at the cathedral and making them ready to dismount. the bells in the towers above burst forth into yet more frantic jubilation. the cannons roared from the ramparts. the princess margaret had delayed a little, either taking longer to her attiring, or, perhaps, gossiping with the bride. so that when the shouts in the wide minster place announced their arrival, all was in readiness within the crowded church, and the bridegroom had gone in well-nigh half an hour before them. but that was in accord with the best traditions. very like a princess and a great lady looked joan of hohenstein as she went up the aisle, with margaret of courtland by her side. she kept her eyes on the ground, for she meant to look at no one and behold nothing till she should see--that which she longed to look upon. suddenly she was conscious that they had stopped in the middle of a vast silence. the candles upon the great altar threw down a golden lustre. joan saw the irregular shining of them on her white bridal dress, and wondered that it should be so bright. there was a hush over all the assembly, the silence of a great multitude all intent upon one thing. "my brother, the prince of courtland!" said the voice of the princess margaret. slowly joan raised her eyes--pride and happiness at war with a kind of glorious shame upon her face. but that one look altered all things. she stood fixed, aghast, turned to stone as she gazed. she could neither speak nor think. that which she saw almost struck her dead with horror. the man whom his sister introduced as the prince of courtland was not the knight of the tournament. he was not the young prince of the summer palace. he was a man much older, more meagre of body, grey-headed, with an odd sidelong expression in his eyes. his shoulders were bent, and he carried himself like a man prematurely old. and there, behind the altar-railing, clad in the scarlet of a prince of the church, and wearing the mitre of a bishop, stood the husband of her heart's deepest thoughts, the man who had never been out of her mind all these weary months. he held a service book in his hand, and stood ready to marry joan of hohenstein to another. the man who was called prince of courtland came forward to take her hand; but joan stood with her arms firmly at her sides. the terrible nature of her mistake flashed upon her and grew in horror with every moment. fate seemed to laugh suddenly and mockingly in her face. destiny shut her in. "are you the prince of courtland?" she asked; and at the sound of her voice, unwontedly clear in the great church, even the organ appeared to still itself. all listened intently, though only a few heard the conversation. "i have that honour," bowed the man with the bent shoulders. "then, as god lives, i will never marry you!" cried joan, all her soul in the disgust of her voice. "be not disdainful, my lady," said the bridegroom mildly; "i will be your humble slave. you shall have a palace and an establishment of your own, an it like you. the marriage was your father's desire, and hath the sanction of the emperor. it is as necessary for your state as for mine." then, while the people waited in a kind of palpitating uncertainty, the princess margaret whispered to the bride, who stood with a face ashen pale as her own white dress. sometimes she looked at the prince of courtland, and then immediately averted her eyes. but never, after the first glance, did joan permit them to stray to the face of him who stood behind the altar railings with his service book in his hand. "well," she said finally, "i _will_ marry this man, since it is my fate. let the ceremony proceed!" "i thank you, gracious lady," said the prince, taking her hand and leading his bride to the altar. "you will never regret it." "no, but you will!" muttered his groomsman, the prince ivan of muscovy. the full rich tones of the prince bishop rose and fell through the crowded minster as joan of hohenstein was married to his elder brother, and with the closing words of the episcopal benediction an awe fell upon the multitude. they felt that they were in the presence of great unknown forces, the action and interaction of which might lead no man knew whither. at the close of the service, joan, now princess of courtland, leaned over and whispered a word to her chosen captain, maurice von lynar, an action noticed by few. the young man started and gazed into her face; but, immediately commanding his emotion, he nodded and disappeared by a side door. the great organ swelled out. the marriage procession was re-formed. the prince-bishop had retired to his sacristy to change his robes. the new princess of courtland came down the aisle on the arm of her husband. then the bells almost turned over in their fury of jubilation, and every cannon in the city bellowed out. the people shouted themselves hoarse, and the line of courtland troops who kept the people back had great difficulty in restraining the enthusiasm which threatened to break all bounds and involve the married pair in a whirling tumult of acclaim. in the centre of the minster place the four hundred lances of the kernsberg escort had formed up, a serried mass of beautiful well-groomed horses, stalwart men, and shining spears, from each of which the pennon of their mistress fluttered in the light wind. "ha! there they come at last! see them on the steps!" the shouts rang out, and the people flung their headgear wildly into the air. the line of courtland foot saluted, but no cheer came from the array of kernsberg lances. "they are sorry to lose her--and small wonder. well, she is ours now!" the people cried, congratulating one another as they shook hands and the wine gurgled out of the pigskins into innumerable thirsty mouths. on the steps of the minster, after they had descended more than half-way, the new princess of courtland turned upon her lord. her hand slipped from his arm, which hung a moment crooked and empty before it dropped to his side. his mouth was a little open with surprise. prince louis knew that he was wedding a wilful dame, but he had not been prepared for this. "now, my lord," said the princess joan, loud and clear. "i have married you. the bond of heritage-brotherhood is fulfilled. i have obeyed my father to the letter. i have obeyed the emperor. i have done all. now be it known to you and to all men that i will neither live with you nor yet in your city. i am your wife in name. you shall never be my husband in aught else. i bid you farewell, prince of courtland. joan of hohenstein may marry where she is bidden, but she loves where she will." the horse upon which she had come to the minster stood waiting. there was the sparhawk ready to help her into the saddle. ere one of the wedding guests could move to prevent her, before the prince of courtland could cry an order or decide what to do, joan of the sword hand had placed herself at the head of her four hundred lances, and was riding through the shouting streets towards the plassenburg gate. the people cheered as she went by, clearing the way that she might not be annoyed. they thought it part of the day's show, and voted the kernsbergers a gallant band, well set up and right bravely arrayed. so they passed through the gate in safety. the noble portal was all aflutter with colour, the arms of hohenstein and courtland being quartered together on a great wooden plaque over the main entrance. as soon as they were clear the princess joan turned in her saddle and spake to the four hundred behind her. "we ride back to kernsberg," she cried. "joan of the sword hand is wed, but not yet won. if they would keep her they must first catch her. are you with me, lads of the hills?" then came back a unanimous shout of "aye--to the death!" from four hundred throats. "then give me a sword and put the horses to their speed. we ride for home. let them catch us who can!" and this was the true fashion of the marrying of joan of the sword hand, duchess of hohenstein, to the prince louis of courtland, by his brother conrad, cardinal and prince of holy church. chapter xv what joan left behind after the departure of his bride, the prince of courtland stood on the steps of the minster, dazed and foundered by the shame which had so suddenly befallen him. beneath him the people seethed tumultuously, their holiday ribands and maypole dresses making as gay a swirl of colour as when one looks at the sun through the facets of a cut venetian glass. prince louis's weak and fretful face worked with emotion. his bird-like hands clawed uncertainly at his sword-hilt, wandering off over the golden pouches that tasselled his baldric till they rested on the sheath of the poignard he wore. "bid the gates be shut, prince!" the whisper came over his shoulder from a young man who had been standing all the time twisting his moustache. "bid your horsemen bit and bridle. the plain is fair before you. it is a long way to kernsberg. i have a hundred muscovites at your service, all well mounted--ten thousand behind them over the frontier if these are not enough! let no wench in the world put this shame upon a reigning prince of courtland on his wedding-day!" thus ivan of muscovy, attired in silk, banded of black and gold, counselled the disdained prince louis, who stood pushing upward with two fingers the point of his thin greyish beard and gnawing the straggling ends between his teeth. "i say, 'to horse and ride, man!' will you dare tell this folk of yours that you are disdained, slighted at the very church door by your wedded wife, cast off and trodden in the mire like a bursten glove? can you afford to proclaim yourself the scorn of germany? how it will run, that news! to plassenburg first, where the executioner's son will smile triumphantly to his witch woman, and straightway send off a messenger to tickle the well-larded ribs of his friend the margraf george with the rare jest." the prince louis appeared to be moved by the wasp's words. he turned about to the nearest knight-in-waiting. "let us to horse--every man of us!" he said. "bid that the steeds be brought instantly." the banded wasp had further counsels to give. "give out that you go to meet the princess at a rendezvous. for a pleasantry between yourselves, you have resolved to spend the honeymoon at a distant hunting-lodge. quick! not half a dozen of all the company caught the true import of her words. you will tame her yet. she will founder her horses in a single day's ride, while you have relays along the road at every castle, at every farm-house, and your borders are fifty good miles away." beneath, in the square, the court jesters leaped and laughed, turning somersaults and making a flying skirt, like that of a morrice dancer, out of the long, flapping points of their parti-coloured blouses. the streets in front of the cathedral were alive with musicians, mostly in little bands of three, a harper with his harp of fourteen strings, his companion playing industriously upon a flute-english, and with these two their 'prentice or servitor, who accompanied them with shrill iterance of whistle, while both his hands busied themselves with the merry tuck of tabour. in this incessant merrymaking the people soon forgot their astonishment at the sudden disappearance of the bride. there was, indeed, no understanding these great folk. but it was a fine day for a feast--the pretext a good one. and so the lasses and lads joked as they danced in the lower vaults of the town house, from which the barrels had been cleared for the occasion. "if thou and i were thus wedded, grete, would you ride one way and i the other? nay, god wot, lass! i am but a tanner's 'prentice, but i'd abide beside thee, as close as bark by hide that lies three years in the same tan-pit--aye, an' that i would, lass!" then gretchen bridled. "i would not marry thee, nor yet lie near or far, hans; thou art but a boy, feckless and skill-less save to pole about thy stinking skins--faugh!" "nay, try me, grete! is not this kiss as sweet as any civet-scented fop could give?" at the command of the prince the trumpets rang out again the call of "boot-and-saddle!" from the steps of the cathedral. at the sound the grooms, who were here and there in the press, hasted to find and caparison the horses of their lords. meanwhile, on the wide steps the prince louis fretted, dinting his nails restlessly into his palms and shaking with anger and disappointment till his deep sleeves vibrated like scarlet flames in a veering wind. suddenly there passed a wave over the people who crowded the spacious dom platz of courtland. the turmoil stilled itself unconsciously. the many-headed parti-coloured throng of women's tall coifs, gay fluttering ribands, men's velvet caps, gallants' white feathers that shifted like the permutations of a kaleidoscope, all at once fixed itself into a sea of white faces, from which presently arose a forest of arms flourishing kerchiefs and tossing caps. to this succeeded a deep mouth-roar of burgherish welcome such as the reigning prince had never heard raised in his own honour. "conrad--prince conrad! god bless our prince-cardinal!" the legitimate ruler of courtland, standing where joan had left him, with his slim-waisted muscovite mentor behind him, half-turned to look. and there on the highest place stood his brother in the scarlet of his new dignity as it had come from the pope himself, his red biretta held in his hand, and his fair and noble head erect as he looked over the folk to where on the slope above the city gates he could still see the sun glint and sparkle on the cuirasses and lanceheads of the four hundred riders of kernsberg. but even as the prince of courtland looked back at his brother, the whisper of the tempter smote his ear. "had prince conrad been in your place, and you behind the altar rails, think you that the duchess joan would have fled so cavalierly?" by this time the young cardinal had descended till he stood on the other side of the prince from ivan of muscovy. "you take horse to follow your bride?" he queried, smiling. "is it a fashion of kernsberg brides thus to steal away?" for he could see the grooms bringing horses into the square, and the guards beating the people back with the butts of their spears to make room for the mounting of the prince's cavalcade. "hark--he flouts you!" came the whisper over the bridegroom's shoulder; "i warrant he knew of this before." "you have done your priest's work, brother," said louis coldly, "e'en permit me to go about that of a prince and a husband in my own way." the cardinal bowed low, but with great self-command held his peace, whereat louis of courtland broke out in a sudden overboiling fury. "this is your doing!" he cried; "i know it well. from her first coming my bride had set herself to scorn me. my sister knew it. you knew it. you smile as at a jest. the pope's favour has turned your head. you would have all--the love of my wife, the rule of my folk, as well as the acclaim of these city swine. listen--'the good prince conrad! god save the noble prince!' it is worth while living for favour such as this." "brother of mine," said the young man gently, "as you know well, i never set eyes upon the noble lady joan before. never spoke word to her, held no communication by word or pen." "von dessauer--his secretary!" whispered ivan, dropping the suggestion carefully over his shoulder like poison distilled into a cup. "you were constantly with the old fox dessauer, the envoy of plassenburg--who came from kernsberg, bringing with him that slim secretary. by my faith, now, when i think of it, prince ivan told me last night he was as like this madcap girl as pea to pea--some fly-blown base-born brother, doubtless!" conrad shook his head. his brother had doubtless gone momentarily distract with his troubles. "nay, deny it not! and smile not either--lest i spoil the symmetry of that face for your monkish mummery and processions. aye, if i have to lie under ten years' interdict for it from your friend the most holy pope of rome!" "do not forget there is another church in my country, which will lay no interdict upon you, prince louis," laughed ivan of muscovy. "but to horse--to horse--we lose time!" "brother," said the cardinal, laying his hand on louis's arm, "on my word as a knight--as a prince of the church--i knew nothing of the matter. i cannot even guess what has led you thus to accuse me!" the princess margaret came at that moment out of the cathedral and ran impetuously to her favourite brother. he put out his hand. she took it, and instead of kissing his bishop's ring, as in strict etiquette she ought to have done, she cried out, "conrad, do you know what that glorious wench has done? dared her husband's authority at the church door, leaped into the saddle, whistled up her men, cried to all these courtland gallants, 'catch me who can!' and lo! at this moment she is riding straight for kernsberg, and now our louis must catch her. a glorious wedding! i would i were by her side. brother louis, you need not frown, i am nowise affrighted at your glooms! this is a bride worth fighting for. no puling cloister-maid this that dares not raise her eyes higher than her bridegroom's knee! were i a man, by my faith, i would never eat or drink, neither pray nor sain me, till i had tamed the darling and brought her to my wrist like a falcon to a lure!" "so, then, madam, you knew of this?" said her elder brother, glowering upon her from beneath his heavy brows. "nay!" trilled the gay princess, "i only wish i had. then i, too, would have been riding with them--such a jest as never was, it would have been. goodbye, my poor forsaken brother! joy be with you on this your bridal journey. take prince ivan with you, and conrad and i will keep the kingdom against your return, with your prize gentled on your wrist." so smiling and kissing her hand the princess margaret waved her brother and prince ivan off. the prince of courtland neither looked at her nor answered. but the muscovite turned often in his saddle as if to carry with him the picture she made of saucy countenance and dainty figure as she stood looking up into the face of the cardinal prince conrad. "what in heaven's name is the meaning of all this--i do not understand in the least?" he was saying. "haste you and unrobe, brother con," she said; "this grandeur of yours daunts me. then, in the summer parlour, i will tell you all!" [illustration: "they stood ... looking down at the rushing river." [_page _]] chapter xvi prince wasp's compact "i cannot go back to courtland dishonoured," said prince louis to ivan of muscovy, as they stood on the green bank looking down on the rushing river, broad and brown, which had so lately been the fords of alla. the river had risen almost as it seemed upon the very heels of the four hundred horsemen of kernsberg, and the ironclad knights and men-at-arms who followed the prince of courtland could not face the yeasty swirl of the flood. prince ivan, left to himself, would have dared it. "what is a little brown water?" he cried. "let the men leave their armour on this side and swim their horses through. we do it fifty times a month in muscovy in the springtime. and what are your hill-fed brooks to the full-bosomed rivers of the great plain?" "it is just because they are hill-fed that we know them and will not risk our lives. the alla has come down out of the mountains of hohenstein. for four-and-twenty hours nothing without wing may pass and repass. yet an hour earlier and our duchess had been trapped on the hither side even as we. but now she will sit and laugh up there in kernsberg. and--i cannot go back to courtland without a bride!" prince ivan stood a moment silent. then his eyes glanced over his companion with a certain severe and amused curiosity. from foot to head they scanned him, beginning at the shoes of red cordovan leather, following upwards to the great tassel he wore at his poignard; then came the golden girdle about his waist, the flowered needlework at his wrists and neck, and the scrutiny ended with the flat red cap on his head, from which a white feather nodded over his left eye. then the gaze of prince ivan returned again slowly to the pointed red shoes of cordovan leather. if there was anything so contemptuous as that eye-blink in the open scorn of all the burghers of courtland, prince louis was to be excused for any hesitation he might show in facing his subjects. the matter of prince wasp's meditation ran somewhat thuswise: "thou man, fashioned from a scullion's nail-paring, and cocked upon a horse, what can i make of thee? thou, to have a country, a crown, a wife! gudgeon eats stickleback, jack-pike eats gudgeon and grows fat, till at last the sturgeon in his armour eats him. i will fatten this jack. i will feed him like the gudgeons of kernsberg and hohenstein, then take him with a dainty lure indeed, black-tipped, with sleeves gay as cranes' wings, and answering to the name of 'my lady joan.' but wait--i must be wary, and have a care lest i shadow his water." so saying within his heart, prince wasp became exceedingly thoughtful and of a demure countenance. "my lord," he said, "this day's work will not go well down in courtland, i fear me!" prince louis moved uneasily, keeping his regard steadily upon the brown turmoil of the alla swirling beneath, whereas the eyes of ivan were never removed from his friend's meagre face. "your true courtlander is more than half a muscovite," mused prince wasp, as if thinking aloud; "he wishes not to be argued with. he wants a master, and he will not love one who permits himself to be choused of a wife upon his wedding-day!" prince louis started quickly as the wasp's sting pricked him. "and pray, prince ivan," he said, "what could i have done that i left undone? speak plainly, since you are so prodigal of smiles suppressed, so witty with covert words and shoulder-tappings!" "my louis," said prince wasp, laying his hand upon the arm of his companion with an affectation of tenderness. "i flout you not--i mock you not. and if i speak harshly, it is only that i love not to see you in your turn flouted, mocked, scorned, made light of before your own people!" "i believe it, ivan; pardon the heat of my hasty temper!" said the prince of courtland. the watchful muscovite pursued his advantage, narrowing his eyes that he might the better note every change on the face of the man whom he held in his toils. he went on, with a certain resigned sadness in his voice-- "ever since i came first to courtland with the not dishonourable hope of carrying back to my father a princess of your house, none have been so amiable together as you and i. we have been even as david and jonathan." the prince louis put out a hand, which apparently ivan did not see, for he continued without taking it. "yet what have i gained either of solid good or even of the lighter but not less agreeable matter of my lady's favour? so far as your sister is concerned, i have wasted my time. if i consider the union of our peoples, already one in heart, your brother works against us both; the princess margaret despises me, prince conrad thwarts us. he would bind us in chains and carry us tinkling to the feet of his pagan master in rome!" "i think not so," answered prince louis--"i cannot think so of my brother, with all his faults. conrad is a brave soldier, a good knight--though, as is the custom of our house, it is his lot to be no more than a prince-bishop!" the wasp laughed a little hard laugh, clear and inhuman as the snap and rattle of spanish castanets. "louis, my good friend, your simplicity, your lack of guile, do you wrong most grievous! you judge others as you yourself are. do you not see that conrad your brother must pay for his red hat? he must earn his cardinalate. papa sixtus gives nothing for nothing. courtland must pay peter's pence, must become monkish land. on every flake of stockfish, every grain of sturgeon roe, every ounce of marled amber, your holy father must levy his sacred dues. and the clear ambition of your brother is to make you chief cat's-paw pontifical upon the baltic shore. consider it, good louis." and the prince of muscovy twirled his moustache and smiled condescendingly between his fingers. then, as if he thought suddenly of something else and made a new calculation, he laughed a laugh, quick and short as the barking of a dog. "ha!" he cried, "truly we order things better in my country. i have brothers, one, two, three. they are grand dukes, highnesses very serene. one of them has this province, another this sinecure, yet another waits on my father. my father dies--and i--well, i am in my father's place. what will my brothers do with their serene highnesses then? they will take each one the clearest road and the shortest for the frontier, or by the holy icon of moscow, there would very speedily be certain new tablets in the funeral vault of my fathers." the prince of courtland started. "this thing i could never imagine of conrad my brother. he loves me. at heart he ever cared but for his books, and now that he is a priest he hath forsworn knighthood, and tournaments, and wars." "poor louis," said ivan sadly, "not to see that once a soldier always a soldier. but 'tis a good fault, this generous blindness of the eyes. he hath already the love of your people. he has won already the voice that speaks from every altar and presbytery. the power to loose and bind men's consciences is in his hand. in a little, when he has bartered away your power for his cardinal's hat, he may be made a greater than yourself, an elector of the empire, the right-hand man of papa sixtus, as his uncle adrian was before him. then indeed your courtland will underlie the tinkle of peter's keys!" "i am sure that conrad would do nothing against his fatherland or to the hurt of his prince and brother!" said prince louis, but he spoke in a wavering voice, like one more than half convinced. "again," continued ivan, without heeding him, "there is your wife. i am sure that if he had been the prince and you the priest--well, she had not slept this night in the castle of kernsberg!" "ivan, if you love me, be silent," cried the tortured prince of courtland, setting his hand to his brow. "this is the mere idle dreaming of a fool. how learned you these things? i mean how did the thoughts enter into your mind?" "i learned the matter from the princess margaret, who in the brief space of a day became your wife's confidante!" "did margaret tell it you?" the prince ivan laughed a short, self-depreciatory laugh. "nay, truly," he said, smiling sadly, "you and i are in one despite, louis. your wife scorns you--me, my sweetheart. did margaret tell me? nay, verily! yet i learned it, nevertheless, even more certainly because she denied it so vehemently. but, after all, i daresay all will end for the best." "how so?" demanded prince louis haughtily. "why, i have heard that your papa at rome will do aught for money. doubtless he will dissolve this marriage, which indeed is no more than one in name. he has done more than that already for his own nephews. he will absolve your brother from his vows. then you can be the monk and he the king. there will be a new marriage, at which doubtless you shall hold the service book and he the lady's hand. then we shall have no ridings back to kernsberg, with four hundred lances, at a word from a girl's scornful mouth. and the alla down there may rise or fall at its pleasure, and neither hurt nor hinder any!" the prince of courtland turned an angry countenance upon his friend, but the keen-witted muscovite looked so kindly and yet so sadly upon him that after awhile the severity of his face relaxed as it had been against his will, and with a quick gesture he added, "i believe you love me, ivan, though indeed your words are no better than red-hot pincers in my heart." "love you, louis?" cried prince ivan. "i love you better than any brother i have, though they will never live to thwart me as yours thwarts you--better even than my father, for you do not keep me out of my inheritance!" then in a gayer tone he went on. "i love you so much that i will pledge my father's whole army to help you, first to win your wife, next to take hohenstein, kernsberg, and marienfeld. and after that, if you are still ambitious, why--to plassenburg and the wolfmark, which now the executioner's son holds. that would make a noble kingdom to offer a fair and wilful queen." "and for this you ask?" "only your love, louis--only your love! and, if it please you, the alliance with that princess of your honourable house, of whom we spoke just now!" "my sister margaret, you mean? i will do what i can, ivan, but she also is wilful. you know she is wilful! i cannot compel her love!" the prince ivan laughed. "i am not so complaisant as you, louis, nor yet so modest. give me my bride on the day joan of the sword hand sleeps in the palace of courtland as its princess, and i will take my chance of winning our margaret's love!" chapter xvii woman's wilfulness joan rode on, silent, a furlong before her men. behind her sulked maurice von lynar. had any been there to note, their faces were now strangely alike in feature, and yet more curiously unlike in expression. joan gazed forward into the distance like a soul dead and about to be reborn, planning a new life. maurice von lynar looked more like a naughty schoolboy whom some tyrant fate, rod-wielding, has compelled to obey against his will. yet, in spite of expression, it was maurice von lynar who was planning the future. joan's heart was yet too sore. her tree of life had, as it were, been cut off close to the ground. she could not go back to the old so soon after her blissful year of dreams. there was to be no new life for her. she could not take up the old. but maurice--his thoughts were all for the princess margaret, of the ripple of her golden hair, of her pretty wilful words and ways, of that dimple on her chin, and, above all, of her threat to seek him out if--but it was not possible that she could mean that. and yet she looked as though she might make good her words. was it possible? he posed himself with this question, and for half an hour rode on oblivious of all else. "eh?" he said at last, half conscious that some one had been speaking to him from an infinite distance. "eh? did you speak, captain von orseln?" von orseln grunted out a little laugh, almost silently, indeed, and expressed more by a heave of his shoulders than by any alteration of his features. "speak, indeed? as if i had not been speaking these five minutes. well nigh had i stuck my poignard in your ribs to teach you to mind your superior officer. what think you of this business?" "think?" the sparhawk's disappointment burst out. "think? why, 'tis past all thinking. courtland is shut to us for twenty years." "well," laughed von orseln, "who cares for that? castle kernsberg is good enough for me, so we can hold it." "hold it?" cried maurice, with a kind of joy in his face; "do you think they will come after us?" von orseln nodded approval of his spirit. "yes, little man, yes," he said; "if you have been fretting to come to blows with the courtlanders you are in good case to be satisfied. i would we had only these lumpish baltic jacks to fear." even as they talked castle kernsberg floated up like a cloud before them above the blue and misty plain, long before they could distinguish the walls and hundred gables of the town beneath. but no word spoke joan till that purple shadow had taken shape as stately stone and lime, and she could discern her own red lion flying abreast of the banner of louis of courtland upon the topmost pinnacle of the round tower. then on a little mound without the town she halted and faced about. von orseln halted the troop with a backward wave of the hand. "men of hohenstein," said the duchess, in a clear, far-reaching alto, "you have followed me, asking no word of why or wherefore. i have told you nothing, yet is an explanation due to you." there came the sound as of a hoarse unanimous muttering among the soldiers. joan looked at von orseln as a sign for him to interpret it. "they say that they are joan of the sword hand's men, and that they will disembowl any man who wants to know what it may please you to keep secret." "aye, or question by so much as one lifted eyebrow aught that it may please your highness to do," added captain peter balta, from the right of the first troop. "i said that our duchess could never live in such a dog's hole as their courtland," quoth george the hussite, who, before he took service with henry the lion, had been a heretic preacher. "in bohemia, now, where the pines grow----" "hold your prate, all of you," growled von orseln, "or you will find where hemp grows, and why! my lady," he added, altering his voice as he turned to her, "be assured, no dog in kernsberg will bark an interrogative at you. shall our young duchess joan be wived and bedded like some little burgheress that sells laces and tape all day long on the axel-strasse? shall the daughter of henry the lion be at the commandment of any bor-russian boor, an it like her not? shall she get a burr in her throat with breathing the raw fogs of the baltic? not a word, most gracious lady! explain nothing. extenuate nothing. it is the will of joan of the sword hand--that is enough; and, by the word of werner von orseln, it shall be enough!" "it is the will of joan of the sword hand! it is enough!" repeated the four hundred lances, like a class that learns a lesson by rote. a lump rose in joan's throat as she tried to shape into words the thoughts that surged within. she felt strangely weak. her pride was not the same as of old, for the heart of a woman had grown up within her--a heart of flesh. surely that could not be a tear in her eye? no; the wind blew shrewdly out of the west, to which they were riding. von orseln noted the struggle and took up his parable once more. "the pact is carried out. the lands united--the will of henry the lion done! what more? shall the free princess be the huswife of a yellow baltic dwarf? when we go into the town and they ask us, we will say but this, 'our lady misliked the fashion of his beard!' that will be reason good and broad and deep, sufficient alike for grey-haired carl and prattling bairn!" "i thank you, noble gentlemen," said joan. "now, as you say, let us ride into kernsberg." "and pull down that flag!" cried maurice, pointing to the black courtland eagle which flew so steadily beside the coronated lion of kernsberg and hohenstein. "and pray, sir, why?" quoth joan of the sword hand. "am i not also princess of courtland?" * * * * * from woman's wilfulness all things somehow have their beginning. yet of herself she is content with few things (so that she have what she wants), somewhat spartan in fare if let alone, and no dinner-eating animal. wine, tobacco, caviare, strasburg goose-liver--epicurus's choicest gifts to men of this world--are contemned by womankind. left to their own devices, they prefer a drench of sweet mead or hydromel laced with water, or even of late the china brew that filters in black bricks through the country of the muscovite. nevertheless, to woman's wantings may be traced all restraints and judgments, from the sword flaming every way about eden-gate to the last merchant declared bankrupt and "dyvour" upon the exchange flags of hamburg town. eve did not eat the apple when she got it. she hasted to give it away. she only wanted it because it had been forbidden. so also joan of hohenstein desired to go down with dessauer that she might look upon the man betrothed to her from birth. she went. she looked, and, as the tale tells, within her there grew a heart of flesh. then, when the stroke fell, that heart uprose in quick, intemperate revolt. and what might have issued in the dull compliance of a princess whose life was settled for her, became the imperious revolt of a woman against an intolerable and loathsome impossibility. so in her castle of kernsberg joan waited. but not idly. all day long and every day maurice von lynar rode on her service. the hillmen gathered to his word, and in the courtyard the stormy voices of george the hussite and peter balta were never hushed. the shepherds from the hills went to and fro, marching and countermarching, wheeling and charging, porting musket and thrusting pike, till all kernsberg was little better than a barracks, and the maidens sat wet-eyed at their knitting by the fire and thought, "well for her to please herself whom she shall marry--but how about us, with never a lad in the town to whistle us out in the gloaming, or to thumb a pebble against the window-lattice from the deep edges of the ripening corn?" but there were two, at least, within the realm of the duchess joan who knew no drawbacks to their joy, who rubbed palm on palm and nudged each other for pure gladness. these (it is sad to say) were the military _attachés_ of the neighbouring peaceful state of plassenburg. yet they had been specially cautioned by their prince hugo, in the presence of his wife helene, the hereditary princess, that they were most carefully to avoid all international complications. they were on no account to take sides in any quarrel. above all they must do nothing prejudicial to the peace, neutrality, and universal amity of the state and princedom of plassenburg. such were these instructions. they promised faithfully. but, their names being captains boris and jorian, they now rubbed their hands and nudged each other. they ought to have been in their chamber in the castle of kernsberg, busily concocting despatches to their master and mistress, giving an account of these momentous events. instead, how is it that we find them lying on that spur of the jägernbergen which overlooks the passes of alla, watching the gathering of the great storm which in the course of days must break over the domains of the duchess joan--who had refused and slighted her wedded husband, louis, prince of courtland? being both powerfully resourceful men, long lean boris and rotund jorian had found a way out of the apparent difficulty. there had come with them from plassenburg a commission written upon an entire square of sheepskin by a secretary and sealed with the seal of leopold von dessauer, high councillor of the united princedom and duchy, bearing that "in the name of hugo and helene our well-loved lieges captains boris and jorian are empowered to act and treat," and so forth. this momentous deed was tied about the middle with a red string, and presented withal so courtly and respectable an appearance to the uncritical eyes of the ex-men-at-arms themselves, that they felt almost anything excusable which they might do in its name. before leaving kernsberg, therefore, boris placed this great red-waisted parchment roll in his bed, leaning it angle-wise against his pillow. jorian tossed a spare dagger with the arms of plassenburg beside it. "there--let the civil power and the military for once lie down together!" he said. "we delegate our authority to these two during our absence!" to the silent plassenburgers who had accompanied them, and who now kept their door with unswerving attention, boris explained himself briefly. "remember," he said, "when you are asked, that the envoys of plassenburg are ill--ill of a dangerous and most contagious disease. also, they are asleep. they must on no account be waked. the windows must be kept darkened. it is a great pity. you are desolated. you understand. the first time i have more money than i can spend you shall have ten marks!" the men-at-arms understood, which was no wonder, for boris generally contrived to make himself very clear. but they thought within them that their chances of financial benefit from their captain's conditional generosity were worth about one sole stiver. so these two, being now free fighting-men, as it were, soldiers of fortune, lay waiting on the slopes of the jägernbergen, talking over the situation. "a man surely has a right to his own wife!" said jorian, taking for the sake of argument the conventional side. "_narren-possen_, jorian!" cried boris, raising his voice to the indignation point. "clotted nonsense! who is going to keep a man's wife for him if he cannot do it himself? and he a prince, and within his own city and fortress, too. she boxed his ears, they say, and rode away, telling him that if he wanted her he might come and take her! a pretty spirit, i' faith! too good for such a dried stockfish of the baltic, with not so much soul as a speckled flounder on his own mud-flats! faith! if i were a marrying man, i would run off with the lass myself. she ought at least to be a soldier's wife." "the trouble is that so far she feels no necessity to be any one's wife," said jorian, shifting his ground. "that also is nonsense," said boris, who, spite his defence of joan, held the usual masculine views. "every woman wishes to marry, if she can only have first choice." "there they come!" whispered jorian, whose eyes had never wandered from the long wavering lines of willow and alder which marked the courses of the sluggish streams flowing east toward the alla. boris rose to his feet and looked long beneath his hand. very far away there was a sort of white tremulousness in the atmosphere which after a while began to give off little luminous glints and sparkles, as the sea does when a shaft of moonlight touches it through a dark canopy of cloud. then there arose from the level green plain first one tall column of dense black smoke and then another, till as far as they could see to the left the plain was full of them. "god's truth!" cried jorian, "they are burning the farms and herds' houses. i thought they had been christians in courtland. but these are more like duke casimir's devil's tricks." boris did not immediately answer. his eyes were busy seeing, his brain setting in order. "i tell you what," he said at last, in a tone of intense interest, "these are no fires lighted by courtlanders. the heavy baltic knights could never ride so fast nor spread so wide. the muscovite is out! these are cossack fires. bravo, jorian! we shall yet have our hugo here with his axe! he will never suffer the bear so near his borders." "let us go down," said jorian, "or we shall miss some of the fun. in two good hours they will be at the fords of the alla!" so they looked to their arms and went down. "what do you here? go back!" shouted werner von orseln, who with his men lay waiting behind the floodbanks of the alla. "this is not your quarrel! go back, plassenburgers!" "we have for the time being demitted our office," boris exclaimed. "the envoys of plassenburg are at home in bed, sick of a most sanguinary fever. we offer you our swords as free fighting-men and good teuts. the muscovites are over yonder. lord, to think that i have lived to forty-eight and never yet killed even one bearded russ!" "you may mend that record shortly, to all appearance, if you have luck!" said von orseln grimly. "and this gentleman here," he added, looking at jorian, "is he also in bed, sick?" "my sword is at your service," said the round one, "though i should prefer a musketoon, if it is all the same to you. it will be something to do till these firebrands come within arm's length of us." "i have here two which are very much at your service, if you know how to use them!" said werner. the men-at-arms laughed. "we know their tricks better than those of our sweethearts!" they said, "and those we know well!" "here they be, then," said von orseln. "i sent a couple of men spurring to warn my lady joan, and i bade them leave their muskets and bandoliers till they came back, that they might ride the lighter to and from kernsberg." boris and jorian took the spare pieces with a glow of gratitude, which was, however, very considerably modified when they discovered the state in which their former owners had kept them. "dirty wendish pigs," they said (which was their favourite malediction, though they themselves were wend of the wends). "were they but an hour in our camp they should ride the wooden horse with these very muskets tied to their soles to keep them firmly down. faugh!" and jorian withdrew his finger from the muzzle, black as soot with the grease of uncleansed powder. looking up, they saw that the priest with the little army of kernsberg was praying fervently (after the hussite manner, without book) for the safety of the state and person of their lady duchess, and that the men were listening bareheaded beneath the green slope of the water-dyke. "go on cleaning," said boris; "this is some heretic function, and might sap our morality. we are volunteers, at any rate, as well as the best of good catholics. we do not need unlicensed prayers. if you have quite done with that rag stick, lend it to me, jorian!" chapter xviii captains boris and jorian promote peace now this is the report which captains boris and jorian, envoys (very) extraordinary from the prince and princess of plassenburg to the reigning duchess of hohenstein, made to their home government upon their return from the fords of the alla. they wrote it in collaboration, on the usual plan of one working and the other assisting him with advice. jorian, being of the rotund and complaisant faction, acquiesced in the proposal that he should do the writing. but as he never got beyond "to our honoured lord and lady, hugo and helene, these----" there needs not to be any particularity as to his manner of acting the scribe. he mended at a pen till it looked like a brush worn to the straggling point. he squared his elbows suddenly and overset the inkhorn. he daubed an entire folio of paper with a completeness which left nothing to the imagination. then he remembered that he knew where a secretary was in waiting. he would go and borrow him. jorian re-entered their bedroom with a beaming smile, and the secretary held by the sleeve to prevent his escape. both felt that already the report was as good as written. it began thus:-- "with great assiduity (a word suggested by the secretary) your envoys remembered your highnesses' princely advice and command that we should involve ourselves in no warfare or other local disagreement. so when we heard that hohenstein was to be invaded by the troops of the prince of courtland we were deeply grieved. "nevertheless, judging it to be for the good of our country that we should have a near view of the fighting, we left worthy and assured substitutes in our place and room----" "the parchment commission with a string round his belly!" explained jorian, in answer to the young secretary's lifted eyebrow; "there he is, hiding behind the faggot-chest." "get on, boris," quoth jorian, from the settee on which he had thrown himself; "it is your turn to lie." "good!" says boris. and did it as followeth:-- "we left our arms behind us----" "such as we could not carry," added jorian under his breath. the secretary, a wise youth--full of the new learning and of talk concerning certain books printed on paper and bound all with one _druck_ of a great machine like a cheese-press--held his pen suspended over the paper in doubt what to write. "do not mind him," said boris. "_i_ am dictating this report." "yes, my lord!" replied the secretary from behind his hand. "we left our arms and armour behind us, and went out to make observations in the interest of your highnesses' armies. going down through the woods we saw many wild swine, exceeding fierce. but having no means of hunting these, we evaded them, all save one, which misfortunately met its death by falling against a spear in the hands of captain boris, and another, also of the male sex, shot dead by jorian's pistol, which went off by accident as it was passing." "i have already written that your arms were left at home, according to your direction," said the secretary, who was accustomed to criticise the composition of diplomatic reports. "pshaw!" growled boris, bending his brow upon such superfluity of virtue; "a little thing like that will never be noticed. besides, a man must carry something. we had no cannon or battering rams with us, therefore we were unarmed--to all intents and purposes, that is." the secretary sighed. verily life (as von orseln averred) must be easy in plassenburg, if such stories would pass with the prince. and now it seemed as if they would. "we found the soldiers of the duchess joan waiting at the fords of the alla, which is the eastern border of their province. there were not many of them, but all good soldiers. the courtlanders came on in myriads, with muscovites without number. these last burned and slew all in their path. now the men of hohenstein are good to attack, but their fault is that they are not patient to defend. so it came to pass that not long after we arrived at the fords of the alla, one werner von orseln, commander of the soldiers of the duchess, ordered that his men should attack the courtlanders in front. whereupon they crossed the ford, when they should have stayed behind their shelter. it was bravely done, but had better have been left undone. "remembering, however, your orders and our duty, we advanced with him, hoping that by some means we might be able to promote peace. "this we did. for (wonderful as it may appear) we convinced no fewer than ten muscovites whom we found sacking a farm, and their companions, four sutlers of courtland, that it was wrong to slay and ravish in a peaceful country. in the heat of the argument captain boris received a bullet through his shoulder which caused us for the time being to cease our appeal and fall back. the muscovites, however, made no attempt to follow us. our arguments had been sufficient to convince them of the wickedness of their deed. we hope to receive your princely approval of this our action--peace being, in our opinion, the greatest blessing which any nation can enjoy. for without flattery we may say that if others had argued with equal persuasiveness, the end would have been happier. "then, being once more behind the flood-dykes of the alla, captain jorian examined the hurt of captain boris which he had received in the peace negotiations with the muscovites. it was but a flesh wound, happily, and was soon bound up. but the pain of it acted upon both your envoys as an additional incentive to put a stop to the horrors of war. "so when a company of the infantry of courtland, with whom we had hitherto had no opportunity of wrestling persuasively, attacked the fords, wading as deep as mid-thigh, we took upon us to rebuke them for their forwardness. and accordingly they desisted, some retreating to the further shore, while others, finding the water pleasant, remained, and floated peacefully down with the current. "this also, in some measure, made for peace, and we humbly hope for the further approval of your highnesses, when you have remarked our careful observance of all your instructions. "if only we had had with us our several companies of the regiment of karl the miller's son to aid us in the discussion, more cossacks and strelits might have been convinced, and the final result have been different. nevertheless, we did what we could, and were successful with many beyond our hopes. "but the men of hohenstein being so few, and those of courtland with their allies so many, the river was overpassed both above and below the fords. whereupon i pressed it upon werner von orseln that he should retreat to a place of greater hope and safety, being thus in danger on both flanks. "for your envoys have a respect for werner von orseln, though we grieve to report that, being a man of war from his youth up, he does not display that desire for peace which your good counsels have so deeply implanted in our breasts, and which alone animates the hearts of boris and jorian, captains in the princely guard of plassenburg." "put that in, till i have time to think what is to come next!" said boris, waving his hand to the secretary. "we are doing pretty well, i think!" he added, turning to his companion with all the self-conscious pride of an amateur in words. "let us now tell more about von orseln, and how he would in no wise listen to us!" suggested jorian. "but let us not mix the mead too strong! our hugo is shrewd!" "this werner von orseln (be it known to your high graciousnesses) was the chief obstacle in the way of our making peace--except, perhaps, those muscovites with whom we were unable to argue, having no opportunity. this werner had fought all the day, and, though most recklessly exposing himself, was still unhurt. his armour was covered with blood and black with powder after the fashion of these wild hot-bloods. his face also was stained, and when he spoke it was in a hoarse whisper. the matter of his discourse to us was this:-- "'i can do no more. my people are dead, my powder spent. they are more numerous than the sea-sands. they are behind us and before, also outflanking us on either side.' "then we advised him to set his face to hohenstein and with those who were left to him to retreat in that direction. we accompanied him, bearing in mind your royal commands, and eager to do all that in us lay to advance the interests of amity. the enemy fetched a compass to close us in on every side. "whereupon we argued with them again to the best of our ability. there ensued some slight noise and confusion, so that captain boris forgot his wound, and captain jorian admits that in his haste he may have spoken uncivilly to several bor-russian gentry who thrust themselves in his way. and for this unseemly conduct he craves the pardon of their highnesses hugo and helene, his beloved master and mistress. however, as no complaint has been received from the enemy's headquarters, no breach of friendly relations may be apprehended. captain boris is of opinion that the muscovite boors did not understand captain jorian's teuton language. at least they were not observed to resent his words. "in this manner were the invaders of hohenstein broken through, and the remnant of the soldiers of the duchess joan reached kernsberg in safety--a result which, we flatter ourselves, was as much due to the zeal and amicable persuasiveness of your envoys as to the skill and bravery of werner von orseln and the soldiers of the duchess. "and your humble servants will ever pray for the speedy triumph of peace and concord, and also for an undisturbed reign to your highnesses through countless years. in token whereof we append our signatures and seals. "boris "jorian." "is not that last somewhat overstrained about peace and concord and so forth?" asked jorian anxiously. "not a whit--not a whit!" cried boris, who, having finished his composition, was wholly satisfied with himself, after the manner of the beginner in letters. "our desire to promote peace needs to be put strongly, in order to carry persuasion to their highnesses in plassenburg. in fact, i am not sure that it has been put strongly enough!" "i am troubled with some few doubts myself!" said jorian, under his breath. and as the secretary jerked the ink from his pen he smiled. chapter xix joan stands within her danger so soon as werner von orseln returned to castle kernsberg with news of the forcing of the alla and the overwhelming numbers of the muscovite hordes, the sad-eyed duchess of hohenstein became once more joan of the sword hand. hitherto she had doubted and feared. but now the thought of prince wasp and his muscovite savages steadied her, and she was here and there, in every bastion of the castle, looking especially to the gates which commanded the roads to courtland and plassenburg. her one thought was, "will _he_ be here?" and again she saw the knight of the white plume storm through the lists of courtland, and the enemy go down before him. ah, if only----! [illustration: "captain boris was telling a story." [_page _]] the invading army must have numbered thirty thousand, at least. there were, all told, about two thousand spears in kernsberg. von orseln, indeed, could easily have raised more. nay, they would have come in of themselves by hundreds to fight for their duchess, but the little hill town could not feed more. yet joan was not discouraged. she joked with peter balta upon the louts of courtlanders taking the castle which henry the lion had fortified. the courtlanders, indeed! had not duke casimir assaulted kernsberg in vain, and even the great margraf george threatened it? yet still it remained a virgin fortress, looking out over the fertile and populous plain. but now what were left of the shepherds had fled to the deep-bosomed mountains with their flocks. the cattle were hidden in the thickest woods; only the white farm-houses remained tenantless, silently waiting the coming of the spoiler. and, stripped for combat, castle kernsberg looked out towards the invader, the rolling plain in front of it, and behind the grim intricate hill country of hohenstein. when werner von orseln and peter balta met the invader at the fords of the alla, maurice von lynar and alt pikker had remained with joan, nominally to assist her dispositions, but really to form a check upon the impetuosity of her temper. now von orseln was back again. the fords of the alla were forced, and the fighting strength of kernsberg united itself in the eagle's nest to make its final stand. aloft on the highest ramparts there was a terrace walk which the sparhawk much affected, especially when he was on guard at night. it looked towards the east, and from it the first glimpse of the courtlanders would be obtained. in the great hall of the guard they were drinking their nightly toast. the shouting might have been heard in the town, where at street corners were groups of youths exercising late with wooden spears and mimic armour, crying "hurrah, kernsberg!" they changed it, however, in imitation of their betters in the castle above. "_joan of the sword hand! hoch!_" the shout went far into the night. again and yet again it was repeated from about the crowded board in the hall of the men-at-arms and from the gloomy streets beneath. when all was over, the sparhawk rose, belted his sword a hole or two tighter, set a steel cap without a visor upon his head, glanced at werner von orseln, and withdrew, leaving the other captains to their free-running jest and laughter. captain boris of plassenburg was telling a story with a countenance more than ordinarily grave and earnest, while the table round rang with contagious mirth. the sparhawk found the high terrace of the lion tower guarded by a sentry. him he removed to the foot of the turret-stair, with orders to permit no one save werner von orseln to pass on any pretext. presently the chief captain's step was heard on the stone turnpike. "ha, sparhawk," he cried, "this is cold cheer! why could we not have talked comfortably in hall, with a beaker of mead at one's elbow?" "the enemy are not in sight," said the sparhawk gloomily. "well, that is bad luck," said werner; "but do not be afraid, you will have your chance yet--indeed, all you want and a little over--in the way of killing of muscovites." "i wanted to speak with you on a matter we cannot mention elsewhere," said maurice von lynar. the chief captain stopped in his stride, drew his cloak about him, rested his thigh on a square battlement, and resigned himself. "well," he said, "youth has ever yeasty brains. go on." "i would speak of my lady!" said the youth. "so would most mooncalves of your age!" growled werner; "but they do not usually bring their commanding officers up to the housetops to do it!" "i mean our lady, the duchess joan!" "ah," said werner, with the persiflage gone out of his tone, "that is altogether another matter!" and the two men were silent for a minute, both looking out into the blackness where no stars shone or any light twinkled beyond the walls of the little fortified hill town. at last maurice von lynar spoke. "how long can we hold out if they besiege us?" "two months, certainly--with luck, three!" "and then?" werner von orseln shrugged his shoulders, but only said, "a soldier never anticipates disaster!" "and what of the duchess joan?" persisted the young man. "why, in the same space of time she will be dead or wed!" said von orseln, with an affectation of carelessness easily seen through. the young man burst out, "dead she may be! i know she will never be wife to that courtland death's-head. i saw it in her eyes that day in their cathedral, when she bade me slip out and bring up our four hundred lances of kernsberg." "like enough," said werner shortly. "i, for one, set no bounds to any woman's likings or mislikings!" "we must get her away to a place of safety," said the young man. von orseln laughed. "get her? who would persuade or compel our lady? whither would she go? would she be safer there than here? would the courtlander not find out in twenty-four hours that there was no joan of the sword hand in kernsberg, and follow on her trail? and lastly--question most pertinent of all--what had you to drink down there in hall, young fellow?" the sparhawk did not notice the last question, nor did he reply in a similarly jeering tone. "we must persuade her--capture her, compel her, if necessary. kernsberg cannot for long hold out against both the muscovite and the courtlander. save good jorian and boris, who will lie manfully about their fighting, there is no help for us in mortal man. so this is what we must do to save our lady!" "what? capture joan of the sword hand and carry her off? the mead buzzes in the boy's head. he grows dotty with anxiety and too much hard ale. 'ware, maurice--these battlements are not over high. i will relieve you, lad! go to bed and sleep it off!" "von orseln," said the youth, with simple earnestness, not heeding his taunts, "i have thought deeply. i see no way out of it but this. our lady will eagerly go on reconnaissance if you represent it as necessary. you must take ten good men and ride north, far north, even to the edges of the baltic, to a place i know of, which none but i and one other can find. there, with a few trusty fellows to guard her, she will be safe till the push of the times is over." the chief captain was silent. he had wholly dropped his jeering mood. "there is nothing else that i can see for it," the young dane went on, finding that werner did not speak. "our joan will never go to courtland alive. she will not be carried off on prince louis' saddle-bow, as a cossack might carry off a circassian slave!" "but how," said von orseln, meditating, "will you prevent her absence being known? the passage of so large a party may easily be traced and remembered. though our folk are true enough and loyal enough, sooner or later what is known in the castle is known in the town, and what is known in the town becomes known to the enemy!" maurice von lynar leaned forward towards his chief captain and whispered a few words in his ear. "ah!" he said, and nodded. then, after a pause for thought, he added, "that is none so ill thought on for a beardless younker! i will think it over, sleep on it, and tell you my opinion to-morrow!" the youth tramped to and fro on the terrace, muttering to himself. "good-night, sparhawk!" said von orseln, from the top of the corkscrew stair, as he prepared to descend; "go to bed. i will send alt pikker to command the house-guard to-night. do you get straightway between the sheets as soon as maybe. if this mad scheme comes off you will need your beauty-sleep with a vengeance! so take it now!" "at any rate," the chief captain growled to himself, "you have set a pretty part for me. i may forthwith order my shroud. i shall never be able to face my lady again!" chapter xx the chief captain's treachery the duchess joan was in high spirits. it had been judged necessary, in consultation with her chief officers, to ride a reconnaissance in person in order to ascertain whether the advancing enemy had cut kernsberg off towards the north. on this matter von orseln thought that her highness had better judge for herself. here at last was something definite to be done. it was almost like the old foraying days, but now in a more desperate cause. ten days before, joan's maidens and her aged nurse had been sent for safety into plassenburg, under escort of captains boris and jorian as far as the frontier--who had, however, returned in time to accompany the party of observation on their ride northward. no one in all castle kernsberg was to know of the departure of this cavalcade. shortly before midnight the horses were to be ready under the castle wall. the sparhawk was appointed to command the town during von orseln's absence. ten men only were to go, and these picked and sifted riders--chosen because of their powers of silence--and because, being unmarried, they had no wives to worm secrets out of them. sweethearts they might have, but then, in kernsberg at least, that is a very different thing. finally, having written to their princely master in plassenburg, that they were leaving on account of the war--in which, as envoys extraordinary, they did not desire to be further mixed up--captains boris and jorian made them ready to accompany the reconnaissance. it proved to be a dark and desperate night of storm and rain. the stars were ever and anon concealed by the thick pall of cloud which the wind from the south drove hurtling athwart them. joan herself was in the highest spirits. she wore a long blue cloak, which completely concealed the firmly knit slender figure, clad in forester's dress, from prying eyes. as for werner von orseln, that high captain was calm and grave as usual, but the rest of the ten men were plainly nervous, as they fingered their bridle-reins and avoided looking at each other while they waited in readiness to mount. with a clatter of hoofs they were off, none in the castle knowing more than that werner the chief captain rode out on his occasions. a townsman or two huddled closer among his blankets as the clatter and jingle of the horses mingled with the sharp volleying of the rain upon his wind-beaten lattice, while the long _whoo_ of the wind sang of troublous times in the twisted chimneys overhead. joan, as the historian has already said, was in high spirits. "werner," she cried, as soon as they were clear of the town, "if we strike the enemy to-night, i declare we will draw sword and ride through them." "_if_ we strike them to-night, right so, my lady!" returned werner promptly. but he had the best of reasons for knowing that they would not strike any enemy that night. his last spy from the north had arrived not half an hour before they started, having ridden completely round the enemy's host. joan and her chief captain rode on ahead, von orseln glancing keenly about him, and joan riding free and careless, as in the old days when she overpassed the hills to drive a prey from the lands of her father's enemies. it was grey morning when they came to a goatherd's hut at the top of the green valley. already they had passed the bounds of hohenstein by half a dozen miles. the goatherd had led his light-skipping train to the hills for the day, and the rude and chaotic remains of his breakfast were still on the table. boris and jorian cleared these away, and, with the trained alacrity of seasoned men-at-arms, they placed before the party a breakfast prepared with speed out of what they had brought with them and those things which they had found to their hand by foraging in the larder of the goatherd--to wit, sliced neat's-tongue dried in the smoke, and bread of fine wheat which jorian had carried all the way in a net at his saddle-bow. boris had charge of the wine-skins, and upon a shelf above the door they found a great butter-pot full of freshly made curded goats' milk, very delicious both to taste and smell. of these things they ate and drank largely, joan and von orseln being together at the upper end of the table. boris and jorian had to sit with them, though much against their wills, being (spite of their sweethearts) more accustomed to the company of honest men-at-arms than to the practice of dainty eating in ladies' society. joan undertook to rally them upon their loves, for whose fair fingers, as it has been related in an earlier chapter, she had given them rings. "and how took your katrin the ring, boris?" she said, looking at him past the side of her glass. for jorian had bethought him to bring one for the duchess, the which he cleansed and cooled at the spring without. as for the others, they all drank out of one wooden whey-cog, as was most fitting. "why, she took it rarely," said honest boris, "and swore to love me more than ever for it. we are to be married upon my first return to plassenburg." "which, perhaps, is the reason why you are in no hurry to return thither, seeing that you stopped short at the frontier last week?" said the duchess shrewdly. "nay, my lady, that grieved me sore--for, indeed, we love each other dearly, katrin and i," persisted captain boris, thinking, as was his custom, to lie himself out of it by dint of the mere avoirdupois of asseveration. "that is the greater marvel," returned the lady, smiling upon him, "because when last i spoke with you concerning the matter, her name was not katrin, but gretchen!" boris was silent, as well he might be, for even as he lied he had had some lurking suspicion of this himself. he felt that he could hope to get no further by this avenue. the lady now turned to jorian, who, having digested the defeat and shame of boris, was ready to be very indignant at his companion for having claimed his sweetheart. "and you, captain jorian," she said, "how went it with you? was your ring well received?" "aye, marry," said that gallant captain, "better than well. much better! never did i see woman so grateful. katrin, whom this long, wire-drawn, splenetic fool hath lyingly claimed as his (by some trick of tongue born of his carrying the malmsey at his saddle-bow)--katrin, i say, did kiss and clip me so that my very soul fainted within me. she could not make enough of the giver of such a precious thing as your highness's ring?" jorian in his own estimation was doing very well. he thought he could yet better it. "her eyes sparkled with joy. her hands twitched--she could not keep them from turning the pretty jewel about upon her finger. she swore never to part with it while life lasted----" "then," said joan, smiling, "have no more to do with her. she is a false wench and mansworn. for do not i see it upon the little finger of your left hand at this moment? nay, do not turn the stone within. i know my gift, and will own it even if your katrin (was it not?) hath despised it. what say you now to that, jorian?" "my lady," faltered jorian, striving manfully to recover himself, "when i came again in the honourable guise of an ambassador to kernsberg, katrin gave it back again to me, saying, 'you have no signet ring. take this, so that you be not ashamed among those others. keep it for me. i myself will place it on your finger with a loving kiss.'" "well done, captain jorian, you are a somewhat better liar than your friend. but still your excuses should accord better. the ring i gave you is not a signet ring. that katrin of yours must have been ignorant indeed." with these words joan of the sword hand rose to her feet, for the ex-men-at-arms had not so much as a word to say. "let us now mount and ride homeward," she said; "there are no enemy to be found on this northerly road. we shall be more fortunate upon another occasion." then werner von orseln nerved himself for a battle more serious than any he had ever fought at the elbow of henry the lion of hohenstein. "my lady," he said, standing up and bowing gravely before her, "you see here eleven men who love you far above their lives, of whom i am the chief. two others also there are, who, though not of our nation, are in heart joined to us, especially in this thing that we have done. with all respect, your highness cannot go back. we have come out, not to make a reconnaissance, but to put your grace in a place of safety till the storm blows over." the duchess had slowly risen to her feet, with her hand on the sword which swung at her belt. "you have suddenly gone mad, werner!" she said; "let us have no more of this. i bid you mount and ride. back to kernsberg, i say! ye are not such fools and traitors as to deliver the maiden castle, the eagle's nest of hohenstein, into the hands of our enemies?" "nay," said von orseln, looking steadily upon the ground, "that will we not do. kernsberg is in good hands, and will fight bravely. but we cannot hold out with our few folk and scanty provender against the leaguer of thirty thousand. nevertheless we will not permit you to sacrifice yourself for our sakes or for the sake of the women and children of the city." joan drew her sword. "werner von orseln, will you obey me, or must i slay you with my hand?" she cried. the chief captain yet further bowed his head and abased his eyes. "we have thought also of this," he made answer. "me you may kill, but these that are with me will defend themselves, though they will not strike one they love more than their lives. but man by man we have sworn to do this thing. at all hazards you must abide in our hands till the danger is overpast. for me (this he added in a deeper tone), i am your immediate officer. there is none to come between us. it is your right to slay me if you will. mine is the responsibility for this deed, though the design was not mine. here is my sword. slay your chief captain with it if you will. he has faithfully served your house for five-and-thirty years. 'tis perhaps time he rested now." and with these words werner von orseln took his sword by the point and offered the hilt to his mistress. joan of the sword hand shook with mingled passion and helplessness, and her eyes were dark and troublous. "put up your blade," she said, striking aside the hilt with her hand; "if you have not deserved death, no more have i deserved this! but you said that the design was not yours. who, then, has dared to plot against the liberty of joan of hohenstein?" "i would i could claim the honour," said werner the chief captain; "but truly the matter came from maurice von lynar the dane. it is to his mother, who after the death of her brother, the count von lynar, continued to dwell in a secret strength on the baltic shore, that we are conducting your grace!" "maurice von lynar?" exclaimed joan, astonished. "he remains in castle kernsberg, then?" "aye," said werner, relieved by her tone, "he will take your place when danger comes. in morning twilight or at dusk he makes none so ill a lady duchess, and, i' faith, his 'sword hand' is brisk enough. if the town be taken, better that he than you be found in castle kernsberg. is the thing not well invented, my lady?" werner looked up hopefully. he thought he had pleaded his cause well. "traitor! supplanter!" cried joan indignantly; "this dane in my place! i will hang him from the highest window in the castle of kernsberg if ever i win back to mine own again!" "my lady," said werner, gently and respectfully, "your servant von lynar bade me tell you that he would as faithfully and loyally take your place now as he did on a former occasion!" "ah," said joan, smiling wanly with a quick change of mood, "i hope he will be more ready to give up his privileges on this occasion than on that!" she was thinking of the princess margaret and the heritage of trouble upon which, as the count von löen, she had caused the sparhawk to enter. then a new thought seemed to strike her. "but my nurse and my women--how can he keep the imposture secret? he may pass before the stupid eyes of men. but they----" "if your highness will recollect, they have been sent out of harm's way into plassenburg. there is not a woman born of woman in all the castle of kernsberg!" "yes," mused joan, "i have indeed been fairly cozened. i gave that order also by the dane's advice. well, let him have his run. we will reeve him a firm collar of hemp at the end of it, and maybe for werner von orseln also, as a traitor alike to his bread and his mistress. till then i hope you will both enjoy playing your parts." the chief captain bowed. "i am content, my lady," he said respectfully. "now, good jailers all," cried joan, "lead on. i will follow. or would you prefer to carry me with you handcuffed and chained? i will go with you in whatsoever fashion seemeth good to my masters!" she paused and looked round the little goatherd's hut. "only," she said, nodding her head, "i warn you i will take my own time and manner of coming back!" there was a deep silence as the men drew their belts tighter and prepared to mount and depart. "about that time, jorian," whispered boris as they went out, "you and i will be better in plassenburg than within the bounds of kernsberg--for our health's sake and our sweethearts', that is!" "good!" said jorian, dropping the bars of his visor; "but for all that she is a glorious wench, and looks her bravest when she is angry!" chapter xxi isle rugen they had travelled for six hours through high arched pines, their fallen needles making a carpet green and springy underfoot. then succeeded oaks, stricken a little at top with the frosts of years. alternating with these came marshy tracts where alder and white birch gleamed from the banks of shallow runnels and the margins of black peaty lakes. anon the broom and the gorse began to flourish sparsely above wide sand-hills, heaved this way and that like the waves of a mountainous sea. the party was approaching that no-man's-land which stretches for upwards of a hundred miles along the southern shores of the baltic. it is a land of vast brackish backwaters connected with the outer sea by devious channels often half silted up, but still feeling the pulse of the outer green water in the winds which blow over the sandy "bills," bars, and spits, and bring with them sweet scents of heather and wild thyme, and, most of all, of the southernwood which grows wild on the scantily pastured braes. it was at that time a beautiful but lonely country--the 'batable land of half a dozen princedoms, its only inhabitant a stray hunter setting up his gipsy booth of wattled boughs, heaping with stones a rude fireplace, or fixing a tripod over it whereon a pottinger was presently a-swing, in some sunny curve of the shore. at eventide of the third day of their journeying the party came to a great morass. black decaying trunks of trees stood up at various angles, often bristling with dead branches like _chevaux-de-frise_. the horses picked their path warily through this tangle, the rotten sticks yielding as readily and silently as wet mud beneath their hoofs. finally all dismounted except joan, while werner von orseln, with a rough map in his hand, traced out the way. pools of stagnant black water had to be evaded, treacherous yellow sands tested, bridges constructed of the firmer logs, till all suddenly they came out upon a fairylike little half-moon of sand and tiny shells. here was a large flat-bottomed boat, drawn up against the shore. in the stern a strange figure was seated, a man, tall and angular, clad in jerkin and trunks of brown tanned leather, cross-gartered hose of grey cloth, and home-made shoon of hide with the hair outside. he wore a black skull cap, and his head had the strange, uncanny look of a wild animal. it was not at the first glance nor yet at the second that boris and jorian found out the cause of this curious appearance. meanwhile werner von orseln was putting into his hand some pledge or sign which he scrutinised carefully, when jorian suddenly gripped his companion's arm. "look," he whispered, "he's got no ears!" "nor any tongue!" responded boris, staring with all his eyes at the prodigy. and, indeed, the strange man was pointing to his mouth with the index finger of his right hand and signing that they were to follow him into the boat which had been waiting for them. joan of the sword hand had never spoken since she knew that her men were taking her to a place of safety. nor did her face show any trace of emotion now that werner von orseln, approaching cap in hand, humbly begged her to permit him to conduct her to the boat. but the duchess leapt from her horse, and without accepting his hand she stepped from the little pier of stone beside which the boat lay. then walking firmly from seat to seat she reached the stern, where she sat down without seeming to have glanced at any of the company. werner von orseln then motioned captains boris and jorian to take their places in the bow, and having bared his head he seated himself beside his mistress. the wordless earless man took the oars and pushed off. the boat slid over a little belt of still water through a wilderness of tall reeds. then all suddenly the wavelets lapped crisp and clean beneath her bottom, and the wide levels of a lake opened out before them. the ten men left on the shore set about building a fire and making shelters of brushwood, as if they expected to stay here some time. the tiny harbour was fenced in on every side with an unbroken wall of lofty green pines. the lower part of their trunks shot up tall and straight and opened long vistas into the black depths of the forest. the sun was setting and threw slant rays far underneath, touching with gold the rank marish growths, and reddening the mouldering boles of the fallen pines. the boat passed almost noiselessly along, the strange man rowing strongly and the boat drawing steadily away across the widest part of the still inland sea. as they thus coasted along the gloomy shores the sun went down and darkness came upon them at a bound. then at the far end of the long tunnel, which an hour agone had been sunny glades, they saw strange flickering lights dancing and vanishing, waving and leaping upward--will-o'-the-wisps kindled doubtless from the stagnant boglands and the rotting vegetation of that ancient northern forest. the breeze freshened. the water clappered louder under the boat's quarter. breaths born of the wide sea unfiltered through forest dankness visited more keenly the nostrils of the voyagers. they heard ahead of them the distant roar of breakers. now and then there came a long and gradual roll underneath their quarter, quite distinct from the little chopping waves of the fresh-water _haff_, as the surface of the mere heaved itself in a great slope of water upon which the boat swung sideways. after a space tall trees again shot up overhead, and with a quick turn the boat passed between walls of trembling reeds that rustled against the oars like silk, emerged on a black circle of water, and then, gliding smoothly forward, took ground in the blank dark. as the broad keel grated on the sand, the wordless man leapt out, and, standing on the shore, put his hands to his mouth and emitted a long shout like a blast blown on a conch shell. again and again that melancholy ululation, with never a consonantal sound to break it, went forth into the night. yet it was so modulated that it had obviously a meaning for some one, and to put the matter beyond a doubt it was answered by three shrill whistles from behind the rampart of trees. joan sat still in the boat where she had placed herself. she asked no question, and even these strange experiences did not alter her resolution. presently a light gleamed uncertainly through the trees, now lost behind brushwood and again breaking waveringly out. a tall figure moved forward with a step quick and firm. it was that of a woman who carried a swinging lantern in her hand, from which wheeling lights gleamed through a score of variously coloured little plates of horn. she wore about her shoulders a great crimson cloak which masked her shape. a hood of the same material, attached at the back of the neck to the cloak, concealed her head and dropped about her face, partially hiding her features. standing still on a little wooden pier she held the lantern high, so that the light fell directly on those in the boat, and their faces looked strangely white in that illumined circle, surrounded as it was by a pent-house of tense blackness--black pines, black water, black sky. "follow me!" said the woman, in a deep rich voice--a voice whose tones thrilled those who heard them to their hearts, so full and low were some of the notes. joan of the sword hand rose to her feet. "i am the duchess of hohenstein, and i do not leave this boat till i know in what place i am, and who this may be that cries 'follow!' to the daughter of henry the lion!" the tall woman turned without bowing and looked at the girl. "i am the mother of maurice von lynar, and this is the isle rugen!" she said simply, as if the answer were all sufficient. chapter xxii the house on the dunes the woman in the crimson cloak waited for joan to be assisted from the boat, and then, without a word of greeting, led the way up a little sanded path to a gate which opened in a high stone wall. through this she admitted her guests, whereupon they found themselves in an enclosure with towers and battlements rising dimly all round. it was planted with fragrant bushes and fruit trees whose leaves brushed pleasantly against their faces as they walked in single file following their guide. then came a long grey building, another door, small and creaking heavily on unaccustomed hinges, a sudden burst of light, and lo! the wanderers found themselves within a lighted hall, wherein were many stands of arms and armour, mingled with skins of wild animals, wide-spreading many-tined antlers, and other records of the chase. the woman who had been their guide now set down her lantern and allowed the hood of her cloak to slide from her head. werner and his two male companions the captains of plassenburg, fell back a little at the apparition. they had expected to see some hag or crone, fit companion of their wordless guide. instead, a woman stood before them, not girlish certainly, nor yet in the first bloom of her youth, but glorious even among fair women by reason of the very ripeness of her beauty. her hair shone full auburn with shadows of heavy burnt-gold upon its coils. it clustered about the broad low brow in a few simple locks, then, sweeping back round her head in loose natural waves, it was caught in a broad flat coil at the back, giving a certain statuesque and classic dignity to her head. the mother of that young paladin, their sparhawk? it seemed impossible. this woman was too youthful, too fair, too bountiful in her gracious beauty to be the mother of such a tense young yew-bow as maurice von lynar. yet she had said it, and women do not lie (affirmatively) about such a matter. so, indeed, at heart thought werner von orseln. "my lady joan," she said, in the same thrilling voice, "my son has sent me word that till a certain great danger is overpast you are to abide with me here on the isle rugen. i live alone, save for this one man, dumb max ulrich, long since cruelly maimed at the hands of his enemies. i can offer you no suite of attendants beyond those you bring with you. our safety depends on the secrecy of our abode, as for many years my own life has done. i ask you, therefore, to respect our privacy, as also to impose the same upon your soldiers." the duchess joan bowed slightly. "as you doubtless know, i have not come hither of my own free will," she answered haughtily; "but i thank you, madam, for your hospitality. rest assured that the amenity of your dwelling shall not be endangered by me!" the two looked at each other with that unyielding "at-arm's-length" eyeshot which signifies instinctive antipathy between women of strong wills. then with a large gesture the elder indicated the way up the broad staircase, and throwing her own cloak completely off she caught it across her arm as it dropped, and so followed joan out of sight. werner von orseln stood looking after them a little bewildered. but the more experienced boris and jorian exchanged significant glances with each other. then boris shook his head at jorian, and jorian shook his head at boris. and for once they did not designate the outlook by their favourite adjective. * * * * * nevertheless, instinct was so strong that, as soon as the women had withdrawn themselves upstairs, the three captains seized the lantern and started towards the door to make the round of the defences. the wordless man accompanied them unasked. the square enclosure in which they found themselves seemed liker an old fortified farmhouse or grange than a regular castle, though the walls were thick as those of any fortress, being loopholed for musketry, and (in those days of bombards few and heavy) capable of standing a siege in good earnest against a small army. the doors were of thick oak crossed in all directions with strengthening iron. the three captains examined every barred window with keen professional curiosity, and, coming to another staircase in a distant part of the house, von orseln intimated to the dumb man that they wished to examine it. in rapid pantomime he indicated to them that there was an ascending flight of steps leading round and round a tower till a platform was reached, from which (gazing out under his hand and making with his finger the shape of battlements) he gave them to understand that an extensive prospect was to be enjoyed. with an inward resolve to ascend that stair and look upon that prospect at an early hour on the morrow, the three captains returned through the hall into a long dining-room vaulted above with beams of solid oak. curtains were drawn close all about the walls. in the recesses were many stands of arms of good and recent construction, and opening a cupboard with the freedom of a man-at-arms, boris saw ramrods, powder and shot horns arranged in order, as neatly as though he had done it himself, than which no better could be said. in a little while the sound of footsteps descending the nearer staircase was heard. the wordless man moved to the door and held it open as joan came in with a proud high look on her face. she was still pale, partly with travel and partly from the seething indignant angers of her heart. von lynar's mother entered immediately after her guest, and it needed nothing more subtle than werner von orseln's masculine acumen to discern that no word had been spoken between them while they were alone. with a queenly gesture the hostess motioned her guest to the place of honour at her right hand, and indicated that the three soldiers were to take their places at the other side of the table. werner von orseln moved automatically to obey, but jorian and boris were already at the sideboard, dusting platters and making them ready to serve the meal. "i thank you, madam," said jorian. "were we here as envoys of our master, prince hugo of plassenburg, we would gladly and proudly sit at meat with you. but we are volunteers, and have all our lives been men-at-arms. we will therefore assist this good gentleman to serve, an it please you to permit us!" the lady bowed slightly and for the first time smiled. "you have, then, accompanied the lady duchess hither for pleasure, gentlemen? i fear isle rugen is a poor place for that!" she said, looking across at them. "aye and no!" said jorian; "kernsberg is, indeed, no fit dwelling-place for great ladies just now. the duchess joan will indeed be safer here than elsewhere till the muscovites have gone home, and the hill-folk of hohenstein have only the courtlanders to deal with. all the same, we could have wished to have been permitted to speak with the muscovite in the gate!" "my son remains in castle kernsberg?" she asked, with an upward inflection, an indescribable softness at the same time overspreading her face, and a warmth coming into the grey eyes which showed what this woman might be to those whom she really loved. "he keeps the castle, indeed--in his mistress's absence and mine," said werner. "he will make a good soldier. our lady has already made him count von löen, that he may be the equal of those who care for such titles." a strange flash as of remembrance and emotion passed over the face of their hostess. "and your own title, my lord?" she asked after a little pause. "i am plain werner von orseln, free ritter and faithful servant of my mistress the duchess joan, as i was also of her father, henry the lion of hohenstein!" he bowed as he spoke and continued, "i do not love titles, and, indeed, they would be wasted on an ancient grizzle-pate like me. but your son is young, and deserves this fortune, madam. he will doubtless do great honour to my lady's favour." the eyes of the elder lady turned inquiringly to those of joan. "i have now no faithful servants," said the young duchess at last, breaking her cold silence; "i have only traitors and jailers about me." with that she became once more silent. a painful restraint fell upon the three who sat at table, and though their hostess and werner von orseln partook of the fish and brawn and fruit which their three servitors set before them in silver platters, it was but sparingly and without appetite. all were glad when the meal was over and they could rise from the table. as soon as possible boris and jorian got outside into the long passage which led to the kitchen. "ha!" cried boris, "i declare i would have burst if i had stayed in there another quarter hour! it was solemn as serving karl the great and his longbeards in their cellar under the hartz. i wonder if they are going to keep it up all the time after this fashion!" "and this is pleasure," rejoined jorian gloomily; "not even a good rousing fight on the way. and then--why, prayers for the dead are cheerful as dance-gardens in july to that festal board. good lord! give me the lady ysolinde and the gnomes we fought so long ago at erdberg. this stiff sword-handed joan of theirs freezes a man's internals like baltic ice." "jorian," said boris, solemnly lowering his voice to a whisper, "if that courtland fellow had known what we know, he would have been none so eager to get her home to bed and board!" "ice will melt--even baltic ice!" said jorian sententiously. "yes, but greybeard louis of courtland is not the man to do the melting!" retorted boris. "but i know who could!" said jorian, nodding his head with an air of immense sagacity. boris went on cutting brawn upon a wooden platter with a swift and careful hand. the old servitor moved noiselessly about behind them, with feet that made no more noise than those of a cat walking on velvet. "who?" said boris, shortly. the door of the kitchen opened slightly and the tall woman stood a moment with the latch in her hand, ready to enter. "our sparhawk could melt the baltic ice!" said jorian, and winked at boris with his left eye in a sly manner. whereupon boris dropped his knife and, seizing jorian by the shoulders, he thrust him down upon a broad stool. then he dragged the platter of brawn before him and dumped the mustard pot beside it upon the deal table with a resounding clap. "there!" he cried, "fill your silly mouth with that, fatsides! 'tis all you are good for. i have stood a deal of fine larded ignorance from you in my time, but nothing like this. you will be saying next that my lady duchess is taking a fancy to you!" "she might do worse!" said jorian philosophically, as he stirred the mustard with his knife and looked about for the ale tankard. chapter xxiii the face that looked into joan's the chamber to which the duchess joan was conducted by her hostess had evidently been carefully prepared for her reception. it was a large low room, with a vaulted roof of carven wood. the work was of great merit and evidently old. the devices upon it were mostly coats-of-arms, which originally had been gilded and painted in heraldic colours, though neglect through long generations had tarnished the gold leaf and caused the colours to peel off in places. here and there, however, were shields of more recent design, but in every case the motto and scutcheon of these had been defaced. at both ends of the room were windows, through whose stained glass joan peered without result into blank darkness. then she opened a little square of panes just large enough to put her head through and saw a walk of lofty poplars silhouetted against the sky, dark towers of leaves all a-rustle and a-shiver from the zenith to the ground, as a moaning and sobbing wind drew inward and whispered to them of the coming storm. then joan shut the window and looked about her. a table with a little _prie-dieu_ stood in the corner, screened by a curtain which ran on a brazen rod. a roman breviary lay open on a velvet-covered table before the crucifix. joan lifted it up and her eyes fell on the words: "_by a woman he overcame. by a woman he was overcome. a woman was once his weapon. a woman is now become the instrument of his defeat. he findeth that the weak vessel cannot be broken._" "nor shall it!" said joan, looking at the cross before her; "by the strength of mary the mother, the weak vessel shall not be broken!" she turned her about and examined with interest the rest of the room which for many days was to be her own. the bed was low and wide, with sheets of fine linen folded back, and over all a richly embroidered coverlet. at the further end of the chamber was a fireplace, with a projecting hood of enamelled brick, looking fresh and new amid so much that was centuries old. oaken panels covered the walls, opening mostly into deep cupboards. the girl tried one or two of these. they proved to be unlocked and were filled with ancient parchments, giving forth a faintly aromatic smell, but without a particle of dust upon their leaves. the cleanliness of everything within the chamber had been scrupulously attended to. for a full hour joan walked the chamber with her hands clasped behind her back, thinking how she was to return to her well-beloved kernsberg. her pride was slowly abating, and with it her anger against those faithful servants who had risked her favour to convey her beyond the reach of danger. but none the less she was resolved to go back. this conflict must not take place without her. if kernsberg were captured, and maurice von lynar found personating his mistress, he would surely be put to death. if he fell into muscovite hands that death would be by torture. at all hazards she would return. and to this problem she turned her thoughts, knitting her brows and working her fingers nervously through each other. she had it. there was a way. she would wait till the morrow and in the meantime--sleep. as she stooped to blow out the last candle, a motto on the stem caught her eye. it ran round the massive silver base of the candelabra in the thick gothic characters of a hundred years before. joan took the candle out of its socket and read the inscription word by word-- "da pacem, domine, in diebus nostris." it was her own scroll, the motto of the reigning dukes of hohenstein--a strange one, doubtless, to be that of a fighting race, but, nevertheless, her father's and her own. joan held the candle in her hand a long time, looking at it, heedless of the wax that dripped on the floor. what did her father's motto, the device of her house, upon this baltic island, far from the highlands of kernsberg? had these wastes once belonged to men of her race? and this woman, who so regally played the mistress of this strange heritage, who was she? and what was the secret of the residence of one in this wilderness who, by her manner, might in her time have queened it in royal courts? and as joan of hohenstein blew out the candle she mused in her heart concerning these things. * * * * * the duchess joan slept soundly, her dark boyish head pillowed on the full rounded curves of an arm thrown behind her. on the little velvet-covered table beside the bed lay her belt and its dependent sword, a faithful companion in its sheath of plain black leather. under the pillow, and within instant reach of her right hand, was her father's dagger. with it, they said, henry the lion had more than once removed an enemy who stood in his way, or more honourably given the _coup de grâce_ to a would-be assassin. without, the mood of the night had changed. the sky, which had hitherto been of favourable aspect, save for the green light in the north as they rowed across the waters of the haff, was now overflowed by thin wisps of cloud tacking up against the wind. towards the sea a steely blue smother had settled down along the horizon, while the thunder growled nearer like a roll of drums beaten continuously. the wind, however, was not regular, but came in little puffs and bursts, now warm, now cold, from every point of the compass. but still joan slept on, being tired with her journey. in their chamber in the wing which looks towards the north the three captains lay wrapped in their several mantles, jorian and boris answering each other nasally, in alternate trumpet blasts, like alp calling to alp. werner von orseln alone could not sleep, and after he had sworn and kicked his noisy companions in the ribs till he was weary of the task, he rose and went to the window to cast open the lattice. the air within felt thick and hot. he fumbled long at the catch, and in the unwholesome silence of the strange house the chief captain seemed to hear muffled feet going to and fro on the floor above him. but of this he thought little. for strange places were familiar to him, and any sense of danger made but an added spice in his cup of life. at last he worried the catch loose, the lattice pane fell sagging inwards on its double hinge of skin. as werner set his face to the opening quick flashes of summer lightning flamed alternately white and lilac across the horizon, and he felt the keen spit of hailstones in his face, driving level like so many musket balls when the infantry fires by platoons. * * * * * above, in the vaulted chamber, joan turned over on her bed, murmuring uneasily in her sleep. a white face, which for a quarter of an hour had been bent down to her dark head as it lay on the pillow, was suddenly retracted into the blackness at the girl's slight movement. again, apparently reassured, the shadowy visage approached as the young duchess lay without further motion. without the storm broke in a burst of appalling fury. the pale blue forks of the lightning flamed just outside the casement in flash on continuous flash. the thunder shook the house like an earthquake. suddenly, and for no apparent reason, joan's eyes opened, and she found herself looking with bewilderment into a face that bent down upon her, a white face which somehow seemed to hang suspended in the dark above her. the features were lit up by the pulsing lightning which shone in the wild eyes and glittered on a knife-blade about the handle of which were clenched the tense white fingers of a hand equally detached. a quick icy thrill chilled the girl's marrow, darting like a spear through her body. but joan of hohenstein was the true seed of henry the lion. in a moment her right hand had grasped the sword beside her pillow. her left, shooting upward, closed on the arm which held the threatening steel. at the same time she flung herself forward, and with the roaring turmoils of the storm dinning in her ears she grappled something that withstood her in the interspace of darkness that had followed the flashes. joan's spring had been that of the couchant young wild cat. almost without rising from her bed she had projected herself upon her enemy. her left hand grasped the wrist so tightly that the blade fell to the ground, whereupon joan of the sword hand shifted her grasp upwards fiercely till she felt her fingers sink deep in the soft curves of a woman's throat. then a shriek, long and terrible, inhuman and threatening, rang through the house. a light began to burn yellow and steady through the cracks of the chamber door, not pulsing and blue like the lightning without. presently, as joan overbore her assailant upon the floor, the door opened, and glancing upwards she saw the wordless man stand on the threshold, a candle in one hand and a naked sword in the other. the terrible cry which had rung in her ears had been his. at sight of him joan unclasped her fingers from the throat of the woman and rose slowly to her feet. the old man rushed forward and knelt beside the prostrate body of his mistress. at the same moment there came the sound of quick footsteps running up the stairway. the door flew open and werner von orseln burst in, also sword in hand. "what is the meaning of this?" he shouted. "who has dared to harm my lady?" joan did not answer, but remained standing tall and straight by the hooded mantel of the fireplace. as was her custom, before lying down she had clad herself in a loose gown of white silk which on all her journeys she carried in a roll at her saddle-bow. she pointed to the mother of maurice von lynar, who lay on the floor, still unconscious, with the dumb man kneeling over her, chafing her hands and murmuring unintelligible tendernesses, like a mother crooning over a sick child. but the face of the chief captain grew stern and terrible as he saw on the floor a knife of curious design. he stooped and lifted it. it was a danish _tolle knife_, the edge a little curved outward and keen as a razor. chapter xxiv the secret of theresa von lynar "go down and bring a cup of wine!" commanded joan as soon as he appeared. and werner von orseln, having glanced once at his mistress where she stood with the point of her sword to the ground and her elbow on the corner of the mantel, turned on his heel and departed without a word to do her bidding. meanwhile the wordless man had raised his mistress up from the ground. her eyes slowly opened and began to wander vaguely round the room, taking in the objects one by one. when they fell on joan, standing erect by the fireplace, a spasm seemed to pass across her face and she strove fiercely but ineffectually to rise. "carry your mistress to that couch!" said the young duchess, pointing to the tumbled bed from which a few minutes before she had so hastily launched herself. the dumb man understood either the words or the significant action of joan's hand, for he stooped and lifted von lynar's mother in his arms. whilst he was thus engaged werner came in quickly with a silver cup in his hand. joan took it instantly and going forward she put it to the lips of the woman on the bed. her hair had escaped from its gathered coils and now flowed in luxuriant masses of red-gold over her shoulders and showered itself on either side of the pillow before falling in a shining cataract to the floor. putting out her hands the woman took the cup and drank of it slowly, pausing between the draughts to draw long breaths. "i must have strength," she said. "i have much to say. then, joan of hohenstein, yourself shall judge between thee and me!" the fluttering of the lightning at the window seemed to disturb her, for as joan bowed her assent slightly and sternly, the tall woman kept looking towards the lattice as if the pulsing flame fretted her. joan moved her hand slightly without taking her eyes away, and the chief captain, used to such silent orders from his mistress, strode over to the window and pulled the curtains close. the storm had by this time subsided to a rumble, and only round the edges of the arras could a faint occasional glow be seen, telling of the turmoil without. but a certain faint tremulousness pervaded all the house, which was the baltic thundering on the pebbly beaches and shaking the walls to their sandy foundations. the colour came slowly back to the woman's pale face, and, after a little, she raised herself on the pillows. joan stood motionless and uncompromising by the great iron dogs of the chimney. "you are waiting for me to speak, and i will speak," said the woman. "you have a double right to know all. shall it be told to yourself alone or in the presence of this man?" she looked at von orseln as she spoke. "i have no secrets in my life," said joan; "there is nothing that i would hide from him. _save one thing!_" she added the last words in her heart. "i warn you that the matter concerns yourself very closely," answered the woman somewhat urgently. "werner von orseln is my chief captain!" answered joan. "it concerns also your father's honour!" "he was my father's chief captain before he was mine, and had charge of his honour on twenty fields." gratefully and silently von orseln lifted his mistress's hand to his lips. the tall woman on the bed smiled faintly. "it is well that your highness is so happy in her servants. i also have one who can hold his peace." she pointed to the wordless man, who now stood with the candelabra in his hand, mute and immutable by his mistress's bedhead, as if watching that none should do her harm. there was an interval of silence in the room, filled up by the hoarse persistent booming of the storm without and the shuddering shocks of the wind on the lonely house. then the woman spoke again in a low, distinct voice. "since it is your right to know my name, i am theresa von lynar--who have also a right to call myself 'of hohenstein'--and your dead father's widow!" in an instant the reserve of joan's sternly equal mind was broken up. she dropped her sword clattering on the floor and started angrily forward towards the bed. "it is a lie most foul," she cried; "my father lived unwed for many years--nay, ever since my mother's death, who died in giving me life, he never so much as looked on woman. it is a thing well known in the duchy!" the woman did not answer directly. "max ulrich, bring the silver casket," she said, taking from her neck a little silver key. the wordless man, seeing her action, came forward and took the key. he went out of the room, and after an interval which seemed interminable he returned with a peculiarly shaped casket. it was formed like a heart, and upon it, curiously worked in gold and precious stones, joan saw her father's motto and the armorial bearings of hohenstein. the woman touched a spring with well-practised hand, the silver heart divided, and a roll of parchment fell upon the bed. with a strange smile she gave it to joan, beckoning her with an upward nod to approach. "i give this precious document without fear into your hands. it is my very soul. but it is safe with the daughter of henry the lion." joan took the crackling parchment. it had three seals attached to it and the first part was in her father's own handwriting. "_i declare by these presents that i have married, according to the customs of hohenstein and the laws of the empire, theresa von lynar, daughter of the count von lynar of jutland. but this marriage shall not, by any of its occasions or consequents, affect the succession of my daughter joanna to the duchy of hohenstein and the principalities of kernsberg and marienfeld. to which we subscribe our names as conjointly agreeing thereto in the presence of his high eminence the cardinal adrian, archbishop of cologne and elector of the holy roman empire._" then followed the three signatures, and beneath, in another handwriting, joan read the following:-- "_these persons, henry duke of hohenstein and theresa von lynar, were married by me subject to the above conditions mutually agreed upon in the church of olsen near to the kurische haff, in the presence of julius count von lynar and his sons wolf and mark, in the year --, the day being the eve of st. john.--adrian, archiepiscop. et elector._" after her first shock of surprise was over joan noted carefully the date. it was one year after her own birth, and therefore the like period after the death of her mother, the openly acknowledged duchess of hohenstein. the quick eyes of the woman on the bed had followed hers as they read carefully down the parchment, eagerly and also apprehensively, like those of a mother who for some weighty reason has placed her child in peril. joan folded the parchment and handed it back. then she stood silent waiting for an explanation. the woman took up her parable calmly, like one who has long comprehended that such a crisis must one day arrive, and who knows her part thoroughly. "i, who speak to you, am theresa von lynar. your father saw me first at the coronation of our late sovereign, christian, king of denmark. and we loved one another. for this cause i moved my brother and his sons to build castle lynar on the shores of the northern sea. for this cause i accompanied him thither. for many years at castle lynar, and also at this place, called the hermitage of the dunes, henry of kernsberg and i dwelt in such happiness as mortals seldom know. i loved your father, obeyed him, adored him, lived only for him. but there came a spring when my brother, being like your father a hot and passionate man, quarrelled with duke henry, threatening to go before the diet of the empire if i were not immediately acknowledged duchess and my son maurice von lynar made the heir of hohenstein. but i, being true to my oath and promise, left my brother and abode here alone with my husband when he could escape from his dukedom, living like a simple squire and his dame. those were happy days and made up for much. then in an evil day i sent my son to my brother to train as his own son in arms and the arts of war. but he, being at enmity with my husband, made ready to carry the lad before the diet of the empire, that he might be declared heir to his father. then, in his anger, henry the lion rose and swept castle lynar with fire and sword, leaving none alive but this boy only, whom he meant to take back and train with his captains. but on the way home, even as he rode southward through the forest towards kernsberg, he reeled in the saddle and passed ere he could speak a word, even the name of those he loved. so the boy remained a captive at kernsberg, called by my brother's name, and knowing even to this day nothing of his father." [illustration: "i bid you slay me for the evil deed my heart was willing to do." [_page _]] and as the woman ceased speaking werner von orseln nodded gravely and sadly. "this thing concerning my lord's death is true," he said; "i was present. these arms received him as he fell. he was dead ere we laid him on the ground!" theresa von lynar raised herself. she had spoken thus far reclining on the bed from which joan had risen. now she sat up and for a little space rested her hands on her lap ere she went on. "then my son, whom, not knowing, you had taken pity upon and raised to honour, and who is now your faithful servant, sent a secret messenger that you would come to abide secretly with me till a certain dark day had overpassed in kernsberg. and then there sprang up in my heart a dreadful conceit that he loved you, knowing young blood and hearing the fame of your beauty, and i was afraid for the greatness of the sin--that one should love his sister." joan made a quick gesture of dissent, but the woman went on. "i thought, being a woman alone, and one also, who had given all freely up for love's sake, that he would certainly love you even as i had loved. and when i saw you in my house, so cold and so proud, and when i thought within me that but for you my son would have been a mighty prince, a strange terrible anger and madness came over me, darkening my soul. for a moment i would have slain you. but i could not, because you were asleep. and, even as you stirred, i heard you speak the name of a man, as only one who loves can speak it. i know right well how that is, having listened to it with a glad heart in the night. the name was----" "hold!" cried joan of the sword hand. "i believe you--i forgive you!" "the name," continued theresa von lynar, "was _not that of my son_! and now," she went on, slowly rising from the couch to her height, "i am ready. i bid you slay me for the evil deed my heart was willing for a moment to do!" joan looked at her full in the eyes for the space of a breath. then suddenly she held out her hand and answered like her father's daughter. "nay," she said, "i only marvel that you did not strike me to the heart, because of your son's loss and my father's sin!" chapter xxv borne on the great wave it chanced that in the chamber from which werner von orseln had come so swiftly at the cry of the wordless man, boris and jorian, after sleeping through the disturbances above them and the first burst of the storm, were waked by the blowing open of the lattice as the wind reached its height. jorian lay still on his pallet and slily kicked boris, hoping that he would rise and take upon him the task of shutting it. then to boris, struggling upward to the surface of the ocean of sleep, came the same charitable thought with regard to jorian. so, both kicking out at the same time, their feet encountered with clash of iron footgear, and then with surly snarls they hent them on their feet, abusing each other in voices which could be heard above the humming of the storm without. it was tall boris who, having cursed himself empty, first made his way to the window. the lattice hung by one leathern thong. the other had been torn away, and indeed it was a wonder that the whole framework had not been blown bodily into the room. for the tempest pressed against it straight from the north, and the sticky spray from the waves which broke on the shingle drove stingingly into the eyes of the man-at-arms. nevertheless he thrust his head out, looked a moment through half-closed eyelids, and then cried, "jorian, we are surely lost! the sea is breaking in upon us. it has passed the beach of shingle out there!" and seizing jorian by the arm boris made his way to the door by which they had entered, and, undoing the bolts, they reached the walled courtyard, where, however, they found themselves in the open air, but sheltered from the utmost violence of the tempest. there was a momentary difficulty here, because neither could find the key of the heavy door in the boundary wall. but boris, ever fertile in expedient, discovered a ladder under a kind of shed, and setting it against the northern wall he climbed to the top. while he remained under the shelter of the wall his body was comfortably warm; only an occasional veering flaw sent a purl downwards of what he was to meet. but the instant his head was above the copestone, and the ice-cold northerly blast met him like a wall, he fairly gasped, for the furious onslaught of the storm seemed to blow every particle of breath clean out of his body. the spindrift flew smoking past, momentarily white in the constant lightning flashes, and before him, and apparently almost at the foot of the wall, boris saw a wonderful sight. the sea appeared to be climbing, climbing, climbing upwards over a narrow belt of sand and shingle which separated the scarcely fretted haff from the tumbling milk of the outer baltic. in another moment jorian was beside him, crouching on the top of the wall to save himself from being carried away. and there, in the steamy smother of the sea, backed by the blue electric flame of the lightning, they saw the slant masts of a vessel labouring to beat against the wind. "poor souls, they are gone!" said boris, trying to shield his eyes with his palm, as the black hull disappeared bodily, and the masts seemed to lurch forward into the milky turmoil. "we shall never see her again." for one moment all was dark as pitch, and the next a dozen flashes of lightning burst every way, as many appearing to rise upwards as could be seen to fall downwards. a black speck poised itself on the crest of a wave. "it is a boat! it can never live!" cried the two men together, and dropping from the top of the wall they ran down to the shore, going as near as they dared to the surf which arched and fell with ponderous roar on the narrow strip of shingle. here jorian and boris ran this way and that, trying to pierce the blackness of the sky with their spray-blinded eyes, but nothing more, either of the ship or of the boat which had put out from it, did they see. the mountainous roll and ceaseless iterance of the oncoming breakers hid the surface of the sea from their sight, while the sky, changing with each pulse of the lightning from densest black to green shot with violet, told nothing of the men's lives which were being riven from their bodies beneath it. "back, boris, back!" cried jorian suddenly, as after a succession of smaller waves a gigantic and majestic roller arched along the whole seaward front, stood for a moment black and imminent above them, and then fell like a whole mountain-range in a snowy avalanche of troubled water which rushed savagely up the beach. the two soldiers, who would have faced unblanched any line of living enemies in the world, fled terror-stricken at that clutching onrush of that sea of milk. the wet sand seemed to catch and hold their feet as they ran, so that they felt in their hearts the terrible sensation of one who flees in dreams from some hideous imagined terror and who finds his powers fail him as his pursuer approaches. upward and still upward the wave swept with a soft universal hiss which drowned and dominated the rataplan of the thunder-peals above and the sonorous diapason of the surf around them. it rushed in a creaming smother about their ankles, plucked at their knees, but could rise no higher. yet so fierce was the back draught, that when the water retreated, dragging the pebbles with it down the shingly shore with the rattle of a million castanets, the two stout captains of plassenburg were thrown on their faces and lay as dead on the wet and sticky stones, each clutching a double handful of broken shells and oozy sand which streamed through his numbed fingers. boris was the first to rise, and finding jorian still on his face he caught the collar of his doublet and pulled him with little ceremony up the sloping bank out of tide-reach, throwing him down on the shingly summit with as little tenderness or compunction as if he had been a bag of wet salt. by this time the morning was advancing and the storm growing somewhat less continuous. instead of the wind bearing a dead weight upon the face, it came now in furious gusts. instead of one grand roar, multitudinous in voice yet uniform in tone, it hooted and piped overhead as if a whole brood of evil spirits were riding headlong down the tempest-track. instead of coming on in one solid bank of blackness, the clouds were broken into a wrack of wild and fantastic fragments, the interspaces of which showed alternately paly green and pearly grey. the thunder retreated growling behind the horizon. the violet lightning grew less continuous, and only occasionally rose and fell in vague distant flickerings towards the north, as if some one were lifting a lantern almost to the sea-line and dropping it again before reaching it. looking back from the summit of the mound, boris saw something dark lying high up on the beach amid a wrack of seaweed and broken timber which marked where the great wave had stopped. something odd about the shape took his eye. a moment later he was leaping down again towards the shore, taking his longest strides, and sending the pebbles spraying out in front and on all sides of him. he stooped and found the body of a man, tall, well formed, and of manly figure. he was bareheaded and stripped to his breeches and underwear. boris stooped and laid his hand upon his heart. yes, so much was certain. he was not dead. whereupon the ex-man-at-arms lifted him as well as he could and dragged him by the elbows out of reach of the waves. then he went back to jorian and kicked him in the ribs. the rotund man sat up with an execration. "come!" cried boris, "don't lie there like reynard the fox waiting for kayward the hare. we want no malingering here. there's a man at death's door down on the shingle. come and help me to carry him to the house." it was a heavy task, and jorian's head spun with the shock of the wave and the weight of their burden long before they reached the point where the boundary wall approached nearest to the house. "we can never hope to get him up that ladder and down the other side," said boris, shaking his head. "even if we had the ladder!" answered jorian, glad of a chance to grumble; "but, thanks to your stupidity, it is on the other side of the wall." without noticing his companion's words, boris took a handful of small pebbles and threw them up at a lighted window. the head of werner von orseln immediately appeared, his grizzled hair blown out like a misty aureole about his temples. "come down!" shouted boris, making a trumpet of his hands to fight the wind withal. "we have found a drowned man on the beach!" and indeed it seemed literally so, as they carried their burden round the walls to the wicket door and waited. it seemed an interminable time before werner von orseln arrived with the dumb man's lantern in his hand. they carried the body into the great hall, where the duchess and the old servitor met them. there they laid him on a table. joan herself lifted the lantern and held it to his face. his fair hair clustered about his head in wet knots and shining twists. the features of his face were white as death and carven like those of a statue. but at the sight the heart of the duchess leaped wildly within her. "conrad!" she cried--that word and no more. and the lantern fell to the floor from her nerveless hand. there was no doubt in her mind. she could make no mistake. the regular features, the pillar-like neck, the massive shoulders, the strong clean-cut mouth, the broad white brow--and--yes, the slight tonsure of the priest. it was the white knight of the courtland lists, the noble prince of the summer parlour, the red-robed prelate of her marriage-day, conrad of courtland, prince and cardinal, but to her--"_he_"--the only "he." chapter xxvi the girl beneath the lamp when conrad, cardinal-designate of the holy roman church and archbishop of courtland, opened his eyes, it seemed to him that he had passed through warring waters into the serenity of the life beyond. his hand, on which still glittered his episcopal ring, lay on a counterpane of faded rose silk, soft as down. did he dream that another hand had been holding it, that gentlest fingers had rested caressingly on his brow? a girl, sweet and stately, sat by his bedside. by the door, to which alone he could raise his eyes, stood a tall gaunt man, clad in grey from head to foot, his hands clasped in front of him, and his chin sunk upon his breast. the prince-bishop's eyes rested languidly on the girl's face, on which fell the light of a shaded silver lamp. there was a book in her lap, written upon sheets of thin parchment, bound in gold-embossed leather. but she did not read it. instead she breathed softly and regularly. she was asleep, with her hand on the coverlet of rosy silk. strange fancies passed through the humming brain of the rescued man--as it had been, hunting each other across a stage--visions of perilous endeavour, of fights with wild beasts in shut-in places from which there was no escape, of brutal fisticuffs with savage men. all these again merged into the sense of falling from immense heights only to find that the air upheld him and that, instead of breaking himself to pieces at the bottom, he alighted soft as thistledown on couches of flowers. strange rich heady scents seemed to rise about him like something palpable. his brain wavered behind his brow like a summer landscape when the sun is hot after a shower. perfumes, strange and haunting, dwelt in his nostrils. the scent, at once sour and sweet, of bee-hives at night, the richness of honey in the comb, the delicacy of wet banks of violets, full-odoured musk, and the luxury of sun-warmed afternoon beanfields dreamily sweet--these made his very soul swoon within him. then followed odours of rose gardens, of cool walks drenched in shadow and random scents blown in at open windows. yes, he knew now; surely he was again in his own chamber in the summer pavilion of the palace in courtland. he could hear the cool wash of the alla under its walls, and with the assurance there came somehow a memory of a slim lad with clear-cut features who brought him a message from--was it his sister margaret, or louis his brother? he could not remember which. of what had he been dreaming? in the endeavour to recall something he harked back on the terrors of the night in which, of all on board the ship, his soul alone had remained serene. he remembered the fury of the storm, the helpless impotence and blank cowardice of the sailor folk, the desertion of the officers in the only seaworthy boat. slowly the drifting mists steadied themselves athwart his brain. the actual recomposed itself out of the shreds of dreams. conrad found himself in a long low room such as he had seen many times in the houses of well-to-do ritters along the baltic shores. the beams of the roof-tree above were carven and ancient. arras went everywhere about the halls. silver candlesticks, with princely crests graven upon them, stood by his bedhead. after each survey his eyes settled on the sleeping girl. she was very young and very beautiful. it was--yet it could not be--the duchess joan, whom he himself had married to his brother louis in the cathedral church of his own archiepiscopal city. conrad of courtland had not been trained a priest, yet, as was common at that age, birth and circumstance had made him early a prince of the roman church. he had been thrust into the hierarchy solely because of his name, for he had succeeded his uncle adrian in his ecclesiastical posts and emoluments as a legal heir succeeds to an undisputed property. in due time he received his red hat from a pontiff who distributed these among his favourites (or those whom he thought might aggrandise his temporal power) as freely as a groomsman distributes favours at a wedding. nevertheless, conrad of courtland had all the warm life and imperious impulses of a young man within his breast. yet he was no borgia or della rovere, cloaking scarlet sins with scarlet vestments. for with the high dignities of his position and the solemn work which lay to his hand in his northern province there had come the resolve to be not less, but more faithful than those martyrs and confessors of whom he read daily in his breviary. and while, in rome herself, vice-proud princes, consorting in the foulest alliance with pagan popes, blasphemed the sanctuary and openly scoffed at religion, this finest and most chivalrous of young northern knights had laid down the weapons of his warfare to take up the crucifix, and now had set out joyfully for rome to receive his cardinal's hat on his knees as the last and greatest gift of the vicar of christ. he had begun his pilgrimage by express command of the holy father, who desired to make the youthful archbishop his papal assessor among the electors of the empire. but scarcely was he clear of the courtland shores when there had come the storm, the shipwreck, the wild struggle among the white and foaming breakers--and then, wondrously emergent, like heaven after purgatory, the quiet of this sheltered room and this sleeping girl, with her white hand lying lax and delicate on the rosy silk. the book slipped suddenly from her fingers, falling on the polished wood of the floor with a startling sound. the eyes of the gaunt man by the door were lifted from the ground, glittered beadily for a moment, and again dropped as before. the girl did not start, but rather passed immediately into full consciousness with a little shudder and a quick gesture of the hand, as if she pushed something or some one from her. then, from the pillow on which his head lay, joan of hohenstein saw the eyes of the prince conrad gazing at her, dark and solemn, from within the purplish rings of recent peril. "you are my brother's wife!" he said softly, but yet in the same rich and thrilling voice she had listened to with so many heart-stirrings in the summer palace, and had last heard ring through the cathedral church of courtland on that day when her life had ended. a chill came over the girl's face at his words. "i am indeed the duchess joan of hohenstein," she answered. "my father willed that i should wed prince louis of courtland. well, i married him and rode away. in so much i am your brother's wife." it was a strange awaking for a man who had passed from death to life, but at least her very impetuosity convinced him that the girl was flesh and blood. he smiled wanly. the light of the lamp seemed to waver again before his eyes. he saw his companion as it had been transformed and glorified. he heard the rolling of drums in his ears, and merry pipes played sweetly far away. then came the hush of many waters flowing softly, and last, thrumming on the parched earth, and drunk down gladly by tired flowers, the sound of abundance of rain. the world grew full of sleep and rest and refreshment. there was no longer need to care about anything. his eyes closed. he seemed about to sink back into unconsciousness, when joan rose, and with a few drops from dessauer's phial, which she kept by her in case of need, she called him back from the misty verges of the things which are without. as he struggled painfully upward he seemed to hear joan's last words repeated and re-repeated to the music of a chime of fairy bells, "_in so much--in so much--i am your brother's wife--your brother's wife!_" he came to himself with a start. "will you tell me how i came here, and to whom i am indebted for my life?" he said, as joan stood up beside him, her shapely head dim and retired in the misty dusk above the lamp, only her chin and the shapely curves of her throat being illumined by the warm lamplight. "you were picked up for dead on the beach in the midst of the storm," she answered, "and were brought hither by two captains in the service of the prince of plassenburg!" "and where is this place, and when can i leave it to proceed upon my journey?" the girl's head was turned away from him a trifle more haughtily than before, and she answered coldly, "you are in a certain fortified grange somewhere on the baltic shore. as to when you can proceed on your journey, that depends neither on you nor on me. i am a prisoner here. and so i fear must you also consider yourself!" "a prisoner! then has my brother----?" cried the prince-bishop, starting up on his elbow and instantly dropping back again upon the pillow with a groan of mingled pain and weakness. joan looked at him a moment and then, compressing her lips with quick resolution, went to the bedside and with one hand under his head rearranged the pillow and laid him back in an easier posture. "you must lie still," she said in a commanding tone, and yet softly; "you are too weak to move. also you must obey me. i have some skill in leechcraft." "i am content to be your prisoner," said the prince-bishop smiling--"that is, till i am well enough to proceed on my journey to rome, whither the holy father pope sixtus hath summoned me by a special messenger." "i fear me much," answered joan, "that, spite of the holy father, we may be fellow-prisoners of long standing. those of my own folk who hold me here against my will are hardly likely to let the brother of prince louis of courtland escape with news of my hiding-place and present hermitage!" the young man seemed as if he would again have started up, but with a gesture smilingly imperious joan forbade him. "to-morrow," she said, "perhaps if you are patient i will tell you more. here comes our hostess. it is time that i should leave you." theresa von lynar came softly to the side of the bed and stood beside joan. the young cardinal thought that he had never seen a more queenly pair--joan resplendent in her girlish strength and beauty, theresa still in the ripest glory of womanhood. there was a gentler light than before in the elder woman's eyes, and she cast an almost deprecating glance upon joan. for at the first sound of her approach the girl had stiffened visibly, and now, with only a formal word as to the sick man's condition, and a cold bow to conrad, she moved away. theresa watched her a little sadly as she passed behind the deep curtain. then she sighed, and turning again to the bedside she looked long at the young man without speaking. chapter xxvii wife and priest "i have a right to call myself the widow of the duke henry of kernsberg and hohenstein," said theresa von lynar, in reply to conrad's question as to whom he might thank for rescue and shelter. "and therefore the mother of the duchess joan?" he continued. theresa shook her head. "no," she said sadly; "i am not her mother, but--and even that only in a sense--her stepmother. a promise to a dead man has kept me from claiming any privileges save that of living unknown on this desolate isle of sand and mist. my son is an officer in the service of the duchess joan." the face of the prince-bishop lighted up instantaneously. "most surely, then, i know him. did he not come to courtland with my lord dessauer, the ambassador of plassenburg?" the lady of isle rugen nodded indifferently. "yes," she said; "i believe he went to courtland with the embassy from plassenburg." "indeed, i was much drawn to him," said the prince eagerly; "i remember him most vividly. he was of an olive complexion, his features without colour, but graven even as the greeks cut those of a young god on a gem." "yes," said theresa von lynar serenely, "he has his father's face and carriage, which are those also of the duchess joan." "and why," said the young man, "if i may ask without offence, is your son not the heir to the dukedom?" there was a downcast sadness in the woman's voice and eye as she replied, "because when i wedded duke henry it was agreed between us that aught which might be thereafter should never stand between his daughter and her heritage; and, in spite of deadly wrong done to those of my house, i have kept my word." the prince-cardinal thought long with knitted brow. "the duchess is my brother louis's wife," he said slowly. "in name!" retorted theresa, quickly and breathlessly, like one called on unexpectedly to defend an absent friend. "she is his wife--i married them. i am a priest," he made answer. a gleam, sharp and quick as lightning jetted from a thunder cloud, sprang into the woman's eye. "in this matter i, theresa von lynar, am wiser than all the priests in the world. joan of hohenstein is no more his wife than i am!" "holy church, the mother of us all, made them one!" said the cardinal sententiously. for such words come easily to dignitaries even when they are young. she bent towards him and looked long into his eyes. "no," she said; "you do not know. how indeed is it possible? you are too young to have learned the deep things--too certain of your own righteousness. but you will learn some day. i, theresa von lynar, know--aye, though i bear the name of my father and not that of my husband!" and at this imperious word the prince was silent and thought with gravity upon these things. theresa sat motionless and silent by his bed till the day rose cool and untroubled out of the east, softly aglow with the sheen of clouded silk, pearl-grey and delicate. prince conrad, being greatly wearied and bruised inwardly with the buffeting of the waves and the stones of the shore, slumbered restlessly, with many tossings and turnings. but as oft as he moved, the hands of the woman who had been a wife were upon him, ordering his bruised limbs with swift knowledgeable tenderness, so that he did not wake, but gradually fell back again into dreamless and refreshing sleep. this was easy to her, because the secret of pain was not hid from theresa, the widow of the duke of hohenstein--though henry the lion's daughter, as yet, knew it not. in the morning joan came to bid the patient good-morrow, while werner von orseln stood in the doorway with his steel cap doffed in his hand, and boris and jorian bent the knee for a priestly blessing. but theresa did not again appear till night and darkness had wrapped the earth. so being all alone he listened to the heavy plunge of the breakers on the beach among which his life had been so nearly sped. the sound grew slower and slower after the storm, until at last only the wavelets of the sheltered sea lapsed on the shingle in a sort of breathing whisper. "peace! peace! great peace!" they seemed to say hour after hour as they fell on his ear. and so day passed and came again. long nights, too, at first with hourly tendance and then presently without. but joan sat no more with the young man after that first watch, though his soul longed for her, that he might again tell the girl that she was his brother's wife, and urge her to do her duty by him who was her wedded husband. so in her absence conrad contented himself and salved his conscience by thinking austere thoughts of his mission and high place in the hierarchy of the only catholic and apostolic church. so that presently he would rise up and seek werner von orseln in order to persuade him to let him go, that he might proceed to rome at the command of the holy father, whose servant he was. but werner only laughed and put him off. "when we have sure word of what your brother does at kernsberg, then we will talk of this matter. till then it cannot be hid from you that no hostage half so valuable can we keep in hold. for if your brother loves my lord cardinal, then he will desire to ransom him. on the other hand, if he fear him, then we will keep your highness alive to threaten him, as the pope did with djem, the sultan's brother!" so after many days it was permitted to the prince to walk abroad within the narrow bounds of the isle rugen, the wordless man guarding him at fifty paces distance, impassive and inevitable as an ambulant rock of the seaboard. as he went prince conrad's eyes glanced this way and that, looking for a means of escape. yet they saw none, for werner von orseln with his ten men of kernsberg and the two captains of plassenburg were not soldiers to make mistakes. there was but one boat on the island, and that was locked in a strong house by the inner shore, and over against it a sentry paced night and day. it chanced, however, upon a warm and gracious afternoon, when the breezes played wanderingly among the garden trees before losing themselves in the solemn aisles of the pines as in a pillared temple, that conrad, stepping painfully westwards along the beach, arrived at the place of his rescue, and, descending the steep bank of shingle to look for any traces of the disaster, came suddenly upon the duchess joan gazing thoughtfully out to sea. she turned quickly, hearing the sound of footsteps, and at sight of the prince-bishop glanced east and west along the shore as if meditating retreat. but the proximity of max ulrich and the encompassing banks of water-worn pebbles convinced her of the awkwardness, if not the impossibility, of escape. [illustration: "joan looked steadily across the steel-grey sea." [_page _]] conrad the prisoner greeted joan with the sweet gravity which had been characteristic of him as conrad the prince, and his eyes shone upon her with the same affectionate kindliness that had dwelt in them in the pavilion of the rose garden. but after one glance joan looked steadily away across the steel-grey sea. her feet turned instinctively to walk back towards the house, and the prince turned with her. "if we are two fellow-prisoners," said conrad, "we ought to see more of each other. is it not so?" "that we may concert plans of escape?" said joan. "you desire to continue your pilgrimage--i to return to my people, who, alas, think themselves better off without me!" "i do, indeed, greatly desire to see rome," replied the prince. "the holy father sixtus has sent me the red biretta, and has commanded me to come to rome within a year to exchange it for the cardinal's hat, and also to visit the tombs of the apostles." but joan was not listening. she went on to speak of the matters which occupied her own mind. "if you were a priest, why did you ride in the great tournament of the blacks and the whites at courtland not a year ago?" the prince-cardinal smiled indulgently. "i was not then fledged full priest; hardly am i one now, though they have made me a prince of holy church. yet the tournaying was in a manner, perhaps, what her bridal dress is to a nun ere she takes the veil. but, my lady joan, what know you of the strife of blacks and whites at courtland?" "your sister, the princess margaret, spoke of it, and also the count von löen, an officer of mine," answered joan disingenuously. "i am indeed a soldier by training and desire," continued the young man. "in italy i have played at stratagem and countermarch with the orsini and colonna. but in this matter the younger son of the house of courtland has no choice. we are the bulwark of the church alike against heretic muscovite to the north and furious hussite to the south. we of courtland must stand for the holy see along all the baltic edges; and for this reason the pope has always chosen from amongst us his representative upon the diet of the empire, till the office has become almost hereditary." "then you are not really a priest?" said joan, woman-like fixing upon that part of the young man's reply, which somehow had the greatest interest for her. "in a sense, yes--in truth, no. they say that the pope, in order to forward the church's polity, makes and unmakes cardinals every day, some even for money payments; but these are doubtless hussite lies. yet though by prescript right and the command of the head of the church i am both priest and bishop, in my heart i am but prince conrad of courtland and a simple knight, even as i was before." they paced along together with their eyes on the ground, the wordless man keeping a uniform distance behind them. then the prince laughed a strange grating laugh, like one who mocks at himself. "by this time i ought to have been well on my way to the tombs of the apostles; yet in my heart i cannot be sorry, for--god forgive me!--i had liefer be walking this northern shore, a young man along with a fair maiden." "a priest walking with his brother's wife!" said joan, turning quickly upon him and flashing a look into the eyes that regarded her with some wonder at her imperiousness. "that is true, in a sense," he answered; "yet i am a priest with no consent of my desire--you a wife without love. we are, at least, alike in this--that we are wife and priest chiefly in name." "save that you are on your way to take on you the duties of your office, while i am more concerned in evading mine." the cardinal meditated deeply. "the world is ill arranged," he said slowly; "my brother louis would have made a far better churchman than i. and strange it is to think that but a year ago the knights and chief councillors of courtland came to me to propose that, because of his bodily weakness, my brother should be deposed and that i should take over the government and direction of affairs." he went on without noticing the colour rising in joan's cheek, smiling a little to himself and talking with more animation. "then, had i assented, my brother might have been walking here with tonsured head by your side, while i would doubtless have been knocking at the gates of kernsberg, seeking at the spear's point for a runaway bride." "nay!" cried joan, with sudden vehemence; "that would you not----" and as suddenly she stopped, stricken dumb by the sound of her own words. the prince turned his head full upon her. he saw a face all suffused with hot blushes, haughtiest pride struggling with angry tears in eyes that fairly blazed upon him, and a slender figure drawn up into an attitude of defiance--at sight of all which something took him instantly by the throat. "you mean--you mean----" he stammered, and for a moment was silent. "for god's sake, tell me what you mean!" "i mean nothing at all!" said joan, stamping her foot in anger. and turning upon her heel she left him standing fixed in wonder and doubt upon the margin of the sea. then the wife of louis, prince of courtland, walked eastward to the house upon the isle rugen with her face set as sternly as for battle, but her nether lip quivering--while conrad, cardinal and prince of holy church, paced slowly to the west with a bitter and downcast look upon his ordinarily so sunny countenance. for fate had been exceeding cruel to these two. chapter xxviii the red lion flies at kernsberg and meanwhile right haughtily flew the red lion upon the citadel of kernsberg. never had the lady duchess, joan of the sword hand, approven herself so brave and determined. in her forester's dress of green velvet, with the links of chain body-armour glinting beneath its frogs and taches, she went everywhere on foot. at all times of the day she was to be seen at the half-moons wherein the cannon were fixed, or on horseback scouring the defenced posts along the city wall. she seemed to know neither fear nor fatigue, and the noise of cheering followed her about the little hill city like her shadow. three only there were who knew the truth--peter balta, alt pikker, and george the hussite. and when the guards were set, the lamps lit, and the bars drawn, a stupid faithful hohensteiner set on watch at the turnpike foot with command to let none pass upon his life--then at last the lithe young sparhawk would undo his belt with huge refreshful gusting of air into his lungs, amid the scarcely subdued laughter of the captains of the host. "lord peter of the keys!" von lynar would cry, "what it is to unbutton and untruss! 'tis very well to admire it in our pretty joan, but 'fore the lord, i would give a thousand crowns if she were not so slender. it cuts a man in two to get within such a girdle. only prince wasp could make a shift to fit it. give me a goblet of ale, fellows." "nay, lad--mead! mead of ten years alone must thou have, and little enough of that! ale will make thee fat as mast-fed pigs." "or stay," amended george the hussite; "mead is not comely drink for a maid--i will get thee a little canary and water, scented with millefleurs and rosemary." "check your fooling and help to unlace me, all of you," quoth the sparhawk. "now there is but a silken cord betwixt me and paradise. but it prisons me like iron bars. ah, there"--he blew a great breath, filling and emptying his lungs with huge content--"i wonder why we men breathe with our stomachs and women with their chests?" "know you not that much?" cried alt pikker. "'tis because a man's life is in his stomach; and as for women, most part have neither heart, stomach, nor bowels of mercy--and so breathe with whatever it liketh them!" "no ribaldry in a lady's presence, or in a trice thou shalt have none of these, either!" quoth the false joan; "help me off with this thrice-accursed chain-mail. i am pocked from head to heel like a swiss mercenary late come from venice. every ring in this foul devil's jerkin is imprinted an inch deep on my hide, and itches worse than a hundred beggars at a church door. ah! better, better. yet not well! i had thought our joan of the sword hand a strapping wench, but now a hop-pole is an abbot to her when one comes to wear her _carapace_ and _justaucorps_!" "how went matters to-day on your side?" he went on, speaking to balta, all the while chafing the calves of his legs and rubbing his pinched feet, having first enwrapped himself in a great loose mantle of red and gold which erstwhile had belonged to henry the lion. "on the whole, not ill," said peter balta. "the muscovites, indeed, drove in our outposts, but could not come nearer than a bowshot from the northern gate, we galled them so with our culverins and bombardels." "duke george's famous fat peg herself could not have done better than our little leathern vixens," said alt pikker, rubbing his grey badger's brush contentedly. "gott, if we had only provender and water we might keep them out of the city for ever! but in a week they will certainly have cut off our river and sent it down the new channel, and the wells are not enough for half the citizens, to say nothing of the cattle and horses. this is a great fuss to make about a graceless young jackanapes of a jutlander like you, master maurice von lynar, count von löen--wedded wife of his highness prince louis of courtland. ha! ha! ha!" "i would have you know, sirrah," cried the sparhawk, "that if you do not treat me as your liege lady ought to be treated, i will order you to the deepest dungeon beneath the castle moat! come and kiss my hand this instant, both of you!" "promise not to box our ears, and we will," said alt pikker and george the hussite together. "well, i will let you off this time," said maurice royally, stretching his limbs luxuriously and putting one hosened foot on the mantel-shelf as high as his head. "heigh-ho! i wonder how long it will last, and when we must surrender." "prince louis must send his muscovites back beyond the alla first, and then we will speak with him concerning giving him up his wife!" quoth peter balta. "i wonder what the craven loon will do with her when he gets her," said alt pikker. "you must not surrender in your girdle-brace and ring-mail, my liege lady, or you will have to sleep with them on. it would not be seemly to have to call up half a dozen lusty men-at-arms to help untruss her ladyship the princess of courtland!" "perhaps your goodman will kiss you upon the threshold of the palace as a token of reconciliation!" cackled hussite george. "if he does, i will rip him up!" growled maurice, aghast at the suggestion. "but there is no doubt that at the best i shall be between the thills when they get me once safe in courtland. to ride the wooden horse all day were a pleasure to it!" but presently his face lighted up and he murmured some words to himself-- "yet, after all, there is always the princess margaret there. i can confide in her when the worst comes. she will help me in my need--and, what is better still, she may even kiss me!" and, spite of gloomy anticipations, his ears tingled with happy expectancy, when he thought of opportunities of intimate speech with the lady of his heart. * * * * * nevertheless, in the face of brave words and braver deeds, provisions waxed scarce and dear in castle kernsberg, and in the town below women grew gaunt and hollow-cheeked. then the children acquired eyes that seemed to stand out of hollow purple sockets. last of all, the stout burghers grew thin. and all three began to dream of the days when the good farm-folk of the blackened country down below them, where now stood the leafy lodges of the muscovites and the white tents of the courtlanders, used to come into kernsberg to market, the great solemn-eyed oxen drawing carts full of country sausages, and brown meal fresh ground from the mill to bake the wholesome bread--or better still when the stout market women brought in the lappered milk and the butter and curds. so the starving folk dreamed and dreamed and woke, and cried out curses on them that had waked them, saying, "plague take the hands that pulled me back to this gutter-dog's life! for i was just a-sitting down to dinner with a haunch of venison for company, and such a lordly trout, buttered, with green sauce all over him, a loaf of white bread, crisp and crusty, at my elbow, and--holy saint matthew!--such a noble flagon of rhenish, holding ten pints at the least." about this time the sparhawk began to take counsel with himself, and the issue of his meditations the historian must now relate. it was in the outer chamber of the duchess joan, which looks to the north, that the three captains usually sat--burly peter balta, stiff-haired, dry-faced, keen-eyed--alt pikker, lean and leathery, the life humour within him all gone to fighting juice, his limbs mere bone and muscle, a certain acrid and caustic wit keeping the corners of his lips on the wicker, and, a little back from these two, george the hussite, a smaller man, very solemn even when he was making others laugh, but nevertheless with a proud high look, a stiff upper lip, and a moustache so huge that he could tie the ends behind his head on a windy day. these three had been speaking together at the wide, low window from which one can see the tight little red-roofed town of kernsberg and the green kernswater lying like a bright many-looped ribbon at the foot of the hills. to them entered the sparhawk, a settled frown of gloom upon his brow, and the hunger which he shared equally with the others already sharpening the falcon hook of his nose and whitening his thin nostrils. at sight of him the three heads drew apart, and alt pikker began to speak of the stars that were rising in the eastern dusk. "the dog-star is white," he said didactically. "in my schooldays i used to read in the latin tongue that it was red!" but by their interest in such a matter the sparhawk knew that they had been speaking of far other things than stars before he burst open the door. for little george the hussite pulled his pandour moustaches and muttered, "a plague on the dog-star and the foul latin tongue. they are only fit for the gabble of fat-fed monks. moreover, you do not see it now, at any rate. for me, i would i were back under the bohemian pinetrees, where the very wine smacks of resin, and where there is a sheep (your own or another's, it matters not greatly) tied at every true hussite's door." [illustration: "these three had been speaking together." [_page _]] "what is this?" cried the sparhawk. "do not deceive me. you were none of you talking of stars when i came up the stairs. for i heard peter balta's voice say, 'by heaven! it must come to it, and soon!' and you hussite george, answered him, 'six days will settle it.' what do you keep from me? out with it? speak up, like three good little men!" it was alt pikker who first found words to answer. "we spoke indeed of the stars, and said it was six days till the moon should be gone, and that the time would then be ripe for a sally by the--by the--plassenburg gate!" "pshaw!" cried the sparhawk. "lie to your father confessor, not to me. i am not a purblind fool. i have ears, long enough, it is true, but at least they answer to hear withal. you spoke of the wells, i tell you; i saw your heads move apart as i entered; and then, forsooth, that dotard alt pikker (who ran away in his youth from a monk's cloister-school with the nun that taught them stocking-mending) must needs furbish up some scraps of latin and begin to prate about dog-stars red and dog-stars white. faugh! open your mouths like men, set truthful hearts behind them, and let me hear the worst!" nevertheless the three captains of kernsberg were silent awhile, for heaviness was upon their souls. then peter balta blurted out, "god help us! there is but ten days more provender in the city, the river is turned, and the wells are almost dried up!" after this the sparhawk sat awhile on the low window seat, watching the twinkling fires of the muscovites and listening to the hum of the town beneath the castle--all now sullen and subdued, no merry hucksters chaffering about the church porches, no loitering lads and lasses linking arms and bartering kisses in the dusky corners of the linen market, no clattering of hammers in the armourers' bazaar--a muffled buzzing only, as of men talking low to themselves of bitter memories and yet dismaller expectations. "i have it!" said the sparhawk at last, his eyes on the misty plain of night, with its twinkling pin-points of fire which were the watch-fires of the enemy. the three men stirred a little to indicate attention, but did not speak. "listen," he said, "and do not interrupt. you must deliver me up. i am the cause of war--i, the duchess joan. hear you? i have a husband who makes war upon me because i contemn his bed and board. he has summoned the muscovite to help him to woo me. well, if i am to be given up, it is for us to stipulate that the armies be withdrawn, first beyond the alla, and then as far as courtland. i will go with them; they will not find me out--at least, not till they are back in their own land." "what matter?" cried balta. "they would return as soon as they discovered the cheat." "let us sink or swim together," said hussite george. "we want no talk of surrender!" but grey dry alt pikker said nothing, weighing all with a judicial mind. "no, they would not come back," said the sparhawk; "or, at worst, we would have time--that is, you would have time--to revictual kernsberg, to fill the tanks and reservoirs, to summon in the hillmen. they would soon learn that there had been no joan within the city but the one they had carried back with them to courtland. plassenburg, slow to move, would have time to bring up its men to protect its borders from the muscovite. all good chances are possible if only i am out of the way. surrender me--but by private treaty, and not till you have seen them safe across the fords of the alla!" "nay, god's truth;" cried the three, "that we will not do! they would kill you by slow torture as soon as they found out that they had been tricked." "well," said the sparhawk slowly, "but by that time they _would_ have been tricked." then alt pikker spoke in his turn. "men," he said, "this dane is a man--a better than any of us. there is wisdom in what he says. ye have heard in church how priests preach concerning one who died for the people. here is one ready to die--if no better may be--for the people!" "and for our duchess joan!" said the sparhawk, taking his hat from his head at the name of his mistress. "our lady joan! aye, that is it!" said the old man. "we would all gladly die in battle for our lady. we have done more--we have risked our own honour and her favour in order to convey her away from these dangers. let the boy be given up; and that he go not alone without fit attendance, i will go with him as his chamberlain." the other two men, peter balta and george the hussite, did not answer for a space, but sat pondering alt pikker's counsel. it was george the hussite who took up the parable. "i do not see why you, alt pikker, and you, maurice the dane, should hold such a pother about what you are ready to do for our lady joan. so are we all every whit as ready and willing as you can be; and i think, if any are to be given up, we ought to draw lots for who it shall be. you fancy yourselves overmuch, both of you!" the sparhawk laughed. "great tun-barrelled dolt," he said, clapping peter on the back, "how sweet and convincing it would be to see you, or that canting ale-faced knave george there, dressed up in the girdle-brace and steel corset of joan of the sword hand! and how would you do as to your beard? are you smooth as an egg on both cheeks as i am? it would be rare to have a duchess joan with an inch of blue-black stubble on her chin by the time she neared the gates of courtland! nay, lads, whoever stays--i must go. in this matter of brides i have qualities (how i got them i know not) that the best of you cannot lay claim to. do you draw lots with alt pikker there, an you will, as to who shall accompany me, but leave this present joan of the sword hand to settle her own little differences with him who is her husband by the blessing of holy church." and he threw up his heels upon the table and plaited his knees one above the other. then it was alt pikker's time. "peter balta, and you, george the heretic, listen," he cried, vehemently emphasising the points on the palm of his hand. "you, peter, have a wife that loves you--so, at least, we understand--and your marion, how would she fare in this hard world without you? have you laid by a stocking-foot full of gold? does it hang inside your chimney? i trow not. well, you at least must bide and earn your pay, for marion's sake. i have neither kith nor kin, neither sweetheart nor wife, covenanted or uncovenanted. and for you, george, you are a heretic, and if they burn you alive or let out the red sap at your neck, you will go straight to hell-fire. think of it, george! i, on the other hand, am a true man, and after a paltry year or two in purgatory (just for the experience) will enter straightway into the bosom of patriarchs and apostles, along with our holy father the pope, and our elder brothers the cardinals borgia and delia rovere!" "you talk a deal of nothings with your mouth," said george the hussite. "it is true that i hold not, as you do, that every dishclout in a church is the holy veil, and every old snag of wood with a nail in't a veritable piece of the true cross. but i would have you know that i can do as much for my lady as any one of you--nay, and more, too, alt pikker. for a good hussite is afraid neither of purgatory nor yet of hell-fire, because, if he should chance to die, he will go, without troubling either, straight to the abode of the martyrs and confessors who have been judged worthy to withstand and to conquer." "and as to what you said concerning marion," nodded peter balta truculently, "she is a soldier's wife and would cut her pretty throat rather than stand in the way of a man's advancement!" "specially knowing that so pretty a wench as she is could get a better husband to-morrow an it liked her!" commented alt pikker drily. "well," cried the sparhawk, "still your quarrel, gentlemen. at all events, the thing is settled. the only question is _when_? how many days' water is there in the wells?" said peter balta, "i will go and see." chapter xxix the greeting of the princess margaret they were making terms concerning treaty of delivering thus:-- "when the last muscovite has crossed the alla, when the men of courtland stand ready to follow--then, and not sooner, we will deliver up our lady joan. for this we shall receive from you, louis, prince of courtland, fifty hogsheads of wine, six hundred wagon-loads of good wheat, and the four great iron cannon now standing before the stralsund gate. this all to be completed before we of kernsberg hand our lady over." "it is a thing agreed!" answered louis of courtland, who longed to be gone, and, above all, to get his muscovite allies out of his country. for not only did they take all the best of everything in the field, but, like locusts, they spread themselves over the rear, carrying plunder and rapine through the territories of courtland itself--treating it, indeed, as so much conquered country, so that men were daily deserting his colours in order to go back to protect their wives and daughters from the cossacks of the don and the strelits of little russia. moreover, above all, prince louis wanted that proud wench, his wife. without her as his prisoner, he dared not go back to his capital city. he had sworn an oath before the people. for the rest, kernsberg itself could wait. without a head it would soon fall in, and, besides, he flattered himself that he would so sway and influence the duchess, when once he had her safe in his palace by the mouth of alla, that she would repent her folly, and at no distant day sit knee by knee with him on his throne of state in the audience hall when the suitors came to plead concerning the law. and even his guest prince ivan was complaisant, standing behind louis's chair and smiling subtly to himself. "brother of mine," he would say, "i came to help you to your wife. it is your own affair how you take her and what you do with her when you get her. for me, as soon as you have her safe within the summer palace, and have given me, according to promise, my heart's desire your sister margaret, so soon will i depart for moscow. my father, indeed, sends daily posts praying my instant despatch, for he only waits my return to launch a host upon his enemy the king of polognia." and prince louis, reaching over the arm of his chair, patted his friend's small sweet-scented hand, and thanked him for his most unselfish and generous assistance. thus the leaguer of hohenstein attained its object. prince louis had not, it is true, stormed the heights of kernsberg as he had sworn to do. he had, in fact, left behind him to the traitors who delivered their duchess a large portion of his stores and munitions of war. nevertheless, he returned proud in heart to his capital city. for in the midst of his most faithful body of cavalry rode the young duchess joan, princess of courtland, on a white neapolitan barb, with reins that jingled like silver bells and rosettes of ribbon on the bosses of her harness. the beautiful prisoner appeared, as was natural, somewhat wan and anxious. she was clad in a close-fitting gown of pale blue, with inch-wide broidering of gold, laced in front, and with a train which drooped almost to the ground. over this a cloak of deeper blue was worn, with a hood in which the dark, proud head of the princess nestled half hidden and half revealed. the folk who crowded to see her go by took this for coquetry. she rode with only the one councillor by her who had dared to share her captivity--one alt pikker, a favourite veteran of her little army, and the master-swordsman (they said) who had instructed her in the use of arms. no indignity had been offered to her. indeed, as great honour was done her as was possible in the circumstances. prince louis had approached and led her by the hand to the steed which awaited her at the fords of the alla. the soldiers of courtland elevated their spears and the trumpets of both hosts brayed a salute. then, without a word spoken, her husband had bowed and withdrawn as a gentleman should. prince ivan then approached, and on one knee begged the privilege of kissing her fair hand. the traitors of kernsberg, who had bartered their mistress for several tuns of rhenish, could not meet her eye, but stood gloomily apart with faces sad and downcast, and from within the town came the sound of women weeping. only george the hussite stood by with a smile on his face and his thumbs stuck in his waistband. the captive princess spoke not at all, as was indeed natural and fitting. a woman conquered does not easily forgive those who have humbled her pride. she talked little even to alt pikker, and then only apart. the nearest guide, who had been chosen because of his knowledge of german, could not hear a murmur. with bowed head and eyes that dwelt steadily on the undulating mane of her white barb, joan swayed her graceful body and compressed her lips like one captured but in nowise vanquished. and the soldiers of the army of courtland (those of them who were married) whispered one to another, noting her demeanour, "our good prince is but at the beginning of his troubles; for, by brunhild, did you ever see such a wench? they say she can engage any two fencers of her army at one time!" "her eye itself is like a rapier thrust," whispered another. "just now i went near her to look, and she arched an eyebrow at me, no more--and lo! i went cold at my marrow as if i felt the blue steel stand out at my backbone." "it is the hunger and the anger that have done it," said another; "and, indeed, small wonder! she looked not so pale when i saw her ride along courtland street that day to the dom--the day she was to be married. then her eyes did not pierce you through, but instead they shone with their own proper light and were very gracious." "a strange wench, a most strange wench," responded the first, "so soon to change her mind." "ha!" laughed his companion, "little do you know if you say so! she is a woman--small doubt of that! besides, is she not a princess? and wherefore should our prince's wife not change her mind?" they entered courtland, and the flags flew gaily as on the day of wedding. the drums beat, and the populace drank from spigots that foamed red wine. then louis the prince came, with hat in hand, and begged that the princess joan would graciously allow him to ride beside her through the streets. he spoke respectfully, and joan could only bow her head in acquiescence. thus they came to the courtyard of the palace, the people shouting behind them. there, on the steps, gowned in white and gold, with bare head overrun with ringlets, stood the princess margaret among her women. and at sight of her the heart of the false princess gave a mighty bound, as joan of the sword hand drew her hood closer about her face and tried to remember in what fashion a lady dismounted from her horse. "my lady," said prince louis, standing hat in hand before her barb, "i commit you to the care of my sister, the princess margaret, knowing the ancient friendship that there is between you two. she will speak for me, knowing all my will, and being also herself shortly contracted in marriage to my good friend, prince ivan of muscovy. open your hearts to each other, i pray you, and be assured that no evil or indignity shall befall one whom i admire as the fairest of women and honour as my wedded wife!" joan made no answer, but leaped from her horse without waiting for the hand of alt pikker, which many thought strange. in another moment the arms of the princess margaret were about her neck, and that impulsive princess was kissing her heartily on cheek and lips, talking all the while through her tears. "quick! let us get in from all these staring stupid men. you are to lodge in my palace so long as it lists you. my brother hath promised it. where are your women?" "i have no women," said joan, in a low voice, blushing meanwhile; "they would not accompany a poor betrayed prisoner from kernsberg to a prison cell!" "prison cell, indeed! you will find that i have a very comfortable dungeon ready for you! come--my maidens will assist you. hasten--pray do make haste!" cried the impetuous little lady, her arm close about the tall joan. "i thank you," said the false bride, with some reluctance, "but i am well accustomed to wait on myself." "indeed, i do not wonder," cried the ready princess; "maids are vexatious creatures, well called 'tirewomen.' but come--see the beautiful rooms i have chosen for you! make haste and take off your cloak, and then i will come to you; i am fairly dying to talk. ah, why did you not tell me that day? that was ill done. i would have ridden so gladly with you. it was a glorious thing to do, and has made you famous all over the world, they say. i have been thinking ever since what i can do to be upsides with you and make them talk about me. i will give them a surprise one day that shall be great as yours. but perhaps i may not wait till i am married to do it." and she took her friend by the hand and with a light-hearted skipping motion convoyed her to her summer palace, kissed her again at the door, and shut her in with another imperious adjuration to be speedy. "i will give you a quarter of an hour," she cried, as she lingered a moment; "then i will come to hear all your story, every word." then the false princess staggered rather than walked to a chair, for brain and eye were reeling. "god wot," she murmured; "strange things to hear, indeed! sweet lady, you little know how strange! this is ten thousand times a straiter place to be in than when i played the count von löen. ah, women, women, what you bring a poor innocent man to!" so, without unhooking her cloak or even throwing back the hood, this sadly bewildered bride sat down and tried to select any hopeful line of action out of the whirling chaos of her thoughts. and even as she sat there a knock came sharply at the door. chapter xxx love's clear eye "and now," cried princess margaret, clapping her hands together impulsively, "now at last i shall hear everything. why you went away, and who gave you up, and about the fighting. ugh! the traitors, to betray you after all! i would have their heads off--and all to save their wretched town and the lives of some score of fat burghers!" so far the princess margaret had never once looked at the sparhawk in his borrowed plumage, as he stood uneasily enough by the fireplace of the summer palace, leaning an elbow on the mantelshelf. but now she turned quickly to her guest. "oh, i love you!" she cried, running to maurice and throwing her arms about her false sister-in-law in an impulsive little hug. "i think you are so brave. is my hair sadly tangled? tell me truly, joan. the wind hath tumbled it about mine eyes. not that it matters--with you!" she said the last words with a little sigh. then the princess margaret tripped across the polished floor to a dressing-table which had been set out in the angle between the two windows. she turned the combs and brushes over with a contumelious hand. "where is your hand-glass?" she cried. "do not tell me that you have never looked in it since you came to courtland, or that you can put up with that squinting falsifier up there." she pointed to the oval-framed venetian mirror which was hung opposite her. "it twists your face all awry, this way and that, like a monkey cracking a nut. 'twas well enough for our good conrad, but the princess joan is another matter." "i have never even looked in either!" said the sparhawk. some subtle difference in tone of voice caused the princess to stop her work of patting into temporary docility her fair clustering ringlets, winding them about her fingers and rearranging to greater advantage the little golden combs which held her sadly rebellious tresses in place. she looked keenly at the sparhawk, standing with both her shapely arms at the back of her head and holding a long ivory pin with a head of bright green malachite between her small white teeth. "your voice is hoarse--somehow you are different," she said, taking the pin from her lips and slipping it through the rebellious plaits with a swift vindictive motion. "i have caught a cold riding into the city," quoth the sparhawk hastily, blushing uneasily under her eyes. but for the time being his disguise was safe. already margaret of courtland was thinking of something else. "tell me," she began, going to the window and gazing pensively out upon the green white-flecked pour of the alla, swirling under the beams of the summer palace, "how many of your suite have followed you hither?" "only alt pikker, my second captain!" said the sparhawk. again the tones of his voice seemed to touch her woman's ear with some subtile perplexity even in the midst of her abstraction. margaret turned her eyes again upon maurice, and kept them there till he shivered in the flowing, golden-belted dress of velvet which sat so handsomely upon his splendid figure. "and your chief captain, von orseln?" the princess seemed to be meditating again, her thoughts far from the rush of the alla beneath and from the throat voice of the false princess before her. "von orseln has gone to the baltic edge to raise on my behalf the folk of the marshes!" answered the sparhawk warily. "then there was----" the princess hesitated, and her own voice grew a trifle lower--"the young man who came hither as dessauer's secretary--what of him? the count von löen, if i mistake not--that was his name?" "he is a traitor!" the princess turned quickly. "nay," she said, "you do not think so. your voice is kind when you speak of him. besides, i am sure he is no traitor. where is he?" "he is in the place where he most wishes to be--with the woman he loves!" the light died out of the bright face of the princess margaret at the answer, even as a dun snow-cloud wipes the sunshine off a landscape. "the woman he loves?" she stammered, as if she could not have heard aright. "aye," said the false bride, loosening her cloak and casting it behind her. "i swear it. he is with the woman he loves." but in his heart the sparhawk was saying, "steady, master maurice von lynar--or all will be out in five minutes." the princess margaret walked determinedly from the window to the fireplace. she was not so tall by half a head as her guest, but to the eyes of the sparhawk she towered above him like a young poplar tree. he shrank from her searching glance. the princess laid her hand upon the sleeve of the velvet gown. a flush of anger crimsoned her fair face. "ah!" she cried, "i see it all now, madam the princess. you love the count and you think to blind me. this is the reason of your riding off with him on your wedding day. i saw you go by his side. you sent count maurice to bring to you the four hundred lances of kernsberg. it was for his sake that you left my brother prince louis at the church door. like draws to like, they say, and your eyes even now are as like as peas to those of the count von löen." and this, indeed, could the sparhawk in no wise deny. the princess went her angry way. "there have been many lies told," she cried, raising the pitch of her voice, "but i am not blind. i can see through them. i am a woman and can gauge a woman's pretext. you yourself are in love with the count von löen, and yet you tell me that he is with the woman he loves. bah! he loves you--you, his mistress--next, that is, to his selfish self-seeking self. if he is with the woman he loves, as you say, tell me her name!" there came a knocking at the door. "who is there?" demanded imperiously the princess margaret. "the prince of muscovy, to present his duty to the princess of courtland!" "i do not wish to see him--i will not see him!" said the sparhawk hastily, who felt that one inquisitor at a time was as much as he could hope to deal with. "enter!" said the princess margaret haughtily. the prince opened the door and stood on the threshold bowing to the ladies. "well?" queried margaret of courtland, without further acknowledgment of his salutation than the slightest and chillest nod. "my service to both, noble princesses," the answer came with suave deference. "the prince louis sent me to beg of his noble spouse, the princess joan, that she would deign to receive him." "tell louis that the princess will receive him at her own time. he ought to have better manners than to trouble a lady yet weary from a long journey. and as for you, prince ivan, you have our leave to go!" whilst margaret was speaking the prince had fixed his piercing eyes upon the sparhawk, as if already he had penetrated his secret. but because he was a man maurice sustained the searching gaze with haughty indifference. the prince of muscovy turned upon the princess margaret with a bright smile. "all this makes an ill lesson for you, my fair betrothed," he said, bowing to her; "but--there will be no riding home once we have you in moscow!" "true, i shall not need to return, for i shall never ride thither!" retorted the princess. "moreover, i would have you remember that i am not your betrothed. the prince louis is your betrothed, if you have any in courtland. you can carry him to moscow an you will, and comfort each other there." "that also i may do some day, madam!" flashed prince wasp, stirred to quick irritation. "but in the meantime, princess joan, does it please you to signify when you will receive your husband?" "no! no! no!" whispered the sparhawk in great perturbation. the princess margaret pointed to the door. "go!" she said. "i myself will signify to my brother when he can wait upon the princess." "my lady margaret," the muscovite purred in answer, "think you it is wise thus to encourage rebellion in the most sacred relations of life?" the princess margaret trilled into merriest laughter and reached back a hand to take joan's fingers in hers protectingly. "the homily of the most reverend churchman, prince ivan of muscovy, upon matrimony; judas condemning treachery, satan rebuking sin, were nothing to this!" with all his faults the prince had humour, the humour of a torture scene in some painted monkish inferno. "agreed," he said, smiling; "and what does the princess margaret protecting that pale shrinking flower, joan of the sword hand, remind you of?" "that the room of prince ivan is more welcome to ladies than his company!" retorted margaret of courtland, still holding the sparhawk's hand between both of hers, and keeping her angry eyes and petulant flower face indignantly upon the intruder. had prince ivan been looking at her companion at that moment he might have penetrated the disguise, so tender and devoted a light of love dwelt on the sparhawk's countenance and beaconed from his eyes. but he only bowed deferentially and withdrew. margaret and the sparhawk were left once more alone. the two stood thus while the brisk footsteps of prince wasp thinned out down the corridor. then margaret turned swiftly upon her tall companion and, still keeping her hand, she pulled maurice over to the window. then in the fuller light she scanned the sparhawk's features with a kindling eye and paling lips. "god in heaven!" she palpitated, holding him at a greater distance, "you are not the lady joan; you are--you are----" "the man who loves you!" said the sparhawk, who was very pale. "the count von löen. oh! maurice, why did you risk it?" she gasped. "they will kill you, tear you to pieces without remorse, when they find out. and it is a thing that cannot be kept secret. why did you do it?" "for your sake, beloved," said the sparhawk, coming nearer to her; "to look once more on your face--to behold once, if no more, the lips that kissed me in the dark by the river brink!" "but--but--you may forfeit your life!" "and a thousand lives!" cried the sparhawk, nervously pulling at his woman's dress as if ashamed that he must wear it at such a time. "life without you is naught to maurice von lynar!" a glow of conscious happiness rose warm and pink upon the cheeks of the princess margaret. "besides," added maurice, "the captains of kernsberg considered that thus alone could their mistress be saved." the glow paled a little. "what! by sacrificing you? but perhaps you did it for her sake, and not wholly, as you say, for mine!" there was no such thought in her heart, but she wished to hear him deny it. "nay, my one lady," he answered; "i was, indeed, more than ready to come to courtland, but it was because of the hope that surged through my heart, as flame leaps through tow, that i should see you and hear your voice!" the princess held out her hands impulsively and then retracted them as suddenly. "now, we must not waste time," she said; "i must save you. they would slay you on the least suspicion. but i will match them. would to god that conrad were here. to him i could speak. i could trust him. he would help us. let me see! let me see!" she bent her head and walked slowly to the window. like every true courtlander she thought best when she could watch the swirl of the green alla against its banks. the sparhawk took a step as if to follow, but instead stood still where he was, drinking in her proud and girlish beauty. to the eye of any spy they were no more than two noble ladies who had quarrelled, the smaller and slighter of whom had turned her back upon the taller! they were in the same position still, and the white foam-fleck which margaret was following with her eyes had not vanished from her sight, when the door of the summer palace was rudely thrown open and an officer announced in a loud and strident tone, "the prince louis to visit his princess!" chapter xxxi the royal minx prince louis entered, flushed and excited. his eyes had lost their furtive meanness and blazed with a kind of reckless fury quite foreign to his nature, for anger affected him as wine might another man. he spoke first to the princess margaret. "and so, my fair sister," he said, "you would foment rebellion even in my palace and concoct conspiracy with my own married wife. make ready, madam, for to-morrow you shall find your master. i will marry you to the prince ivan of muscovy. he will carry you to moscow, where ladies of your breed are taught to obey. and if they will not--why, their delicate skins may chance to be caressed with instruments less tender than lovers' fingers. go--make you ready. you shall be wed and that immediately. and leave me alone with my wife." "i will not marry the prince of muscovy," his sister answered calmly. "i would rather die by the axe of your public executioner. i would wed with the vilest scullion that squabbles with the swine for gobbets in the gutters of courtland, rather than sit on a throne with such a man!" the prince nodded sagely. "a pretty spirit--a true courtland spirit," he said mockingly. "i had the same within my heart when i was young. conrad hath it now--priest though he be. nevertheless, he is off to rome to kiss the pope's toe. by my faith, gretchen lass, you show a very pretty spirit!" he wheeled about and looked towards the false joan, who was standing gripping nails into palms by the chimney-mantel. "and you, my lady," he said, "you have had your turn of rebellion. but once is enough. you are conquered now. you are a wedded wife. your place is with your husband. you sleep in my palace to-night!" "if i do," muttered the sparhawk, "i know who will wake in hell to-morrow!" "my brother louis," cried the princess margaret, running up to him and taking his arm coaxingly, "do not be so hasty with two poor women. neither of us desire aught but to do your will. but give us time. spare us, for you are strong. 'a woman's way is the wind's way'--you know our courtland proverb. you cannot harness the northern lights to your chariot-wheels. woo us--coax us--aye, even deceive us; but do not force us. louis, louis, i thought you were wise, and yet i see that you know not the alphabet of love. here is your lady. have you ever said a loving word to her, bent the knee, kissed her hand--which, being persisted in, is the true way to kiss the mouth?" ("if he does either," growled the sparhawk, "my sword will kiss his midriff!") prince louis smiled. he was not used to women's flatteries, and in his present state of exaltation the cajoleries of the princess suited his mood. he swelled with self-importance, puffing his cheeks and twirling his grey moustache upwards with the finger and thumb of his left hand. "i know more of women than you think, sister," he made answer. "i have had experiences--in my youth, that is; i am no puppet princeling. by saint mark! once on a day i strutted it with the boldest; and to-day--well, now that i have humbled this proud madam and brought her to my own city, why, i will show you that i am no wendish boor. i can sue a lady's favour as courteously as any man--and, margaret, if you will promise me to be a good girl and get you ready to be married to-morrow, i promise you that louis of courtland will solicit his lady's favour with all grace and observance." "gladly will i be married to-morrow," said the princess, caressing her brother's sleeve--"that is, if i cannot be married to-day!" she added under her breath. but she paused a few moments as if embarrassed. then she went on. "brother louis, i have spoken with my sister here--your wife, the lady joan. she hath a scruple concerning matrimony. she would have it resolved before she hath speech with you again. permit our good father clement to advise with her." "father clement--our conrad's tutor, why he more than another?" "well, do you not understand? he is old," pleaded margaret, "and there are things one can say easiest to an old man. you understand, brother louis." the prince nodded, well pleased. this was pleasant. his mentor, prince wasp, did not usually flatter him. rather he made him chafe on a tight rein. "and if i send father clement to you, chit," he said patting his sister's softly rounded cheek, "will he both persuade you and ease the scruples of my lady joan? i am as delicate and understanding as any man. i will not drive a woman when she desires to be led. but led or driven she must be. for to my will she must come at last." "i knew it, i knew it!" she cried joyously. "again you are mine own louis, my dear sweet brother! when will father clement come?" "as soon as he can be sent for," the prince answered. "he will come directly here to the summer palace. and till then you two fair maids can abide together. princess, my wife, i kiss your noble hand. margaret, your cheek. till to-morrow--till to-morrow!" he went out with an awkward attempt at airy grace curiously grafted on his usually saturnine manners. the door closed behind him. margaret of courtland listened a moment with bated breath and finger on lip. a shouted order reached her ear from beneath. then came the tramp of disciplined feet, and again they heard only the swirl of the alla fretting about the piles of the summer palace. then, quickly dropping her lover's fingers, margaret took hold of her own dress at either side daintily and circled about the sparhawk in a light-tripping dance. "ah, louis--we will be so good and bidable--to-morrow. to-morrow you will see me a loving and obedient wife. to-morrow i will wed prince wasp. meantime--to-day you and i, maurice, will consult father clement, mine ancient confessor, who will do anything i ask him. to-day we will dance--put your arm about my waist--firmly--so! there, we will dance at a wedding to-day, you and i. for in that brave velvet robe you shall be married!" "what?" cried the sparhawk, stopping suddenly. his impulsive sweetheart caught him again into the dance as she swept by in her impetuous career. "yes," she nodded, minueting before him. "it is as i say--you are to be married all over again. and when you ride off i will ride with you--no slipping your marriage engagements this time, good sir. i know your kernsberg manners now. you will not find me so slack as my brother!" "margaret!" cried the sparhawk. and with one bound he had her against his breast. "oh!" she cried, with a shrug of her pretty shoulders, as she submitted to his embrace, "i don't love you half as much in that dress. why, it is like kissing another girl at the convent. ugh, the cats!" she was not permitted to say any more. the alla was heard very clearly in the summer palace as it swept the too swift moments with it away towards the sea which is oblivion. then after a time, and a time and half a time, the princess margaret slowly emerged. "no," she said retrospectively, "it is not like the convent, after all--not a bit." * * * * * "affection is ever seemly, especially between great ladies--also unusual!" said a bass voice, speaking grave and kindly behind them. the sparhawk turned quickly round, the crimson rushing instant to his cheek. "father--dear father clement!" cried margaret, running to the noble old man who stood by the door and kneeling down for his blessing. he gave it simply and benignantly, and laid his hand a moment on the rippling masses of her fair hair. then he turned his eyes upon the sparhawk. the confusion of his beautiful penitent, the flush which mounted to her neck even as she kneeled, added to a certain level defiance in the glance of her taller companion, told him almost at a glance that which had been so carefully concealed. for the father was a man of much experience. a man who hears a dozen confessions every day of his life through a wicket in a box grows accustomed to distinguishing the finer differences of sex. his glance travelled back and forth, from the sparhawk to margaret, and from margaret to the sparhawk. "ah!" he said at last, for all comment. the princess rose to her feet and approached the priest. "my father," she said swiftly, "this is not the lady joan, my brother's wife, but a youth marvellously like her, who hath offered himself in her place that she might escape----" "nay," said the sparhawk, "it was to see you once again, lady margaret, that i came to courtland!" "hush! you must not interrupt," she went on, putting him aside with her hand. "he is the count von löen, a lord of kernsberg. and i love him. we want you to marry us now, dear father--now, without a moment's delay; for if you do not, they will kill him, and i shall have to marry prince wasp!" she clasped her hands about his arm. "will you?" she said, looking up beseechingly at him. the princess margaret was a lady who knew her mind and so bent other minds to her own. the father stood smiling a little down upon her, more with his eyes than with his lips. "they will kill him and marry you, if i do. and, moreover, pray tell me, little one, what will they do to me?" he said. "father, they would not dare to meddle with you. your office--your sanctity--holy mother church herself would protect you. if conrad were here, he would do it for me. i am sure he would marry us. i could tell him everything. but he is far, far away, on his knees at the shrine of holy saint peter, most like." "and you, young masquerader," said father clement, turning to the sparhawk, "what say you to all this? is this your wish, as well as that of the princess margaret? i must know all before i consent to put my old neck into the halter!" "i will do whatever the princess wishes. her will is mine." "do not make a virtue of that, young man," said the priest smiling; "the will of the princess is also that of most people with whom she comes in contact. submission is no distinction where our lady margaret is concerned. why, ever since she was so high" (he indicated with his hand), "i declare the minx hath set her own penances and dictated her own absolutions." "you have indeed been a sweet confessor," murmured margaret of courtland, still clasping the father's arm and looking up fondly into his face. "and you will do as i ask you this once. i will not ask for such a long time again." the priest laughed a short laugh. "nay, if i do marry you to this gentleman, i hope it will serve for a while. i cannot marry princesses of the empire to carnival mummers more than once a week!" a quick frown formed on the brow of maurice von lynar. he took a step nearer. the priest put up his hand, with the palm outspread in a sort of counterfeit alarm. "nay, i know not if it will last even a week if bride and groom are both so much of the same temper. gently, good sir, gently and softly. i must go carefully myself. i am bringing my grey hairs unpleasantly near the gallows. i must consider my duty, and you must respect my office." the sparhawk dropped on one knee and bent his head. "ah, that is better," said the priest, making the sign of benediction above the clustered raven locks. "rise, sir, i would speak with you a moment apart. my lady margaret, will you please to walk on the terrace there while i confer with--the lady joan upon obedience, according to the commandment of the prince." as he spoke the last words he made a little movement towards the corridor with his hand, at the same moment elevating his voice. the princess caught his meaning and, before either of her companions could stop her, she tiptoed to the door, set her hand softly to the latch, and suddenly flung it open. prince louis stood without, with head bowed to listen. the princess shrilled into a little peal of laughter. "brother louis!" she cried, clapping her hands, "we have caught you. you must restrain your youthful, your too ardent affections. your bride is about to confess. this is no time for mandolins and serenades. you should have tried those beneath her windows in kernsberg. they might have wooed her better than arbalist and mangonel." the prince glared at his _débonnaire_ sister as if he could have slain her on the spot. "i returned," he said formally, speaking to the disguised maurice, "to inform the princess that her rooms in the main palace were ready for her whenever she deigns to occupy them." "i thank you, prince louis," returned the false princess, bowing. in his character of a woman betrayed and led prisoner the sparhawk was sparing of his words--and for other reasons as well. "come, brother, your arm," said the princess. "you and i must not intrude. we will leave the good father and his fair penitent. will you walk with me on the terrace? i, on my part, will listen to your lover's confessions and give you plenary absolution--even for listening at keyholes. come, dear brother, come!" and with one gay glance shot backward at the sparhawk, half over her shoulder, the lady margaret took the unwilling arm of her brother and swept out. verily, as father clement had said, she was a royal minx. chapter xxxii the princess margaret is in a hurry the priest waited till their footsteps died away down the corridor before going to the door to shut it. then he turned and faced the sparhawk with a very different countenance to that which he had bent upon the princess margaret. generally, when women leave a room the thermometer drops suddenly many degrees nearer the zero of verity. there is all the difference between velvet sheath and bare blade, between the courtesies of seconds and the first clash of the steel in the hands of principals. there are, let us say, two men and one woman. the woman is in the midst. smile answers smile. masks are up. the sun shines in. she goes--and before the smile of parting has fluttered from her lips, lo! iron answers iron on the faces of the men. off, ye lendings! salute! engage! to the death! there was nothing, however, very deadly in the encounter of the sparhawk and father clement. it was only as if a couple of carnival maskers had stepped aside out of the whirl of a dance to talk a little business in some quiet alcove. the father foresaw the difficulty of his task. the sparhawk was conscious of the awkwardness of maintaining a manly dignity in a woman's gown. he felt, as it were, choked about the legs in another man's presence. "and now, sir," said the priest abruptly, "who may you be?" "father, i am a servant to the duchess joan of hohenstein and kernsberg. maurice von lynar is my name." "and pray, how came you so like the duchess that you can pass muster for her?" "that i know not. it is an affair upon which i was not consulted. but, indeed, i do it but poorly, and succeed only with those who know her little, and who are in addition men without observation. both the princess and yourself saw through me easily enough, and i am in fear every moment i am near prince ivan." "how came the princess to love you?" "well, for one thing, i loved her. for another, i told her so!" "the points are well taken, but of themselves insufficient," smiled the priest. "so also have others better equipped by fortune to win her favour than you. what else?" then, with a certain shamefaced and sulky pride, the sparhawk told father clement all the tale of the mission of the duchess joan of courtland, of the liking the princess had taken to that lady in her secretary's attire, of the kiss exchanged upon the dark river's bank, the fragrant memory of which had drawn him back to courtland against his will. and the priest listened like a man of many counsels who knows that the strangest things are the truest, and that the naked truth is always incredible. "it is a pretty tangle you have made between you," said father clement when maurice finished. "i know not how you could more completely have twisted the skein. every one is somebody else, and the devil is hard upon the hindmost--or prince ivan, which is apparently the same thing." the priest now withdrew in his turn to where he could watch the alla curving its back a little in mid-stream as the summer floods rushed seaward from the hills. to true courtland folk its very bubbles brought counsel as they floated down towards the baltic. "let me see! let me see!" he murmured, stroking his chin. then after a long pause he turned again to the sparhawk. "you are of sufficient fortune to maintain the princess as becomes her rank?" "i am not a rich man," answered von lynar, "but by the grace of the duchess joan neither am i a poor one. she hath bestowed on me one of her father's titles, with lands to match." "so," said the priest; "but will prince louis and the muscovites give you leave to enjoy them?" "the estates are on the borders of plassenburg," said maurice, "and i think the prince of plassenburg for his own security will provide against any muscovite invasion." "princes are but princes, though i grant you the executioner's son is a good one," answered the priest. "well, better to marry than to burn, sayeth holy writ. it is touch and go, in any event. i will marry you and thereafter betake me to the abbey of wolgast, where dwells my very good friend the abbot tobias. for old sake's sake he will keep me safe there till this thing blows over." "with my heart i thank you, my father," said the sparhawk, kneeling. "nay, do not thank me. rather thank the pretty insistency of your mistress. yet it is only bringing you both one step nearer destruction. walking upon egg-shells is child's play to this. but i never could refuse your sweetheart either a comfit or an absolution all my days. to my shame as a servant of god i say it. i will go and call her in." he went to the door with a curious smile on his face. he opened it, and there, close by the threshold, was the princess margaret, her eyes full of a bright mischief. "yes, i was listening," she cried, shaking her head defiantly. "i do not care. so would you, father, if you had been a woman and in love----" "god forbid!" said father clement, crossing himself. "you may well make sure of heavenly happiness, my father, for you will never know what the happiness of earth is!" cried margaret. "i would rather be a woman and in love, than--than the pope himself and sit in the chair of st. peter." "my daughter, do not be irreverent." "father clement, were you ever in love? no, of course you cannot tell me; but i think you must have been. your eyes are kind when you look at us. you are going to do what we wish--i know you are. i heard you say so to maurice. now begin." "you speak as if the holy sacrament of matrimony were no more than saying 'abracadabra' over a toadstool to cure warts," said the priest, smiling. "consider your danger, the evil case in which you will put me when the thing is discovered----" "i will consider anything, dear father, if you will only make haste," said the princess, with a smiling natural vivacity that killed any verbal disrespect. "nay, madcap, be patient. we must have a witness whose head sits on his shoulders beyond the risk of prince louis's halter or prince ivan's muscovite dagger. what say you to the high councillor of plassenburg, von dessauer? he is here on an embassy." the princess clapped her hands. "yes, yes. he will do it. he will keep our secret. he also likes pretty girls." "also?" queried father clement, with a grave and demure countenance. "yes, father, you know you do----" "it is a thing most strictly forbidden by holy church that in fulfilling the duties of sacred office one should be swayed by any merely human considerations," began the priest, the wrinkles puckering about his eyes, though his lips continued grave. "oh, please, save the homily till after sacrament, dear father!" cried the princess. "you know you like me, and that you cannot help it." the priest lifted up his hand and glanced upward, as if deprecating the anger of heaven. "alas, it is too true!" he said, and dropped his hand again swiftly to his side. "i will go and summon dessauer myself," she went on. "i will run so quick. i cannot bear to wait." "abide ye--abide ye, my daughter," said father clement; "let us do even this folly decently and in order. the day is far spent. let us wait till darkness comes. then when you are rested--and" (he looked towards the sparhawk) "the lady joan also--i will return with high councillor dessauer, who, without observance or suspicion, may pay his respects to the princesses upon their arrival." "but, father, i cannot wait," cried the impetuous bride. "something might happen long before then. my brother might come. prince wasp might find out. the palace itself might fall--and then i should never be married at all!" and the very impulsive and high-strung daughter of the reigning house of courtland put a kerchief to her eyes and tapped the floor with the silken point of her slipper. the holy father looked at her a moment and turned his eyes to maurice von lynar. then he shook his head gravely at that proximate bridegroom as one who would say, "if you be neither hanged nor yet burnt here in courtland--if you get safely out of this with your bride--why, then, heaven have mercy on your soul!" chapter xxxiii a wedding without a bridegroom it was very quiet in the river parlour of the summer palace. a shaded lamp burned in its niche over the desk of prince conrad. another swung from the ceiling and filled the whole room with dim, rich light. the window was a little open, and the alla murmured beneath with a soothing sound, like a mother hushing a child to sleep. there was no one in the great chamber save the youth whose masquerading was now well nigh over. the sparhawk listened intently. footsteps were approaching. quick as thought he threw himself upon a couch, and drew about him a light cloak or woollen cloth lined with silk. the footsteps stopped at his door. a hand knocked lightly. the sparhawk did not answer. there was a long pause, and then footsteps retreated as they had come. the sparhawk remained motionless. again the alla, outside in the mild autumnal gloaming, said, "hush!" tired with anxiety and the strain of the day, the youth passed from musing to real sleep and the stream of unconsciousness, with a long soothing swirl like that of the green water outside among the piles of the summer palace, bore him away. he took longer breaths, sighing in his slumbers like a happy tired child. again there came footsteps, quicker and lighter this time; then the crisp rustle of silken skirts, a warm breath of scented air, and the door was closed again. no knocking this time. it was some one who entered as of right. then the princess margaret, with clasped hands and parted lips, stood still and watched the slumber of the man she loved. though she knew it not, it was one of the crucial moments in the chronicle of love. if a woman's heart melts from tolerant friendship to a kind of motherhood at the sight of a man asleep; if something draws tight about her heart like the strings of an old-fashioned purse; if there is a pulse beating where no pulse should be, a pleasurable lump in the throat, then it is come--the not-to-be-denied, the long-expected, the inevitable. it is a simple test, and one not always to be applied (as it were) without a doctor's prescription; but, when fairly tried, it is infallible. if a woman is happier listening to a man's quiet breathing than she has ever been hearkening to any other's flattery, it is no longer an affair--it is a passion. the princess margaret sat down by the couch of maurice von lynar, and, after this manner of which i have told, her heart was moved within her. as she bent a little over the youth and looked into his sleeping face, the likeness to joan the duchess came out more strongly than ever, emerging almost startlingly, as a race stamp stands out on the features of the dead. she bent her head still nearer the slightly parted lips. then she drew back. "no," she murmured, smiling at her intent, "i will not--at least, not now. i will wait till i hear them coming." she stole her hand under the cloak which covered the sleeper till her cool fingers rested on maurice's hand. he stirred a little, and his lips moved. then his eyelids quivered to the lifting. but they did not rise. the ear of the princess was very near them now. "margaret!" she heard him say, and as the low whisper reached her she sat erect in her chair with a happy sigh. so wonderful is love and so utterly indifferent to time or place, to circumstance or reason. [illustration: "maurice stood ... holding margaret's hand." [_page _]] the alla also sighed a sigh to think that their hour would pass so swiftly. so margaret of courtland, princess and lover, sat contentedly by the pillow of him who had once been a prisoner in the dungeon of castle kernsberg. but in the palace of the prince of courtland time ran even more swiftly than the alla beneath its walls. margaret caught a faint sound far away--footsteps, firm footfalls of men who paced slowly together. and as these came nearer, she could distinguish, mixed with them, the sharp tapping of one who leans upon a staff. she did not hesitate a moment now. she bent down upon the sleeper. her arm glided under his neck. her lips met his. "maurice," she whispered, "wake, dearest. they are coming." "margaret!" he would have answered--but could not. * * * * * the greetings were soon over. the tale had already been told to von dessauer by father clement. the pair stood up under the golden glow of the swinging silver lamps. it was a strange scene. for surely never was marriage more wonderfully celebrated on earth than this of two fair maidens (for so they still appeared) taking hands at the bidding of god's priest and vowing the solemn vows, in the presence of a prince's chancellor, to live only for each other in all the world. maurice, tall and dark, a red mantle thrown back from his shoulders, confined at the waist and falling again to the feet, stood holding margaret's hand, while she, younger and slighter, her skin creamily white, her cheek rose-flushed, her eyes brilliant as with fever, watched father clement as if she feared he would omit some essential of the service. von dessauer, high councillor of plassenburg, stood leaning on the head of his staff and watching with a certain gravity of sympathy, mixed with apprehension, the simple ceremonial. presently the solemn "let no man put asunder" was said, the blessing pronounced, and leopold von dessauer came forward with his usual courtly grace to salute the newly made countess von löen. he would have kissed her hand, but with a swift gesture she offered her cheek. "not hands to-day, good friend," she said. "i am no more a princess, but my husband's wife. they cannot part us now, can they, high councillor? i have gotten my wish!" "dear lady," the chancellor of plassenburg answered gently. "i am an old man, and i have observed that hymen is the most tricksome of the divinities. his omens go mostly by contraries. where much is expected, little is obtained. when all men speak well of a wedding, and all the prophets prophesy smooth things--my fear is great. therefore be of good cheer. though you have chosen the rough road, the perilous venture, the dark night, the deep and untried ford, you will yet come out upon a plain of gladness, into a day of sunshine, and at the eventide reach a home of content." "so good a fortune from so wise a soothsayer deserves--this!" and she kissed the chancellor frankly on the mouth. "father clement," she said, turning about to the priest with a provocative look on her face, "have you a prophecy for us worthy a like guerdon?" "avaunt, witch! get thee behind me, pretty impling! tempt not an old man to forget his office, or i will set thee such a penance as will take months to perform." nevertheless his face softened as he spoke. he saw too plainly the perils which encompassed maurice von lynar and his wife. yet he held out his hand benignantly and they sank on their knees. "god bring you well through, beloveds!" he said. "may he send his angels to succour the faithful and punish the guilty!" "i bid you fair good-night!" said leopold von dessauer at the threshold. but he added in his heart, "but alas for the to-morrow that must come to you twain!" "i care for nothing now--i have gotten my will!" said the princess margaret, nodding her head to the father as he went out. she was standing on the threshold with her husband's hand in hers, and her eyes were full of that which no words can express. "may that which is so sweet in the mouth now, never prove bitter in the belly!" that was the father's last prayer for them. but neither margaret nor maurice von lynar so much as heard him, for they had turned to one another. for the golden lamp was burning itself out, and without in the dark the alla still said, "hush!" like a mother who soothes her children to sleep. chapter xxxiv little johannes rode "but this one day, beloved," the sparhawk was saying. "what is one day among our enemies? be brave, and then we will ride away together under cloud of night. von dessauer will help us. for love and pity prince hugo of plassenburg will give us an asylum. or if he will not, by my faith! helene the princess will--or her kind heart is sore belied! fear not!" "i am not afraid--i have never feared anything in my life," answered the princess margaret. "but now i fear for you, maurice. i would give all i possess a hundred times over--nay, ten years of my life--if only you were safe out of this courtland!" "it will not be long," said the sparhawk soothingly. "to-morrow von dessauer goes with all his train. he cannot, indeed, openly give us his protection till we are past the boundaries of the state. but at the fords of the alla we must await him. then, after that, it is but a short and safe journey. a few days will bring us to the borderlands of plassenburg and the mark, where we are safe alike from prince brother and prince wooer." "maurice--i would it were so, indeed. do you know i think being married makes one's soul frightened. the one you love grows so terrifyingly precious. it seems such a long time since i was a wild and reckless girl, flouting those who spoke of love, and boasting (oh, so vainly!) that love would never touch me. i used to, not so long ago--though you would not think it now, knowing how weak and foolish i am." the sparhawk laughed a little and glanced fondly at his wife. it was a strange look, full of the peculiar joy of man--and that, where the essence of love dwells in him, is his sense of unique possession. "do keep still," said the princess suddenly, stamping her foot. "how can i finish the arraying of your locks, if you twist about thus in your seat? it is fortunate for you, sir, that the duchess joan wears her hair short, like a northman or a bantling troubadour. otherwise you could not have gone masquerading till yours had grown to be something of this length." and, with the innocent vanity of a woman preferred, she shook her own head backward till the rich golden tresses, each hair distinct and crisp as a golden wire of infinite thinness, fell over her back and hung down as low as the hollows of her knees. "joan could not do that!" she cried triumphantly. "you are the most beautiful woman in the world," said the sparhawk, with appreciative reverence, trying to rise from the low stool in front of the venice mirror upon which he was submitting to having his toilet superintended--for the first time by a thoroughly competent person. the princess margaret bit her lip vixenishly in a pretty way she had when making a pretext of being angry, at the same time sticking the little curved golden comb she was using upon his raven locks viciously into his head. "oh, you hurt!" he cried, making a grimace and pretending in his turn. "and so i will, and much worse," she retorted, "if you do not be still and do as i bid you. how can a self-respecting tire-woman attend to her business under such circumstances? i warn you that you may engage a new maid." "wickedest one!" he murmured, gazing fondly up at margaret, "there is no one like you!" "well," she drolled, "i am glad of your opinion, though sorry for your taste. for me, i prefer the lady joan." "and why?" "because she is like you, of course!" * * * * * so, on the verge perilous, lightly and foolishly they jested as all those who love each other do (which folly is the only wisdom), while the green alla sped swiftly on to the sea, and the city in which death waited for maurice von lynar began to hum about them. as yet, however, there fell no suspicion. for margaret had warned her bowermaidens that the princess joan would need no assistance from them. her own waiting-women were on their way from castle kernsberg. in any case she, margaret of courtland, would help her sister in person, as well for love as because such service was the guest's right. and the courtland maidens, accustomed to the whims and sudden likings of their impetuous mistress, glad also to escape extra duty, hastened their task of arraying margaret. never had she been so restless and exacting. her toilet was not half finished when she rose from her ebony stool, told her favourite thora of bornholm that she was too ignorant to be trusted to array so much as the tow-head of a swedish puppet, endued herself without assistance with a long loose gown of velvet lined with pale blue silk, and flashed out again to revisit her sister-in-law. "and do you, thora, and the others, wait my pleasure in the anteroom," she commanded her handmaidens as she swept through the doorway. "go barter love-compliments with the men-at-arms. it is all such fumblers are good for!" behind her back the tiring maids shrugged shoulders and glanced at each other secretly with lifted eyebrow, as they put gowns and broidered slippers back in their places, to signify that if it began thus they were in for a day of it. nevertheless they obeyed, and, finding certain young gentlemen of prince louis's guard waiting for just such an opportunity without, thora and the others proceeded to carry out to the letter the second part of the instructions of their mistress. "how now, sweet thora of the flaxen locks?" cried justus of grätz, a slender young man who carried the prince's bannerstaff on saints' days, and practised fencing and the art of love professionally at other times; "has the princess boxed all your ears this morning, that you come trembling forth, pell-mell, like a flock of geese out of a barn when the farmer's dog is after them?" there were three under-officers of the guard in the little courtyard. slim justus of grätz, his friend and boon companion seydelmann, a man of fine presence and empty head, who on wet days could curl the wings of his moustaches round his ears, and, sitting a little apart from these, little johannes rode, the only very brave man of the three, a swordsman and a poet, yet one who passed for a ninny and a greenhorn because he chose mostly to be silent. nevertheless, thora of bornholm preferred him to all others in the palace. for the eyes of a woman are quick to discern manhood--so long, that is, as she is not in love. after that, god wot, there is no eyeless fish so blind in all the caverns of the hartz. with the northwoman thora in her tendance of the princess there were joined anna and martha pappenheim, two maids quicker of speech and more restless in demeanour--franconians, like all their name, of their persons little and lithe and gay. the princess had brought them back with her when at the last diet she visited ratisbon with her brother. "ah, thora, fairest of maids! hath an east wind made you sulky this morning, that you will not answer?" languished justus. "then i warrant so are not anna and martha. my service to you, noble dames!" "noble 'dames' indeed--and to us!" they answered in alternate jets of speech. "as if we were apple-women or the fat house-frows of courtlandish burghers. get away--you have no manners! you sop your wits in sour beer. you eat frogs-meat out of your baltic marshes. a dozen dozen of you were not worth one lively lad out of sweet franconia!" "swe-e-et franconia!" mocked justus; "why, then, did you not stop there? of a verity no lover carried you off to courtland across his saddle-bow, that i warrant! he had repented his pains and killed his horse long ere he smelt the baltic brine." "the most that such louts as you courtlanders could carry off would be a screeching pullet from a farmyard, when the goodman is from home. there is no spirit in the north--save, i grant, among the women. there is our princess and her new sister the lady joan of the sword hand. where will you see their match? small wonder they will have nothing to say to such men as they can find hereabouts! but how they love each other! 'tis as good as a love tale to see them----" "aye, and a very miracle to boot!" interjected thora of bornholm. the pappenheims, as before, went on antiphonally, each answering and anticipating the other. "the princesses need not any man to make them happy! their affection for each other is past telling," said martha. "how their eyes shine when they look at each other!" sighed anna, while thora said nothing for a little, but watched johannes rode keenly. she saw he had something on his mind. the northwoman was not of the opinion which anna pappenheim attributed to the princesses. for the fair-skinned daughters of the goth, being wise, hold that there is but one kind of love, as there is but one kind of gold. also they believe that they carry with them the philosopher's stone wherewith to procure that fine ore. after a while thora spoke. "this morning it was 'the princess needs not your help--i myself will be her tire-woman!' i wot margaret is as jealous of any other serving the lady joan----" "as you would be if we made love to johannes rode there!" laughed martha pappenheim, getting behind a pillar and peeping roguishly round in order that the poet might have an opportunity of seeing the pretty turn of her ankle. but little johannes, who with a nail was scratching a line or two of a catch on a smooth stone, hardly even smiled. he minded maids of honour, their gabble and their ankles, no more than jackdaws crying in the crevices of the gable--that is, all except thora, who was so large and fair and white that he could not get her quite out of his mind. but even with thora of bornholm he did his best. "that is all very well _now_," put in vain fritz seydelmann, stroking his handsome beard and smiling vacantly; "but wait till these same princesses have had husbands of their own for a year. then they will spit at each other and scratch--like cats. all women are cats, and maids of honour the worst of all!" "how so, sir wiseman--because they do not like puppies? you have found out that?" anna pappenheim struck back demurely. "you ask me why maids of honour are like cats," returned seydelmann complacently (he had been making up this speech all night). "do they not arch their backs when they are stroked? do they not purr? have you not seen them lie about the house all day, doing nothing and looking as saintly as so many abbots at high mass? but at night and on the tiles--phew! 'tis another matter then." and having thus said vain moustached seydelmann, who plumed himself upon his wit, dragged at his moustache horns and simpered bovinely down upon the girls. anna pappenheim turned to thora, who was looking steadily through the self-satisfied fritz, much as if she could see a spider crawling on the wall behind him. "do they let things like that run about loose here in courtland?" she asked, with some anxiety on her face. "we have sties built for them at home in franconia!" but thora was in no mood for the rough jesting of officers-in-waiting and princesses' tirewomen. she continued to watch the spider. then little johannes rode spoke for the first time. "i wager," he said slowly, "that the princesses will be less inseparable by this time to-morrow." "what do you mean, johannes rode?" said thora, with instant challenge in her voice, turning the wide-eyed directness of her gaze full upon him. the young man did not look at her. he merely continued the carving of his couplet upon the lower stone of the sundial, whistling the air as he did so. "well," he answered slowly, "the muscovite guard of prince ivan have packed their own baggage (together with a good deal that is not their own), and the minster priests are warned to hold themselves at the prince's bidding all day. that means a wedding, and i warrant you our noble louis does not mean to marry his princess all over again in the dom-kirch of courtland. they are going to marry the russ to our princess margaret!" blonde fritz laughed loud and long and tugged at his moustache. "out, you fool!" he cried; "this is a saint's day! i saw it in the chaplain's breviary. the prince goes to shrive himself, and right wisely he judges. i would not only confess, but receive extreme unction as well, before i attempted to come nigh joan of the sword hand in the way of love! what say you, justus?" but before his companion could reply, thora of bornholm had risen and stolen quietly within. chapter xxxv a perilous honeymoon never was day so largely and gloriously blue since courtland was a city as the first morning of the married life of maurice and margaret von lynar, count and countess von löen. the summer floods had subsided, and the tawny dye had gone clean out of the alla, which was now as clear as aquamarine, and laved rather than fretted the dark green piles of the summer palace. the princesses (so they said without) were more than ever inseparable. they were constantly talking confidentially together, for all the world like schoolgirls with a secret. doubtless prince louis's fair sister was persuading the unruly wife to return to her duty. doubtless it was so--ah, yes, doubtless! "better that prince louis should do his own embassage in such a matter in his proper person," said the good-wives of thorn. "for me, i would not listen to any sister if my man came not to my feet himself. the lady joan is in the right of it--a feckless lover, no true man!" "aye," said the men, agreeing for once, "a paper-backed princeling! god wot, were it our conrad we should soon hear other of it! there would be none of this shilly-shallying back-and-forth work then! we would give half a year's income in golden gulden for a good lusty heir to the principalities--with that foul muscovite ivan yearning to lay the knout across our backs!" "there is something toward to-day," said a decent widow woman who lived in the königstrasse to her neighbour. "my son, who as you know is a chorister, is gone to practise the wedding hymn in the cathedral. i am going thither to get a good place. i will not miss it, whatever it is. perhaps they are going to make the princess joan do penance for her fault, in a white sheet with a candle in her hand a yard long! that would be rare sport. i would not miss it for so much as four farthings!" and with that the chorister's mother hobbled off, telling everybody she met the same story. and so in half an hour the news had spread all over the city, and there began to be the makings of quite a respectable crowd in the dom platz of courtland. it was half-past eleven when the archers of the guard appeared at the entrance of the square which leads from the palace. behind them, rank upon rank, could be seen the lances of the wild cossacks of prince ivan's escort who had remained behind when the muscovite army went back to the russian plains. their dusky goat-hair tents, which had long covered the banks of the alla, had now been struck and were laded upon baggage-horses and sumpter mules. "the prince of muscovy delays only for the ceremony, whatever it may be!" the people said, admiring at their own prevision. and the better sort added privately, "we shall be well rid of him!" but the baser grieved for the loss of the largesse which he scattered abroad in good muscovite silver, unclipped and unalloyed, with the mint-master's hammer-stroke clean and clear to the margin. for with such prince ivan knew how to make himself beloved, holding man's honour and woman's love at the price of so few and so many gold pieces, and thinking well or ill of them according to their own valuation. the rabble of courtland, whose price was only silver, he counted as no better than the trodden dirt of the highway. meanwhile, in the river parlour of the summer palace, the two princesses were talking together even as the people had said. the princess margaret sat on a low stool, leaning her elbow on her companion's knee and gazing up at him. and though she sometimes looked away, it was not for long, and maurice, meeting her ever-recurrent regard, found that a new thing had come into her eyes. presently a low tapping was heard at the inner door, from which a passage communicated with the rooms of the princess margaret. the sparhawk would have risen, for the moment forgetful of his disguise, but with a slight pressure of her arm upon his knee the princess restrained him. "enter!" she called aloud in her clear imperious voice. thora entered hurriedly, and, closing the door behind her, she stood with the latch in her hand. "my princess," she said in a voice that was little more than a whisper, "i have heard ill news. they are making the cathedral ready for a wedding. the cossacks have struck their tents. i think a plot is on foot to marry you this day to prince ivan, and to carry you off with him to moscow." the sparhawk sprang to his feet and laid his hand on the place where his sword-hilt should have been. "never," he cried; "it is impossible! the princess is----" he was about to add, "she is married already," but with a quick gesture of warning margaret stopped him. "who told you this?" she queried, turning again to thora of bornholm. "johannes rode of the prince's guard told me a moment ago," she answered. "he has just returned from the muscovite camp." "i thank you, thora--i shall not forget this faithfulness," said margaret. "now you have my leave to go!" the princess spoke calmly, and to the ear even a little coldly. the door closed upon the swedish maiden. margaret and maurice turned to each other with one pregnant instinct and took hands. "already!" said margaret faintly, going back into the woman; "they might have left us alone a little longer. how shall we meet this? what shall we do? i had counted on this one day." "margaret," answered the sparhawk impulsively, "this shall not daunt us. we would have told your brother louis one day. we will tell him now. duchess joan is safe out of his reach, kernsberg is revictualled, the muscovite army returned. there is no need to keep up the masquerade any longer. whatever may come of it, let us go to your brother. that will end it swiftly, at all events." the princess put away his restraining clasp and came closer to him. "no--no," she cried: "you must not. you do not know my brother. he is wholly under the influence of ivan of muscovy. louis would slay you for having cheated him of his bride--ivan for having forestalled him with me." "but you cannot marry ivan. that were an outrage against the laws of god and man!" "marry ivan!" she cried, to the full as impulsively as her lover; "not though they set ravens to pick the live flesh off my bones! but it is the thought of torture and death for you--that i cannot abide. we must continue to deceive them. let me think!--let me think!" hastily she barred the door which led out upon the corridor. then taking maurice's hand once more she led him over to the window, from which she could see the green alla cutting its way through the city bounds and presently escaping into the yet greener corn lands on its way to the sea. "it is for this one day's delay that we must plan. to-night we will certainly escape. i can trust certain of those of my household. i have tried them before.... i have it. maurice, you must be taken ill--lie down on this couch away from the light. there is a rumour of the black death in the city--we must build on that. they say an astrakhan trader is dead of it already. for one day we may stave it off with this. it is the poor best we can do. lie down, i will call thora. she is staunch and fully to be trusted." the princess margaret went to the inner door and clapped her hands sharply. the fair-haired swedish maiden came running to her. she had been waiting for such a signal. "thora," said her mistress in a quick whisper, "we must put off this marriage. i would sooner die than marry ivan. you have that drug you spoke of--that which gives the appearance of sickness unto death without the reality. the lady joan must be ill, very ill. you understand, we must deceive even the prince's physicians." the girl nodded with quick understanding, and, turning, she sped away up the inner stair to her own sleeping-chamber, the key of which (as was the custom in courtland) she carried in her pocket. "this will keep you from being suspected--as in public places you would have been," whispered margaret to her young husband. "what thora thinks or knows does not matter. i can trust thora with my life--nay, what is far more, with yours." a light tap and the girl re-entered, a tall phial in her hand. with a swift look at her mistress to obtain permission, she went up to the couch upon which the sparhawk had lain down. then with a deft hand she opened the bottle, and pouring a little of a colourless liquid into a cup she gave it him to drink. in a few minutes a sickly pallor slowly overspread maurice von lynar's brow. his eyes appeared injected, the lips paled to a grey white, beads of perspiration stood on the forehead, and his whole countenance took on the hue and expression of mortal sickness. "now," said thora, when she had finished, "will the noble lady deign to swallow one of these pellicles, and in ten minutes not a leech in the country will be able to pronounce that she is not suffering from a dangerous disease." "you are sure, thora," said the princess margaret almost fiercely, laying her hand on her tirewoman's wrist, "that there is no harm in all this? remember, on your life be it!" the placid, flaxen-haired woman turned with the little silver box in her hand. "danger there is, dear mistress," she said softly, "but not, i think, so great danger as we are already in. but i will prove my honesty----" she took first a little of the liquid, and immediately after swallowed one of the white pellicles she had given maurice. "it will be as well," she said, "when the prince's wiseacre physicians come, that they should find another sickening of the same disease." thora of bornholm passed about the couch and took up a waiting-maid's station some way behind. "all is ready," she said softly. "we will forestall them," answered the princess. "thora, send and bid prince louis come hither quickly." "and shall i also ask him to send hither his most skilled doctors of healing?" added the girl. "i will despatch johannes rode. he will go quickly and answer as i bid him with discretion--and without asking questions." and with the noiseless tread peculiar to most blonde women of large physique, thora disappeared through the private door by which she had entered. the princess margaret kneeled down by the couch and looked into the face of the sparhawk. even she who had seen the wonder was amazed and almost frightened by the ghastly effect the drug had wrought in such short space. "you are sure that you do not feel any ill effects--you are perfectly well?" she said, with tremulous anxiety in her voice. the sparhawk smiled and nodded reassuringly up at her. "never better," he said. "my nerves are iron, my muscles steel. i feel as if, for my margaret's sake, i could vanquish an army of prince ivan's single-handed!" the princess rose from her place and unlocked the main door. "we will be ready for them," she said. "all must appear as though we had no motive for concealment." and, having drawn the curtains somewhat closer, she kneeled down again by the couch. there was no sound in the room as the youthful husband and wife thus waited their fate hand in hand, save only the soft continuous sibilance of their whispered converse, and from without the deeper note of the alla sapping the palace walls. chapter xxxvi the black death the princes of courtland and muscovy, inseparable as the princesses, were on the pleasant creeper-shaded terrace which looks over the rose garden of the palace of courtland down upon the sea plain of the baltic, now stretching blue black from verge to verge under the imminent sun of noon. prince louis moved restlessly to and fro, now biting his lip, now frowning and fumbling with his sword-hilt, and anon half drawing his jewelled dagger from its sheath and allowing it to slip back again with the faintly musical click of perfectly fitting steel. ivan of muscovy, on the other hand, lounged listlessly in the angle of an embrasure, alternately contemplating his red-pointed toes shod in cordovan leather, and glancing keenly from under his eyelids at his nervous companion as often as his back was turned in the course of his ceaseless perambulations. "you would desert me, ivan," prince louis was saying in a tone at once appealing and childishly aggressive: "you would leave me in the hour of my need. you would take away from me my sister margaret, who alone has influence with the princess, my wife!" "but you do not try to court the lady with any proper fervour," objected ivan, half humouring and half irritating his companion; "you observe none of the rules. speak her soft, praise her eyelashes--surely they are worthy of all praise; give her a pet lamb for a playmate. feed her with conserves of honey and spice. surely such comfits would mollify even joan of the sword hand!" "tush!--you flout me, ivan--even you. every one despises me since--since she flouted me. the woman is a tigress, i tell you. every time she looks at me her eyes flick across me like a whip-lash!" "that is but her maiden modesty. how often is it assumed to cover love!" murmured ivan, demurely smiling at his shoe point, which nodded automatically before him. "so doth the glance of my sweet bride of to-day, your own sister margaret. to all seeming she loves me as little as the lady joan does you. yet i am not afraid. i know women. before i have her a month in moscow she will run that she may be allowed to pull my shoes off and on. she will be out of breath with hasting to fetch my slippers--together with other little domestic offices of that sort, all very profitable for women's souls to perform. take pattern by me, louis, and teach the tigress to bring your shoes and tie your hose points. in a little while she will like it and hold up her cheek to be kissed for a sufficient reward." at this point an officer came swiftly across the parterre and stood with uncovered head by the steps of the terrace, waiting permission to ascend. the prince summoned him with a movement of his hand. "what news?" he said; "have the ladies yet left the summer palace?" "no, my lord," answered the officer earnestly; "but johannes rode of the princess margaret's household has come with a message that the plague has broken out there, and that the lady princess is the first stricken!" "which princess?" demanded ivan, with an instant incision of tone. "the lady joan, princess of courtland, your highness," replied the man, without, however, looking at the prince of muscovy. "the lady joan?" cried the prince louis. "she is ill? she has brought the black death with her from kernsberg! she is stricken with the plague? how fortunate that, so far, i----" he clapped his hand upon his brow and shut his eyes as if giving thanks. "i see it all now!" he cried. "this is the reason the kernsberg traitors were so willing to give her up. it is all a plot against my life. i will not go near. let the court physicians be sent! cause the doors of the summer palace to be sealed! set double guards! permit none to pass either way, save the doctors only! and let them change their clothes and perfume themselves with the smoke of sulphur before they come out!" his voice mounted higher and higher as he spoke, and ivan of muscovy watched him without speaking, as with hands thrust out and distended nostrils he screamed and gesticulated. prince ivan had never seen a thorough coward before, and the breed interested him. but when he had let the prince run on far enough to shame him before his own officer, he rose quietly and stood in front of him. "louis," he said, in a low voice, "listen to me--this is but a report. it is like enough to be false; it is certain to be exaggerated. let us go at once and find out." prince louis threw out his hands with a gesture of despair. "not i--not i!" he cried. "you may go if you like, if you do not value your life. but i--i do not feel well even now. yesterday i kissed her hand. ah, would to god that i had not! that is it. i wondered what ailed me this morning. go--stop the court physicians! do not let them go to the summer palace; bring them here to me first. your arm, officer; i think i will go to my room--i am not well." prince ivan's countenance grew mottled and greyish, and his teeth showed in the sun like a thin line of dazzling white. he grasped the poltroon by the wrist with a hand of steel. "listen," he said--"no more of this; i will not have it! i will not waste my own time and the blood of my father's soldiers for naught. this is but some woman's trick to delay the marriage--i know it. hearken! i fear neither black death nor black devil; i will have the lady margaret to-day if i have to wed her on her death-bed! now, i cannot enter your wife's chamber alone. yet go i must, if only to see what all this means, and you shall accompany me. do you hear, prince louis? i swear you shall go with me to the summer palace if i have to drag you there step by step!" his grasp lay like a tightening circle of iron about the wrist of prince louis; his steady glance dominated the weaker man. louis drew in his breath with a choking noise. "i will," he gasped; "if it must--i will go. but the death--the black death! i am sick--truly, ivan, i am very sick!" "so am i!" said prince ivan, smiling grimly. "but bring his highness a cup of wine, and send hither alexis the deacon, my own physician." the officer went out cursing the muscovite ears that had listened to such things, and also high heaven for giving such a prince to his true german fatherland. * * * * * prince ivan and prince louis stood at the door of the river parlour. the peculiar moving hush and tepidly stagnant air of a sick-room penetrated even through the panels. ivan still kept hold of his friend, but now by the hand, not compulsively, but rather like one who in time of trouble comforts another's sorrow. at either end of the corridor could be seen a guard of cossacks keeping it against all intrusion from without or exodus from within. so prince ivan had ordered it. his fellows were used to the plague, he said. at the princess's door prince ivan tapped gently and inclined his ear to listen. louis fumbled with his golden crucifix, and as the muscovite turned away his head he pressed it furtively to his lips. ever since he set foot in the summer palace he had been muttering the prayers of the church in a rapid undertone. "the prince louis to see the princess joan!" ivan answered the low-voiced challenge from within. the door opened slightly and then more widely. ivan pushed his friend forward and they entered, louis dragging one foot after the other towards the shaded couch by which knelt the princess margaret. thora of bornholm, pallid and blue-lipped, stood beside her, swaying a little, but still holding, half unconsciously, as it seemed, a silver basin, into which margaret dipped a fine linen cloth, before touching with it the foam-flecked lips of the sufferer. prince ivan remained a little back, near to where the court physicians were conferring together in stage whispers. as he passed, a tall grey-skirted long-bearded man, girt about the middle with a silver chain, detached himself from the official group and approached prince ivan. after an instinctive cringing movement of homage and salutation, he bent to the young man's ear and whispered half a dozen words. prince ivan nodded very slightly and the man stole away as he had come. no one in the room had noticed the incident. meanwhile louis of courtland, almost as pale as thora herself, his lips blue, his teeth chattering, his fingers clammy with perspiration, stood by the bedside clutching the crucifix. presently a hand was laid upon his arm. he started violently at the touch. "it is true--a bad case," said ivan in his ear. "let us get away; i must speak with you at once. the physicians have given their verdict. they can do nothing!" with a gasp of relief prince louis faced about, and as he turned he tottered. "steady, friend louis!" said prince ivan in his ear, and passed his arm about his waist. he began to fear lest he should have frightened his dupe too thoroughly. "see how he loves her!" murmured the doctors of healing, still conferring with their heads together. "who would have believed it possible?" "nay, he is only much afraid," said alexis the deacon, the muscovite doctor; "and small blame to him, now that the black death has come to courtland. in half an hour we shall hear the death-rattle!" "then there is no need of us staying," said more than one learned doctor, and they moved softly towards the door. but ivan had possessed himself of the key, and even as the hand of the first was on the latchet bar the bolt was shot in his face. and the eyes of alexis the deacon glowed between his narrow red lids like sparks in tinder as he glanced at the whitening faces of the learned men of courtland. without the door ivan fixed prince louis with his will. "now," he said, speaking in low trenchant tones, "if this be indeed the black death (and it is like it), there is no safety for us here. we must get without the walls. in an hour there will be such a panic in the city as has not been for centuries. i offer you a way of escape. my cossacks stand horsed and ready without. let us go with them. but the princess margaret must come also!" "she cannot--she cannot. i will not permit it. she may already be infected!" gasped prince louis. "there is no infection till the crisis of the disease is passed," said prince ivan firmly. "we have had many plagues in holy russia, and know the symptoms." ("indeed," he added to himself, "my physician, alexis the deacon, can produce them!") "but--but--but----" louis still objected, "the princess joan--she may die. it will reflect upon my honour if we all desert her. my sister must continue to attend her. they are friends. i will go with you.... margaret can remain and nurse her!" a light like a spear point glittered momentarily under the dark brows of the muscovite. "listen, prince louis," he said. "your honour is your honour. joan of the sword hand and her black plagues are your own affair. she is your wife, not mine. i have helped you to get her back--no more. but the princess margaret is my business. i have bought her with a price. and look you, sir, i will not ride back to russia empty-handed, that every petty boyar and starveling serf may scoff at me, saying, 'he helped the prince of courtland to win his wife, but he could not bring back one himself.' the whole city, the whole country from here to moscow know for what cause i have so long sojourned in your capital. no, prince louis, will you have me go as your friend or as your enemy?" "ivan--ivan, you are my friend. do not speak to me so! who else is my friend if you desert me?" "then give me your sister!" the prince cast up his hand with a little gesture of despair. "ah," he sighed, "you do not know margaret! she is not in my gift, or you should have had her long ago! oh, these troubles, these troubles! when will they be at an end?" "they are at an end now," said prince ivan consolingly. "call your sister out of the chamber on a pretext. in ten minutes we shall be at the cathedral gates. in another ten she and i can be wedded according to your roman custom. in half an hour we shall all be outside the walls. if you fear the infection you need not once come near her. i will do all that is necessary. and what more natural? we will be gone before the panic breaks--you to one of your hill castles--if you do not wish to come with us to moscow." "and the princess joan----?" faltered the coward. "she is in good hands," said the prince, truthfully for once. "i pledge you my word of honour she is in no danger. call your sister!" even as he spoke he tapped lightly, turned the key in the lock and whispered, "now!" to the prince of courtland. "tell the princess margaret i would speak with her!" said prince louis. "for a moment only!" he added, fearing that otherwise she might not come. there was a stir in the sick chamber and then quick steps were heard coming lightly across the floor. the face of the princess appeared at the door. "well?" she said haughtily to her brother. prince ivan she did not see, for he had stepped back into the dusk of the corridor. louis beckoned his sister without. "i must speak a word with you," he said. "i would not have these fellows hear us!" she stepped out unsuspectingly. instantly the door was closed behind her. a dark figure slid between. prince ivan turned the key and laid his hand upon her arm. "help!" she cried, struggling; "help me! for god's grace, let me go!" but from behind came four cossacks of the prince's retinue who half-carried, half-forced her along towards the gates at which the muscovite horses stood ready saddled. and as margaret was carried down the passage the alarmed servitors stood aloof from her cries, seeing that prince louis himself was with her. yet she cried out unceasingly in her anger and fear, "to me, men of courtland! the cossacks carry me off--i will not go! o god, that conrad were here! i will not be silent! maurice, save me!" but the people only shrugged their shoulders even when they heard--as did also the guards and the gentlemen-in-waiting, the underlings and the very porters at the palace gates. for they said, "they are strange folk, these courtland princes and princesses of ours, with their marriages and givings in marriage. they can neither wed nor bed like other people, but must make all this fuss about it. well--happily it is no business of ours!" then at the stair foot she sank suddenly down by the sundial, almost fainting with the sudden alarm and fear, crying for the last time and yet more piercingly, "maurice! maurice! come to me, maurice!" then above them in the palace there began a mighty clamour, the noise of blows stricken and the roar of many voices. but ivan of muscovy was neither to be hurried nor flurried. impassive and determined, he swung himself into the saddle. his black charger changed his feet to take his weight and looked about to welcome him--for he, too, knew his master. "give the princess to me," he commanded. "now assist prince louis into his saddle. to the cathedral, all of you!" chapter xxxvii the dropping of a cloak and so, with the mounted guard of his own cossacks before him and behind, prince ivan carried his bride to church through the streets of her native city. and the folk thronged and marvelled at this new custom of marrying. but none interfered by word or sign, and the obsequious rabble shouted, "long live prince ivan!" even some of the better disposed, who had no liking for the muscovite alliance, said within their hearts, looking at the calm set face of the prince, "he is a man! would to god that our own prince were more like him!" also many women nodded their heads and ran to find their dearest gossips. "you will see," they said, "this one will have no ridings away. he takes his wife before him upon his saddle-bow as a man should. and she will pretend that she does not like it. but secretly--ah, we know!" and they smiled at each other. for there is that in most women which will never be civilised. they love not men who walk softly, and still in their heart of hearts they prefer to be wooed by the primitive method of capture. for if a woman be not afraid of a man she will never love him truly. and that is a true word among all peoples. so they came at last to the dom and the groups of wondering folks, thinly scattered here and there--women mostly. for there had been such long delay at the summer palace that the men had gone back to their shavings and cooperage tubs or were quaffing tankards in the city ale-cellars. the great doors of the cathedral had been thrown wide open and the leathern curtains withdrawn. the sun was checkering the vast tesselated pavement with blurs of purple and red and glorious blue shot through the western window of the nave. in gloomy chapel and recessed nook marble princes and battered crusaders of the line of courtland seemed to blink and turn their faces to the wall away from the unaccustomed glare. the altar candles and the lamps a-swing in the choir winked no brighter than yellow willow leaves seen through an autumnal fog. but as the _cortège_ dismounted the organ began to roll, and the people within rose with a hush like that which follows the opening of a window at night above the alla. the sonorous diapason of the great instrument disgorged itself through the doorway in wave upon wave of sound. the princess margaret found herself again on her feet, upheld on either side by brother and lover. she was at first somewhat dazed with the rush of accumulate disasters. slowly her mind came back. the dom platz whirled more slowly about her. with a fresh-dawning surprise she heard the choir sing within. she began to understand the speech of men. the great black square of the open doorway slowed and finally stopped before her. she was on the steps of the cathedral. what had come to her? was it the duchess joan's wedding day? surely no! then what was the matter? had she fainted? maurice--where was maurice? she turned about. the small glittering eyes of prince ivan, black as sloes, were looking into hers. she remembered now. it was her own wedding. these two, her brother and her enemy, were carrying out their threat. they had brought her to the cathedral to wed her, against her will, to the man she hated. but they could not. she would tell them. already she was a--but then, if she told them that, they would ride back and kill him. better that she should perjure herself, condemn herself to hell, than that. better anything than that. but what was she to do? was ever a poor girl so driven? and there, in the hour of her extremity, her eye fell upon a young man in the crowd beneath, a youth in a 'prentice's blue jerkin. he was passing his arm softly about a girl's waist--slily also, lest her mother should see. and the maid, first starting with a pretence of not knowing whence came the pressure, presently looked up and smiled at him, nestling a moment closer to his shoulder before removing his hand, only to hold it covertly under her apron till her mother showed signs of turning round. "ah! why was i born a princess?" moaned the poor driven girl. "margaret, you must come with us into the cathedral." it was the voice of her brother. "it is necessary that the prince should wed you now. it has too long been promised, and now he can delay no longer. besides, the black death is in the city, and this is the only hope of escape. come!" it was on the tip of margaret's tongue to cry out with wild words even as she had done at the door at the river parlour. but the thought of maurice, of the torture and the death, silenced her. she lifted her eyes, and there, at the top of the steps, were the dignitaries of the cathedral waiting to lead the solemn procession. "i will go!" she said. and at her words the prince ivan smiled under his thin moustache. she laid her hand on her brother's arm and began the ascent of the long flight of stairs. but even as she did so, behind her there broke a wave of sound--the crying of many people, confused and multitudinous like the warning which runs along a crowded thoroughfare when a wild charger escaped from bonds threshes along with frantic flying harness. then came the clatter of horses' hoofs, the clang of doors shut in haste as decent burghers got them in out of harm's way! and lo! at the foot of the steps, clad from head to foot in a cloak, the sick princess joan, she whom the black death had stricken, leaped from her foaming steed, and drawing sword followed fiercely up the stairway after the marriage procession. the cossacks of the muscovite guard looked at each other, not knowing whether to stand in her way or no. "the princess joan!" they said from one to the other. "joan of the sword hand!" whispered the burghers of courtland. "the disease has gone to her brain. look at the madness in her eye!" and their lips parted a little as is the wont of those who, having come to view a comedy, find themselves unexpectedly in the midst of high tragedy. "hold, there!" the pursuer shouted, as she set foot on the lowest step. "lord! surely that is no woman's voice!" whispered the people who stood nearest, and their lower jaws dropped a little further in sheer wonderment. the princes turned on the threshold of the cathedral, with margaret still between them, the belly of the church black behind them, and the processional priests first halting and then peering over each other's shoulders in their eagerness to see. up the wide steps of the dom flew the tall woman in the flowing cloak. her face was pallid as death, but her eyes were brilliant and her lips red. at the sight of the naked sword prince ivan plucked the blade from his side and louis shrank a little behind his sister. "treason!" he faltered. "what is this? is it sudden madness or the frenzy of the black death?" "the princess margaret cannot be married!" cried the seeming princess. "to me, margaret! i will slay the man who lays a hand on you!" obedient to that word, margaret of courtland broke from between her brother and prince ivan and ran to the tall woman, laying her brow on her breast. the prince of muscovy continued calm and immovable. "and why?" he asked in a tone full of contempt. "why cannot the princess margaret be married?" "because," said the woman in the long cloak, fingering a string at her neck, "she is married already. _i am her husband!_" the long blue cloak fell to the ground, and the sparhawk, clad in close-fitting squire's dress, stood before their astonished eyes. a long low murmur, gathering and sinking, surged about the square. prince louis gasped. margaret clung to her lover's arm, and for the space of a score of seconds the whole world stopped breathing. prince ivan twisted his moustache as if he would pull it out by the roots. "so," he said, "the princess is married, is she? and you are her husband? 'whom god hath joined'--and the rest of it. well, we shall see, we shall see!" he spoke gently, meditatively, almost caressingly. "yes," cried the sparhawk defiantly, "we were married yesterday by father clement, the prince's chaplain, in the presence of the most noble leopold von dessauer, high councillor of plassenburg!" "and my wife--the princess joan, where is she?" gasped prince louis, so greatly bewildered that he had not yet begun to be angry. ivan of muscovy put out his hand. "gently, friend," he said; "i will unmask this play-acting springald. this is not your wife, not the woman you wedded and fought for, not the lady joan of hohenstein, but some baseborn brother, who, having her face, hath played her part, in order to mock and cheat and deceive us both!" he turned again to maurice von lynar. "i think we have met before, sir masquer," he said with his usual suave courtesy; "i have, therefore, a double debt to pay. hither!" he beckoned to the guards who lined the approaches. "i presume, sir, so true a courtier will not brawl before ladies. you recognise that you are in our power. your sword, sir!" the sparhawk looked all about the crowded square. then he snapped his sword over his knee and threw the pieces down on the stone steps. "you are right; i will not fight vainly here," he said. "i know well it is useless. but"--he raised his voice--"be it known to all men that my name is maurice, count von löen, and that the princess margaret is my lawfully wedded wife. she cannot then marry ivan of muscovy!" the prince laughed easily and spread his hand with gentle deprecation, as the guards seized the sparhawk and forced him a little space away from the clinging hands of the princess. "i am an easy man," he said gently, as he clicked his dagger to and fro in its sheath. "when i like a woman, i would as lief marry her widow as maid!" chapter xxxviii the return of the bride "prince louis," continued ivan, turning to the prince, "we are keeping these holy men needlessly, as well as disappointing the good folk of courtland of their spectacle. there is no need that we should stand here any longer. we have matters to discuss with this gentleman and--his wife. have i your leave to bring them together in the palace? we may have something to say to them more at leisure." but the prince of courtland made no answer. his late fears of the black death, the astonishing turn affairs had taken, the discovery that his wife was not his wife, the slowly percolating thought that his invasion of kernsberg, his victories there, and his triumphal re-entry into his capital, had all been in vain, united with his absorbing fear of ridicule to deprive him of speech. he moved his hand angrily and began to descend the stairs towards the waiting horses. prince ivan turned towards maurice von lynar. "you will come with me to the palace under escort of these gentlemen of my staff," he said, with smiling equality of courtesy; "there is no need to discuss intimate family affairs before half the rabble of courtland." he bowed to maurice as if he had been inviting him to a feast. maurice looked about the crowded square, and over the pennons of the cossacks. he knew there was no hope either in flight or in resistance. all the approaches to the square had been filled up with armed men. "i will follow!" he answered briefly. the prince swept his plumed hat to the ground. "nay," he said; "lead, not follow. you must go with your wife. the prince of muscovy does not precede a lady, a princess,--and a bride!" so it came about that margaret, after all, descended the cathedral steps on her husband's arm. and as the cavalcade rode back to the palace the princess was in the midst between the sparhawk and prince wasp, louis of courtland pacing moodily ahead, his bridle reins loose upon his horse's neck, his chin sunk on his breast, while the rabble cried ever, "largesse! largesse!" and ran before them casting brightly coloured silken scarves in the way. then prince ivan, summoning his almoner to his side, took from him a bag of coin. he dipped his fingers deeply in and scattered the coins with a free hand, crying loudly, "to the health and long life of the princess margaret and her husband! health and riches and offspring!" and the mob taking the word from him shouted all along the narrow streets, "to the princess and her husband!" but from the hooded dormers of the city, from the lofty gable spy-holes, from the narrow windows of baltic staircase-towers the good wives of courtland looked down to see the great folk pass. and their comment was not that of the rabble. "married, is she?" they said among themselves. "well, god bless her comely face! it minds me of my own wedding. but, by my faith, i looked more at my fritz than she doth at the muscovite. i declare all her eyes are for that handsome lad who rides at her left elbow----" "nay, he is not handsome--look at his face. it is as white as a new-washen clout hung on a drying line. who can he be?" "minds me o' the prince's wife, the proud lady that flouted him, mightily he doth--i should not wonder if he were her brother." "yes, by my faith, dame--hast hit it! so he doth. and here was i racking my brains to think where i had seen him before, and then, after all, i never _had_ seen him before!" "a miracle it is, gossip, and right pale he looks! yet i should not wonder if our margaret loves him the most. her eyes seek to him. women among the great are not like us. they say they never like their own husbands the best. what wouldst thou do, good neighbour bette, if i loved your hans better than mine own stupid old fritz! pull the strings off my cap, dame, sayst thou? that shows thee no great lady. for if thou wast of the great, thou wouldst no more than wave thy hand and say, 'a good riddance and a heartsome change!'--and with that begin to make love to the next young lad that came by with his thumbs in his armholes and a feather in his cap!" "and what o' the childer--the house-bairns--what o' them? with all this mixing about, what comes o' them--answer me that, good dame!" "what, gossip bette--have you never heard? the childer of the great, they suck not their own mothers' milk--they are not dandled in their own mothers' arms. they learn not their duty from their mothers' lips. when they are fractious, a stranger beats them till they be good----" "ah," cried the court of matrons all in unison, "i would like to catch one of the fremit lay a hand on my karl--my kirsten--that i would! i would comb their hair for them, tear the pinner off their backs--that i would!" "and i!" "and i!" "nay, good gossips all," out of the chorus the voice of the dame learned in the ways of the great asserted itself; "that, again, proves you all no better than burgherish town-folk--not truly of the noble of the land. for a right great lady, when she meets a foster-nurse with a baby at the breast, will go near and say--i have heard 'em--'la! the pretty thing--a poppet! well-a-well, 'tis pretty, for sure! and whose baby may this be?' "'thine own, lady, thine own!'" at this long and loud echoed the derision of the good wives of courtland. their gossip laughed and reasserted. but no, they would not hear a word more. she had overstepped the limit of their belief. "what, not to know her child--her own flesh and blood? out on her!" cried every mother who had felt about her neck the clasp of tiny hands, or upon her breast the easing pressure of little blind lips. "good dame, no; you shall not hoodwink us. were she deaf and dumb and doting, a mother would yet know her child. 'tis not in nature else! well, thanks be to mary mother--she who knew both wife-pain and mother-joy, we, at least, are not of the great. we may hush our own bairns to sleep, dance with them when they frolic, and correct them when they be naughty-minded. nevertheless, a good luck go with our noble lady this day! may she have many fair children and a husband to love her even as if she were a common woman and no princess!" so in little jerks of blessing and with much head-shaking the good wives of courtland continued their congress, long after the last cossack lance with its fluttering pennon had been lost to view down the winding street. for, indeed, well might the gossips thank the virgin and their patron saints that they were not as the poor princess margaret, and that their worst troubles concerned only whether hans or fritz tarried a little over-long in the town wine-cellars, or wagered the fraction of a penny too much on a neighbour's cock-fight, and so returned home somewhat crusty because the wrong bird had won the main. * * * * * but in the prince's palace other things were going forward. hitherto we have had to do with the summer palace by the river, a building of no strength, and built more as a pleasure house for the princely family than as a place of permanent habitation. but the castle of courtland was a structure of another sort. set on a low rock in the centre of the town, its walls rose continuous with its foundations, equally massive and impregnable, to the height of over seventy feet. for the first twenty-five neither window nor grating broke the grim uniformity of those mighty walls of mortared rock. above that line only a few small openings half-closed with iron bars evidenced the fact that a great prince had his dwelling within. the main entrance to the castle was through a gateway closed by a grim iron-toothed portcullis. then a short tunnel led to another and yet stronger defence--a deep natural fosse which surrounded the rock on all sides, and over which a drawbridge conducted into the courtyard of the fortress. the sparhawk knew very well that he was going to his death as he rode through the streets of the city of courtland, but none would have discovered from his bearing that there was aught upon his mind of graver concern than the fit of a doublet or, perhaps, the favour of a pretty maid-of-honour. but with the princess margaret it was different. in these last crowded hours she had quite lost her old gay defiance. her whole heart was fixed on maurice, and the tears would not be bitten back when she thought of the fate to which he was going with so manly a courage and so fine an air. they dismounted in the gloomy courtyard, and maurice, slipping quickly from his saddle, caught margaret in his arms before the muscovite could interfere. she clung to him closely, knowing that it might be for the last time. "maurice, maurice," she murmured, "can you forgive me? i have brought you to this!" "hush, sweetheart," he answered in her ear; "be my own dear princess. do not let them see. be my brave girl. they cannot divide our love!" "come, i beg of you," came the dulcet voice of prince ivan behind them; "i would not for all courtland break in upon the billing and cooing of such turtle-doves, were it not that their affection blinds them to the fact that the men-at-arms and scullions are witnesses to these pretty demonstrations. tarry a little, sweet valentines--time and place wait for all things." the princess commanded herself quickly. in another moment she was once more margaret of courtland. "even the prince of muscovy might spare a lady his insults at such a time!" she said. the prince bared his head and bowed low. "nay," he said very courteously; "you mistake, princess margaret. i insult you not. i may regret your taste--but that is a different matter. yet even that may in time amend. my quarrel is with this gentleman, and it is one of some standing, i believe." "my sword is at your service, sir!" said maurice von lynar firmly. "again you mistake," returned the prince more suavely than ever; "you have no sword. a prisoner, and (if i may say so without offence) a spy taken red-hand, cannot fight duels. the prince of courtland must settle this matter. when his justiciar is satisfied, i shall most willingly take up my quarrel with--whatever is left of the most noble count maurice von lynar." to this maurice did not reply, but with margaret still beside him he followed prince louis up the narrow ancient stairway called from its shape the couch, into the gloomy audience chamber of the castle of courtland. they reached the hall, and then at last, as though restored to power by his surroundings, prince louis found his tongue. "a guard!" he cried; "hither berghoff, kampenfeldt! conduct the princess to her privy chamber and do not permit her to leave it without my permission. i would speak with this fellow alone." ivan hastily crossed over to prince louis and whispered in his ear. in the meantime, ere the soldiers of the guard could approach, margaret cried out in a loud clear voice, "i take you all to witness that i, margaret of courtland, am the wife of this man, maurice von lynar, count von löen. he is my wedded husband, and i love him with all my heart! according to god's holy ordinance he is mine!" "you have forgotten the rest, fair princess," suggested prince ivan subtly--"_till death you do part!_" chapter xxxix prince wasp stings margaret did not answer her tormentor's taunt. her arms went about maurice's neck, and her lips, salt with the overflowing of tears, sought his in a last kiss. the officer of the prince's guard touched her on the shoulder. she shook him haughtily off, and then, having completed her farewells, she loosened her hands and went slowly backward towards the further end of the hall with her eyes still upon the man she loved. "stay, berghoff," said prince louis suddenly; "let the princess remain where she is. cross your swords in front of her. i desire that she shall hear what i have to say to this young gentleman." "and also," added prince ivan, "i desire the noble princess to remember that this has been granted by the prince upon my intercession. in the future, it may gain me more of her favour than i have had the good fortune to enjoy in the past!" maurice stood alone, his tall slender figure supple and erect. one hand rested easily upon his swordless thigh, while the other still held the plumed hat he snatched up as in frantic haste he had followed margaret from the summer palace. there ensued a long silence in which the sparhawk eyed his captors haughtily, while prince louis watched him from under the grey penthouse of his eyebrows. then three several times the prince essayed to speak, and as often utterance was choked within him. his feelings could only find vent in muttered imprecations, half smothered by a consuming rage. then prince ivan crossed over and laid his hand restrainingly on his arm. the touch seemed to calm his friend, and, after swallowing several times as there had been a knot in his throat, at last he spoke. for the second time in his life maurice von lynar stood alone among his enemies; but this time in peril far deadlier than among the roisterous pleasantries of castle kernsberg. yet he was as little daunted now as then. once on a time a duchess had saved him. now a princess loved him. and even if she could not save him, still that was better. "so," cried prince louis, in the curiously uneven voice of a coward lashing himself into a fury, "you have played out your treachery upon a reigning prince of courtland. you cheated me at castle kernsberg. now you have made me a laughing-stock throughout the empire. you have shamed a maiden of my house, my sister, the daughter of my father. what have you to say ere i order you to be flung out from the battlements of the western tower?" "ere it comes to that i shall have something to say, prince louis," interrupted prince wasp, smiling. "we must not waste such dainty powers of masquerade on anything so vulgar as the hangman's rope." "gentlemen and princes," maurice von lynar answered, "that which i have done i have done for the sake of my mistress, the lady joan, and i am not afraid. prince louis, it was her will and intent never to come to courtland as your wife. she would not have been taken alive. it was therefore the duty of her servants to preserve her life, and i offered myself in her stead. my life was hers already, for she had preserved it. she had given. it was hers to take. with the chief captains of kernsberg i plotted that she should be seized and carried to a place of refuge wherein no foe could even find her. there she abides with chosen men to guard her. i took her place and was delivered up that kernsberg might be cleared of its enemies. gladly i came that i might pay a little of my debt to my sovran lady and liege mistress, joan duchess of kernsberg and hohenstein." "nobly perorated!" cried prince ivan, clapping his hands. "right sonorously ended. faith, a paladin, a deliverer of oppressed damsels, a very carnival masquerader! he will play you the dragon, this fellow, or he will act saint george with a sword of lath! he will amble you the hobby-horse, or be the holy virgin in a miracle play. well, he shall play in one more good scene ere i have done with him. but, listen, sir mummer, in all this there is no word of the princess margaret. how comes it that you so loudly proclaim having given yourself a noble sacrifice for one fair lady, when at the same time you are secretly married to another? are you a deliverer of ladies by wholesale? speak to this point. let us have another noble period--its subject my affianced bride. already we have heard of your high devotion to prince louis's wife. well--next!" but it was the princess who spoke from where she stood behind the crossed swords of her guards. "that _i_ will answer. i am a woman, and weak in your hands, princes both. you have set the grasp of rude men-at-arms upon the wrist of a princess of courtland. but you can never compel her soul. brother louis, my father committed me to you as a little child--have i not been a loving and a faithful sister to you? and till this muscovite came between, were you not good to me? wherefore have you changed? why has he made you cruel to your little margaret?" prince louis turned towards his sister, moving his hands uncertainly and even deprecatingly. ivan moved quickly to his side and whispered something which instantly rekindled the light of anger in the weakling's eyes. "you are no sister of mine," he said; "you have disgraced your family and yourself. whether it be true or no that you are married to this man matters little!" "it is true; i do not lie!" said margaret recovering herself. "so much the worse, then, and he shall suffer for it. at least i can hide, if i cannot prevent, your shame!" "i will never give him up; nothing on earth shall part our love!" prince ivan smiled delicately, turning to where she stood at the end of the hall. "sweet princess," he said, "divorce is, i understand, contrary to your holy roman faith. but in my land we have discovered a readier way than any papal bull. be good enough to observe this"--he held a dagger in his hand. "it is a little blade of steel, but a span long, and narrow as one of your dainty fingers, yet it will divorce the best married pair in the world." "but neither dagger nor the hate of enemies can sever love," margaret answered proudly. "you may slay my husband, but he is mine still. you cannot twain our souls." the prince shrugged his shoulder and opened his palms deprecatingly. "madam," he said, "i shall be satisfied with twaining your bodies. in holy russia we are plain men. we have a saying, 'no one hath ever seen a soul. let the body content you!' when this gentleman is--what i shall make him, he is welcome to any communion of souls with you to which he can attain. i promise you that, so far as he is concerned, you shall find me neither exigent lover nor jealous husband!" the princess looked at maurice. her eyes had dwelt defiantly on the prince of muscovy whilst he was speaking, but now a softer light, gentle yet brave, crept into them. "fear not, my husband," she said. "if the steel divide us, the steel can also unite. they cannot watch so close, or bind so tight, but that i can find a way. or, if iron will not pierce, fire burn, or water drown, i have a drug that will open the door which leads to you. fear not, dearest, i shall yet meet you unashamed, and as your loyal wife, without soil or stain, look into your true eyes." "i declare you have taught your mistress the trick of words!" cried the prince delightedly. "count von löen, the lady margaret has quite your manner. she speaks to slow music." but even the sneers of prince ivan could not filch the greatness out of their loves, and prince louis was obviously wavering. ivan's quick eye noted this and he instantly administered a fillip. "are you not moved, louis?" he said. "how shamelessly hard is your heart! this handsome youth, whom any part sets like a wedding favour and fits like his own delicate skin, condescends to become your relative. where is your welcome, your kinsmanlike manners? go, fall upon his neck! kiss him on either cheek. is he not your heir? he hath only sequestrated your wife, married your sister. your only brother is a childless priest. there needs only your decease to set him on the throne of the princedom. give him time. how easily he has compassed all this! he will manage the rest as easily. and then--listen to the shouting in the streets. i can hear it already. 'long live maurice the bastard, prince of courtland!'" and the prince of muscovy laughed loud and long. but prince louis did not laugh. his eyes glared upon the prisoner like those of a wild beast caught in a corner whence it wishes to flee but cannot. "he shall die--this day shall be his last. i swear it!" he cried. "he hath mocked me, and i will slay him with my hand." he drew the dagger from his belt. but in the centre of the hall the sparhawk stood so still and quiet that prince louis hesitated. ivan laid a soft hand upon his wrist and as gently drew the dagger out of his grasp. "nay, my prince, we will give him a worthier passing than that. so noble a knight-errant must die no common death. what say you to the ukraine cross, the cross of steeds? i have here four horses, all wild from the steppes. this squire of dames, this woman-mummer, hath, as now we know, four several limbs. by a strange coincidence i have a wild horse for each of these. let limbs and steeds be severally attached, my cossacks know how. upon each flank let the lash be laid--and--well, the princess margaret is welcome to her liege lord's soul. i warrant she will not desire his fair body any more." at this margaret tottered, her knees giving way beneath her, so that her guards stood nearer to catch her if she should fall. "louis--my brother," she cried, "do not listen to the monster. kill my husband if you must--because i love him. but do not torture him. by the last words of our mother, by the memory of our father, by your faith in the most pitiful son of god, i charge you--do not this devilry." prince ivan did not give louis of courtland time to reply to his sister's appeal. "the most noble princess mistakes," he murmured suavely. "death by the cross of steeds is no torture. it is the easiest and swiftest of deaths. i have witnessed it often. in my country it is reserved for the greatest and the most distinguished. no common felon dies by the cross of steeds, but men whose pride it is to die greatly. ere long we will show you on the plain across the river that i speak the truth. it is a noble sight, and all courtland shall be there. what say you, louis? shall this springald seat himself in your princely chair, or--shall we try the cross of the ukraine?" "have it your own way, prince ivan!" said louis, and went out without another word. the muscovite stood a moment looking from maurice to margaret and back again. he was smiling his inscrutable oriental smile. "the prince has given me discretion," he said at last. "i might order you both to separate dungeons, but i am an easy man and delight in the domestic affections. i would see the parting of two such faithful lovers. i may learn somewhat that shall stand me in good stead in the future. it is my ill-fortune that till now i have had little experience of the gentler emotions." he raised his hand. "let the princess pass," he cried. the guards dropped their swords to their sides. they had been restraining her with as much gentleness as their duty would permit. instantly the princess margaret ran forward with eager appeal on her face. she dropped on her knees before the prince of muscovy and clasped her hands in supplication. "prince ivan," she said, "i pray you for the love of god to spare him, to let him go. i promise never to see him more. i will go to a nunnery. i will look no more upon the face of day." "that, above all things, i cannot allow," said the prince. "so fair a face must see many suns--soon, i trust, in moscow city, and by my side." "margaret," said the sparhawk, "it is useless to plead. do not abase yourself in the presence of our enemy. you cannot touch a man's heart when his breast covers a stone. bid me goodbye and be brave. the time will not be long." from the place where margaret the loving woman had kneeled margaret the princess rose to her feet at the word of her husband. without deigning even to glance at ivan, who had stooped to assist her, she passed him by and went to von lynar. he held out both his hands and took her little trembling ones in a strong assured clasp. the prince watched the pair with a chill smile. "margaret," said maurice, "this will not be for long. what matters the ford, so that we both pass over the river. be brave, little wife. the crossing will not be wide, nor the water deep. they cannot take from us that which is ours. and he who joined us, whose priest blessed us, will unite us anew when and where it seemeth good to him!" "maurice, i cannot let you die--and by such a terrible death!" "dearest, what does it matter? i am yours. wherever my spirit may wander, i am yours alone. i will think of you when the black water shallows to the brink. on the further side i will wait a day and then you will meet me there. to you it may seem years. it will be but a day to me. and i shall be there. so, little margaret, good-night. do not forget that i love you. i would have made you very happy, if i had had time--ah, if i had had time!" like a child after its bedside prayer she lifted up her face to be kissed. "good-night, maurice," she said simply. "wait for me; i shall not be long after!" she laid her brow a moment on his breast. then she lifted her head and walked slowly and proudly out of the hall. the guard fell in behind her, and maurice von lynar was left alone with the prince of muscovy. as the door closed upon the princess a sudden devilish grimace of fury distorted the countenance of prince ivan. hitherto he had been studiously and even caressingly courteous. but now he strode swiftly up to his captive and smote him across the mouth with the back of his gauntleted hand. "that!" he said furiously, "that for the lips which have kissed hers! soon, soon i shall pay the rest of my debt. yes, by the most high god, i will pay it--with usury thereto!" a thin thread of scarlet showed upon the white of maurice von lynar's chin and trickled slowly downwards. but he uttered no word. only he looked his enemy very straightly in the eyes, and those of the muscovite dropped before that defiant fierce regard. chapter xl the loves of priest and wife it remains to tell briefly how certain great things came to pass. we must return to isle rugen and to the lonely grange on the spit of sand which separates the baltic from the waters of the freshwater haff. many things have happened there since conrad of courtland, cardinal and archbishop, awaked to find by his bedside the sleeping girl who was his brother's wife. on isle rugen, where the pines grew dense and green, gripping and settling the thin sandy soil with their prehensile roots, joan and conrad found themselves much alone. the lady of the grange was seldom to be seen, save when all were gathered together at meals. werner von orseln and the plassenburg captains, jorian and boris, played cards and flung harmless dice for white stones of a certain size picked from the beach. dumb max ulrich went about his work like a shadow. the ten soldiers mounted guard and looked out to sea with their elbows on their knees in the intervals. three times a week the solitary boat, with max ulrich at the oars, crossed to the landing-place on the mainland and returned laden with provisions. the outer sea was empty before their eyes, generally deep blue and restless with foam caps. behind them the haff lay vacant and still as oil in a kitchen basin. but it was not dull on isle rugen. the osprey flashed and fell in the clear waters of the haff, presently to re-emerge with a fish in his beak, the drops running like a broken string of pearls from his scales. rough-legged buzzards screamed their harsh and melancholy cry as on slanted wings they glided down inclines of sunshine or lay out motionless upon the viewless glorious air. wild geese swept overhead out of the north in v-shaped flocks. the sea-gulls tacked and balanced. all-graceful terns swung thwartways the blue sky, or plunged headlong into the long green swells with the curve and speed of falling stars. it was a place of forgetting, and in the autumn time it is good to forget. for winter is nigh, when there will be time and enough to think all manner of sad thoughts. so in the september weather joan and conrad walked much together. and as joan forgat kernsberg and her revenge, rome and his mission receded into the background of the young man's thoughts. soon they met undisguisedly without fear or shame. this isle rugen was a place apart--a haven of refuge not of their seeking. mars had driven one there, neptune the other. yet when conrad woke in his little north-looking room in the lucid pearl-grey dawn he had some bad moments. his vows, his priesthood, his princedom of holy church were written in fire before his eyes. his heart weighed heavy as if cinctured with lead. and, deeper yet, a rat seemed to gnaw sharp-toothed at the springs of his life. also, when the falling seas, combing the pebbly beaches with foamy teeth, rattled the wet shingle, joan would ofttimes wake from sleep and lie staring wide-eyed at the casement. black reproach of self brooded upon her spirit, as if a foul bird of night had fluttered through the open window and settled upon her breast. the poor folk of kernsberg--her fatherland invaded and desolate, the sparhawk, the man who ought to have been the ruler she was not worthy to be, the leader in war, the lawgiver in peace--these reproachful shapes filled her mind so that sleep fled and she lay pondering plans of escape and deliverance. but of one thing she never thought--of the cathedral of courtland and the husband to whose face she had but once lifted her eyes. the sun looked through between the red cloud bars. these he soon left behind, turning them from fiery islands to banks of fleecy wool. the shadows shot swiftly westward and then began slowly to shorten. in his chamber prince conrad rose and went to the window. a rose-coloured light lay along the sea horizon, darting between the dark pine stems and transmuting the bare sand-dunes into dreamy marvels, till they touched the heart like glimpses of a lost eden seen in dreams. the black bird of night flapped its way behind the belting trees. there was not such a thing as a ghostly rat to gnaw unseen the heart of man. the blue dome of sky overhead was better than the holy shrine of peter across the tawny flood of tiber, and isle rugen more to be desired than the seven-hilled city itself. yea, better than lifted chalice and wafted incense, joan's hand in his---- and conrad the lover turned from the window with a defiant heart. * * * * * at her casement, which opened to the east, stood at the same moment the young duchess of hohenstein. her lips were parted and the mystery of the new day dwelt in her eyes like the memory of a benediction. southward lay the world, striving, warring, sinning, repenting, elevating the host, slaying the living, and burying the dead. but between her and that world stretched a wide water not to be crossed, a fixed gulf not to be passed over. it was the new day, and there beneath her was the strip of silver sand where he and she had walked yestereven, when the moon was full and the wavelets of that sheltered sea crisped in silver at their feet. an hour afterwards these two met and gave each other a hand silently. then, facing the sunrise, they walked eastward along the shore, while from the dusk of the garden gate theresa von lynar watched them with a sad smile upon her face. "she is learning the lesson even as i learned it," she murmured, unconsciously thinking aloud. "well, that which the father taught it is meet that the daughter should learn. let her eat the fruit, the bitter fruit of love--even as i have eaten it!" she watched a little longer, standing there with the pruning-knife in her hand. she saw conrad turn towards joan as they descended a little dell among the eastern sand-hills. and though she could not see, she knew that two hands met, and that they stood still for a moment, ere their feet climbed the opposite slope of dew-drenched sand. a swift sob took her unexpectedly by the throat. "and yet," she said, "were all to do over, would not theresa von lynar again learn that lesson from alpha to omega, eat the dead sea fruit to its bitterest kernel, in order that once more the bud might open and love's flower be hers?" theresa von lynar at her garden door spoke truth. for even then among the sand-hills the bud was opening, though the year was on the wane and the winter nigh. "happy isle rugen!" said joan, drawing a breath like a sigh. "why were we born to princedoms, conrad, you and i?" "i at least was not," answered her companion. "dumb max's jerkin of blue fits me better than any robe royal." they stood on the highest part of the island. joan was leaning on the crumbling wall of an ancient fort, which, being set on a promontory from which the pinetrees drew back a little, formed at once a place of observation and a point objective for their walks. she turned at his words and looked at him. conrad, indeed, never looked better or more princely than in that rough jerkin of blue, together with the corded forester's breeches and knitted hose which he had borrowed from theresa's dumb servitor. "conrad," said joan, suddenly standing erect and looking directly at the young man, "if i were to tell you that i had resolved never to return to kernsberg, but to remain here on isle rugen, what would you answer?" "i should ask to be your companion--or, if not, your bailiff!" said the prince-bishop promptly. "that would be to forget your holy office!" a certain gentle sadness passed over the features of the young man. "i leave many things undone for the sake of mine office," he said; "but the canons of the church do not forbid poverty, or yet manual labour." "but you have told me a hundred times," urged joan, smiling in spite of herself, "that necessity and not choice made you a churchman. does that necessity no longer exist?" "nay," answered conrad readily as before; "but smaller necessities yield to greater?" "and the greater?" "why," he answered, "what say you to the tempest that drove me hither--the thews and stout hearts of werner von orseln and his men, not to speak of captains boris and jorian there? are they not sufficient reasons for my remaining here?" he paused as if he had more to say. "well?" said joan, and waited for him to continue. "there is something else," he said. "it is--it is--that i cannot bear to leave you! god knows i could not leave you if i would!" joan of hohenstein started. the words had been spoken in a low tone, yet with suppressed vehemence, as though driven from the young man's lips against his will. but there was no mistaking their purport. yet they were spoken so hopelessly, and withal so gently, that she could not be angry. "conrad--conrad," she murmured reproachfully, "i thought i could have trusted you. you promised never again to forget what we must both remember!" "in so thinking you did well," he replied; "you may trust me to the end. but the privilege of speech and testimony is not denied even to the criminal upon the scaffold." a wave of pity passed over joan. a month before she would have withdrawn herself in hot anger. but isle rugen had gentled all her ways. the peace of that ancient fortalice, the wash of its ambient waters, the very lack of incident, the sense of the mysteries of tragic life which surrounded her on all sides, the deep thoughts she had been thinking alone with herself, the companionship of this man whom she loved--all these had wrought a new spirit in joan of the sword hand. women who cannot be pitiful are but half women. they have never yet entered upon their inheritance. but now joan was coming to her own again. for to pity of theresa von lynar she was adding pity for conrad of courtland and--joan of hohenstein. "speak," she said very gently. "do not be afraid; tell me all that is in your heart." joan was not disinclined to hear any words that the young man might speak. she believed that she could listen unmoved even to his most passionate declarations of love. like the wise physician, she would listen, understand, prescribe--and administer the remedy. but the pines of isle rugen stood between this woman and the girl who had ridden away so proudly from the doors of the kernsberg minster at the head of her four hundred lances. besides, she had not forgotten the tournament and the slim secretary who had once stood before this man in the river parlour of the summer palace. then conrad spoke in a low voice, very distinct and even in its modulation. "joan," he said, "once on a time i dreamed of being loved--dreamed that among all the world of women there might be one woman for me. such things must come when deep sleep falleth upon a young man. waking i put them from me, even as i put arms and warfare aside. i believed that i had conquered the lust of the eye. now i know that i can never again be true priest, never serve the altar with a clean heart. "listen, my lady joan! i love you--there is no use in hiding it. doubtless you yourself have already seen it. i love you so greatly that vows, promises, priesthoods, cardinalates are no more to me than the crying of the seabirds out yonder. let a worthier than i receive and hold them. they are not for a weak and sinful man. my bishopric let another take. i would rather be your groom, your servitor, your lacquey, than reign on the seven hills and sit in holy peter's chair!" joan leaned against the crumbling battlement, and the words of conrad were very sweet in her ear. they filled her with pity, while at the same time her heart was strong within her. none had dared to speak such things to her before in all her life, and she was a woman. the princess margaret, had she loved a man as joan did this man, would have given back vow for vow, renunciation for renunciation, and, it might be, have bartered kiss for kiss. but joan of the sword hand was never stronger, never more serene, never surer of herself than when she listened to the words she loved best to hear, from the lips of the man whom of all others she desired to speak them. at first she had been looking out upon the sea, but now she permitted her eyes to rest with a great kindliness upon the young man. even as he spoke conrad divined the thing that was in her heart. "mark you," he said, "do me the justice to remember that i ask for nothing. i expect nothing. i hope for nothing in return. i thought once that i could love divine things wholly. now i know that my heart is too earthly. but instead i love the noblest and most gracious woman in all the world. and i love her, too, with a love not wholly unworthy of her." "you do me overmuch honour," said joan quietly. "i, too, am weak and sinful. or how else would i, your brother's wife, listen to such words from any man--least of all from you?" "nay," said conrad; "you only listen out of your great pitifulness. but i am no worthy priest. i will not take upon me the yet greater things for which i am so manifestly unfitted. i will not sully the holy garments with my earthliness. conrad of courtland, bishop and cardinal, died out there among the breakers. "he will never go to rome, never kneel at the tombs of the apostles. from this day forth he is a servitor, a servant of servants in the train of the duchess joan. save those with us here, our hostess and the three captains (who for your sake will hold their peace), none know that conrad of courtland escaped the waters that swallowed up his companions. they and you will keep the secret. this shaven crown will speedily thatch itself again, a beard grow upon these shaveling cheeks. a dash of walnut juice, and who will guess that under the tan of conrad the serf there is concealed a prince of holy church?" he paused, almost smiling. the picture of his renunciation had grown real to him even as he spoke. but joan did not smile. she waited a space to see if he had aught further to say. but he was silent, waiting for her answer. "conrad," she said very gently, "that i have listened to you, and that i have not been angry, may be deadly sin for us both. yet i cannot be angry. god forgive me! i have tried and i cannot be angry. and why should i? even as i lay a babe in the cradle, i was wedded. if a woman must suffer, she ought at least to be permitted to choose the instrument of her torture." "it is verity," he replied; "you are no more true wife than i am true priest." "yet because you have dispensed holy bread, and i knelt before the altar as a bride, we must keep faith, you and i. we are bound by our nobility. if we sin, let it be the greater and rarer sin--the sin of the spirit only. conrad, i love you. nay, stand still where you are and listen to me--to me, joan, your brother's wife. for i, too, once for all will clear my soul. i loved you long ere your eyes fell on me. i came as dessauer's secretary to the city of courtland. i determined to see the man i was to wed. i saw the prince--my prince as i thought--storm through the lists on his white horse. i saw him bare his head and receive the crown of victory. i stood before him, ashamed yet glad, hosed and doubleted like a boy, in the summer pavilion. i heard his gracious words. i loved my prince, who so soon was to be wholly mine. the months slipped past, and i was ever the gladder the faster they sped. the woman stirred within the stripling girl. in half a year, in twenty weeks--in five--in one--in a day--an hour, i would put my hand, my life, myself into his keeping! then came the glad tumult of the rejoicing folk, the hush of the crowded cathedral. i said, 'oh, not yet--i will not lift my eyes to my prince until----' we stopped. i lifted my eyes. and lo! the prince was not my prince!" there was a long and solemn pause between these two on the old watchtower. never was declaration of love so given and so taken. conrad remained still as a statue, only his eyes growing great and full of light. joan stood looking at him, unashamed and fearless. yet neither moved an inch toward either. a brave woman's will, to do right greatly, stood between them. she went on. "now you know all, my conrad," she said. "isle rugen can never more be the isle of peace to us. you and i have shivered the cup of our happiness. we must part. we can never be merely friends. i must abide because i am a prisoner. you will keep my counsel, promising me to be silent, and together we will contrive a way of escape." when conrad answered her again his voice was hoarse and broken, almost like one rheumed with sleeping out on a winter's night. his words whistled in his windpipe, flying from treble to bass and back again. "joan, joan!" he said, and the third time "joan!" and for the moment he could say no more. "true love," she said, and her voice was almost caressing, "you and i are barriered from each other. yet we belong--you to me--i to you! i will not touch your hand, nor you mine. not even as we have hitherto done. let ours be the higher, perhaps deadlier sin--the sin of soul and soul. do you go back to your office, your electorate, while i stay here to do my duty." "and why not you to your duchy?" said conrad, who had begun to recover himself. "because," she answered, "if i refuse to abide by one of my father's bargains, i have no right to hold by the other. he would have made me your brother's wife. that i have refused. he disinherited his lawful son that i might take the dukedom with me as my dowry. can i keep that which was only given me in trust for another? maurice von lynar shall be duke maurice, and theresa von lynar shall have her true place as the widow of henry the lion!" and she stood up tall and straight, like a princess indeed. "and you?" he said very low. "what will you do, joan?" "for me, i will abide on isle rugen. nunneries are not for me. there are doubtless one or two who will abide with me for the sake of old days--werner von orseln for one, peter balta for another. i shall not be lonely." she smiled upon him with a peculiar trustful sweetness and continued-- "and once a year, in the autumn, you will come from your high office. you will lay aside the princely scarlet, and don the curt hose and blue jerkin, even as now you stand. you will gather blackberries and help me to preserve them. you will split wood and carry water. then, when the day is well spent, you and i shall walk hither in the high afternoon and tell each other how we stand and all the things that have filled our hearts in the year's interspace. thus will we keep tryst, you and i--not priest and wedded wife, but man and woman speaking the truth eye to eye without fear and without stain. do you promise?" and for all answer the prince-cardinal kneeled down, and taking the hem of her dress he kissed it humbly and reverently. chapter xli theresa keeps troth but they had reckoned without theresa von lynar. conrad and joan came back from the ruined fortification, silent mostly, but thrilled with the thoughts of that which their eyes had seen, their ears heard. each had listened to the beating of the other's heart. both knew they were beloved. nothing could alter _that_ any more for ever. as they had gone out with theresa watching them from the dusk of the garden arcades, their hands had drawn together. eyes had sought answering eyes at each dip of the path. they had listened for the finest shades of meaning in one another's voices, and taken courage or lost hope from the droop of an eyelid or the quiver of a syllable. now all was changed. they knew that which they knew. the orchard of the lonely grange on isle rugen was curiously out of keeping with its barren surroundings. enclosed within the same wall as the dwelling-house, it was the special care of the wordless man, whose many years of pruning and digging and watering, undertaken each at its proper season, had resulted in a golden harvest of september fruit. when joan and conrad came to the portal which gave entrance from without, lo! it stood open. the sun had been shining in their eyes, and the place looked very slumberous in the white hazy glory of a northern day. the path which led out of the orchard was splashed with cool shade. green leaves shrined fair globes of fruitage fast ripening in the blowing airs and steadfast sun. up the path towards them as they stood together came theresa von lynar. there was a smile on her face, a large and kindly graciousness in her splendid eyes. her hair was piled and circled about her head, and drawn back in ruddy golden masses from the broad white forehead. autumn was theresa's season, and in such surroundings she might well have stood for ceres or pomona, with apron full enough of fruit for many a horn of plenty. such large-limbed simple-natured women as theresa von lynar appear to greatest advantage in autumn. it is their time when the day of apple-blossom and spring-flourish is overpast, and when that which these foreshadowed is at length fulfilled. then to see such an one emerge from an orchard close, and approach softly smiling out of the shadow of fruit trees, is to catch a glimpse of the elder gods. spring, on the other hand, is for merry maidens, slips of unripe grace, buds from the schools. summer is the season of languorous dryads at rest in the green gloom of forests, fanning sunburnt cheeks with leafy boughs, their dark eyes full of the height of living. winter is the time of swift lithe-limbed girls with heads proudly set, who through the white weather carry them like dian the huntress, their dainty chins dimpling out of softening furs. to each is her time and supremacy, though a certain favoured few are the mistresses of all. they move like a part of the spring when cherry blossoms are set against a sky of changeful april blue. they rejoice when dark-eyed summer wears scarlet flowers in her hair, shaded by green leaves and fanned by soft airs. well-bosomed ceres herself, smiling luxuriant with ripe lips, is not fairer than they at the time of apple-gathering, nor yet dainty winter, footing it lightly over the frozen snow. joan, an it liked her, could have triumphed in all these, but her nature was too simple to care about the impression she made, while conrad was too deep in love to notice any difference in her perfections. and now theresa von lynar, the woman who had given her beauty and her life like a little saint valentine's gift into the hand of the man she loved, content that he should take or throw away as pleased him best--theresa von lynar met these two, who in their new glory of renunciation thought that they had plumbed the abysses of love, when as yet they had taken no more than a single sounding in the narrow seas. she stood looking at them as they came towards her, with a sympathy that was deeper far than mere tolerance. "our joan of the sword hand is growing into a woman," she murmured; and something she had thought buried deep heaved in her breast, shaking her as enceladus the giant shakes etna when he turns in his sleep. for she saw in the girl her father's likeness more strongly than she had ever seen it in her own son. "you have faced the sunshine!" thus she greeted them as they came. "sit awhile with me in the shade. i have here a bower where maurice loved to play--before he left me. none save i hath entered it since that day." so saying, she led the way along an alley of pleached green, at the far end of which they could see the solitary figure of max ulrich, in the full sun, bending his back to his gardening tasks, yet at the same time, as was his custom, keeping so near his mistress that a fluttering kerchief or a lifted hand would bring him instantly to her side. it was a small rustic eight-sided lodge, thatched with heather, its latticed windows wide open and creeper-grown, to which theresa led them. it had been well kept; and when joan found herself within, a sudden access of tenderness for this lonely mother, who for love's sake had offered herself like a sacrifice upon an altar, took possession of her. for about the walls was fastened a child's pitiful armoury. home-made swords of lath, arrows winged with the cast feathers of the woodland, crooked bows, the broken crockery of a hundred imagined banquets--these, and many more, were carefully kept in place with immediate and loving care. maurice would be back again presently, they seemed to say, and would take up his play just where he left it. no cobwebs hung from the roof; the bows were duly unstrung; and though wooden platters and rough kitchen equipage were mingled with warlike accoutrements upon the floor, there was not a particle of dust to be seen anywhere. as they sat down at the mother's bidding, it was hard to persuade themselves that maurice von lynar was far off, enduring the hardships of war or in deadly peril for his mistress. he might have been even then in hiding in the brushwood, ready to cry bo-peep at them through the open door. there was silence in the arbour for a space, a silence which no one of the three was anxious to break. for joan thought of her promise, conrad of joan, and theresa of her son. it was the last who spoke. "somehow to-day it is borne in upon me that kernsberg has fallen, and that my son is in his enemy's hands!" joan started to her feet and thrust her hands a little out in front of her as if to ward off a blow. "how can you know that?" she cried. "who----no; it cannot be. kernsberg was victualled for a year. it was filled with brave men. my captains are staunch. the thing is impossible." theresa von lynar, with her eyes on the waving foliage which alternately revealed and eclipsed the ruddy globes of the apples on the orchard trees, slowly shook her head. "i cannot tell you how i know," she said; "nevertheless i know. here is something which tells me." she laid her hand upon her heart. "those who are long alone beside the sea hear voices and see visions." "but it is impossible," urged joan; "or, if it be true, why am i kept here? i will go and die with my people!" "it is my son's will," said theresa--"the will of the son of henry the lion. he is like his father--therefore women do his will!" the words were not spoken bitterly, but as a simple statement of fact. joan looked at this woman and understood for the first time that she was the strongest spirit of all--greater than her father, better than herself. and perhaps because of this, nobility and sacrifice stirred emulously in her own breast. "madam," she said, looking directly at theresa von lynar, "it is time that you and i understood each other. i hold myself no true duchess of hohenstein so long as your son lives. my father's compact and condition are of no effect. the diet of the empire would cancel them in a moment. i will therefore take no rest till this thing is made clear. i swear that your son shall be duke maurice and sit in his father's place, as is right and fitting. for me, i ask nothing but the daughter's portion--a grange such as this, as solitary and as peaceful, a garden to delve and a beach to wander upon at eve!" as she spoke, theresa's eyes suddenly brightened. a proud high look sat on the fulness of her lips, which gradually faded as some other thought asserted its supremacy. she rose, and going straight to joan, for the first time she kissed her on the brow. "now do i know," she said, "that you are henry the lion's daughter. that is spoken as he would have spoken it. it is greatly thought. yet it cannot be." "it shall be!" cried joan imperiously. "nay," returned theresa von lynar. "once on a time i would have given my right hand that for half a day, for one hour, men might have said of me that i was henry the lion's wife, and my son his son! it would have been right sweet. ah god, how sweet it would have been!" she paused a moment as if consulting some unseen presence. "no, i have vowed my vow. here was i bidden to stay and here will i abide. for me there was no sorrow in any hard condition, so long as _he_ laid it upon me. for have i not tasted with him the glory of life, and with him plucked out the heart of the mystery? that for which i paid, i received. my lips have tasted both of the tree of knowledge and of the tree of life--for these two grow very close together, the one to the other, upon the banks of the river of death. but for my son, this thing is harder to give up. for on him lies the stain, though the joy and the sin were mine alone." "maurice of hohenstein shall sit in his father's seat," said joan firmly. "i have sworn it. if i live i will see him settled there with my captains about him. werner von orseln is an honest man. he will do him justice. von dessauer shall get him recognised, and hugo of plassenburg shall stand his sponsor before the diet of the empire." "i would it could be so," said theresa wistfully. "if my death could cause this thing righteously to come to pass, how gladly would i end life! but i am bound by an oath, and my son is bound because i am bound. the tribunal is not the diet of ratisbon, but the faithfulness of a woman's heart. have i been loyal to my prince these many years, so that now shame itself sits on my brow as gladly as a crown of bay, that i should fail him now? low he lies, and i may never stand beside his sepulchre. no son of mine shall sit in his high chair. but if in any sphere of sinful or imperfect spirits, be it hell or purgatory, he and i shall encounter, think you that for an empire i would meet him shamed. and when he says, 'woman of my love, hast thou kept thy troth?' shall i be compelled to answer 'no?'" "but," urged joan, "this thing is your son's birthright. my father, for purposes of state, bound my happiness to a man i loathe. i have cast that band to the winds. the fathers cannot bind the children, no more can you disinherit your son." theresa von lynar smiled a sad wise smile, infinitely patient, infinitely remote. "ah," she said, "you think so? you are young. you have never loved. you are his daughter, not his wife. one day you shall know, if god is good to you!" at this joan smiled in her turn. she knew what she knew. "you may think you know," returned theresa, her calm eyes on the girl's face, "but what _i_ mean by loving is another matter. the band you broke you did not make. i keep the vow i made. with clear eye, undulled brain, willing hand i made it--because he willed it. let my son maurice break it, if he can, if he will--as you have broken yours. only let him never more call theresa von lynar mother!" joan rose to depart. her intent had not been shaken, though she was impressed by the noble heart of the woman who had been her father's wife. but she also had vowed a vow, and that vow she would keep. the sparhawk should yet be the eagle of kernsberg, and she, joan, a home-keeping housewife nested in quietness, a barn-door fowl about the orchards of isle rugen. "madam," she said, "your word is your word. but so is that of joan of kernsberg. it may be that out of the unseen there may leap a chance which shall bring all to pass, the things which we both desire--without breaking of vows or loosing of the bands of obligation. for me, being no more than a daughter, i will keep duke henry's will only in that which is just!" "and i," said theresa von lynar, "will keep it, just or unjust!" yet joan smiled as she went out. for she had been countered and checkmated in sacrifice. she had met a nature greater than her own, and that with the truly noble is the pleasure of pleasures. in such things only the small are small, only the worms of the earth delight to crawl upon the earth. the great and the wise look up and worship the sun above them. and if by chance their special sun prove after all to be but a star, they say, "ah, if we had only been near enough it would have been a sun!" all the while conrad sat very still, listening with full heart to that which it did not concern him to interrupt. but within his heart he said, "woman, when she is true woman, is greater, worthier, fuller than any man--aye, were it the holy father himself. perhaps because they draw near christ the son through mary the mother!" but theresa von lynar sat silent, and watched the girl as she went down the long path, the leafy branches spattering alternate light and shadow upon her slender figure. then she turned sharply upon conrad. "and now, my lord cardinal," she said, "what have you been saying to my husband's daughter?" "i have been telling her that i love her!" answered conrad simply. he felt that what he had listened to gave this woman a right to be answered. "and what, i pray you, have princes of holy church to do with love? they seek after heavenly things, do they not? like the angels, they neither marry nor are given in marriage." "i know," said conrad humbly, and without taking the least offence. "i know it well. but i have put off the armour i had not proven. the burden is too great for me. i am a soldier--i was trained a soldier--yet because i was born after my brother louis, i must perforce become both priest and cardinal. rather a thousand times would i be a man-at-arms and carry a pike!" "then am i to understand that as a soldier you told the duchess joan that you loved her, and that as a priest you forbade the banns? or did you wholly forget the little circumstance that once on a time you yourself married her to your brother?" "i did indeed forget," said conrad, with sincere penitence; "yet you must not blame me too sorely. i was carried out of myself----" "the duchess, then, rejected your suit with contumely?" conrad was silent. "how should a great lady listen to her husband's brother--and he a priest?" theresa went on remorseless. "what said the lady joan when you told her that you loved her?" "the words she spoke i cannot repeat, but when she ended i set my lips to her garment's hem as reverently as ever to holy bread." the slow smile came again over the face of theresa von lynar, the smile of a warworn veteran who watches the children at their drill. "you do not need to tell me what she answered, my lord," she said, for the first time leaving out the ecclesiastic title. "i know!" conrad stared at the woman. "she told you that she loved you from the first." "how know you that?" he faltered. "none must hear that secret--none must guess it!" theresa von lynar laughed a little mellow laugh, in which a keen ear might have detected how richly and pleasantly her laugh must once have sounded to her lover when all her pulses beat to the tune of gladness and the unbound heart. "do you think to deceive me, theresa, whom henry the lion loved? have i been these many weeks with you two in the house and not seen this? prince conrad, i knew it that night of the storm when she bent her over the couch on which you lay. 'i love,' you say boldly, and you think great things of your love. but she loved first as she will love most, and your boasted love will never overtake hers--no, not though you love her all your life.... well, what do you propose to do?" conrad stood a moment mutely wrestling with himself. he had never felt joan's first instinctive aversion to this woman, a dislike even yet scarcely overcome--for women distrust women till they have proven themselves innocent, and often even then. "my lady," he said, "the duchess joan has showed me the better way. like a man, i knew not what i asked, nor dared to express all that i desired. but i have learned how souls can be united, though bodies are separated. i will not touch her hand; i will not kiss her lips. once a year only will i see her in the flesh. i shall carry out my duty, made at least less unworthy by her example----" "and think you," said theresa, "that in the night watches you will keep this charge? will not her face come between you and the altar? will not her image float before you as you kneel at the shrine? will it not blot out the lines as you read your daily office?" "i know it--i know it too well!" said conrad, sinking his head on his breast. "i am not worthy." "what, then, will you do? can you serve two masters?" persisted the inquisitor. "your scripture says not." a larger self seemed to flame and dilate within the young man. "one thing i can do," he said--"like you, i can obey. she bade me go back and do my duty. i cannot bind my thought; i cannot change my heart; i cannot cast my love out. i have heard that which i have heard, and i cannot forget; but at least with the body i can obey. i will perform my vow; i will keep my charge to the letter, every jot and tittle. and if god condemn me for a hypocrite--well, let him! he, and not i, put this love into my heart. my body may be my priesthood's--i will strive to keep it clean--but my soul is my lady's. for that let him cast both soul and body into hell-fire if he will!" theresa von lynar did not smile any more. she held out her hand to conrad of courtland, priest and prince. "yes," she said, "you do know what love is. in so far as i can i will help you to your heart's desire." and in her turn she rose and passed down through the leafy avenues of the orchard, over which the westering sun was already casting rood-long shadows. chapter xlii the wordless man takes a prisoner it was the hour of the evening meal at isle rugen. the september day piped on to its melancholy close, and the wild geese overhead called down unseen from the upper air a warning that the storm followed hard upon their backs. at the table-head sat theresa von lynar, her largely moulded and beautiful face showing no sign of emotion. only great quiet dwelt upon it, with knowledge and the sympathy of the proven for the untried. on either side of her were joan and prince conrad--not sad, neither avoiding nor seeking the contingence of eye and eye, but yet, in spite of all, so strange a thing is love once declared, consciously happy within their heart of hearts. then, after a space dutifully left unoccupied, came captains boris and jorian; while at the table-foot, opposite to their hostess, towered werner von orseln, whose grey beard had wagged at the more riotous board of henry the lion of hohenstein. werner was telling an interminable story of the old wars, with many a "thus said i" and "so did he," ending thus: "there lay i on my back, with thirty pagan wends ready to slit my hals as soon as they could get their knives between my gorget and headpiece. gott! but i said every prayer that i knew--they were not many in those days--all in two minutes' space, as i lay looking at the sky through my visor bars and waiting for the first prick of the wendish knife-points. "but even as i looked up, lo! some one bestrode me, and the voice i loved best in all the world--no, not a woman's, god send him rest" ("amen!" interjected the lady joan)--"cried, 'to me, hohenstein! to me, kernsberg!' and though my head was ringing with the shock of falling, and my body weak from many wounds, i strove to answer that call, as i saw my master's sword flicker this way and that over my head. i rose half from the ground, my hilt still in my hand--i had no more left after the fight i had fought. but henry the lion gave me a stamp down with his foot. 'lie still, man,' he said; 'do not interfere in a little business of this kind!' and with his one point he kept a score at bay, crying all the time, 'to me, hohenstein! to me, kernsbergers all!' "and when the enemy fled, did he wait till the bearers came? well i wot, hardly! instead, he caught me over his shoulder like an empty sack when one goes a-foraging--me, werner von orseln, that am built like a donjon tower. and with his sword still red in his right hand he bore me in, only turning aside a little to threaten a wendish archer who would have sent an arrow through me on the way. by the knights who sit round karl's table, he was a man!" and then to their feet sprang boris and jorian, who were judges of men. "to prince henry the lion--_hoch!_" they cried. "drink it deep to his memory!" and with tankard and wreathed wine-cup they quaffed to the great dead. standing up, they drank--his daughter also--all save theresa von lynar. she sat unmoved, as if the toast had been her own and in a moment more she must rise to give them thanks. for the look on her face said, "after all, what is there so strange in that? was he not henry the lion--and mine?" for there is no joy like that which you may see on a woman's face when a great deed is told of the man she loves. the kernsberg soldiers who had been trained to serve at table, had stopped and stood fixed, their duties in complete oblivion during the tale, but now they resumed them and the simple feast continued. meanwhile it had been growing wilder and wilder without, and the shrill lament of the wind was distinctly heard in the wide chimney-top. now and then in a lull, broad splashes of rain fell solidly into the red embers with a sound like musket balls "spatting" on a wall. then theresa von lynar looked up. "where is max ulrich?" she said; "why does he delay?" "my lady," one of the men of kernsberg answered, saluting; "he is gone across the haff in the boat, and has not yet returned." "i will go and look for him--nay, do not rise, my lord. i would go forth alone!" so, snatching a cloak from the prong of an antler in the hall, theresa went out into the irregular hooting of the storm. it was not yet the deepest gloaming, but dull grey clouds like hunted cattle scoured across the sky, and the rising thunder of the waves on the shingle prophesied a night of storm. theresa stood a long time bare-headed, enjoying the thresh of the broad drops as they struck against her face and cooled her throbbing eyes. then she pulled the hood of the cloak over her head. the dead was conquering the quick within her. "i have known a _man_!" she said; "what need i more with life now? the man i loved is dead. i thank god that i served him--aye, as his dog served him. and shall i grow disobedient now? no, not that my son might sit on the throne of the kaiser!" theresa stood upon the inner curve of the haff at the place where max ulrich was wont to pull his boat ashore. the wind was behind her, and though the waves increased as the distance widened from the pebbly bank on which she stood, the water at her feet was only ruffled and pitted with little dimples under the shocks of the wind. theresa looked long southward under her hand, but for the moment could see nothing. then she settled herself to keep watch, with the storm riding slack-rein overhead. towards the mainland the whoop and roar with which it assaulted the pine forests deafened her ears. but her face was younger than we have ever seen it, for werner's story had moved her strongly. once more she was by a great man's side. she moved her hand swiftly, first out of the shelter of the cloak as if seeking furtively to nestle it in another's, and then, as the raindrops plashed cold upon it, she drew it slowly back to her again. and though theresa von lynar was yet in the prime of her glorious beauty, one could see what she must have been in the days of her girlhood. and as memory caused her eyes to grow misty, and the smile of love and trust eternal came upon her lips, twenty years were shorn away; and the woman's face which had looked anxiously across the darkening haff changed to that of the girl who from the gate of castle lynar had watched for the coming of duke henry. she was gazing steadfastly southward, but it was not for max the wordless that she waited. towards kernsberg, where he whose sleep she had so often watched, rested all alone, she looked and kissed a hand. "dear," she murmured, "you have not forgotten theresa! you know she keeps troth! aye, and will keep it till god grows kind, and your true wife can follow--to tell you how well she hath kept her charge!" awhile she was silent, and then she went on in the low even voice of self-communing. "what to me is it to become a princess? did not he, for whose words alone i cared, call me his queen? and i was his queen. in the black blank day of my uttermost need he made me his wife. and i am his wife. what want i more with dignities?" theresa von lynar was silent awhile and then she added-- "yet the young duchess, his daughter, means well. she has her father's spirit. and my son--why should my vow bind him? let him be duke, if so the fates direct and providence allow. but for me, i will not stir finger or utter word to help him. there shall be neither anger nor sadness in my husband's eyes when i tell him how i have observed the bond!" again she kissed a hand towards the dead man who lay so deep under the ponderous marble at kernsberg. then with a gracious gesture, lingeringly and with the misty eyes of loving womanhood, she said her lonely farewells. "to you, beloved," she murmured, and her voice was low and very rich, "to you, beloved, where far off you lie! sleep sound, nor think the time long till theresa comes to you!" she turned and walked back facing the storm. her hood had long ago been blown from her head by the furious gusts of wind. but she heeded not. she had forgotten poor max ulrich and joan, and even herself. she had forgotten her son. her hand was out in the storm now. she did not draw it back, though the water ran from her fingertips. for it was clasped in an unseen grasp and in an ear that surely heard she was whispering her heart's troth. "god give it to me to do one deed--one only before i die--that, worthy and unashamed, i may meet my king." when theresa re-entered the hall of the grange the company still sat as she had left them. only at the lower end of the board the three captains conferred together in low voices, while at the upper joan and prince conrad sat gazing full at each other as if souls could be drunk in through the eyes. with a certain reluctance which yet had no shame in it, they plucked glance from glance as she entered, as it were with difficulty detaching spirits which had been joined. at which theresa, recalled to herself, smiled. "in all that touches not my vow i will help you two!" she thought, as she looked at them. for true love came closer to her than anything else in the world. "there is no sign of max," she said aloud, to break the first silence of constraint; "perhaps he has waited at the landing-place on the mainland till the storm should abate--though that were scarce like him, either." she sat down, with one large movement of her arm casting her wet cloak over the back of a wooden settle, which fronted a fireplace where green pine knots crackled and explosive jets of steam rushed spitefully outwards into the hall with a hissing sound. "you have been down at the landing-place--on such a night?" said joan, with some remains of that curious awkwardness which marks the interruption of a more interesting conversation. "yes," said theresa, smiling indulgently (for she had been in like case--such a great while ago, when her brothers used to intrude). "yes, i have been at the landing-place. but as yet the storm is nothing, though the waves will be fierce enough if max ulrich is coming home with a laden boat to pull in the wind's eye." it mattered little what she said. she had helped them to pass the bar, and the conversation could now proceed over smooth waters. yet there is no need to report it. joan and conrad remained and spoke they scarce knew what, all for the pleasure of eye answering eye, and the subtle flattery of voices that altered by the millionth of a tone each time they answered each other. theresa spoke vaguely but sufficiently, and allowed herself to dream, till to her yearning gaze honest, sturdy werner grew misty and his bluff figure resolved itself into that one nobler and more kingly which for years had fronted her at the table's end where now the chief captain sat. meanwhile jorian and boris exchanged meaning and covert glances, asking each other when this dull dinner parade would be over, so that they might loosen leathern points, undo buttons, and stretch legs on benches with a tankard of ale at each right elbow, according to the wont of stout war-captains not quite so young as they once were. thus they were sitting when there came a clamour at the outer door, the noise of voices, then a soldier's challenge, and, on the back of that, max ulrich's weird answer--a sound almost like the howl of a wolf cut off short in his throat by the hand that strangles him. "there he is at last!" cried all in the dining-hall of the grange. "thank god!" murmured theresa. for the man wanting words had known henry the lion. they waited a long moment of suspense till the door behind werner was thrust open and the dumb man came in, drenched and dripping. he was holding one by the arm, a man as tall as himself, grey and gaunt, who fronted the company with eyes bandaged and hands tied behind his back. max ulrich had a sharp knife in his hand with a thin and slightly curved blade, and as he thrust the pinioned man before him into the full light of the candles, he made signs that, if his lady wished it, he was prepared to despatch his prisoner on the spot. his lips moved rapidly and he seemed to be forming words and sentences. his mistress followed these movements with the closest attention. "he says," she began to translate, "that he met this man on the further side. he said that he had a message for isle rugen, and refused to turn back on any condition. so max blindfolded, bound, and gagged him, he being willing to be bound. and now he waits our pleasure." "let him be unloosed," said joan, gazing eagerly at the prisoner, and theresa made the sign. stolidly ulrich unbound the broad bandage from the man's eyes, and a grey badger's brush of upright stubble rose slowly erect above a high narrow brow, like laid corn that dries in the sun. "alt pikker!" said joan of the sword hand, starting to her feet. "alt pikker!" cried in varied tones of wonderment werner von orseln and the two captains of plassenburg, jorian and boris. and alt pikker it surely was. chapter xliii to the rescue but the late prisoner did not speak at once, though his captor stood back as though to permit him to explain himself. he was still bound and gagged. discovering which, max in a very philosophical and leisurely manner assisted him to relieve himself of a rolled kerchief which had been placed in his mouth. even then his throat refused its office till werner von orseln handed him a great cup of wine from which he drank deeply. "speak!" said joan. "what disaster has brought you here? is kernsberg taken?" "the eagle's nest is harried, my lady, but that is not what hath brought me hither!" "have they found out this my--prison? are they coming to capture me?" "neither," returned alt pikker. "maurice von lynar is in the hands of his cruel enemies, and on the day after to-morrow, at sunrise, he is to be torn to pieces by wild horses." "why?" "wherefore?" "in what place?" "who would dare?" came from all about the table; but the mother of the young man sat silent as if she had not heard. "to save kernsberg from sack by the muscovites, maurice von lynar went to courtland in the guise of the lady joan. at the fords of the alla we delivered him up!" "you delivered him up?" cried theresa suddenly. "then you shall die! max ulrich, your knife!" the dumb man gave the knife in a moment, but theresa had not time to approach. "i went with him," said alt pikker calmly. "you went with him," repeated his mother after a moment, not understanding. "could i let the young man go alone into the midst of his enemies?" "he went for my sake!" moaned joan. "he is to die for me!" "nay," corrected alt pikker, "he is to die for wedding the princess margaret of courtland!" again they cried out upon him in utmost astonishment--that is, all the men. "maurice von lynar has married the princess margaret of courtland? impossible!" "and why should he not?" his mother cried out. "i expected it from the first!" quoth joan of the sword hand, disdainful of their masculine ignorance. "well," put in alt pikker, "at all events, he hath married the princess. or she has married him, which is the same thing!" "but why? we knew nothing of this! he told us nothing. we thought he went for our lady's sake to courtland! why did he marry her?" cried severally von orseln and the plassenburg captains. "why?" said theresa the mother, with assurance. "because he loved her doubtless. how? because he was his father's son!" and theresa being calm and stilling the others, alt pikker got time to tell his tale. there was silence in the grange of isle rugen while it was being told, and even when it was ended for a space none spoke. but theresa smiled well pleased and said in her heart, "i thank god! my son also shall meet henry the lion face to face and not be ashamed." after that they made their plans. "i will go," said conrad, "for i have influence with my brother--or, if not with him, at least with the folk of courtland. we will stop this heathenish abomination." "i will go," said theresa, "because he is my son. god will show me a way to help him." "we will all go," chorussed the captains; "that is--all save werner----" "all except boris----!" "all except jorian----!" "who will remain here on isle rugen with the duchess joan?" they looked at each other as they spoke. "you need not trouble yourselves! i will not remain on isle rugen--not an hour," said joan. "whoever stays, i go. think you that i will permit this man to die in my stead? we will all go to courtland. we will tell prince louis that i am no duchess, but only the sister of a duke. we will prove to him that my father's bond of heritage-brotherhood is null and void. and then we will see whether he is willing to turn the princedom upside down for such a dowerless wife as i!" "for such a wife," thought conrad, "i would turn the universe upside down, though she stood in a beggar's kirtle!" but being loyally bound by his promise he said nothing. it was theresa von lynar who put the matter practically. "at a farm on the mainland, hidden among the salt marshes, there are horses--those you brought with you and others. they are in waiting for such an emergency. max will bring them to the landing-place. three or four of your guard must accompany him. the rest will make ready, and at the first hint of dawn we will set out. there is yet time to save my son!" she added in her heart, "or, if not, then to avenge him." strangely enough, theresa was the least downcast of the party. death seemed a thing so little to her, even so desirable, that though the matter concerned her son's life, she commanded herself and laid her plans as coolly as if she had been preparing a dinner in the grange of isle rugen. but her heart was proud within her with a great pride. "he is henry the lion's son. he was born a duke. he has married a princess. he has tasted love and known sacrifice. if he dies it will be for the sake of his sister's honour. 'tis no bad record for twenty years. these things _he_ will count high above fame and length of days!" * * * * * the little company which set out from isle rugen to ride to courtland had no thought or intention of rescuing maurice von lynar by force of arms. they knew their own impotence far too exactly. yet each of the leaders had a plan of action thought out, to be pursued when the city was reached. if her renunciation of her dignities were laughed at, as she feared, there was nothing for joan but to deliver herself to prince louis. she had resolved to promise to be his wife and princess in all that it concerned the outer world to see. their provinces would be united, kernsberg and hohenstein delivered unconditionally into his hand. on his part, werner von orseln was prepared to point out to the prince of courtland that with joan as his wife and the armies and levies of hohenstein added to his own under the sparhawk's leadership, he would be in a position to do without the aid of the prince of muscovy altogether. further, that in case of attack from the north, not only plassenburg and the mark, but all the teutonic bond must rally to his side. boris and jorian, being stout-hearted captains of men-at-arms, were ready for anything. but though their swords were loosened in their sheaths to be prepared for any assault, they were resolved also to give what official dignity they could to their mission by a free use of the names of their master and mistress, the prince hugo and princess helene of plassenburg. they were sorry now that they had left their credentials behind them, at kernsberg, but they meant to make confidence and assured countenances go as far as they would. conrad, who was intimately acquainted with the character of his brother, and who knew how entirely he was under the dominion of prince ivan, had resolved to use all powers, ecclesiastical and secular, which his position as titular prince of the church put within his reach. to save the sparhawk from a bloody and disgraceful death he would invoke upon courtland even the dread curse of the greater excommunication. with his faithful priests around him he would seek his brother, and, if necessary, on the very execution place itself, or from the high altar of the cathedral, pronounce the dread "anathema sit." he knew his brother well enough to be sure that this threat would shake his soul with terror, and that such a curse laid on a city like courtland, not too subservient at any time, would provoke a rebellion which would shake the power of princes far more securely seated than prince louis. the only one of the party wholly without a settled plan was the woman most deeply interested. theresa von lynar simply rode to courtland to save her son or to die with him. she alone had no influence with prince ivan, no weapon to use against him except her woman's wit. as the cavalcade rode on, though few, they made a not ungallant show. for theresa had clad prince conrad in a coat of mail which had once belonged to henry the lion. joan glittered by his side in a corselet of steel rings, while werner von orseln and the two captains of plassenburg followed fully armed, their accoutrements shining with the burnishing of many idle weeks. these, with the men-at-arms behind them, made up such an equipage as few princes could ride abroad with. but to all of them the journey was naught, a mere race against time--so neither horse nor man was spared. and the two women held out best of all. but when in the morning light of the second day they came in sight of courtland, and saw on the green plain of the alla a great concourse, it did not need alt pikker's shout to urge them forward at a gallop, lest after all they should arrive too late. "they have brought him out to die," cried joan. "ride, for the young man's life!" chapter xliv the ukraine cross upon the green plain beside the alla a great multitude was assembled. they had come together to witness a sight never seen in courtland before--the dread punishment of the ukraine cross. it was to be done, they said, upon the body of the handsome youth with whom the princess margaret was secretly in love--some even whispered married to him. the townsfolk murmured among themselves. this was certainly the beginning of the end. who knew what would come next? if the barbarous muscovite punishments began in courtland, it would end in all of them being made slaves, liable at any moment to knout and plet. ivan had bewitched the prince. that was clear, and for a certainty the princess margaret wept night and day. in this fashion ran the bruit of that which was to be. "torn to pieces by wild horses!" it was a thing often talked about, but one which none had seen in a civilised country for a thousand years. where was it to be done? it was shocking, terrible; but--it would be worth seeing. so all the city went out, the men with weapons under their cloaks pressing as near as the soldiers would allow them, while the women, being more pitiful, stood afar off and wept into their aprons--only putting aside the corners that they might see clearly and miss nothing. at ten a great green square of riverside grass was held by the archers of courtland. the people extended as far back as the shrine of the virgin, where at the city entrance travellers are wont to give thanks for a favourable journey. at eleven the lances of prince ivan's cossacks were seen topping the city wall. on the high bank of the alla the people were craning their necks and looking over each other's shoulders. the wild music of the cossacks came nearer, each man with the butt of his lance set upon his thigh, and the pennon of blue and white waving above. then a long pitying "a--a--h!" went up from the people. for now the sparhawk was in sight, and at the first glimpse of him they swayed from the riga gate to the shrine of john evangelist, like a willow copse stricken by a squall from off the baltic, so that it shows the under-grey of its leaves. "the poor lad! so handsome, so young!" the first soft universal hush of pity broke presently into a myriad exclamations of anger and deprecation. "how high he holds his head! see! they have opened his shirt at the neck. poor princess, how she must love him! his hands are tied behind his back. he rides in that jolting cart as if he were a conqueror in a triumphal procession, instead of a victim going to his doom." "pity, pity that one so young should die such a death! they say she is to be carried up to the top of the castle wall that she may see. ah, here he comes! he is smiling! god forgive the butchers, who by strength of brute beasts would tear asunder those comely limbs that are fitted to be a woman's joy! down with all false and cruel princes, say i! nay, mistress, i will not be silent. and there are many here who will back me, if i be called in question. who is the muscovite, that he should bring his abominations into courtland? if i had my way, prince conrad----" "hush, hush! here they come! side by side, as usual, the devil and his dupe. aha! there is no sound of cheering! let but a man shout, 'long live the prince!' and i will slit his wizzand. i, henry the coppersmith, will do it! he shall sleep with pennies on his eyes this night!" so through the lane by which the city gate communicated with the tapestried stand set apart for the greater spectators, the princes louis and ivan, fool and knave, servant and master, took their way. and they had scarce passed when the people, mutinous and muttering, surged black behind the archers' guard. "back there--stand back! way for their excellencies--way!" "stand back yourselves," came the growling answer. "we be free men of courtland. you will find we are no muscovite serfs, and that or the day be done. karl wendelin, think shame--thou that art my sister's son--to be aiding and abetting such heathen cruelty to a christen man, all that you may eat a great man's meat and wear a jerkin purfled with gold." such cries and others worse pursued the princes' train as it went. "cossack--cossack! you are no courtlanders, you archers! not a girl in the city will look at you after this! butchers' slaughtermen every one? whipped hounds that are afraid of ten score muscovites! down, dogs, knock your foreheads on the ground! here comes a muscovite!" * * * * * thus angrily ran taunt and jeer, till the courtland guard, mostly young fellows with relatives and sweethearts among the crowd, grew well-nigh frantic with rage and shame. the rabble, which had hung on the prince of muscovy so long as he scattered his largesse, had now wheeled about with characteristic fickleness. "see yonder! what are they doing? peter altmaar, what are they doing? tell us, thou long man! of what use is your great fathom of pump-water? can you do nothing for your meat but reach down black puddings from the rafters?" at this all eyes turned to peter, a lanky overgrown lad with a keen eye, a weak mouth, and the gift of words. "speak up, peter! aye, listen to peter--a good lad, peter, as ever was!" "strong jan the smith, take him up on your back so that he may see the better!" "hush, there! stop that woman weeping. we cannot hear for her noise. she says he is like her son, does she? well then, there will be time enough to weep for him afterwards." "they are bringing up four horses from the muscovite camp. the folk are getting as far off as they can from their heels," began peter altmaar, looking under his hand over the people's heads. "half a score of men are at each brute's head. how they plunge! they will never stand still a moment. ah, they are tethering them to the great posts of stone in the middle of the green square. between, there is a table--no, a kind of square wooden stand like a priest's platform in lent when he tells us our sins outside the church." * * * * * "the princes are sitting their horses, watching. bravo, that was well done. we came near to seeing the colour of the muscovite brains that time. one of the wild horses spread his hoofs on either side of prince ivan's head!" "god send him a better aim next time! tell on, peter! aye, get on, good peter!" "the princes have gone up into their balcony. they are laughing and talking as if it were a raree-show!" "what of him, good peter? how takes he all this?" "what of whom?" queried peter, who, like all great talkers, was rapidly growing testy under questioning. "there is but one 'he' to-day, man. the young lad, the princess margaret's sweetheart." "they have brought him down from the cart. the cossacks are close about him. they have put all the courtland men far back." [illustration: "maurice was set on high." [_page _]] "aye, aye; they dare not trust them. oh, for an hour of prince conrad! if we of the city trades had but a leader, this shame should not blot our name throughout all christendom! what now, peter?" "the muscovites are binding the lad to a wooden frame like the empty lintels of a door. he stands erect, his hands in the corners above, and his feet in the corners below. they have stripped him to the waist." "hold me higher up, jan the smith! i would see this out, that you may tell your children and your children's children. aye--ah, so it is. it is true. sainted virgin! i can see his body white in the sunshine. it shines slender as a peeled willow wand." then the woman who had wept began again. her wailing angered the people. "he is like my son--save him! he is the very make and image of my kaspar. slender as a young willow, supple as an ash, eyes like the berries of the sloe-thorn. give me a sword! give an old woman a sword, and i will deliver him myself, for my kaspar's sake. god's grace--is there never a man amongst you?" and as her voice rose into a shriek there ran through all the multitude the strange shiver of fear with which a great crowd expects a horror. a hush fell broad and equal as dew out of a clear sky. a mighty silence lay on all the folk. peter altmaar's lips moved, but no sound came from them. for now maurice was set on high, so that all could see for themselves. white against the sky of noon, making the cross of saint andrew within the oblong framework to which he was lashed, they could discern the slim body of the young man who was about to be torn in sunder. the executioners held him up thus a minute or two for a spectacle, and then, their arrangements completed, they lowered that living crucifix till it lay flat upon its little platform, with the limbs extended stark and tense towards the heels of the wild plunging horses of the ukraine. then again the voice of peter altmaar was heard, now ringing false like an untuned fiddle. "they are welding the manacles upon his ankles and wrists. listen to the strokes of the hammer." and in the hush which followed, faintly and musically they could hear iron ring on iron, like anvil strokes in some village smithy heard in the hush of a summer's afternoon. "blessed virgin! they are casting loose the horses! a cossack with a cruel whip stands by each to lash him to fury! they are slipping the platform from under him. god in heaven! what is this?" * * * * * hitherto the eyes of the great multitude, which on three sides surrounded the place of execution, had been turned inward. but now with one accord they were gazing, not on the terrible preparations which were coming so near their bloody consummation, but over the green tree-studded alla meads towards a group of horsemen who were approaching at a swift hand-gallop. whereupon immediately peter, the lank giant, was in greater request than ever. "what do they look at, good peter--tell us quickly? will the horses not pull? will the irons not hold? have the ropes broken? is it a miracle? is it a rescue? thunder-weather, man! do not stand and gape. speak--tell us what you see, or we will prod you behind with our daggers!" "half a dozen riding fast towards the princes' stand, and holding up their hands--nay, there are a dozen. the princes are standing up to look. the men have stopped casting loose the wild horses. the man on the frame is lying very still, but the chains from his ankles and arms are not yet fastened to the traces." "go on, peter! how slow you are, peter! stupid peter!" "there is a woman among those who ride--no, two of them! they are getting near the skirts of the crowd. men are shouting and throwing up their hands in the air. i cannot tell what for. the soldiers have their hats on the tops of their pikes. they, too, are shouting!" as peter paused the confused noise of a multitude crying out, every man for himself, was borne across the crowd on the wind. as when a great stone is cast into a little hill-set tarn, and the wavelet runs round, swamping the margin's pebbles and swaying the reeds, so there ran a shiver, and then a mighty tidal wave of excitement through all that ring which surrounded the crucified man, the deadly platform, and the tethered horses. men shouted sympathetically without knowing why, and the noise they made was half a suppressed groan, so eager were they to take part in that which should be done next. they thrust their womenkind behind them, shouldering their way into the thick of the press that they might see the more clearly. instinctively every weaponed man fingered that which he chanced to carry. yet none in all that mighty assembly had the least conception of what was really about to happen. by this time there was no more need of peter altmaar. the ring was rapidly closing now all about, save upon the meadow side, where a lane was kept open. through this living alley came a knight and a lady--the latter in riding habit and broad velvet cap, the knight with his visor up, but armed from head to foot, a dozen squires and men-at-arms following in a compact little cloud; and as they came they were greeted with the enthusiastic acclaim of all that mighty concourse. about them eddied the people, overflowing and sweeping away the cossacks, carrying the courtland archers with them in a mad frenzy of fraternisation. in the stand above prince louis could be seen shrilling commands, yet dumb show was all he could achieve, so universal the clamour beneath him. but the princess margaret heard the shouting and her heart leaped. "prince conrad--our own prince conrad, he has come back, our true prince? we knew he was no priest! courtland for ever! down with louis of the craven heart! down with the muscovite! the young man shall not die! the princess shall have her sweetheart!" and as soon as the cavalcade had come within the square the living wave broke black over all. the riders could not dismount, so thick the press. the halters of the wild horses were cut, and right speedily they made a way for themselves, the people falling back and closing again so soon as they had passed out across the plain with necks arched to their knees and a wild flourish of unanimous hoofs. then the cries began again. swords and bare fists were shaken at the grand stand, where, white as death, prince louis still kept his place. "prince conrad and the lady joan!" "kill the muscovite, the torturer!" "death to prince louis, the traitor and coward!" "we will save the lad alive!" about the centre platform whereon the living cross was extended the crush grew first oppressive and then dangerous. "back there--you are killing him! back, i say!" then strong men took staves and halberts out of the hands of dazed soldiermen, and by force of brawny arms and sharp pricking steel pressed the people back breast high. the smiths who had riveted the wristlets and ankle-rings were already busy with their files. the lashings were cast loose from the frames. a hundred palms chafed the white swollen limbs. a burgher back in the crowd slipped his cloak. it was passed overhead on a thousand eager hands and thrown across the young man's body. at last all was done, and dazed and blinded, but unshaken in his soul, maurice von lynar stood totteringly upon his feet. "lift him up! lift him up! let us see him! if he be dead, we will slay prince louis and crucify the muscovite in his place!" "bah!" another would cry, "louis is no longer ruler! conrad is the true prince!" "down with the russ, the cossack! where are they? pursue them! kill them!" * * * * * so ran the fierce shouts, and as the rescuers raised the sparhawk high on their plaited hands that all men might see, on the far skirts of the crowd ivan of muscovy, with a bitter smile on his face, gathered together his scattered horsemen. one by one they had struggled out of the press while all men's eyes were fixed upon the vivid centrepiece of that mighty whirlpool. "set prince louis in your midst and ride for your lives!" he cried. "to the frontier, where bides the army of the czar!" with a flash of pennons and a tossing of horses' heads they obeyed, but prince ivan himself paused upon the top of a little swelling rise and looked back towards the alla bank. the delivered prisoner was being held high upon men's arms. the burgher's cloak was wrapped about him like a royal robe. prince ivan gnashed his teeth in impotent anger. "it is your day. make the most of it," he muttered. "in three weeks i will come back! and then, by michael the archangel, i will crucify one of you at every street corner and cross-road through all the land of courtland! and that which i would have done to my lady's lover shall not be named beside that which i shall yet do to those who rescued him!" and he turned and rode after his men, in the midst of whom was prince louis, his head twisted in fear and apprehension over his shoulder, and his slack hands scarce able to hold the reins. after this manner was the sparhawk brought out from the jaws of death, and thus came joan of the sword hand the second time to courtland. but the end was not yet. chapter xlv the truth-speaking of boris and jorian this is the report verbal of captains boris and jorian, which they gave in face of their sovereigns in the garden pleasaunce of the palace of plassenburg. hugo and helene sat at opposite ends of a seat of twisted branches. hugo crossed his legs and whistled low with his thumbs in the slashing of his doublet, a habit of which helene had long striven in vain to cure him. the princess was busy broidering the coronated double eagle of a new banner, but occasionally she raised her eyes to where on the green slope beneath, under the wing of a sage woman of experience, the youthful hope of plassenburg led his mimic armies to battle against the lilies by the orchard wall, or laid lance in rest to storm the too easy fortress of his nurse's lap. "boris," whispered jorian, "remember! do not lie, boris. 'tis too dangerous. you remember the last time?" "aye," growled boris. "i have good cause to remember! what a liar our hugo must have been in his time, so readily to suspect two honest soldiers!" "speak out your minds, good lads!" said hugo, leaning a little further back. "aye, tell us all," assented helene, pausing to shake her head at the antics of the young prince karl; "tell us how you delivered the sparhawk, as you call him, the officer of the duchess joan!" so boris saluted and began. "the tale is a long one, prince and princess," he said. "of our many and difficult endeavours to keep the peace and prevent quarrelling i will say nothing----" "better so!" interjected hugo, with a gleam in his eye. jorian coughed and growled to himself, "that long fool will make a mess of it!" "i will pass on to our entry into courtland. it was like the home-coming of a long-lost true prince. there was no fighting--alack, not so much as a stroke after all that pother of shouting!" "boris!" said the princess warningly. "give him rope!" muttered prince hugo. "he will tangle himself rarely or all be done!" "i mean by the blessing of heaven there was no bloodshed," boris corrected himself. "there was, as i say, no fighting. there was none to fight with. prince louis had not a friend in his own capital city, saving the muscovite. and at that moment prince ivan the wasp was glad enough to win clear off to the frontier with his cossacks at his tail. it was a god's pity we could not ride them down. but though jorian and i did all that men could----" "ahem!" said jorian, as if a fly had flown into his mouth and tickled his throat. "i mean, your highnesses, we did whatever men could to keep the populace within bounds. but they broke through and leaped upon us, throwing their arms about our horses' necks, crying out, 'our saviours!' 'our deliverers!' god wot, we might as well have tried to charge through the billows of the baltic when it blows a norther right from the gulf of bothnia! but it almost broke my heart to see them ride off with never so much as a spear thrust through one single muscovite belly-band!" here jorian had a fit of coughing which caused the princess to look severely upon him. boris, recalled to himself, proceeded more carefully. "it was all we could do to open up a way to where the young man maurice lay stretched on the cross of death. they had loosed the wild horses before we arrived, and these had galloped off after their companions. a pity! oh, a great pity! "then came the young man's mother near, she who was our hostess at isle rugen----" "why did you not abide at kernsberg as you were instructed?" put in hugo at this point. "never mind--go on--tell the tale!" cried helene, who was listening breathlessly. "we thought it our duty to accompany the duchess joan," said boris, deftly enough; "where the king is, there is the court!" and at this point the two captains saluted very dutifully and respectfully, like machines moved by one spring. "well said for once, thou overly long one," growled jorian under his breath. "go on!" commanded helene. "the young man's mother came near and threw a cloak across his naked body. then jorian and i unbound him and chafed his limbs, first removing the gag from his mouth; but so tightly had the cords been bound about him that for long he could not stand upright. then, from the royal pavilion, where she had been brought for cruel sport to see the death, the princess margaret came running----" "oh, wickedness!" cried helene, "to make her look on at her lover's death!" "she came furiously, though a dainty princess, thrusting strong men aside. 'way there!' she cried, 'on your lives make way! i will go to him. i am the princess margaret. give me a dagger and i will prick me a way.'" "and, by saint stephen the holy martyr--if she did not snatch a bodkin from the belt of a tailor in the high street and with it open up her way as featly as though she were handling a cossack lance." "and what happened when she got to him--when she found her husband?" cried helene, her eyes sparkling. and she put out a hand to touch her own, just to be sure that he was there. "truth, a very wondrous thing happened!" said jorian, whose fingers also had been twitching, "a mightily wondrous thing. thus it was----" "hold your tongue, sausage-bag!" growled boris, very low; "who tells this tale, you or i?" "get on, then," answered in like fashion captain jorian, "you are as long-winded and wheezy as a smith's bellows!" "yes, a strange thing it was. i was standing by maurice von lynar, undoing the cord from his neck. his mother was chafing an arm. the lady joan was bending to speak softly to him, for she had dismounted from her horse, when, all in the snapping of a twig, the princess margaret came bursting through the ring which jorian and the kernsbergers were keeping with their lance-butts. she thrust us all aside. by my faith, me she sent spinning like the young prince's top there!" "god save his excellency!" quoth jorian, not to be left out entirely. "silence!" cried helene, with an imperious stamp of her little foot; "and do you, boris, tell the tale without comparisons. what happened then?" "only the boy's mother kept her ground! she went on chafing his arm without so much as raising her eyes." "did the princess serve joan of the sword hand as she served you?" interposed hugo. "marry, worse!" cried boris, growing excited for the first time. "she thrust her aside like a kitchen wench, and our lady took it as meekly as--as----" "go on! did i not tell you to spare us your comparatives?" cried helene the princess, letting her broidery slip to the ground in her consuming interest. "well," said boris, quickly sobered, "it was in truth a mighty quaint thing to see. the princess margaret took the young man in her arms and caught him to her. the lady theresa kept hold of his wrist. they looked at each other a moment without speech, eye countering eye like knights at a----" "go on!" the princess thundered, if indeed a silvern voice can be said to thunder. "'give him up to me! he is mine!' cried the princess. "'he is mine!' answered very haughtily the lady of the isle rugen--'who are you?' 'and you?' cried both at once, flinging their heads back, but never for a moment letting go with their hands. the youth, being dazed, said nothing, nor so much as moved. "'i am his mother!' said the lady theresa, speaking first. "'i am his wife!' said the princess. "then the woman who had borne the young man gave him into his wife's arms without a word, and the princess gathered him to her bosom and crooned over him, that being her right. but his mother stepped back among the crowd and drew the hood of her cloak over her head that no man might look upon her face." "bravo!" cried helene, clapping her hands, "it was her right!" "little one," said her husband, pointing to the boy on the terrace beneath, who was lashing a toy horse of wood with all his baby might, "i wonder if you will think so when another woman takes _him_ from you!" the princess helene caught her breath sharply. "that would be different!" she said, "yes, very different!" "ah!" said hugo the prince, her husband. chapter xlvi the fear that is in love thus the climax came about in the twinkling of an eye, but the universal turmoil and wild jubilation in which prince louis's power and government were swept away had really been preparing for years, though the end fell sharp as the thunderclap that breaks the weather after a season of parching heat. for all that the trouble was only deferred, not removed. the cruel death of maurice von lynar had been rendered impossible by the opportune arrival of prince conrad and the sudden revolution which the sight of his noble and beloved form, clad in armour, produced among the disgusted and impulsive courtlanders. yet the arch-foe had only recoiled in order that he might the further leap. the great army of the white czar was encamped just across the frontier, nominally on the march to poland, but capable of being in a moment diverted upon the princedom of courtland. here was a pretext of invasion ripe to prince ivan's hand. so he kept louis, the dethroned and extruded prince, close beside him. he urged his father, by every tie of friendship and interest, to replace that prince upon his throne. and the czar paul, well knowing that the restoration of louis meant nothing less than the incorporation of courtland with his empire, hastened to carry out his son's advice. in courtland itself there was no confusion. a certain grim determination took possession of the people. they had made their choice, and they would abide by it. they had chosen conrad to be their ruler, as he had long been their only hope; and they knew that now louis was for ever impossible, save as a cloak for a muscovite dominion. it had been the first act of conrad to summon to him all the archpriests and heads of chapels and monasteries by virtue of his office as cardinal-archbishop. he represented to them the imminent danger to holy church of yielding to the domination of the greek heretic. whoever might be spared, the muscovite would assuredly make an end of them. he promised absolution from the holy father to all who would assist in bulwarking religion and the church of peter against invasion and destruction. he himself would for the time being lay aside his office and fight as a soldier in the sacred war which was before them. every consideration must give way to that. then he would lay the whole matter at the feet of the holy father in rome. so throughout every town and village in courtland the war of the faith was preached. no presbytery but became a recruiting office. every pulpit was a trumpet proclaiming a righteous war. there was to be no salvation for any courtlander save in defending his faith and country. it was agreed by all that there was no hope save in the blessed rule of prince conrad, at once worthy prince of the blood, prince of holy church, and defender of our blessed religion. prince louis was a deserter and a heretic. the pope would depose him, even as (most likely) he had cursed him already. so, thus encouraged, the country rose behind the retiring muscovite, and prince louis was conducted across the boundary of his princedom under the bitter thunder of cannon and the hiss of courtland arrows. and the craven trembled as he listened to the shouted maledictions of his own people, and begged for a common coat, lest his archer guard should distinguish their late prince and wing their clothyard shafts at him as he cowered a little behind prince ivan's shoulder. meanwhile joan, casting aside with an exultant leap of the heart her intent to make of herself an obedient wife, rode back to kernsberg in order to organise all the forces there to meet the common foe. it was to be the last fight of the teuton northland for freedom and faith. the muscovite does not go back, and if courtland were conquered kernsberg could not long stand. to plassenburg (as we have seen) rode boris and jorian to plead for help from their prince and princess. dessauer had already preceded them, and the armies, disciplined and equipped by prince karl, were already on the march to defend their frontiers--it might be to go farther and fight shoulder to shoulder with courtland and kernsberg against the common foe. and if all this did not happen, it would not be the fault of those honest soldiers and admirable diplomatists, captains boris and jorian, captains of the palace guard of plassenburg. * * * * * the presence of prince conrad in the city of courtland seemed to change entirely the character of the people. from being somewhat frivolous they became at once devoted to the severest military discipline. nothing was heard but words of command and the ordered tramp of marching feet. the country barons and knights brought in their forces, and their tents, all gay with banners and fluttering pennons, stretched white along the alla for a mile or more. the word was on every lip, "when will they come?" for already the muscovite allies of prince louis had crossed the frontier and were moving towards courtland, destroying everything in their track. the day after the deliverance of the sparhawk, joan had announced her intention of riding on the morrow to kernsberg. maurice von lynar and von orseln would accompany her. "then," cried margaret instantly, "i will go, too!" "the ride would be over toilsome for you," said joan, pausing to touch her friend's hair as she looked forth from the window of the castle of courtland at the sparhawk ordering about a company of stout countrymen in the courtyard beneath. "i _will_ go!" said margaret wilfully. "i shall never let him out of my sight again!" "we shall be back within the week! you will be both safer and more comfortable here!" the princess margaret withdrew her head from the open window, momentarily losing sight of her husband and, in so doing, making vain her last words. "ah, joan," she said reproachfully, "you are wise and strong--there is no one like you. but you do not know what it is to be married. you never were in love. how, then, can you understand the feelings of a wife?" she looked out of the window again and waved a kerchief. "oh, joan," she looked back again with a mournful countenance, "i do believe that maurice does not love me as i love him. he never took the least notice of me when i waved to him!" "how could he," demanded joan, the soldier's daughter, sharply, "he was on duty?" "well," answered margaret, still resentful and unconsoled, "he would not have done that _before_ we were married! and it is only the first day we have been together, too, since--since----" and she buried her head in her kerchief. joan looked at the princess a moment with a tender smile. then she gave a little sigh and went over to her friend. she laid her hand on her shoulder and knelt down beside her. "margaret," she whispered, "you used to be so brave. when i was here, and had to fight the sparhawk's battles with prince wasp, you were as headstrong as any young squire desiring to win his spurs. you wished to see us fight, do you remember?" the princess took one corner of her white and dainty kerchief away from her eyes in order to look yet more reproachfully at her friend. "ah," she said, "that shows! of course, i knew. you were not _he_, you see; i knew that in a moment." joan restrained a smile. she did not remind her friend that then she had never seen "him." the princess margaret went on. "joan," she cried suddenly, "i wish to ask you something!" she clasped her hands with a sweet petitionary grace. "say on, little one!" said joan smiling. "there will be a battle, joan, will there not?" joan of the sword hand nodded. she took a long breath and drew her head further back. margaret noted the action. "it is very well for you, joan," she said; "i know you are more than half a man. every one says so. and then you do not love any one, and you like fighting. but--you may laugh if you will--i am not going to let my husband fight. i want you to let him go to plassenburg till it is over!" joan laughed aloud. "and you?" she said, still smiling good-naturedly. it was now margaret's turn to draw herself up. "you are not kind!" she said. "i am asking you a favour for my husband, not for myself. of course i should accompany him! _i_ at least am free to come and go!" "my dear, my dear," said joan gently, "you are at liberty to propose this to your husband! if he comes and asks me, he shall not lack permission." "you mean he would not go to plassenburg even if i asked him?" "i know he would not--he, the bravest soldier, the best knight----" there came a knocking at the door. "enter!" cried joan imperiously, yet not a little glad of the interruption. werner von orseln stood in the portal. joan waited for him to speak. "my lady," he said, "will you bid the count von löen leave his work and take some rest and sustenance. he thinks of nothing but his drill." "oh, yes, he does," cried the princess margaret; "how dare you say it, fellow! he thinks of me! why, even now----" she looked once more out of the window, a smile upon her face. instantly she drew in her head again and sprang to her feet. "oh, he is gone! i cannot see him anywhere!" she cried, "and i never so much as heard them go! joan, i am going to find him. he should not have gone away without bidding me goodbye! it was cruel!" she flashed out of the room, and without waiting for tiring maid or coverture, she ran downstairs, dressed as she was in her light summer attire. joan stood a moment silent, looking after her with eyes in which flashed a tender light. werner von orseln smiled broadly--the dry smile of an ancient war-captain who puts no bounds to the vagaries of women. it was an experienced smile. "'tis well for kernsberg, my lady," said werner grimly, "that you are not the princess margaret." "and why!" said joan a little haughtily. for she did not like conrad's sister to be treated lightly even by her chief captain. "ah, love--love," said werner, nodding his head sententiously. "it is well, my lady, that i ever trained you up to care for none of these things. teach a maid to fence, and her honour needs no champion. give her sword-cunning and you keep her from making a fool of herself about the first man who crosses her path. strengthen her wrist, teach her to lunge and parry, and you strengthen her head. but you do credit to _your_ instructor. you have never troubled about the follies of love. therefore are you our own joan of the sword hand!" joan sighed another sigh, very softly this time, and her eyes, being turned away from von orseln, were soft and indefinitely hazy. "yes," she answered, "i am joan of the sword hand, and i never think of these things!" "of course not," he cried cheerfully; "why should you? ah, if only the princess margaret had had an ancient werner von orseln to teach her how to drill a hole in a fluttering jackanapes! then we would have had less of this meauling apron-string business!" "silence," said joan quickly. "she is here." and the princess came running in with joy in her face. instinctively werner drew back into the shadow of the window curtain, and the smile on his face grew more grimly experienced than ever. "oh, joan," cried the princess breathlessly, "he had not really gone off without bidding me goodbye. you remember i said that i could not believe it of him, and you see i was right. one cannot be mistaken about one's husband!" "no?" said joan interrogatively. "never--so long as he loves you, that is!" said margaret, breathless with her haste; "but when you really love any one, you cannot help getting anxious about them. and then ivan or louis might have sent some one to carry him off again to tear him to pieces. oh, joan, you cannot know all i suffered. you must be patient with me. i think it was seeing him bound and about to die that has made me like this!" "margaret!" joan went quickly towards her friend, touched with compunction for her lack of sympathy, and resolved to comfort her if she could. it was true, after all, that while she and conrad had been happy together on isle rugen, this girl had been suffering. margaret came towards her, smiling through her tears. "but i have thought of something," she said, brightening still more; "such a splendid plan. i know maurice would not want to go away when there was fighting--though i believe, if i had him by himself for an hour, i could persuade him even to that, for my sake." a stifled grunt came from behind the curtains, which represented the injury done to the feelings of werner von orseln by such unworthy sentiments. the princess looked over in the direction of the sound, but could see nothing. joan moved quietly round, so that her friend's back was towards the window, behind the curtains of which stood the war captain. "this is my thought," the princess went on more calmly. "do you, joan, send maurice on an embassy to plassenburg till this trouble is over. then he will be safe. i will find means of keeping him there----" a stifled groan of rage came from the window. margaret turned sharply about. "what is that?" she cried, taking hold of her skirts, as the habit of women is. "some one without in the courtyard," said joan hastily; "a dog, a cat, a rat in the wainscot--anything!" "it sounded like something," answered the princess, "but surely not like anything! let us look." "margaret," said joan, gently taking her by the arm and walking with her towards the door, "maurice von lynar is a soldier and a soldier's son. you would break his heart if you took him away from his duty. he would not love you the same; you would not love him the same." "oh, yes, i would," said margaret, showing signs that her sorrow might break out afresh. "i would love him more for taking care of his life for my sake!" "you know you would not, margaret," joan persisted. "no woman can truly and fully love a man whom she is not proud of." [illustration: "joan indignantly drew the curtain aside." [_page _]] "oh, that is before they are married!" cried the princess indignantly. "afterwards it is different. you find out things then--and love them all the same. but, of course, how should i expect you to help me? you have never loved; you do not understand!" and, without another word, margaret of courtland, who had once been so heart-free and _débonnaire_, went out sobbing like a fretted child. hardly had the door closed upon her when the sound of stifled laughter broke from the window-seat. joan indignantly drew the curtains aside and revealed werner von orseln shaking all over and vainly striving to govern his mirth with his hands pressed against his sides. at sight of the face of his mistress, which was very grave, and even stern, his laughter instantly shut itself off. as it seemed, with a single movement, he raised himself to his feet and saluted. joan stood looking at him a moment without speech. "your mirth is exceedingly ill-timed," she said slowly. "on a future occasion, pray remember that the lady margaret is a princess and my friend. you can go! we ride out to-morrow morning at five. see that everything is arranged." once more von orseln saluted, with a face expressionless as a stone. he marched to the door, turned and saluted a third time, and with heavy footsteps descended the stairs communing with himself as he went. "that was salt, werner. faith, but she gave you the back of the sword-hand that time, old kerl! yet, 'twas most wondrous humorsome. ha! ha! but i must not laugh--at least, not here, for if she catches me the kernsbergers will want a new chief captain. ha! ha! no, i will not laugh. werner, you old fool, be quiet! god's grace, but she looked right royal! it is worth a dressing down to see her in a rage. faith, i would rather face a regiment of muscovites single-handed than cross our joan in one of her tantrums!" he was now at the outer door. prince conrad was dismounting. the two men saluted each other. "is the duchess joan within?" said conrad, concealing his eagerness under the hauteur natural to a prince. "i have just left her!" answered the chief captain. without a word conrad sprang up the steps three at a time. werner turned about and watched the young man's firm lithe figure till it had disappeared. "faith of saint anthony!" he murmured, "i am right glad our lady cares not for love. if she did, and if you had not been a priest--well, there might have been trouble." chapter xlvii the broken bond above, in the dusky light of the upper hall, conrad and joan stood holding each other's hands. it was the first time they had been alone together since the day on which they had walked along the sand-dunes of rugen. since then they seemed to have grown inexplicably closer together. to joan, conrad now seemed much more her own--the man who loved her, whom she loved--than he had been on the island. to watch day by day for his passing in martial attire brought back the knight of the tournament whose white plume she had seen storm through the lists on the day when, a slim secretary, she had stood with beating heart and shining eyes behind the chair of leopold von dessauer, ambassador of plassenburg. for almost five minutes they stood thus without speech; then joan drew away her hands. "you forget," she said smiling, "that was forbidden in the bond." "my lady," he said, "was not the bond for isle rugen alone? here we are comrades in the strife. we must save our fatherland. i have laid aside my priesthood. if i live, i shall appeal to the holy father to loose me wholly from my vows." smilingly she put his eager argument by. "it was of another vow i spoke. i am not the holy father, and for this i will not give you absolution. we are comrades, it is true--that and no more! to-morrow i ride to kernsberg, where i will muster every man, call down the shepherds from the hills, and be back with you by the alla before the muscovite can attack you. i, joan of the sword hand, promise it!" she stamped her foot, half in earnest and half in mockery of the sonorous name by which she was known. "i would rather you were joan of the grange at isle rugen, and i your jerkined servitor, cleaving the wood that you might bake the bread." "conrad," said joan, shaking her head wistfully, "such thoughts are not wise for you and me to harbour. i may indeed be no duchess and you no prince, but we must stand to our dignities now when the enemy threatens and the people need us. afterwards, an it like us, we may step down together. but, indeed, i need not to argue, for i think better of you, my comrade, than to suppose you would ever imagine anything else." "joan," said conrad very gravely, "do not fear for me. i have turned once for all from a career i never chose. death alone shall turn me back this time." "i know it," she answered; "i never doubted it. but what shall we do with this poor lovesick bride of ours?" and she told him of her interview that morning with his sister. conrad laughed gently, yet with sympathy; margaret had always been his "little girl," and her very petulances were dear to him. "it had been well if she would have consented to remain here," he said; "and yet i do not know. she is not built for rough weather, our gretchen. we are near the enemy, and many things may happen. our soldiers are mostly levies in courtland, and the land has been long at peace. the burghers and country folk are willing enough, but--well, perhaps she will be better with you." "she swears she will not go without her husband," said joan. "yet he ought to remain with you. i do not need him; werner will be enough." "leave me von orseln, and do you take the young man," said conrad; "then margaret will go with you willingly and gladly." "but she will want to return--that is, if maurice comes, too." "isle rugen?" suggested conrad, smilingly. "send your ten men who know the road. if they could carry off joan of the sword hand, they should have no difficulty with little margaret of courtland." joan clapped her hands with pleasure and relief, all unconscious that immediately behind her margaret had entered softly and now stood arrested by the sound of her own name. "oh, they will have no trouble, will they not?" she said in her own heart, and smiled. "isle rugen? thank you, my very dear brother and sister. you would get rid of me, separate me from maurice while he is fighting for your precious princedoms. what is a country in comparison with a husband? i would not care a doit which country i belonged to, so long as i had maurice with me!" a moment or two conrad and joan discussed the details of the capture, while more softly than before margaret retired to the door. she would have slipped out altogether but that something happened just then which froze her to the spot. a trumpet blew without--once, twice, and thrice, in short and stirring blasts. hardly had the echoes died away when she heard her brother say, "adieu, best-beloved! it is the signal that tells me that prince ivan is within a day's march of courtland. i bid you goodbye, and if--if we should never meet again, do not forget that i loved you--loved you as none else could love!" he held out his hand. joan stood rooted to the spot, her lips moving, but no words coming forth. then margaret heard a hoarse cry break from her who had contemned love. "i cannot let you go thus!" she cried. "i cannot keep the vow! it is too hard for me! conrad!--i am but a weak woman after all!" and in a moment the princess margaret saw joan the cold, joan of the sword hand, joan duchess of kernsberg and hohenstein, in the arms of her brother. whereupon, not being of set purpose an eavesdropper, margaret went out and shut the door softly. the lovers had neither heard her come nor go. and the wife of maurice von lynar was smiling very sweetly as she went, but in her eyes lurked mischief. conrad descended the stair from the apartments of the duchess joan, divided between the certainty that his lips had tasted the unutterable joy and the fear lest his soul had sinned the unpardonable sin. a moment joan steadied herself by the window, with her hand to her breast as if to still the flying pulses of her heart. she took a step forward that she might look once more upon him ere he went. but, changing her purpose in the very act, she turned about and found herself face to face with the princess margaret, who was still smiling subtly. "you have granted my request?" she said softly. joan commanded herself with difficulty. "what request?" she asked, for she indeed had forgotten. "that maurice and i should first go with you to kernsberg and afterwards to plassenburg." "let me think--let me think--give me time!" said joan, sinking into a chair and looking straight before her. the world was suddenly filled with whirling vapour and her brain turned with it. "i am in the midst of troubles. i know not what to do!" she murmured. "ah, it was quieter at isle rugen, was it not?" suggested margaret, who had not forgiven the project of kidnapping her and carrying her off from her husband. but joan was thinking too deeply to answer or even to notice any taunt. "i cannot go," she murmured, thinking aloud. "i cannot ride to kernsberg and leave him in the front of danger!" "a woman's place is at home!" said margaret in a low tone, maliciously quoting joan's words. "he must not fight this battle alone. perhaps i shall never see him again!" "a man must not be hampered by affection in the hour of danger!" at this point joan looked down upon margaret as she might have done at a puppy that worried a stick to attract her attention. "do you know," she said, "that prince ivan and his muscovites are within a day's march of courtland, and that prince conrad has already gone forth to meet them?" "what!" cried margaret, "within a day's march of the city? i must go and find my husband." "wait!" said joan. "i see my way. your husband shall come hither." she went to the door and clapped her hands. an attendant appeared, one of the faithful kernsberg ten to whom so much had been committed upon the isle rugen. "send hither instantly werner von orseln, alt pikker, and the count von löen!" she waited with the latch of the door in her hand till she heard their footsteps upon the stair. they entered together and saluted. margaret moved instinctively nearer to her husband. indeed, only the feeling that the moment was a critical one kept her from running at once to him. as for maurice, he had not yet grown ashamed of his wife's open manifestations of affection. "gentlemen," said joan, "the enemy is at the gate of the city. we shall need every man. who will ride to kernsberg and bring back succour?" "alt pikker will go!" said maurice instantly; "he is in charge of the levies!" "the count von löen is young. he will ride fastest!" said the chief captain. "werner von orseln, of course!" said alt pikker, "he is in chief command." "what? you do not wish to go?" said joan a little haughtily, looking from one to the other of them. it was werner von orseln who answered. "your highness," he said respectfully, "if the enemy be so near, and a battle imminent, the man is no soldier who would willingly be absent. but we are your servants. choose you one to go; or, if it seem good to you, more than one. bid us go, and on our heads it shall be to escort you safely to kernsberg and bring back reinforcements." the princess came closer to joan and slipped a hand into hers. the witty wrinkle at the corner of werner von orseln's mouth twitched. "von lynar shall go!" said joan. whereat maurice held down his head, margaret clapped her hands, and the other two stood stolidly awaiting instructions, as became their position. "at what hour shall i depart, my lady?" said maurice. "now! so soon as you can get the horses ready?" "but your grace must have time to make her preparations!" "i am not going to kernsberg. i stay here!" said joan, stating a fact. werner von orseln was just going out of the door, jubilantly confiding to alt pikker that as soon as he saw the princess put her hand in their lady's he knew they were safe. at the sound of joan's words he was startled into crying out loudly, "what?" at the same time he faced about with the frown on his face which he wore when he corrected an irregularity in the ranks. "i am not going to kernsberg. i bide here!" joan repeated calmly. "have you anything to say to that, chief captain von orseln?" "but, my lady----" "there are no buts in the matter. go to your quarters and see that the arms and armour are all in good case!" "madam, the arms and armour are always in good case," said werner, with dignity; "but go to kernsberg you must. the enemy is near to the city, and your highness might fall into their hands." "you have heard what i have said!" joan tapped the oaken floor with her foot. "but, madam, let me beseech you----" joan turned from her chief captain impatiently and walked towards the door of her private apartments. werner followed his mistress, with his hands a little outstretched and a look of eager entreaty on his face. "my lady," he said, "thirty years i was the faithful servant of your father--ten i have served you. by the memory of those years, if ever i have served you faithfully--" "my father taught you but little, if after thirty years you have not learned to obey. go to your post!" werner von orseln drew himself up and saluted. then he wheeled about and clanked out without adding a word more. "faith," he confided to alt pikker, "the wench is her father all over again. if i had gone a step further, i swear she would have beat me with the flat of my own sword. i saw her eye full on the hilt of it." "faith, i too, wished that i had been better helmeted!" chuckled alt pikker. "well," said werner, like one who makes the best of ill fortune, "we must keep the closer to her, you and i, that in the stress of battle she come not to a mischief. yet i confess that i am not deeply sorry. i began to fear that isle rugen had sapped our lass's spirit. to my mind, she seemed somewhat over content to abide there." "ah," nodded alt pikker, "that is because, after all, our joan is a woman. no one can know the secret of a woman's heart." "and those who think they know most, know the least!" concurred the much experienced werner. * * * * * for a moment, after the door closed upon the men, joan and margaret stood in silence regarding each other. "i must go and make me ready," said margaret, speaking like one who is thinking deeply. joan stood still, conscious that something was about to happen, uncertain what it might be. "i shall see you before i depart," margaret was saying, with her hand on the latch. suddenly she dropped the handle of the door and ran impulsively to joan, clasping her about the neck. "_i know!_" she said, looking up into her face. with a great leap the blood flew to joan's neck and brow, then as slowly faded away, leaving her paler than before. "what do you know?" she faltered; and she feared, yet desired, to hear. "that you love him!" said margaret very low. "i came in--i could not help it--i did not know--when conrad was bidding you goodbye. joan, i am so glad--so glad! now you will understand; now you will not think me foolish any more!" "margaret, i am shamed for ever--it is sin!" whispered joan, with her arms about her friend. "it is love!" said the wife of maurice von lynar, with glowing eyes and pride in her voice. "i hope i shall die in battle----" "joan!" "i a wife, and love a priest--the brother of the man who is my husband! i pray god that he will take my life to atone for the sin of loving him. yet he knows that i could neither help it nor yet hinder." "joan, you will yet be happy." the duchess shook her head. "it were best for us both that i should die--that is what i pray for." "may heaven avert this thing--you know not what you say. and yet," margaret continued in a more meditative tone, "i am not sure. if he were there with you, death itself would not be so hard; at all events, it were better than living without each other." and the two women went into the attiring-room with arms still locked about each other's waists. and as often as their eyes encountered they lingered a little, as if tasting the sweet new knowledge which they had in common. then those of joan of the sword hand were averted and she blushed. chapter xlviii joan governs the city it was night in the city of courtland, and a time of great fear. the watchmen went to and fro on the walls, staring into the blank dark. the alla, running low with the droughts, lapped gently about the piles of the summer palace and lisped against the bounding walls of the city. but ever and anon from the east, where lay the camps of the opposed forces, there came a sound, heavy and sonorous, like distant thunder. whereat the frighted wives of the burghers of courtland said, "i wonder what mother's son lies a-dying now. hearken to the talking of great peg, the margraf's cannon!" at the western or brandenberg gate there was yet greater fear. for the news had spread athwart the city that a great body of horsemen had paused in front of it, and were being held in parley by the guard on duty, till the lady joan, governor of the city, should be made aware. "they swear that they are friends"--so ran the report--"which is proof that they are enemies. for how can there be friends who are not courtlanders. and these speak an outland speech, clacking in their throats, hissing their s's, and laughing 'ho! ho!' instead of 'hoch! hoch!' as all good christians do!" the governor of the city, roused from a rare slumber, leaped on her horse and went clattering off with an escort through the unsleeping streets. when first she came the folk had cheered her as she went. but they were too jaded and saddened now. "our governor, the princess joan!" they used to call her with pride. but for all that she found not the same devotion among these easy courtlanders as among her hardy men of hohenstein. to these she was indeed the princess joan. but to those in castle kernsberg she was joan of the sword hand. when at last she came to the brandenburg gate she found before it a great gathering of the townsfolk. the city guard manned the walls, fretted with haste and falling over each other in their uncertainty. there was yet no strictness of discipline among these raw train-bands, and, instead of waiting for an officer to hail the horsemen in front, every soldier, hackbutman, and halberdier was shouting his loudest, till not a word of the reply could be heard. but all this turmoil vanished before the first fierce gust of joan's wrath like leaves blown away by the blasts of january. "to your posts, every man! i will have the first man spitted with arrows who disobeys--aye, or takes more upon himself than simple obedience to orders. let such as are officers only abide here with me. silence beneath in the tower there." looking out, joan could see a dark mass of horsemen, while above them glinted in the pale starlight a forest of spearheads. "whence come you, strangers?" cried joan, in the loud, clear voice which carried so far. "from plassenburg we are!" came back the answer. "who leads you?" "captains boris and jorian, officers of the prince's bodyguard." "let captains boris and jorian approach and deliver their message." "with whom are we in speech?" cried the unmistakable voice of boris, the long man. "with the princess joan of hohenstein, governor of the city of courtland," said joan firmly. "come on, boris; those courtland knaves will not shoot us now. that is the voice of joan of the sword hand. there can be no treachery where she is." "ho, below there!" cried joan. "shine a light on them from the upper sally port." the lanterns flashed out, and there, immediately below her, joan beheld boris and jorian saluting as of old, with the simultaneous gesture which had grown so familiar to her during the days at isle rugen. she was moved to smile in spite of the soberness of the circumstances. "what news bring you, good envoys?" "the best of news," they said with one accord, but stopped there as if they had no more to say. "and that news is----" "first, we are here to fight. pray you tell us if it is all over!" "it is not over; would to heaven it were!" said joan. "thank god for that!" cried boris and jorian, with quite remarkable unanimity of piety. "is that all your tidings?" "nay, we have brought the most part of the palace guard with us--five hundred good lances and all hungry-bellied for victuals and all monstrously thirsty in their throats. besides which, prince hugo raises plassenburg and the mark, and in ten days he will be on the march for courtland." "god send him speed! i fear me in ten days it will be over indeed," said joan, listening for the dull recurrent thunder down towards the alla mouth. "what, does the muscovite press you so hard?" "he has thousands to our hundreds, so that he can hem us in on every side." "never fear," cried boris confidently; "we will hold him in check for you till our good hugo comes to take him on the flank." then joan bade the gates be opened, and the horsemen of plassenburg, strong men on huge horses, trampled in. she held out a hand for the captains to kiss, and sent the burgomaster to assign them billets in the town. then, without resting, she went to the wool market, which had been turned into a soldiers' hospital. here she found theresa von lynar, going from bed to bed smoothing pillows, anointing wounded limbs, and assisting the surgeons in the care of those who had been brought back from the fatal battlefields of the alla. theresa von lynar rose to meet joan as she entered, with all the respect due to the city's governor. silently the young girl beckoned her to follow, and they went out between long lines of pallets. here and there a torch glimmered in a sconce against the wall, or a surgeon with a candle in his hand paused at a bedside. the sough of moaning came from all about, and in a distant window-bay, unseen, a man distract with fever jabbered and fought fitfully. never had joan realised so nearly the reverse of war. never had she so longed for the peace of isle rugen. she could govern a city. she could lead a foray. she was not afraid to ride into battle, lance in rest or sword in hand. but she owned to herself that she could not do what this woman was doing. "remember, when all is over i shall keep my vow!" joan began, as they paused and looked down the long alley of stained pillows, tossing heads, and torn limbs lying very still on palliasses of straw. without, some of the riotous youth of the city were playing martial airs on twanging instruments. "and i also will keep mine!" responded theresa briefly. "i am duchess and city governor only till the invader is driven out," joan continued. "then isle rugen is to be mine, and your son shall sit in the seat of henry the lion!" "isle rugen shall be yours!" answered theresa. "and when you are tired of castle kernsberg you will cross the wastes and take boat to visit me, even as at the first i came to you!" said joan, kindling at the thought of a definite sacrifice. it seemed like an atonement for her soul's sin. "and what of prince conrad!" said theresa quietly. joan was silent for a space, then she answered with her eyes on the ground. "prince conrad shall rule this land as is his duty--cardinal, archbishop, prince he shall be; there shall be none to deny him so soon as the power of the muscovite is broken. he will be in full alliance with hohenstein. he will form a blood bond with plassenburg. and when he dies, all that is his shall belong to the children of duke maurice and his wife margaret!" theresa von lynar stood a moment weighing joan's words, and when she spoke it was a question that she asked. "where is maurice to-night?" she asked. "he commands the kernsbergers in the camp. prince conrad has made him provost-marshal." "and the princess margaret?" "she abides in the river gate of the city, which maurice passes often upon his rounds!" a strange smile passed over the face of theresa von lynar. "there are many kinds of love," she said; "but not after this fashion did i, that am a dane, love henry the lion. wherefore should a woman hamper a man in his wars? sooner would i have died by his hand!" "she loves him," said joan, with a new sympathy. "she is a princess and wilful. moreover, not even a woman can prophesy what love will make another woman do!" "aye!" retorted theresa, "i am with you there. but to help a man, not to hinder. let her strip herself naked that he may go forth clad. let her fall on the sharp wayside stones that he may march to victory. let her efface herself that no breath may sully his great name. let her die unknown--nay, make of herself a living death--that he may increase and fill the mouths of men. that is love--the love of women as i have imagined it. but this love that takes and will not give, that hampers and sends not forth to conquer, that keeps a man within call like a dog straining upon a leash--pah! that is not the love i know!" she turned sharply upon joan, all her body quivering with excitement. "no, nor yet is it your way of love, my lady joan!" "i shall never be so tried, like margaret," answered joan, willing to change her mood. "i shall never love any man with the love of wife!" "god forbid," said theresa, looking at her, "that such a woman as you should die without living!" chapter xlix the wooing of boris and jorian "jorian," said boris, adjusting his soft underjerkin before putting on his body armour, "thou art the greatest fool in the world!" "hold hard, boris," answered jorian. "honour to whom honour--thou art greater by at least a foot than i!" "well," said the long man, "let us not quarrel about the breadth of a finger-nail. at any rate, we two are the greatest fools in the world." "there are others," said jorian, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the women's apartments. "none so rounded and tun-bellied with folly!" cried boris, with decision. "no two donkeys so thistle-fed as we--to have the command of five hundred good horsemen, and the chances of as warm a fight as ever closed----" "that is just it," cried jorian; "our hugo had no business to forbid us to engage in the open before he should come." "'hold the city.' quoth he, shaking that great head of his. 'i know not the sort of general this priest-knight may be, and till i know i will not have my palace guard flung like a can of dirty water in the face of the muscovites. therefore counsel the prince to stand on the defensive till i come.'" "and rightly spoke the son of the red axe," assented boris; "only our good hugo should have sent other men than you and me to command in such a campaign. we never could let well alone all the days of us." "save in the matter of marriage or no marriage!" smiled boris grimly. "a plague on all women!" growled the little fat man, his rubicund and shining face lined with unaccustomed discontent. "a plague on all women, i say! what can this theresa von lynar want in the muscovite camp, that we must promise to convey her safe through the fortifications, and then put her into prince wasp's hands?" "think you that for some hatred of our joan--you remember that night at isle rugen--or some purpose of her own (she loves not the princess margaret either), this theresa would betray the city to the enemy?" "tush!" jorian had lost his temper and answered crossly. "in that case, would she have called us in? it were easy enough to find some traitor among these courtlanders, who, to obtain the favour of prince louis, would help to bring the muscovite in. but what, if she were thrice a traitress, would cause her to fix on the two men who of all others would never turn knave and spoil-sport--no, not for a hundred vats of rhenish bottled by noah the year after the flood!" "well," sighed his companion, "'tis well enough said, my excellent jorian, but all this does not advance us an inch. we have promised, and at eleven o' the clock we must go. what hinders, though, that we have a bottle of rhenish now, even though the vintage be younger than you say? perhaps, however, the patron was more respectable!" * * * * * thus in the hall of the men-at-arms in the castle of courtland spoke the two captains of plassenburg. all this time they were busy with their attiring, boris in especial making great play with a tortoiseshell comb among his tangled locks. somewhat more spruce was the arraying of our twin comrades-in-arms than we have seen it. perhaps it was the thought of the dangerous escort duty upon which they had promised to venture forth that night; perhaps---- "may we come in?" cried an arch voice from the doorway. "ah, we have caught you! there--we knew it! so said i to my sister not an hour agone. women may be vain as peacocks, but for prinking, dandifying vanity, commend me to a pair of foreign war-captains. my lords, have you blacked your eyelashes yet, touched up your eyebrows, scented and waxed those _beautiful_ moustaches? sister, can you look and live?" and to the two soldiers, standing stiff as at attention, with their combs in their hands, enter the sisters anna and martha pappenheim, more full of mischief than ever, and entirely unsubdued by the presence of the invader at their gates. "russ or turk, courtlander or franconian, jew, proselyte, or dweller in mesopotamia, all is one to us. so be they are men, we will engage to tie them about our little fingers!" "why," cried martha, "whence this grand toilet? we knew not that you had friends in the city. and yet they tell me you have been in courtland before, sir boris?" "marthe," cried anna pappenheim, with vast pretence of indignation, "what has gotten into you, girl? can you have forgotten that martial carriage, those limbs incomparably knit, that readiness of retort and delicate sparkle of wendish wit, which set all the table in a roar, and yet never once brought the blush to maiden's cheek? for shame, marthe!" "ha! ha!" laughed jorian suddenly, short and sharp, as if a string had been pulled somewhere. "ho! ho!" thus more sonorously boris. anna pappenheim caught her skirts in her hand and spun round on her heel on pretence of looking behind her. "sister, what was that?" she cried, spying beneath the settles and up the wide throat of the chimney. "methought a dog barked." "or a grey goose cackled!" "or a donkey sang!" "ladies," said jorian, who, being vastly discomposed, must perforce try to speak with an affectation of being at his ease, "you are pleased to be witty." "heaven mend our wit or your judgment!" "and we are right glad to be your butts. yet have we been accounted fellows of some humour in our own country and among men----" "why, then, did you not stay there?" inquired martha pointedly. "it was not boris and i who could not stay without," retorted jorian, somewhat nettled, nodding towards the door of the guard-room. "well said!" cried frank anna. "he had you there, marthe. pricked in the white! faith, sir jorian pinked us both, for indeed it was we who intruded into these gentlemen's dressing-room. our excuse is that we are tirewomen, and would fain practise our office when and where we can. our princess hath been wedded and needs us but once a week. noble wendish gentlemen, will not you engage us?" she clasped her hands, going a step or two nearer boris as if in appeal. "do, kind sirs," she said, "have pity on two poor girls who have no work to do. think--we are orphans and far from home!" the smiles on the faces of the war-captains broadened. "ho! ho! good!" burst out boris. "ha! ha! excellent!" assented jorian, nodding, with his eyes on martha. anna pappenheim ran quickly on tip-toe round to boris's back and peered between his shoulders. then she ran her eyes down to his heels. "sister," she cried, "_they_ do it. that dreadful noise comes from somewhere about them. i distinctly saw their jaws waggle. they must of a surety be wound up like an arbalist. yet i cannot find the string and trigger! do come and help me, good marthe! if you find it, i will dance at your wedding in my stocking-feet!" and the gay franconian reached up and pulled a stray tag of boris's jerkin, which hung down his back. the knot slipped, and a circlet of red and gold, ragged at the lower edges, came off in her hand, revealing the fact that boris's noble _soubreveste_ was no more than a fringe of broidered collar. "ha! ha! ha!" laughed jorian irrepressibly. for boris looked mightily crestfallen to have his magnificence so rudely dealt with. anna von pappenheim clapped her hands. "i have found it," she cried. "it goes like this. you touch off the trigger of one, and the other explodes!" boris wheeled about with fell intent on his face. he would have caught the teasing minx in his arms, but anna skipped round behind a chair and threatened him with her finger. "not till you engage us," she cried. "hands off, there! we are to array you--not you to disarray us!" whereat the two gamesome southlanders stood together in ludicrous imitation of boris and jorian's military stiffness, folding their hands meekly and casting their eyes downward like a pair of most ingenuous novices listening to the monitions of their lady superior. then anna's voice was heard speaking with almost incredible humility. "will my lord with the hook nose so great and noble deign to express a preference which of us shall be his handmaid?" but they had ventured an inch too far. the string was effectually pulled now. "i will have this one--she is so merry!" cried solemn boris, seizing anna pappenheim about the waist. "and i this! she pretendeth melancholy, yet has tricks like a monkey!" said jorian, quickly following his example. the girls fended them gallantly, yet, as mayhap they desired, their case was hopeless. "hands off! i will not be called 'this one,'" cried anna, though she did not struggle too vehemently. "nor i a monkey! let me go, great wend!" chimed martha, resigning herself as soon as she had said it. in this prosperous estate was the courtship of franconia and plassenburg, when some instinct drew the eyes of jorian to the door of the officers' guard-room, which anna had carefully left open at her entrance, in order to secure their retreat. the duchess joan stood there silent and regardant. "boris!" cried jorian warningly. boris lifted his eyes from the smiling challenge upon anna's upturned lips, which, after the manner of your war-captains, he was stooping to kiss. unwillingly boris lifted his eyes. the next moment both the late envoys of plassenburg were saluting as stiffly as if they had still been men-at-arms, while anna and martha, blushing divinely, were busy with their needlework in the corner, as demure as cats caught sipping cream. joan looked at the four for a while without speaking. "captains boris and jorian," she said sternly, "a messenger has come from prince conrad to say that the muscovites press him hard. he asks for instant reinforcements. there is not a man fit for duty within the city saving your command. will you take them to the prince's assistance immediately? werner von orseln fights by his side. maurice and my kernsbergers are already on their way." the countenances of the two plassenburg captains fell as the leathern screen drops across a cathedral door through which the evening sunshine has been streaming. "my lady, it is heartbreaking, but we cannot," said boris dolefully. "our lord prince hugo bade us keep the city till he should arrive!" "but i am governor. i will keep the city," cried joan; "the women will mount halberd and carry pike. go to the prince! were hugo of plassenburg here he would be the first to march! go, i order you! go, i beseech you!" she said the last words in so changed a tone that boris looked at her in surprise. but still he shook his head. "it is certain that if prince hugo were here he would be the first to ride to the rescue. but prince hugo is not here, and my comrade and i are soldiers under orders!" "cowards!" flashed joan, "i will go myself. the cripples, the halt, and the blind shall follow me. thora of bornheim and these maidens there, they shall follow me to the rescue of their prince. do you, brave men of plassenburg, cower behind the walls while the muscovite overwhelms all and the true prince is slain!" and at this her voice broke and she sobbed out, "cowards! cowards! cowards! god preserve me from cowardly men!" for at such times and in such a cause no woman is just. for which high heaven be thanked! boris looked at jorian. jorian looked at boris. "no, madam," said boris gravely; "your servants are no cowards. it is true that we were commanded by our master to keep his palace guard within the city walls, and these must stay. but we two are in some sense still envoys extraordinary, and not strictly of the prince's palace guard. as envoys, therefore, charged with a free commission in the interests of peace, we can without wrongdoing accompany you whither you will. eh, jorian?" "aye," quoth jorian; "we are at her highness's service till ten o' the clock." "and why till ten?" asked joan, turning to go out. "oh," returned jorian, "there is guard-changing and other matters to see to. but there is time for a wealth of fighting before ten. lead on, madam. we follow your highness!" chapter l the din of battle it was a strange uncouth band that joan had got together in a handful of minutes in order to accompany her to the field upon which, sullenly retiring before a vastly more numerous enemy, conrad and his little army stood at bay. raw lathy lads, wide-hammed from sitting cross-legged in tailors' workshops; prentices too wambly and knock-kneed to be taken at the first draft; old men who had long leaned against street corners and rubbed the doorways of the cathedral smooth with their backs; a sprinkling of stout citizens, reluctant and much afraid, but still more afraid of the wrath of joan of the sword hand. joan was still scouring the lanes and intricate passages for laggards when boris and jorian entered the little square where this company were assembled, most of them embracing their arbalists as if they had been sweeping besoms, and the rest holding their halberds as if they feared they would do themselves an injury. the nose of fat jorian went so high into the air that, without intending it, he found himself looking up at boris; and at that moment boris chanced to be glancing at jorian down the side of his high arched beak. to the herd of the uncouth soldiery it simply appeared as though the two war-captains of plassenburg looked at each other. an observer on the opposite side would have noted, however, that the right eye of jorian and the left eye of boris simultaneously closed. yet when they turned their regard upon the last levy of the city of courtland their faces were grave. "whence come these churchyard scourings, these skulls and crossbones set up on end?" cried jorian in face of them all. and this saying from so stout a man made their legs wamble more than ever. "rotboss rascals, rogues in grain," boris took up the tale, "faith, it makes a man scratch only to look at them! did you ever see their marrow?" the two captains turned away in disgust. they walked to and fro a little apart, and boris, who loved all animals, kicked a dog that came his way. boris was unhappy. he avoided jorian's eye. at last he broke out. "we cannot let our lady joan set forth for field with such a compost of mumpers and tun-barrels as these!" he said. boris confided this, as it were to the housetops. jorian apparently did not listen. he was clicking his dagger in its sheath, but from his next word it was evident that his mind had not been inactive. "what excuse could we make to hugo, our prince?" he said at last. "scarcely did he believe us the last time. and on this occasion we have his direct orders." "are we not still envoys?" queried boris. "extraordinary!" twinkled jorian, catching his comrade's idea as a bush of heather catches moorburn. "and as envoys of a great principality like plassenburg--representatives of the most noble prince and princess in this empire, should we not ride with retinue due and fitting? that is not taking the palace guard into battle. it is only affording due protection to their excellencies' representatives." "that sounds well enough," answered boris doubtfully, "but will it stand probation, think you, when hugo scowls at us from under his brows, and you see the bar of the fifteen red axes of the wolfmark stand red across his forehead?" "tut, man, his anger is naught to that of karl the miller's son. you and i have stood that. why should we fear our quiet hugo?" "aye, aye; in our day we have tried one thing and then another upon karl and have borne up under his anger. but then karl only cursed and used great horned words, suchlike as in his youth he had heard the waggoners use to encourage their horses up the mill brae. but hugo--when he is angry he says nought, only the red bar comes up slowly, and as it grows dark and fiery you wish he would order you to the scaffold at once, and be done with it!" "well," said jorian, "at all events, there is always our helene. i opine, whatever we do, she will not forget old days--the night at the earth-houses belike and other things. i think we may risk it!" "true," meditated boris, "you say well. there is always helene. the little playmate will not let our necks be stretched! not at least for succouring a princess in distress." "and a woman in love?" added jorian, who, though he followed the lead of the long man in great things, had a shrewder eye for some more intimate matters. "eh, what's that you say?" said boris, turning quickly upon him. he had been regarding with interest a shackled-kneed varlet holding a halberd in his arms as if it had been a fractious bairn. but jorian was already addressing the company before him. "here, ye unbaked potsherds--dismiss, if ye know what that means. get ye to the walls, and if ye cannot stand erect, lean against them, and hold brooms in your hands that the muscovite may take them for muskets and you for men if he comes nigh enough. our lady is not joan of the dishclout, that such draught-house ragpickers as you should be pinned to her tail. set bolsters stuffed with bran on the walls! man the gates with faggots. cleave beech billets half in two and set them athwart wooden horses for officers. but insult not the sunshine by letting your shadows fall outside the city. break off! dismiss! go! get out o' this!" as jorian stood before the levies and vomited his insults upon them, a gleam of joy passed across chops hitherto white like fish-bellies with the fear of death. bleared eyes flashed with relief. and there ran a murmur through the ragged ranks which sounded like "thank you, great captain!" * * * * * in a short quarter of an hour the drums of the plassenburg palace guard had beaten to arms. from gate to gate the light sea-wind had borne the cheerful trumpet call, and when joan returned, heartless and downcast, with half a dozen more mouldy rascals, smelling of muck-rakes and damp stable straw, she found before her more than half the horsemen of plassenburg armed cap-a-pie in burnished steel. whereat she could only look at boris in astonishment. "your highness," said that captain, saluting gravely, "we are only able to accompany you as envoys extraordinary of the prince and princess of plassenburg. but as such we feel it our duty in order properly to support our state, to take with us a suitable attendance. we are sure that neither prince hugo nor yet his princess helene would wish it otherwise!" before joan could reply a messenger came springing up the long narrow streets along which the disbanded levies, so vigorously contemned of jorian, were hurrying to their places upon the walls with a detail of the plassenburg men behind them, driving them like sheep. joan took the letter and opened it with a jerk. "from high captain von orseln to the princess joan. "come with all speed, if you would be in time. we are hard beset. the enemy are all about us. prince conrad has ordered a charge!" the face of the woman whitened as she read, but at the same moment the fingers of joan of the sword hand tightened upon the hilt. she read the letter aloud. there was no comment. boris cried an order, jorian dropped to the rear, and the retinue of the envoys extraordinary swung out on the road towards the great battle. outnumbered and beaten back by the locust flock which spread to either side, far outflanking and sometimes completely enfolding his small army, prince conrad still maintained himself by good generalship and the high personal courage which stimulated his followers. the hardy kernsbergers, both horse and foot, whom maurice had brought up, proved the backbone of the defence. besides which werner von orseln had striven by rebuke and chastening, as well as by appeals to their honour, to impart some steadiness into the courtland ranks. but save the free knights from the landward parts, who were driven wild by the sight of the ever-spreading muscovite desolation, there was little stamina among the burghers. they were, indeed, loud and turbulent upon occasion, but they understood but ill any concerted action. in this they differed conspicuously from their fellows of the hansa league, or even from the clothweavers of the netherland cities. as joan and the war-captains of plassenburg came nearer they heard a low growling roar like the distant sound of the breakers on the outer shore at isle rugen. it rose and fell as the fitful wind bore it towards them, but it never entirely ceased. they dashed through the fords of the alla, the three hundred lances of the plassenburg guard clattering eagerly behind them. joan led, on a black horse which conrad had given her. the two war-captains with one mind set their steel caps more firmly on their heads, and as his steed breasted the river bank jorian laughed aloud. angrily joan turned in her saddle to see what the little man was laughing at. but with quick instinct she perceived that he laughed only as the war-horse neighs when he scents the battle from afar. he was once more the born fighter of men. jorian and his mate would never be generals, but they were the best tools any general could have. they came nearer. a few wreaths of smoke, hanging over the yet distant field, told where russ and teuton met in battle array. a solemn slumberous reverberation heard at intervals split the dull general roar apart. it was the new cannon which had come from the margraf george to help beat back the common foe. again and again broke in upon their advance that appalling sound, which set the inward parts of men quivering. presently they began to pass limping men hasting cityward, then fleeing and panic-stricken wretches who looked over their shoulders as if they saw steel flashing at their backs. a camp-marshal or two was trying to stay these, beating them over the head and shoulders with the flat of their swords; but not a man of the plassenburgers even looked towards them. their eyes were on that distant tossing line dimly seen amid clouds of dust, and those strange wreaths of white smoke going upward from the cannons' mouths. the roar grew louder; there were gaps in the fighting line; a banner went down amid great shouting. they could see the glinting of sunshine upon armour. "kernsberg!" cried joan, her sword high in the air as she set spurs in her black stallion and swept onward a good twenty yards before the rush of the horsemen of plassenburg. now they began to see the arching arrow-hail, grey against the skyline like gnat swarms dancing in the dusk of summer trees. the quarrels buzzed. the great catapults, still used by the muscovites, twanged like the breaking of viol cords. the horses instinctively quickened their pace to take the wounded in their stride. there--there was the thickest of the fray, where the great cannon of the margraf george thundered and were instantly wrapped in their own white pall. [illustration: "the sturdy form of werner von orseln, bestriding the body of a fallen knight." [_page _]] joan's quick glance about her for conrad told her nothing of his whereabouts. but the two war-captains, more experienced, perceived that the muscovites were already everywhere victorious. their horsemen outflanked and overlapped the slender array of courtland. only about the cannon and on the far right did any seem to be making a stand. "there!" cried jorian, couching his lance, "there by the cannon is where we will get our bellyful of fighting." he pointed where, amid a confusion of fighting-men, wounded and struggling horses, and the great black tubes of the margraf's cannon, they saw the sturdy form of werner von orseln, grown larger through the smoke and dusty smother, bestriding the body of a fallen knight. he fought as one fights a swarm of angry bees, striking every way with a desperate courage. the charging squadrons of plassenburg divided to pass right and left of the cannon. joan first of all, with her sword lifted and crying not kernsberg now, but "conrad! conrad!" drave straight into the heart of the cossack swarm. at the trampling of the horses' feet the muscovites lifted their eyes. they had been too intent to kill to waste a thought on any possible succour. joan felt herself strike right and left. her heart was crazed within her so that she set spurs to her steed and rode him forward, plunging and furious. then a blowing wisp of white plume was swept aside, and through a helmet (broken as a nut shell is cracked and falls apart) joan saw the fair head of her prince. a trickle of blood wetted a clinging curl on his forehead and stole down his pale cheek. werner von orseln, begrimed and drunken with battle, bestrode the body of prince conrad. his defiance rose above the din of battle. "come on, cowards of the north! taste good german steel! to me, kernsberg! to me, hohenstein! curs of courtland, would ye desert your prince? curses on you all, swart hounds of the baltic! let me out of this and never a dog of you shall ever bite bread again!" and so, foaming in his battle anger, the ancient war-captain would have stricken down his mistress. for he saw all things red and his heart was bitter within him. with all the power that was in her, right and left joan smote to clear her way to conrad, praying that if she could not save him she might at least die with him. but by this time captains boris and jorian, leaving their horsemen to ride at the second line, had wheeled and now came thrusting their lances freely into cossack backs. these last, finding themselves thus taken in the rear, turned and fled. "hey, werner, good lad, do not slay your comrades! down blade, old thirsty. hast thou not drunken enough blood this morning?" so cried the war-captains as werner dashed the blood and tears out of his eyes. "back! back!" he cried, as soon as he knew with whom he had to do. "go back! conrad is slain or hath a broken head. they were lashing at him as he lay to kill him outright? ah, viper, would you sting?" (he thrust a wounded muscovite through as he was crawling nearer to conrad with a broad knife in his hand.) "these beaten curs of courtlanders broke at the first attack. get him to horse! quick, i say. my lady joan, what do you do in this place?" for even while he spoke joan had dismounted and was holding conrad's head on her lap. with the soft white kerchief which she wore on her helm as a favour she wiped the wound on his scalp. it was long, but did not appear to be very deep. as werner stood astonished, gazing at his mistress, boris summoned the trumpeter who had wheeled with him. "sound the recall!" he bade him. and in a moment clear notes rang out. "he is not dead! lift him up, you two!" joan cried suddenly. "no, i will take him on my steed. it is the strongest, and i the lightest. i alone will bear him in." and before any could speak she sprang into the saddle without assistance with all her old lightness of action, most like that of a lithe lad who chases the colts in his father's croft that he may ride them bareback. so werner von orseln lifted the head and boris the feet, bearing him tenderly that they might set him upon joan's horse. and so firm was her seat (for she rode as the maid rode into orleans with dunois on one side and gilles de rais on the other), that she did not even quiver as she received the weight. the noble black looked round once, and then, as if understanding the thing that was required of him, he gentled himself and began to pace slow and stately towards the city. on either side walked tall boris and sturdy werner, who steadied the unconscious prince with the palms of their hands. meanwhile the palace guard, with jorian at its head, defended the slow retreat, while on the flanks maurice and his staunch kernsbergers checked the victorious advance of the muscovites. yet the disaster was complete. they left the dead, they left the camp, they left the munitions of war. they abandoned the margraf's cannon and all his great store of powder. and there were many that wept and some that only ground teeth and cursed as they fell back, and heard the wailing of the women and saw the fear whitening on the faces they loved. only the kernsbergers bit their lips and watched the eye of maurice, by whose side a slim page in chain-mail had ridden all day with visor down. and the men of the palace guard prayed for prince hugo to come. as for joan, she cared nothing for victory or defeat, loss or gain, because that the man she loved leaned on her breast, bleeding and very still. yet with great gentleness she gave him down into loving hands, and afterwards stood marble-pale beside the couch while theresa von lynar unlaced his armour and washed his wounds. then, nerving herself to see him suffer, she murmured over to herself, once, twice, and a hundred times, "god help me to do so and more also to those who have wrought this--specially to louis of courtland and ivan of muscovy." "abide ye, little one--be patient. vengeance will come to both!" said theresa. "i, who do not promise lightly, promise it you!" and she laid her hand on the girl's shoulder. never before had the duchess joan been called "little one!" yet for all her brave deeds she laid her head on theresa's shoulder, murmuring, "save him--save him! i cannot bear to lose him. pray for him and me!" theresa kissed her brow. "ah," she said, "the prayers of such as theresa von lynar would avail little. yet she may be a weapon in the hand of the god of vengeance. is it not written that they that take the sword shall perish by the sword?" but already joan had forgotten vengeance. for now the surgeons of courtland stood about, and she murmured, "must he die? tell me, will he die?" and as the wise men silently shook their heads, the crying of the victorious muscovites could be heard outside the wall. then ensued a long silence, through which broke a gust of iron-throated laughter. it was the roar of the margraf's captured cannon firing the salvo of victory. chapter li theresa's treachery that night the whole city of courtland cowered in fear before its triumphant enemy. at the nearest posts the muscovites were in great strength, and the sight of their burnings fretted the souls of the citizens on guard. some came near enough to cry insults up to the defenders. "you would not have your own true prince. now ye shall have ours. we will see how you like the exchange!" this was the cry of some renegade courtlander, or of a muscovite learned (as ofttimes they are) in the speech of the west. but within the walls and at the gates the men of kernsberg and hohenstein rubbed their hands and nudged each other. "brisk lads," one said, "let us make our wills and send them by pigeon post. i am leaving gretchen my book of prayers, my lives of the saints, my rosary, and my belt pounced with golden eye-holes----" "methinks that last will do thy gretchen most service," said his companion, "since the others have gone to the vintner's long ago!" * * * * * "thou art the greater knave to say so," retorted his companion; "and if by god's grace we come safe out of this i will break thy head for thy roguery!" the muscovites had dragged the captured cannon in front of the plassenburg gate, and now they fired occasionally, mostly great balls of quarried stone, but afterward, as the day wore later, any piece of metal or rock they could find. and the crash of wooden galleries and stone machicolations followed, together with the scuttling of the courtland levies from the post of danger. a few of the younger citizens, indeed, were staunch, but for the most part the plassenburgers and kernsbergers were left to bite their lips and confide to each other what their prince hugo or their joan of the hand sword would have done to bring such cowards to reason and right discipline. "an it were not for our own borders and that brave priest-prince, no shaveling he," they said, "faith, such curs were best left to the muscovite. the plet and the knout were made for such as they!" "not so," said he who had maligned gretchen; "the courtlanders are yea-for-soothing knaves, truly; but they are germans, and need only to know they must, to be brave enough. one or two of our karl's hostelries, with thirteen lodgings on either side, every guest upright and a-swing by the neck--these would make of the courtlanders as good soldiers as thyself, hans finck!" but at that moment came captain boris by and rebuked them sharply for the loudness of their speech. it was approaching ten of the clock. boris and jorian had already visited all the posts, and were now ready to make their venture with theresa von lynar. "no fools like old fools!" grumbled jorian sententiously, as he buckled on his carinated breastplate, that could shed aside bolts, quarrels, and even bullets from powder guns as the prow of a vessel sheds the waves to either side in a good northerly wind. "'tis you should know," retorted boris, "being both old and a fool." "a man is known by the company he keeps!" answered jorian, adjusting the lining of his steel cap, which was somewhat in disarray after the battle of the morning. "ah!" sighed his companion. "i would that i had the choosing of the company i am to keep this night!" "and i!" assented jorian, looking solemn for once as he thought of pretty martha pappenheim. "well, we do it from a good motive," said boris; "that is one comfort. and if we lose our lives, prince conrad will order many masses (they will need to be very many) for your soul's peace and good quittance from purgatory!" "humph!" said jorian, as if he did not see much comfort in that, "i would rather have a box on the ear from martha pappenheim than all the matins of all the priests that ever sung laud!" "canst have that and welcome--if her sister will do as well!" cried anna, as the two men went out into the long passage. and she suited the deed to the word. "oh! i have hurt my hand against that hard helmet. it serves me right for listening! marthe!"--she looked about for her sister before turning to the soldiers--"see, i have hurt my hand," she added. then she made the tears well up in her eyes by an art of the tongue in the throat she had. "kiss it well, marthe!" she said, looking up at her sister as she came along the passage swinging a lantern as carelessly as if there were not a muscovite in the world. but boris forestalled the newcomer and caught up the small white hand in the soft leathern grip of his palm where the ring-mail stopped. "_i_ will do that better than any sister!" he said. "that, indeed, you cannot; for only the kiss of love can make a hurt better!" anna glanced up at him with wet eyes, a little maid full of innocence and simplicity. most certainly she was all unconscious of the danger in which she was putting herself. "well, then, i love you!" said boris, who did his wooing plainly. and did not kiss her hand. meanwhile the others had wandered to the end of the passage and now stood at the turnpike staircase, the light of martha pappenheim's lantern making a dim haze of light about them. anna looked at boris as often as she could. "you really love me?" she questioned. "no, you cannot; you have known me too brief a time. besides, this is no time to speak of love, with the enemy at the gates!" "tush!" said boris, with the roughness which anna had looked for in vain among all the youth of courtland. "i tell you, girl, it is the time. you and i are no courtlanders, god be thanked! in a little while i shall ride back to plassenburg, which is a place where men live. i shall not go alone. you, little anna, shall come, too!" "you are not deceiving me?" she murmured, looking up upon occasion. "there is none at plassenburg whom you love at all?" "i have never loved any woman but you!" said boris, settling his conscience by adding mentally, "though i may have thought i did when i told them so." "nor i any man!" said anna, softly meditative, making, however, a similar addition. thus greek met greek, and both were very happy in the belief that their own was the only mental reservation. "but you are going out?" pouted anna, after a while. "why cannot you stay in the castle to-night?" "to-night of all nights it is impossible," said boris. "we must make the rounds and see that the gates are guarded. the safety of the city is in our hands." "you are sure that you will not run into any danger!" said anna anxiously. she remembered a certain precariousness of tenure among some of her previous--mental reservations. there was fritz wünch, who had laughed at the red beard of a prussian baron; wilhelm of bautzen, who went once too often on a foray with his uncle, fighting max of castelnau---- for answer the staunch war-captain kissed her, and the girl clung to her lover, this time in real tears. martha's candle had gone out, and the two had perforce to go down the stair in the dark. they reached the foot at last. "none of them were quite like him," she owned that night to her sister. "he takes you up as if he would break you in his arms. and he could, too. it is good to feel!" "jorian also is just like that--so satisfactory!" answered martha. which shows the use jorian must have made of his time at the stairhead, and why martha pappenheim's light went out. "he swears he has never loved any woman before." "jorian does just the same." "i suppose we must never tell them----" "marthe--if you should dare, i will---- besides, you were just as bad!" "anna, as if i would dream of such a thing!" and the two innocents fell into each other's arms and embraced after the manner of women, each in her own heart thinking how much she preferred "the way of a man with a maid"--at least that form of it cultivated by stout war-captains of plassenburg. without, boris and jorian trampled along through a furious gusting of baltic rain, which came in driving sheets from the north and splashed its thumb-board drops equally upon the red roofs of courtland, the tented muscovites drinking victory, and upon the dead men lying afield. worse still, it fell on many wounded, and to such even the thrust of the thievish camp-follower's tolle-knife was merciful. never could monks more fitly have chanted, "blessed are the dead!" than concerning those who lay stiff and unconscious on the field where they had fought, to whose ears the alla sang in vain. attired in her cloak of blue, with the hood pulled low over her face, theresa von lynar was waiting for boris and jorian at the door of the market-hospital. "i thank you for your fidelity," she said quickly. "i have sore need of you. i put a great secret into your hands. i could not ask one of the followers of prince conrad, nor yet a soldier of the duchess joan, lest when that is done which shall be done to-night the prince or the duchess should be held blameworthy, having most to gain or lose thereto. but you are of plassenburg and will bear me witness!" boris and jorian silently signified their obedience and readiness to serve her. then she gave them their instructions. "you will conduct me past the city guards, out through the gates, and take me towards the camp of the prince of muscovy. there you will leave me, and i shall be met by one who in like manner will lead me through the enemy's posts." "and when will you return, my lady theresa? we shall wait for you!" "thank you, gentlemen. you need not wait. i shall not return!" "not return?" cried jorian and boris together, greatly astonished. "no," said theresa very slowly and quietly, her eyes set on the darkness. "hear ye, captains of plassenburg--i will give you my mind. you are trusty men, and can, as i have proved, hold your own counsel." boris and jorian nodded. there was no difficulty about that. "good!" they said together as of old. as they grew older it became more and more easy to be silent. silence had always been easier to them than speech, and the habit clave to them even when they were in love. "listen, then," theresa went on. "you know, and i know, that unless quick succour come, the city is doomed. you are men and soldiers, and whether ye make an end amid the din of battle, or escape for this time, is a matter wherewith ye do not trouble your minds till the time comes. but for me, be it known to you that i am the widow of henry the lion of kernsberg. my son maurice is the true heir to the dukedom. yet, being bound by an oath sworn to the man who made me his wife, i have never claimed the throne for him. but now joan his sister knows, and out of her great heart she swears that she will give up the duchy to him. if, therefore, the city is taken, the muscovite will slay my son, slay him by their hellish tortures, as they have sworn to do for the despite he put upon prince ivan. and his wife, the princess margaret, will die of grief when they carry her to moscow to make a bride out of a widow. joan will be a prisoner, conrad either dead or a priest, and kernsberg, the heritage of henry the lion, a fief of the czar. there is no help in any. your prince would succour, but it takes time to raise the country, and long ere he can cross the frontier the russian will have worked his will in courtland. now i see a way--a woman's way. and if i fall in the doing of it, well--i but go to meet him for the sake of whose children i freely give my life. in this bear me witness." "madam," said boris, gravely, "we are but plain soldiers. we pretend not to understand the great matters of state of which you speak. but rest assured that we will serve you with our lives, bear true witness, and in all things obey your word implicitly." without difficulty they passed through the streets and warded gates. werner von orseln, indeed, tramping the inner rounds, cried "whither away?" then, seeing the lady cloaked between them, he added after his manner, "by my faith, you plassenburgers beat the world. hang me to a gooseberry bush if i do not tell anna pappenheim of it ere to-morrow's sunset. as i know, she will forgive inconstancy only in herself!" they plunged into the darkness of the outer night. as soon as they were beyond the gates the wind drave past them hissing level. the black trees roared overhead. at first in the swirl of the storm the three could see nothing; but gradually the watchfires of the muscovite came out thicksown like stars along the rising grounds on both sides of the alla. boris strode on ahead, peering anxiously into the night, and a little behind jorian gave theresa his hand over the rough and uneven ground. a pair of ranging stragglers, vultures that accompany the advance of all great armies, came near and examined the party, but retreated promptly as they caught the glint of the firelight upon the armour of the war-captains. presently they began to descend into the valley, the iron-shod feet of the men clinking upon the stones. theresa walked silently, steeped in thought, laying a hand on arm or shoulder as she had occasion. suddenly tall boris stopped dead and with a sweep of his arm halted the others. "there!" he whispered, pointing upward. and against the glow thrown from behind a ridge they could see a pair of cossacks riding to and fro ceaselessly, dark against the ruddy sky. "gott, would that i had my arbalist! i could put gimlet holes in these knaves!" whispered jorian over boris's shoulder. "hush!" muttered boris; "it is lucky for martha pappenheim that you left it at home!" "captains boris and jorian," theresa was speaking with quietness, raising her voice just enough to make herself heard over the roar of the wind overhead, for the nook in which they presently found themselves was sheltered, "i bid you adieu--it may be farewell. you have done nobly and like two valiant captains who were fit to war with henry the lion. i thank you. you will bear me faithful witness in the things of which i have spoken to you. take this ring from me, not in recompense, but in memory. it is a bauble worth any lady's acceptance. and you this dagger." she took two from within her mantle, and gave one to jorian. "it is good steel and will not fail you. the fellow of it i will keep!" she motioned them backward with her hand. "abide there among the bushes till you see a man come out to meet me. then depart, and till you have good reason keep the last secret of theresa, wife of henry the lion, duke of kernsberg and hohenstein!" boris and jorian bowed themselves as low as the straitness of their armour would permit. "we thank you, madam," they said; "as you have commanded, so will we do!" and as they had been bidden they withdrew into a clump of willow and alder whose leaves clashed together and snapped like whips in the wind. "yonder woman is braver than you or i, jorian," said boris, as crouching they watched her climb the ridge. "which of us would do as much for any on the earth?" "after all, it is for her son. if you had children, who can say----?" "whether i may have children or no concerns you not," returned boris, who seemed unaccountably ruffled. "i only know that i would not throw away my life for a baker's dozen of them!" upon the skyline theresa von lynar stood a moment looking backward to make sure that her late escort was hidden. then she took a whistle from her gown and blew upon it shrilly in a lull of the storm. at the sound the war-captains could see the cossacks drop their lances and pause in their unwearying ride. they appeared to listen eagerly, and upon the whistle being repeated one of them threw up a hand. then between them and on foot the watchers saw another man stand, a dark shadow against the watchfires. the sentinels leaned down to speak with him, and then, lifting their lances, they permitted him to pass between them. he was a tall man, clad in a long caftan which flapped about his feet, a sheepskin posteen or winter jacket, and a round cap of fur, high-crowned and flat-topped, upon his head. he came straight towards theresa as if he expected a visitor. the two men in hiding saw him take her hand as a host might that of an honoured guest, kiss it reverently, and then lead her up the little hill to where the sentinels waited motionless on their horses. so soon as the pair had passed within the lines, their figures and the cossack salute momentarily silhouetted against the watchfires, the twin horsemen resumed their monotonous ride. by this time jorian's head was above the bushes and his eyes stood well nigh out of his head. "down, fool!" growled boris, taking him by the legs and pulling him flat; "the cossacks will see you!" "boris," gasped jorian, who had descended so rapidly that the fall and the weight of his plate had driven the wind out of him, "i know that fellow. i have seen him before. it is prince wasp's physician, alexis the deacon. i remember him in courtland when first we came thither!" "well, and what of that?" grunted boris, staring at the little detached tongues of willow-leaf flame which were blown upward from the muscovite watchfires. "what of that, man?" retorted boris. "why, only this. we have been duped. she was a traitress, after all. this has been planned a long while." "traitress or saint, it is none of our business," said boris grimly. "we had better get ourselves within the walls of courtland, and say nothing to any of this night's work!" "at any rate," added the long man as an afterthought, "i have the ring. it will be a rare gift for anna." jorian looked ruefully at his dagger, holding it between the rustling alder leaves, so as to catch the light from the watchfires. the red glow fell on a jewel in the hilt. "'tis a pretty toy enough, but how can i give that to marthe? it is not a fit keepsake for a lady!" "well," said boris, suddenly appeased, "i will swop you for it. i am not so sure that my pretty spitfire would not rather have it than any ring i could give her. shall we exchange?" "but we promised to keep them as souvenirs?" urged jorian, whose conscience smote him slightly. "one does not tell lies to a lady--at least where one can help it." "it depends upon the lady!" said boris practically. "you can tell your marthe the truth. i will please myself with anna. hand over the dagger." so wholly devoid of sentiment are war-captains when they deal with keepsakes. chapter lii the margraf's powder chests it was indeed alexis the deacon who met the lady theresa. and the matter had been arranged, just as boris said. alexis the deacon, a wise man of many disguises, remained in courtland after the abrupt departure of prince ivan. theresa had found him in the hospital, where, sheltered by a curtain, she heard him talk with a dying man--the son of a greek merchant domiciled in courtland, whose talent for languages and quick intelligence had induced prince conrad to place him on his immediate staff of officers. "i bid you reveal to me the plans and intents of the prince," theresa heard alexis say, "otherwise i cannot give you absolution. i am priest as well as doctor." at this the young greek groaned and turned aside his head, for he loved the prince. nevertheless, he spoke into the ear of the physician all he knew, and as reward received a sleeping draught, which induced the sleep from which none waken. and afterwards theresa had spoken also. so it was this same alexis--spy, priest, surgeon, assassin, and chief confidant of ivan prince of muscovy--who, in front of the watchfires, bent over the hand of theresa von lynar on that stormy night which succeeded the crowning victory of the russian arms in courtland. "this way, madam. fear not. the prince is eagerly awaiting you--both princes, indeed," alexis said, as he led her into the camp through lines of lighted tents and curious eyes looking at them from the darkness. "only tell them all that you have to tell, and, trust me, there shall be no bounds to the gratitude of the prince, or of alexis the deacon, his most humble servant." theresa thought of what this boundless gratitude had obtained for the young greek, and smiled. they came to an open space before a lighted pavilion. before the door stood a pair of officers trying in vain to shield their gay attire under scanty shoulder cloaks from the hurtling inclemency of the night. their ready swords, however, barred the way. "to see the prince--his highness expects us," said alexis, without any salute. and with no further objection the two officers stood aside, staring eagerly and curiously however under the hood of the lady's cloak whom alexis brought so late to the tent of their master. "ha!" muttered one of them confidentially as the pair passed within, "i often wondered what kept our ivan so long in courtland. it was more than his wooing of the princess margaret, i will wager!" "curse the wet!" growled his fellow, turning away. he felt that it was no time for speculative scandal. theresa and her conductor stood within the tent of the commander of the muscovite army. the glow of light, though it came only from candles set within lanterns of horn, was great enough to be dazzling to her eyes. she found herself in the immediate presence of prince ivan, who rose with his usual lithe grace to greet her. an older man, with a grey pinched face, sat listlessly with his elbow on the small camp table. he leaned his forehead on his palm, and looked down. behind, in the half dark of the tent, a low wide divan with cushions was revealed, and all the upper end of the tent was filled up with a huge and shadowy pile of kegs and boxes, only half concealed behind a curtain. "i bid you welcome, my lady," said prince ivan, taking her hand. "surely never did ally come welcomer than you to our camp to-night. my servant alexis has told me of your goodwill--both towards ourselves and to prince louis." (he indicated the silent sitting figure with a little movement of his hand sufficiently contemptuous.) "let us hear your news, and then will we find you such lodging and welcome as may be among rough soldiers and in a camp of war." as he was speaking theresa von lynar loosened her long cloak of blue, its straight folds dank and heavy with the rains. the eyes of the prince of muscovy grew wider. hitherto this woman had been to him but a common traitress, possessed of great secrets, doubtless to be flattered a little, and then--afterwards--thrown aside. now he stood gazing at her his hands resting easily on the table, his body a little bent. as she revealed herself to him the pupils of his eyes dilated, and amber gleams seemed to shoot across the irises. he thought he had never seen so beautiful a woman. as he stood there, sharpening his features and moistening his lips, prince ivan looked exceedingly like a beast of prey looking out of his hole upon a quarry which comes of its own accord within reach of his claws. but in a moment he had recovered himself, and came forward with renewed reverence. "madam," he said, bowing low, "will you be pleased to sit down? you are wet and tired." he went to the flap of the pavilion and pushed aside the dripping flap. "alexis!" he cried, "call up my people. bid them bring a brazier, and tell these lazy fellows to serve supper in half an hour on peril of their heads!" he returned and stood before theresa, who had sunk back as if fatigued on an ottoman covered with thick furs. her feet nestled in the bearskins which covered the floor. the prince looked anxiously down. "pardon me, your shoes are wet," he said. "we are but muscovite boors, but we know how to make ladies comfortable. permit me!" and before theresa could murmur a negative the prince had knelt down and was unloosing the latchets of her shoes. "a moment!" he said, as he sprang again to his feet with the lithe alertness which distinguished him. prince ivan ran to a corner where, with the brusque hand of a master, he had tossed a score of priceless furs to the ground. he rose again and came towards theresa with a flash of something scarlet in his hand. "you will pardon us, madam," he said, "you are our guest--the sole lady in our camp. i lay it upon your good nature to forgive our rude makeshifts." and again prince ivan knelt. he encased theresa's feet in dainty oriental slippers, small as her own, and placed them delicately and respectfully on the couch. "there, that is better!" he said, standing over her tenderly. "i thank you, prince." she answered the action more than the words, smiling upon him with her large graciousness; "i am not worthy of so great favour." "my lady," said the prince, "it is a proverb of our house that though one day muscovy shall rule the world, a woman will always rule muscovy. i am as my fathers were!" theresa did not answer. she only smiled at the prince, leaning a little further back and resting her head easily upon the palm of her hand. the servitors brought in more lamps, which they slung along the ridge-pole of the roof, and these shedding down a mellow light enhanced the ripe splendour of theresa's beauty. prince ivan acknowledged to himself that he had spoken the truth when he said that he had never seen a woman so beautiful. margaret?--ah, margaret was well enough; margaret was a princess, a political necessity, but this woman was of a nobler fashion, after a mode more truly russ. and the prince of muscovy, who loved his fruit with the least touch of over-ripeness, would not admit to himself that this woman was one hour past the prime of her glorious beauty. and indeed there was much to be said for this judgment. theresa's splendid head was set against the dusky skins. her rich hair of venice gold, escaping a little from the massy carefulness of its ordered coils, had been blown into wet curls that clung closely to her white neck and tendrilled about her broad low brow. the warmth of the tent and the soft luxury of the rich rugs had brought a flush of red to a cheek which yet tingled with the volleying of the baltic raindrops. "alexis never told me this woman was so beautiful," he said to himself. "who is she? she cannot be of courtland. such a marvel could not have been hidden from me during all my stay there!" so he addressed himself to making the discovery. "my lady," he said, "you are our guest. will you deign to tell us how more formally we may address you? you are no courtlander, as all may see!" "i am a dane," she answered smiling; "i am called the lady theresa. for the present let that suffice. i am venturing much to come to you thus! my father and brothers built a castle upon the baltic shore on land that has been the inheritance of my mother. then came the reivers of kernsberg and burned the castle to the ground. they burned it with fire from cellar to roof-tree. and they slackened the fire with the blood of my nearest kindred!" as she spoke theresa's eyes glittered and altered. the prince read easily the meaning of that excitement. how was he to know all that lay behind? "and so," he said, "you have no good-will to the princess joan of hohenstein--and courtland. or to any of her favourers?" he added after a pause. at the name the grey-headed man, who had been sitting unmoved by the table with his elbow on the board, raised a strangely wizened face to theresa's. "what"--he said, in broken accents, stammering in his speech and grappling with the words as if, like a wrestler at a fair, he must throw each one severally--"what--who has a word to say against the lady joan, princess of courtland? whoso wrongs her has me to reckon with--aye, were it my brother ivan himself!" "not i, certainly, my good louis," answered ivan easily. "i would not wrong the lady by word or deed for all germany from bor-russia to the rhine-fall!" he turned to alexis the deacon, who was at his elbow. "fill up his cup--remember what i bade you!" he said sharply in an undertone. "his cup is full, he will drink no more. he pushes it from him!" answered alexis in the same half-whisper. but neither, as it seemed, took any particular pains to prevent their words carrying to the ear of prince louis. and, indeed, they had rightly judged. for swiftly as it had come the momentary flash of manhood died out on the meagre face. the arm upon which he had leaned swerved limply aside, and the grey beard fell helplessly forward upon the table. "so much domestic affection is somewhat belated," said prince ivan, regarding louis of courtland with disgust. "look at him! who can wonder at the lady's taste? he is a pretty prince of a great province. but if he live he will do well enough to fill a chair and hold a golden rod. take him away, alexis!" "nay," said theresa, with quick alarm, "let him stay. there are many things to speak of. we may need to consult prince louis later." "i fear the prince will not be of great use to us," smiled prince ivan. "if only i had known, i would have conserved his princely senses more carefully. but for heads like his the light wine of our country is dangerously strong." he glanced about the pavilion. the servants had not yet retired. "convey his highness to the rear, and lay him upon the powder barrels!" he indicated with his hand the array of boxes and kegs piled in the dusk of the tent. the servitors did as they were told; they lifted prince louis and would have carried him to that grim couch, but, struck with some peculiarity, alexis the deacon suddenly bent over his lax body and thrust his hand into the bosom of his princely habit, now tarnished thick with wine stains and spilled meats. "excellency," he said, turning to his master, "the prince is dead! his heart does not beat. it is the stroke! i warned you it would come!" prince ivan strode hastily towards the body of louis of courtland. "surely not?" he cried, in seeming astonishment. "this may prove very inconvenient. yet, after all, what does it matter? with your assistance, madam, the city is ours. and then, what matters dead prince or living prince? a garrison in every fort, a squadron of good cossacks pricking across every plain, a tax-collector in every village--these are the best securities of princedom. but this is like our good louis. he never did anything at a right time all his life." theresa stood on the other side of the dead man as the servitors lowered him for the inspection of their lord. the weary wrinkled face had been smoothed as with the passage of a hand. only the left corner of the mouth was drawn down, but not so much as to be disfiguring. "i am glad he spoke kindly of his wife at the last," she murmured. and she added to herself, "this falls out well--it relieves me of a necessity." "spoken like a woman!" cried prince ivan, looking admiringly at her. "pray forgive my bitter speech, and remember that i have borne long with this man!" he turned to the servitors and directed them with a motion of his hand towards the back of the pavilion. "drop the curtain," he said. and as the silken folds rustled heavily down the curtain fell upon the career and regality of louis, prince of courtland, hereditary defender of the holy see. the men did not bear him far. they placed him upon the boxes of the powder for the margraf's cannon, which for safety and dryness ivan had bade them bring to his own pavilion. the dead man lay in the dark, open-eyed, staring at the circling shadows as the servitors moved athwart the supper table, at which a woman sat eating and drinking with her enemy. * * * * * theresa von lynar sat directly opposite the prince of muscovy. the board sparkled with mellow lights reflected from many lanterns. the servitors had departed. only the measured tread of the sentinels was heard without. they were alone. and then theresa spoke. very fully she told what she had learned of the defences of the place, which gates were guarded by the kernsbergers, which by the men of plassenburg, which by the remnants of the broken army of courtland. she spoke in a hushed voice, the prince sipping and nodding as he looked into her eyes. she gave the passwords of the inner and outer defences, the numbers of the defenders at each gate, the plans for bringing provisions up the alla--indeed, everything that a besieging general needs to know. and so soon as she had told the passwords the prince asked her to pardon him a moment. he struck a silver bell and with scarce a moment's delay alexis entered. "go," said the prince; "send one of our fellows familiar with the speech of courtland into the city by the plassenburg gate. the passwords are '_henry the lion_' at the outer gate and '_remember_' at the inner port. let the man be dressed in the habit of a countryman, and carry with him some wine and provend. follow him and report immediately." while the prince was speaking he had never taken his eyes off theresa von lynar, though he had appeared to be regarding alexis the deacon. theresa did not blanch. not a muscle of her face quivered. and within his muscovite heart, full of treachery as an egg of meat, prince ivan said, "she is no traitress, this dame; but a simpleton with all her beauty. the woman is speaking the truth." and theresa was speaking the truth. she had expected some such test and was prepared; but she only told the defenders' plans to one man; and as for the passwords, she had arranged with boris that at the earliest dawn they were to be changed and the forces redistributed. while these two waited for the return of alexis, the prince encouraged theresa to speak of her wrongs. he watched with approbation the sparkle of her eye as he spoke of joan of the sword hand. he noted how she shut down her lips when henry the lion was mentioned, how her voice shook as she recounted the cruel end of her kin. though at ordinary times most sober, the prince now added cup to cup, and like a muscovite he grew more bitter as the wine mounted to his head. he leaned forward and laid his hand upon his companion's white wrist. theresa quivered a little, but did not take it away. the prince was becoming confidential. "yes," he said, leaning towards her, "you have suffered great wrongs, and do well to hate with the hate that craves vengeance. but even you shall be satisfied. to-morrow and to-morrow's to-morrow you and i shall have out our hearts' desire upon our enemies. yes, for many days. sweet--sweet it shall be--sweet, and very slow; for i, too, have wrongs, as you shall hear." "truly, i did well to come to you!" said theresa, giving her hand willingly into his. he clasped her fingers and would have kissed her but for the table between. "you speak truth." he hissed the words bitterly. "indeed, you did better than well. i also have wrongs, and ivan of muscovy will show you a muscovite vengeance. "this prince conrad of theirs baulked me of my revenge and drove me from the city. him will i take and burn at the stake in his priest's robes, as if he were saying mass--or, better still, in the red of the cardinal's habit with his hat upon his head. and ere he dies he shall see his paramour carried to her funeral. for i will give you the life of the woman for whose sake he thwarted ivan of muscovy. if you will it, no hand but yours shall have the shedding of the blood of your house's enemy. is not this your vengeance already sweet in prospect?" "it is sweet indeed!" answered theresa. "your highness!" said the voice of alexis at the tent door, "am i permitted to speak?" "speak on!" cried ivan, without relaxing his clasp upon the hand of theresa von lynar. indeed, momentarily it became a grip. "the man went safely through at the plassenburg gate. the passwords were correct. the man who challenged spoke with a kernsberg accent!" the prince's grasp relaxed. "it is well," he said. "now go to the captains and tell them to be in their posts about the city according to the plan--the main assault to be delivered by the gate of the sea. at dawn i will be with you! go! above all, do not forget the passwords--first '_henry the lion!_' then '_remember!_'" alexis the deacon saluted and went. the prince rose and came about the table nearer to theresa von lynar. she drew her breath quickly and checked it as sharply with a kind of sob. her left hand went down to her side as naturally as a nun's to her rosary. but it was no rosary her fingers touched. the action steadied her, and she threw back her head and smiled up at her companion debonairly as though she had no care in the world. theresa repeated the passwords slowly and audibly. "'_henry the lion!_' '_remember!_' ah!" (she broke off with a laugh) "i am not likely to forget." ivan laid his hand on her shoulder, glad to see her so resolute. "all in good time," he said, sitting down on a stool at her feet and taking her hand--her right hand. the other he did not see. then he spoke confidentially. "one other revenge i have which i shall keep till the last. it shall be as sweet to me as yours to you. i shall draw it out lingeringly that i may drain all its sweetness. it concerns the upstart springald whom the princess margaret had the bad taste to prefer to me. not that i cared a jot for the princess. my taste is far other" (here he looked up tenderly); "but the princess i must wed, as maid or widow i care not. i take her provinces, not herself; and these must be mine by right of fief and succession as well as by right of conquest. the way is clear. that piece of carrion which men called by a prince's name was carried out a while ago. conrad the priest, who is a man, shall die like a man. and i, ivan, and holy russia shall enter in. by the right of margaret, sole heir of courtland, city and province shall be mine; kernsberg shall be mine; hohenstein shall be mine. then mayhap i will try a fall for plassenburg and the mark with the executioner's son and his little housewife. but sweeter than all shall be my revenge upon the man i hate--upon him who took his betrothed wife from ivan of muscovy." "ah," said theresa von lynar, "it will indeed be sweet! and what shall be your worthy and terrible revenge?" "i have thought of it long--i have turned it over, this and that have i thought--of the smearing with honey and the anthill, of trepanning and the worms on the brain--but i have fixed at last upon something that will make the ears of the world tingle----" he leaned forward and whispered into the ear of theresa von lynar the terrible death he had prepared for her only son. she nodded calmly as she listened, but a wonderful joy lit up the woman's face. "i am glad i came hither," she murmured, "it is worth it all." prince ivan took her hand in both of his and pressed it fondly. "and you shall be gladder yet," he said, "my lady theresa. i have something to say. i had not thought that there lived in the world any woman so like-minded, even as i knew not that there lived any woman so beautiful. together you and i might rule the world. shall it be together?" "but, prince ivan," she interposed quickly, but still smiling, "what is this? i thought you were set on wedding the princess margaret. you were to make her first widow and then wife." "theresa," he said, looking amorously up at her, "i marry for a kingdom. but i wed the woman who is my mate. it is our custom. i must give the left hand, it is true, but with it the heart, my theresa!" he was on his knees before her now, still clasping her fingers. "you consent?" he said, with triumph already in his tone. "i do not say you nay!" she answered, with a sigh. he kissed her hand and rose to his feet. he would have taken her in his arms, but a noise in the pavilion disturbed him. he went quickly to the curtain and peeped through. "it is nothing," he said, "only the men come to fetch the powder for the margraf's cannon. but the night speeds apace. in an hour we assault." with an eager look on his face he came nearer to her. "theresa," he said, "a soldier's wooing must needs be brisk and speedy. yours and mine yet swifter. our revenge beckons us on. do you abide here till i return--with those good friends whose names we have mentioned. but now, ere i go forth, pledge me but once your love. this is our true betrothal. say, 'i love you, ivan!' that i may keep it in my heart till my return!" again he would have taken her in his arms, but theresa turned quickly, finger on lip. she looked anxiously towards the back of the tent where lay the dead prince. "hush! i hear something!" she said. then she smiled upon him--a sudden radiance like sunshine through rain-clouds. "come with me--i am afraid of the dark!" she said, almost like a child. for great is the guile of woman when her all is at stake. theresa von lynar opened the latch of a horn lantern which dangled at a pole and took the taper in her left. she gave her right hand with a certain gesture of surrender to prince ivan. "come!" she said, and led him within the inner pavilion. a dim light sifted through the open flap by which the men had gone out with their load of powder. day was breaking and a broad crimson bar lay across the path of the yet unrisen sun. theresa and prince ivan stood beside the dead. he had been roughly thrown down on the pile of boxes which contained the powder manufactured by the margraf's alchemists according to the famous receipt of bertholdus schwartz. the lid of the largest chest stood open, as if the men were returning for yet another burden. "quick!" she said, "here in the presence of the dead, i will whisper it here, here and not elsewhere." she brought him close to her with the gentle compulsion of her hand till he stood in a little angle where the red light of the dawn shone on his dark handsome face. then she put an arm strong as a wrestler's about him, pinioning him where he stood. yet the gracious smile on the woman's lips held him acquiescent and content. she bent her head. [illustration: "'the password, prince--do not forget the password!'" [_page _]] "listen," she said, "this have i never done for any man before--no, not so much as this! and for you will i do much more. prince ivan, you speak true--death alone must part you and me. you ask me for a love pledge. i will give it. ivan of muscovy, you have plotted death and torture--the death of the innocent. listen! i am the wife of henry of kernsberg, the mother of the young man maurice von lynar whom you would slay by horrid devices. prince, truly you and i shall die together--and the time is _now_!" vehemently for his life struggled prince ivan, twisting like a serpent, and crying, "help! help! treachery! witch, let me go, or i will stab you where you stand." once his hand touched his dagger. but before he could draw it there came a sound of rushing feet. the forms of many men stumbled up out of the gleaming blood-red of the dawn. then theresa von lynar laughed aloud as she held him helpless in her grasp. "the password, prince--do not forget the password! you will need it to-night at both inner and outer guard! i, theresa, have not forgotten. it is '_henry the lion_! _remember!_'" and theresa dropped the naked candle she had been holding aloft into the great chest of dull black grains which stood open by her side. * * * * * and after that it mattered little that at the same moment beyond the alla the trumpets of hugo, prince of plassenburg, blew their first awakening blast. chapter liii the head of the church visible "so," said pope sixtus amicably, "your brother was killed by the great explosion of friar roger's powder in the camp of the enemy! truly, as i have often said, god is not with the greek church. they are schismatics if not plain heretics!" he was a little bored with this young man from the north, and began to remember the various distractions which were waiting for him in his own private wing of the vatican. still, the church needed such young war-gods as this prince conrad. there were signs, too, that in a little she might need them even more. the pope's mind travelled fast. he had a way of murmuring broken sentences to himself which to his intimates showed how far his thoughts had wandered. it was the vatican garden in the month of april. holy week was past, and the mind of the vicar of christ dwelt contentedly upon the great gifts and offerings which had flowed into his treasury. conrad could not have arrived more opportunely. beneath, the eye travelled over the hundred churches of rome and the red roofs of her palaces--to the tiber no longer tawny, but well-nigh as blue as the alla itself; then further still to the grey campagna and the blue alban hills. but the pope's eye was directed to something nearer at hand. in an elevated platform garden they sat in a bower sipping their after-dinner wine. beyond answering questions conrad said little. he was too greatly astonished. he had expected a saint, and he had found himself quietly talking politics and scandal with an italian prince. the holy father's face was placid. his lips moved. now and then a word or two escaped him. yet he seemed to be listening to something else. that which he looked at was an excavation over which thousands of men crawled, thick as ants about a mound when you thrust your stick among their piled pine-needles on isle rugen. already at more than one point massive walls began to rise. architects with parchment rolls in their hands went to and fro talking to overseers and foremen. these were clad in black coats reaching below the waist, which made inky blots on the white earth-glare and contrasted with the striped blouses of the overseers and the naked bodies and red loin-cloths of the workmen. conrad blessed his former sojourns in italy which enabled him to follow the fast-running river of the pontiff's half-unconscious meditation, which was couched not in crabbed monkish latin, but in the free italic to which as a boy the head of the church had been accustomed. "so your brother is dead!--(yes, yes, he told me so before.) and a blessing of god, too. i never liked my brothers. nephews and nieces are better, so be they are handsome. what, you have none? then you are the heir to the kingdom--you must marry--you must marry!" conrad suddenly flushed fiery red. "holy father," he said nervously, his eyes on the alban hills, "it was concerning this that i made pilgrimage to rome--that i might consult your holiness!" the pontiff nodded amicably and looked about him. at the far end of the garden, in a second creeper-enclosed arbour similar to that in which they sat, the pope's personal attendants congregated. these were mostly gay young men in parti-coloured raiment, who jested and laughed without much regard for appearances, or at all fearing the displeasure of the church's head. as conrad looked, one of them stood up and tossed over the wall a delicately folded missive, winged like a dart and tied with a ribbon of fluttering blue. then, the moment afterwards, from beneath came the sound of girlish laughter, whereat all the young men, save one, craned their necks over the wall and shouted jests down to the unseen ladies on the balcony below. all save one--and he, a tall stern-faced dark young man in a plain black soutane, walked up and down in the sun, with his eyes on the ground and his hands knotting themselves behind his back. the fingers were twisting nervously, and he pursed his lips in meditation. he did not waste even one contemptuous glance on the riotous crew in the arbour. "aha--you came to consult me about your marriage," chuckled the holy father. "well, what have you been doing? young blood--young blood! once i was young myself. but young blood must pay. i am your father confessor. now, proceed. (this may be useful--better, better, better!)" and with a wholly different air of interest, the pope poured himself a glass of the rich wine and leaned back, contemplating the young man now with a sort of paternal kindliness. the thought that he had certain peccadillos to confess was a relish to the rich sicilian vintage, and created, as it were, a common interest between them. for the first time pope sixtus felt thoroughly at ease with his guest. "i have, indeed, much to confess, holy father, much i could not pour into any ears but thine." "yes--yes--i am all attention," murmured the pontiff, his ears pricking and twitching with anticipation, and the famous likeness to a goat coming out in his face. "go on! go on, my son. confession is the breathing health of the soul! (if this young man can tell me aught i do not know--by peter, i will make him my private chaplain!)." then conrad summoned up all his courage and put his soul's sickness into the sentence which he had been conning all the way from the city of courtland. "my father," he said, very low, his head bent down, "i, who am a priest, have loved the lady joan, my brother's wife!" "ha," said sixtus, pursing his lips, "that is bad--very bad. (bones of saint anthony! i did not think he had the spirit!) penance must be done--yes, penance and payment! but hath the matter been secret? there has, i hope, been no open scandal; and of course it cannot continue now that your brother is dead. while he was alive all was well; but dead--oh, that is different! you have now no cloak for your sin! these open sores do the church much harm! i have always avoided such myself!" the young man listened with a swiftly lowering brow. "holy father," he said; "i think you mistake me. i spoke not of sin committed. the princess joan is pure as an angel, unstained by evil or the thought of it! she sits above the reach of scandalous tongues!" ("humph--what, then, is the man talking about? some cold northern snowdrift! strange, strange! i thought he had been a lad of spirit!") but aloud sixtus said, with a surprised accent, "then why do you come to me?" "sire, i am a priest, and even the thought of love is sin!" "tut-tut; you are a prince-cardinal. in rome at least that is a very different thing!" he turned half round in his seat and looked with a certain indulgent fondness upon the gay young men who were conducting a battle of flowers with the laughing girls beneath them. two of them had laid hold of another by the legs and were holding him over the trellised flowers that he might kiss a girl whom her companions were elevating from below for a like purpose. as their young lips met the pontiff slapped the purple silk on his thigh and laughed aloud. "ah, rascals, merry rascals!" (here he sighed). "what it is to be young! take an old man's advice, live while you are young. yes, live and leave penance, for old age is sufficient penance in itself. (tut--what am i saying? let his pocket do penance!) he who kissed was my nephew girolamo, ever the flower of the flock, my dear girolamo. i think you said, prince conrad, that you were a cardinal. well, most of these young men are cardinals (or will be, so soon as i can get the gold to set them up. they spend too much money, the rascals)." "these are cardinals? and priests?" queried conrad, vastly astonished. the holy father nodded and took another sip of the perfumed sicilian. "to be a cardinal is nothing," he said calmly. "it is a step--nothing more. the high road of advancement, the spirit of the time. when i have princedoms for them all, why, they must marry and settle--raise dynasties, found princely houses. so it shall be with you, son conrad. your brother was alive, prince of courtland, married to this fair lady (what was her name? yes, yes, joanna). you, a younger son, must be provided for, the church supported. therefore you received that which was the hereditary right of your family--the usual payments to holy church being made. you were archbishop, cardinal, prince of the church. in time you would have been elector of the empire and my assessor at the imperial diet. that was your course. what harm, then, that you should make love to your brother's wife? natural--perfectly natural. fortunate, indeed, that you had a brother so complaisant----" "sir," said conrad, half rising from his seat, "i have already had the honour of informing you----" "yes, yes, i forgot--pardon an old man. (ah, the rascal, would he? served him right! ha, ha, well smitten--a good girl!)" another had tried the trick of being held over the balcony, but this time the maiden below was coy, and, instead of a kiss, the youth had received only a sound smack on the cheek fairly struck with the palm of a willing hand. "yes, i remember. it was but a sin of the soul. (stupid fellow! stupid fellow! girolamo is a true delia rovere. he would not have been served so.) yes, a sin of the soul. and now you wish to marry? well, i will receive back your hat. i will annul your orders--the usual payments being made to holy church. i have so many expenses--my building, the decorations of my chapel, these young rascals--ah, little do you know the difficulties of a pope. but whom do you wish to marry? what, your brother's widow? ah, that is bad--why could you not be content----? pardon, your pardon, my mind is again wandering." "tsut--tsut--this is a sad business, a matter infinitely more difficult, forbidden by the church. what? they parted at the church door? a wench of spirit, i declare. i doubt not like that one who smote pietro just now. i wonder not at you, save at your moderation--that is, if you speak the truth." "i do speak the truth!" said conrad, with northern directness, beginning to flush again. "gently--gently," said sixtus; "there are many minutes in a year, many people go to make a world. i have never seen a man like you before. be patient, then, with me. i am giving you a great deal of my time. it will be difficult, this marriage--difficult, but not impossible. peter's coffers are very empty, my son." the pontiff paused to give conrad time to speak. "i will pay into the treasury of the holy father on the day of my marriage a hundred thousand ducats," said conrad, blushing deeply. it seemed like bribing god. the vicegerent of christ stretched out a smooth white hand, and his smile was almost as gracious as when he turned it upon his nephew girolamo. "spoken like a true prince," he cried, "a son of the church indeed. her works--the propagation of the faith, the holy office--these shall benefit by your generosity." he turned about again and beckoned to the tall young man in the black soutane. "guliano, come hither!" he cried, and as he came he explained in his low tones, "my nephew, between ourselves, a dull dog, but will be great. he choked a ruffian who attacked him on the street; so, one day, he will choke this italy between his hands. he will sit in this chair. ah, there is one thing that i am thankful for, and it is that i shall be dead when our julian is pope. i know not where i shall be--but anything were preferable to being in rome under julian--purgatory or----yes, my dear nephew, prince conrad of courtland! you are to go and prepare documents concerning this noble prince. i will instruct you as to their nature presently. await me in the hither library." the young man had been looking steadily at conrad while his uncle was speaking. it was a firm and manly look, but there was cruelty lurking in the curve of the upper lip. guliano della rovere looked more _condottiere_ than priest. nevertheless, without a word he bowed and retired. when he was gone the pope sat a moment absorbed in thought. "i will send him to courtland with you. (yes, yes, he is staunch and to be trusted with money.) he will marry you and bring back the--the--benefaction. your hand, my son. i am an old man and need help. may you be happy! live well and honour holy church. be not too nice. the commons like not a precisian. and, besides, you cannot live your youth over. girolamo! girolamo! where is that rascal? ah, there you are. i saw you kiss yonder pretty minx! shame, sir, shame! you shall do penance--i myself will prescribe it. what kept you so long when i called you? some fresh rascality, i will wager!" "no, my father," said girolamo readily. "i went to the dungeons of the holy office to see if they had finished off that ranting philosopher who stirred up the people yesterday!" "well, and have they?" asked the pontiff. "yes, the fellow has confessed that six thousand pieces are hidden under the hearthstone of his country house. so all is well ended. he is to be burned to-morrow." "good--good. so perish all jews, heretics, and enemies of holy church!" said pope sixtus piously. "and now i bid you adieu, son conrad! you set out to-morrow. the papers shall be ready. a hundred thousand ducats, i think you said--_and_ the fees for secularisation. these will amount to fifty thousand more. is it not so, my son?" conrad bowed assent. he thought it was well that courtland was rich and his brother louis a careful man. "good--good, my son. you are a true standard-bearer of the church. i will throw in a perpetual indulgence--with blanks which you may fill up. no, do not refuse! you think that you will never want it, because you do not want it now. but you may--you may!" he stretched out his hand. the blessed ring of saint peter shone upon it. conrad fell on his knees. "_pater domini nostri jesu christi benedicat te in omni benedictione spirituali. amen!_" epilogue of explication it was the morning of a white day. the princely banner flew from every tower in castle kernsberg, for that day it was to lose a duchess and gain a duke. it was joan's second wedding-day--the day of her first marriage. never had the little hill town seen so brave a gathering since the northern princes laid henry the lion in his grave. in the great vault where he slept there was a new tomb, a plain marble slab with the inscription-- "theresa, wife of henry, duke of kernsberg and hohenstein." and underneath, and in latin, the words-- "after the tempest, peace!" for strangely enough, by the wonder of providence or some freak of the exploding powder, they had found theresa fallen where she had stood, blackened indeed but scarce marred in face or figure. so from that burnt-out hell they had brought her here that at the last she might rest near the man whom her soul loved. and as they moved away and left her, little johannes rode, the scholar, murmured the words, "_post tempestatem, tranquillitas!_" prince conrad heard him, and he it was who had them engraven on her tomb. but on this morning of gladness only joan thought of the dead woman. "to-day i will do the thing she wished," the duchess thought, as she looked from the window towards her father's tomb. "she would take nothing for herself, yet shall her son sit in my place and rule where his father ruled. i am glad!" here she blushed. "yet, why should i vaunt? it is no sacrifice, for i shall be--what i would rather a thousand times be. small thanks, then, that i give up freely what is worth nothing to me now!" and with the arm that had wielded a sword so often and so valiantly, joan the bride went on arraying her hair and making her beautiful for the eyes of her lord. "my lord!" she said, and again with a different accent. "_my_ lord!" and when these her living eyes met those others in the venice mirror, lo! either pair was smiling a new smile. * * * * * meantime, beneath in her chamber, the princess margaret was making her husband's life a burden to him, or rather, first quarrelling with him and the next moment throwing her arms about his neck in a passion of remorse. for that is the wont of dainty princess margarets who are sick and know not yet what aileth them. "maurice," she was saying, "is it not enough to make me throw me over the battlements that they should all forsake me, on this day of all others, when you are to be made a duke in the presence of the pope's legate and the emperor's _alter_--what is it?--_alter ego?_ what a silly word! and you might have told it to me prettily and without laughing at me. yes, you did, and you also are in league against me. and i will not go to the wedding; no, not if joan were to beg of me on my knees! i will not have any of these minxes in to do my hair. nay, do not you touch it. i am nobody, it seems, and joan everything. joan--joan! it is joan this and joan that! tush, i am sick of your joans. "she gives up the duchy to us--well, that is no great gift. she is getting courtland for it, and my brother. even he will not love me any more. conrad is like the rest. he eats, drinks, sleeps, wakes, talks joan. he is silent, and thinks joan. so, i believe, do you. you are only sorry that she did not love you best! "well, if you _are_ her brother, i do not care. who was speaking about marrying her? and, at any rate, you did not know she was your sister. you might very well have loved her. and i believe you did. you do not love me, at all events. _that_ i do know! "no, i will not 'hush,' nor will i come upon your knee and be petted. i am not a baby! '_what is the matter betwixt me and the maidens?_' if you had let me explain i would have told you long ago. but i never get speaking a word. i am not crying, and i shall cry if i choose. oh yes, i will tell you, duke maurice, if you care to hear, why i am angry with the maids. well, then, first it was that anna pappenheim. she tugged my hair out by the roots in handfuls, and when i scolded her i saw there were tears in her eyes. i asked her why, and for long she would not tell me. then all at once she acknowledged that she had promised to marry that great overgrown chimney-pot, captain boris, and must hie her to plassenburg, if i pleased. i did not please, and when i said that surely marthe was not so foolish thus to throw herself away, the wretched marthe came bawling and wringing hands, and owned that she was in like case with jorian. "so i sent them out very quickly, being justly angry that they should thus desert me. and i called for thora of bornholm, and began easing my mind concerning their ingratitude, when the swede said calmly, 'i fear me, madam, i am not able to find any fault with anna and martha. for i am even as they, or worse. i have been married for over six months.' "'and to whom?' i cried; 'tell me, and he shall hang as surely as i am a princess of courtland.' for i was somewhat disturbed. "'to-day your highness is duchess of kernsberg,' said the minx, as calmly as if at sacrament. 'my husband's name is johannes rode!' "and when i have told you, instead of being sorry for me, you do nothing but laugh. i will indeed fling me over the window!" and the fiery little princess ran to the window and pretended to cast herself headlong. but her husband did not move. he stood leaning against the mantelshelf and smiling at her quietly and lovingly. hearing no rush of anxious feet, and finding no restraining arm cast about her, margaret turned, and with fresh fire in her gesture stamped her foot at maurice. "that just proves it! little do you care whether or no i kill myself. you wish i would, so that you might marry somebody else. you dare not deny it!" maurice knew better than to deny it, nor did he move till the princess cast herself down on the coverlet and sobbed her heart out, with her face on the pillow and her hair spraying in linked tendrils about her white neck and shoulders. then he went gently to her and laid his hand on her head, regardless of the petulant shrug of her shoulders as he touched her. he gathered her up and sat down with her in his arms. "little one," he said, "i want you to be good. this is a great and a glad day. to-day my sister finds the happiness that you and i have found. to-day i am to sit in my father's seat and to have henceforth my own name among men. you must help me. will you, little one? for this once let me be your tire-woman. i have often done my own tiring when, in old days, i dared death in women's garments for your sweet sake. dearest, do not hurt my heart any more, but help me." his wife smiled suddenly through her tears, and cast her arms about his neck. "oh, i am bad--bad--bad," she cried vehemently. "it were no wonder if you did not love me. but do keep loving me. i should die else. i will be better--i will--i will! i do not know why i should be so bad. sometimes i think i cannot help it." but maurice kissed her and smiled as if he knew. "we will live like plain and honest country folk, you and i," he said. "let anna and martha follow their war-captains. thora at least will remain with us, and we will make johannes rode our almoner and court poet. now smile at me, little one! ah, that is better." in margaret's april eyes the sun shone out again, and she clung lovingly to her husband a long moment before she would let him go. then she thrust him a little away from her, that she might see his face, as she asked the question of all loving and tempestuous princess margarets, "are you sure you love me just the same, even when i am naughty?" maurice was sure. and taking his face between her hands in a fierce little clutch, she asked a further assurance. "are you quite, quite sure?" she said. and maurice was quite, quite sure. * * * * * not in a vast and solemn cathedral was joan married, but in the old church of kernsberg, which had so often raised the protest of the church against the exactions of her ancestors. the bridal escort was of her own tried soldiery, now to be hers no more, and all of them a little sad for that. hugo and helene of plassenburg had come--hugo because he was the representative of the emperor, and helene because she was a sweet and loving woman who delighted to rejoice in another's joy. with these also arrived, and with these was to depart, the dark-faced stern young cardinal of san pietro in vincoli. he must have good escort, he said, for he carried many precious relics and tokens of the affection of the faithful for the church's head. the simple priesthood of kernsberg shrank from his fiery glances, and were glad when he was gone. but, save at the hour of bridal itself, he spent all his time with the treasurer of the princedom of courtland. when at last they came down the aisle together, and the sweet-voiced choristers sang, and the white-robed maidens scattered flowers for their feet to walk upon, the bride found opportunity to whisper to her husband, "i fear me i shall never be joan of the sword hand any more!" he smiled back at her as they came out upon the tears and laughter and acclaim of the many-coloured throng that filled the little square. "be never afraid, beloved," he said, and his eyes were very glad and proud, "only be joan to me, and i will be your sword hand!" the end the gresham press, unwin brothers, woking and london. novels by guy boothby. _special & original designs._ each volume attractively illustrated by stanley l. wood and others. _crown vo, cloth gilt, trimmed edges, s._ mr. rudyard kipling says: "mr. guy boothby has come to great honours now. his name is large upon hoardings, his books sell like hot cakes, and he keeps a level head through it all. i've met him several times in england, and he added to my already large respect for him." a maker of nations. the red rat's daughter. love made manifest. pharos, the egyptian. across the world for a wife. the lust of hate. bushigrams. the fascination of the king. dr. nikola. the beautiful white devil. a bid for fortune; or, dr. nikola's vendetta. in strange company: a story of chili and the southern seas. the marriage of esther: a torres straits sketch. new complete library edition .. of .. g.j. whyte-melville's novels. complete in about volumes. _large crown vo, cloth gilt, s. d. each._ each volume is well printed from type specially cast, on best antique paper, illustrated by front-rank artists, and handsomely bound. =katerfelto.= illustrated by lucy e. kemp-welch =cerise.= illustrated by g.p. jacomb-hood =sarchedon.= illustrated by s.e. waller =songs and verses= and =the true cross=. illustrated by s.e. waller =market harborough=, and =inside the bar=. illustrated by john charlton =black but comely.= illustrated by s.e. waller =roy's wife.= illustrated by g.p. jacomb-hood =rosine=, and =sister louise=. illustrated by g.p. jacomb-hood =kate coventry.= illustrated by lucy e. kemp-welch =the gladiators.= illustrated by j. ambrose walton =riding recollections.= illustrated by john charlton =the brookes of bridlemere.= illustrated by s.e. waller =satanella.= illustrated by lucy e. kemp-welch =holmby house.= illustrated by lucy e. kemp-welch =the white rose.= illustrated by s.e. waller =tilbury nogo.= illustrated by stanley l. wood =uncle john.= illustrated by s.e. waller novels by joseph hocking. _crown vo, cloth gilt, s. d. each._ (each volume uniform.) though mr. joseph hocking's novels have been (by the _spectator_) compared to mr. ng-gould's and (by the _star_) to mr. thomas hardy's--next to whom it placed him as a writer of country life--and by other journals to mr. hall caine's and mr. robert buchanan's, they are, one and all, stamped with striking and original individuality. bold in conception, pure in tone, strenuously high and earnest in purpose, daring in thought, picturesque and life-like in description, worked out with singular power and in nervous and vigorous language, it is not to be wondered at that mr. hocking's novels are eagerly awaited by a large and ever increasing public. =the purple robe.= illustrated by j. barnard davis. =weapons of mystery.= with frontispiece and vignette. =fields of fair renown.= with frontispiece and vignette by j. barnard davis. =all men are liars.= with frontispiece and vignette by gordon browne. =ishmael pengelly: an outcast.= with frontispiece and vignette by w. s. stacey. =the story of andrew fairfax.= with frontispiece and vignette by geo. hutchinson. =jabez easterbrook.= with frontispiece and vignette by stanley l. wood. =zillah.= with frontispiece by powell chase. =the monk of mar-saba.= with frontispiece and vignette by w. s. stacey. =recent novels.= =lady barbarity.= by j. c. snaith, author of "mistress dorothy marvin," "fierceheart, the soldier," &c. illustrated by w. d. almond. crown vo, cloth gilt, s. 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"humdrum is the very last word you could apply to (a tale by) e. p. oppenheim."--_illustrated london news._ =a man of his age.= by hamilton drummond, author of "for the religion." illustrated by j. ambrose walton. crown vo, cloth gilt, s. d. this is a tale of the hugenôts, and is told with such dramatic power and such intense personal interest that the reader identifies himself or herself with the hero or heroine throughout. =a fair brigand.= by george horton, author of "constantine," "in unknown seas," &c., &c. illustrated by edmund j. sullivan. crown vo, cloth gilt, s. d. the scene of this tale is laid in modern greece, and is a funny, frolicsome story that will amuse every one, and likely take a lasting place in the reader's mind. =agatha webb.= by a. k. green, author of "the leavenworth case," "x. y. z.," &c. illustrated by adolf thiede. crown vo, cloth gilt, s. d. readers of "the leavenworth case" need not be told that a. k. green can write a detective story with consummate ability, and the present story is in many ways her masterpiece. =the eye of fate.= by alice maud meadows, author of "out from the night." illustrated by t. w. henry. crown vo, cloth gilt, s. d. "a weird and exciting story, very well written, the characters faithfully described, the interest vividly sustained from beginning to end."--_the queen._ =paul: a herald of the cross.= by florence m. kingsley, author of "titus," "stephen," &c. illustrated by henry austin. crown vo, cloth gilt, s. d. "a book not to be missed. in a word ... a triumph. it is rare to meet a book so contenting in all its features."--_literary world._ you cannot beat the best. the windsor magazine .. always contains the .. best work by the .. best authors .. and best artists. it has eclipsed every other sixpenny magazine, and has achieved the most brilliant success of the day. * * * * * =holds the record= for giving the best serial story of the year. =holds the record= for giving splendid exclusive articles by recognised specialists. =holds the record= for being the most varied, the most entertaining, and the most instructive of magazines. * * * * * the "times" calls it "wonderful." london: ward, lock & co., ltd. * * * * * transcriber's notes: obvious errors in spelling and punctuation have been corrected. variant spellings have been left in place. the mystery of the ravenspurs a romance and detective story of thibet and england. by fred m. white, author of "the crimson blind," "the corner house," etc. illustrations and cover design by andre ch. de takacs. new york: j. s. ogilvie publishing company, rose street. copyright , by j. s. ogilvie publishing company. [illustration: and inside that dark circle there came a face, a dark eastern face, with awful eyes, filled with agony and rage and pain. --page .] the mystery of the ravenspurs chapter i the shadow of a fear a grand old castle looks out across the north sea, and fishermen toiling on the deep catch the red flash from ravenspur point, as their forefathers have done for many generations. the ravenspurs and their great granite fortress have made history between them. every quadrangle and watch-tower and turret has its legend of brave deeds and bloody deeds, of fights for the king and the glory of the flag. and for five hundred years there has been no ravenspur who has not acquitted himself like a man. theirs is a record to be proud of. time has dealt lightly with the home of the ravenspurs. it is probably the most perfect mediæval castle in the country. the moat and the drawbridge are still intact; the portcullis might be worked by a child. and landwards the castle looks over a fair domain of broad acres where the orchards bloom and flourish and the red beeves wax fat in the pastures. a quiet family, a handsome family, a family passing rich in the world's goods, they are strong and brave--a glorious chronicle behind them and no carking cares ahead. surely, then, the ravenspurs should be happy and contented beyond most men. excepting the beat of the wings of the angel of death, that comes to all sooner or later, surely no sorrow dwelt there that the hand of time could fail to soothe. and yet over them hung the shadow of a fear. no ravenspur had ever slunk away from any danger, however great, so long as it was tangible; but there was something here that turned the stoutest heart to water, and caused strong men to start at their own shadows. for five years now the curse had lain heavy on the house of ravenspur. it had come down upon them without warning; at first in the guise of a series of accidents and misfortunes, until gradually it became evident that some cunning and remorseless enemy was bent upon exterminating the ravenspurs root and branch. there had been no warning given, but one by one the ravenspurs died mysteriously, horribly, until at last no more than seven of the family remained. the north-country shuddered in speaking of the ill-starred family. the story had found its way into print. scotland yard had taken the case in hand; but still the hapless ravenspurs died, mysteriously murdered, and even some of those who survived had tales to unfold of marvelous escapes from destruction. the fear grew on them like a hunting madness. from first to last not one single clue, however small, had the murderers left behind. family archives were ransacked and personal histories explored with a view to finding some forgotten enemy who had originated this vengeance. but the ravenspurs had ever been generous and kind, honorable to men and true to women, and none could lay a finger on the blot. in the whole history of crime no such weird story had ever been told before. why should this blow fall after the lapse of all these years? what could the mysterious foe hope to gain by this merciless slaughter? and to struggle against the unseen enemy was in vain. as the maddening terror deepened, the most extraordinary precautions were taken to baffle the assassin. eighteen months ago the word had gone out for the gathering of the family at the castle. they had come without followers or retainers of any kind; every servant had been housed outside the castle at nightfall, and the grim old fortress had been placed in a state of siege. they waited upon themselves, they superintended the cooking of their own food, no strange feet crossed the drawbridge. when the portcullis was raised, the most ingenious burglar would have failed to find entrance. at last the foe was baffled; at last the family was safe. there were no secret passages, no means of entry; and here salvation lay. alas for fond hopes! within the last year and a half three of the family had perished in the same strange and horrible fashion. there was richard ravenspur, a younger son of rupert, the head of the house, with his wife and boy. richard ravenspur had been found dead in his bed, poisoned by some lemonade; his wife had walked into the moat in the darkness; the boy had fallen from one of the towers into a stone quadrangle and been instantly killed. the thing was dreadful, inexplicable to a degree. the enemy who was doing this thing was in the midst of them. and yet no stranger passed those iron gates; none but ravenspurs dwelt within the walls. eye looked into eye and fell again, ashamed that the other should know the suspicions racking each poor distracted brain. and there were only seven of them now--seven pallid, hollow-cheeked wretches, almost longing for the death they dreaded. there was rupert ravenspur, the head of the family, a fine, handsome, white-headed man, who had distinguished himself in the crimea and the indian mutiny. there was his son gordon who some day might succeed him; there was gordon's wife and his daughter vera. then there was geoffrey ravenspur, the orphan son of one jasper ravenspur, who had fallen under the scourge two years before. and also there was marion ravenspur, the orphan daughter of charles ravenspur, another son who had died in india five years before of cholera. mrs. charles was there, the child of an indian prince, and from her marion had inherited the dark beauty and soft glorious eyes that made her beloved of the whole family. a strange tale surely, a hideous nightmare, and yet so painfully realistic. one by one they were being cut off by the malignant destroyer, and ere long the family would be extinct. it seemed impossible to fight against the desolation that always struck in the darkness, and never struck in vain. rupert ravenspur looked out from the leads above the castle to the open sea, and from thence to the trim lawns and flower beds away to the park, where the deer stood knee-deep in the bracken. it was a fair and perfect picture of a noble english homestead, far enough removed apparently from crime and violence. and yet! a deep sigh burst from the old man's breast; his lips quivered. the shadow of that awful fear was in his eyes. not that he feared for himself, for the snows of seventy years lay upon his head, and his life's work was done. it was others he was thinking of. the bright bars of the setting sun shone on a young and graceful couple below coming towards the moat. a tender light filled old ravenspur's eyes. then he started as a gay laugh reached his ears. the sound caught him almost like a blow. where had he heard a laugh like that before? it seemed strangely out of place. and yet those two were young, and they loved one another. under happier auspices, geoffrey ravenspur would some day come into the wide acres and noble revenues, and take his cousin vera to wife. "may god spare them!" ravenspur cried aloud. "surely the curse must burn itself out some time, or the truth must come to light. if i could only live to know that they were happy!" the words were a fervent prayer. the dying sun that turned the towers and turrets of the castle to a golden glory fell on his white, quivering face. it lit up the agony of the strong man with despair upon him. he turned as a hand lay light as thistledown on his arm. "amen with all my heart, dear grandfather," a gentle voice murmured. "i could not help hearing what you said." ravenspur smiled mournfully. he looked down into a pure young face, gentle and placid, like that of a madonna, and yet full of strength. the dark brown eyes were so clear that the white soul seemed to gleam behind them. there was hindoo blood in marion ravenspur's veins, but she bore no trace of the fact. and, out of the seven surviving members of that ill-fated race, marion was the most beloved. all relied upon her, all trusted her. in the blackest hour her courage never faltered; she never bowed before the unseen terror. ravenspur turned upon her almost fiercely. "we must save vera and geoffrey," he said. "they must be preserved. the rest of us are as nothing by comparison. the whole future of our race lies with those two young people. watch over them, marion; shield vera from every harm. i know that she loves you. swear that you will protect her from every evil!" "there is no occasion to swear anything," marion said, in her clear, sweet voice. "dear, don't you know that i am devoted heart and soul to your interests? when my parents died, and i elected to come here in preference to returning to my mother's people, you received me with open arms. do you suppose that i could ever forget the love and affection that have been poured upon me? if i can save vera she is already saved. but why do you speak like this to-day?" ravenspur gave a quick glance around him. "because my time has come," he whispered hoarsely. "keep this to yourself, marion, for i have told nobody but you. the black assassin is upon me. i wake at nights with fearful pains at my heart--i cannot breathe. i have to fight for my life, as my brother charles fought for his two years ago. to-morrow morning i may be found dead in my bed--as charles was. then there will be an inquest, and the doctors will be puzzled, as they were before." "grandfather! you are not afraid?" "afraid! i am glad--glad, i tell you. i am old and careworn, and the suspense is gradually sapping my senses. better death, swift and terrible, than that. but not a word of this to the rest, as you love me!" chapter ii the wanderer returns the hour was growing late, and the family were dining in the great hall. rupert ravenspur sat at the head of the table, with gordon's wife opposite him. the lovers sat smiling and happy side by side. across the table marion beamed gently upon the company. nothing ever seemed to eclipse her quiet gaiety; she was the life and soul of the party. there was something angelic about the girl as she sat there clad in soft diaphanous white. lamps gleamed on the fair damask, on the feathery daintiness of flowers, and on the lush purple and gold and russet of grapes and peaches. from the walls long lines of bygone ravenspurs looked down--fair women in hoops and farthingale, men in armor. there was a flash of color from the painted roof. presently the soft-footed servants would quit the castle for the night, for under the new order of things nobody slept in the castle excepting the family. also, it was the solemn duty of each servitor to taste every dish as it came to table. a strange precaution, but necessary in the circumstances. for the moment the haunting terror was forgotten. wines red and white gleamed and sparkled in crystal glasses. rupert ravenspur's worn, white face relaxed. they were a doomed race and they knew it; yet laughter was there, a little saddened, but eyes brightened as they looked from one to another. by and by the servants began to withdraw. the cloth was drawn in the old-fashioned way, a long row of decanters stood before the head of the house and was reflected in the shining, brown pool of mahogany. big log fires danced and glowed from the deep ingle nooks; from outside came the sense of the silence. an aged butler stood before ravenspur with a key on a salver. "i fancy that is all, sir," he said. ravenspur rose and made his way along the corridor to the outer doorway. here he counted the whole of the domestic staff, carefully passed the drawbridge and then the portcullis was raised. ravenspur castle and its inhabitants were cut off from the outer world. nobody could molest them till morning. and yet the curl of a bitter smile was on ravenspur's face as he returned to the dining-hall. even in the face of these precautions two of the garrison had gone down before the unseen hand of the assassin. there was some comfort in the reflection that the outer world was barred off, but it was futile, childish, in vain. the young people, with mrs. charles, had risen from the table and had gathered on the pile of skins and cushions in one of the ingle nooks. gordon ravenspur was sipping his claret and holding a cigar with a hand that trembled. hardy man as he was, the shadow lay upon him also; indeed, it lay upon them all. if the black death failed to strike, then madness would come creeping in its track. thus it was that evening generally found the family all together. there was something soothing in the presence of numbers. they were talking quietly, almost in whispers. occasionally a laugh would break from vera, only to be suppressed with a smile of apology. ravenspur looked fondly into the blue eyes of the dainty little beauty whom they all loved so dearly. "i hope i didn't offend you, grandfather," she said. in that big hall voices sounded strained and loud. ravenspur smiled. "nothing you could do would offend me," he said. "it may be possible that a kindly providence will permit me to hear the old roof ringing with laughter again. it may be, perhaps, that that is reserved for strangers when we are all gone." "only seven left," gordon murmured. "eight, father," vera suggested. she looked up from the lounge on the floor with the flicker of the wood fire in her violet eyes. "do you know i had a strange dream last night. i dreamt that uncle ralph came home again. he had a great black bundle in his arms, and when the bundle burst open it filled the hall with a gleaming light, and in the center of that light was the clue to the mystery." ravenspur's face clouded. nobody but vera would have dared to allude to his son ralph in his presence. for over ralph ravenspur hung the shadow of disgrace--a disgrace he had tried to shift on to the shoulders of his dead brother charles, marion's father. of that dark business none knew the truth but the head of the family. for twenty years he had never mentioned his erring son's name. "it is to be hoped that ralph is dead," he said harshly. a somber light gleamed in his eyes. vera glanced at him half timidly. but she knew how deeply her grandfather loved her, and this gave her courage to proceed. "i don't like to hear you talk like that," she said. "it is no time to be harsh or hard on anybody. i don't know what he did, but i have always been sorry for uncle ralph. and something tells me he is coming home again. grandfather, you would not turn him away?" "if he were ill, if he were dying, if he suffered from some grave physical affliction, perhaps not. otherwise----" ravenspur ceased to talk. the brooding look was still in his eyes; his white head was bent low on his breast. marion's white fingers touched his hand caressingly. the deepest bond of sympathy existed between these two. and at the smile in marion's eye ravenspur's face cleared. "you would do all that is good and kind," marion said. "you cannot deceive me: oh, i know you too well for that. and if uncle ralph came now!" marion paused, and the whole group looked one to the other with startled eyes. with nerves strung tightly like theirs, the slightest deviation from the established order of things was followed by a feeling of dread and alarm. and now, on the heavy silence of the night, the great bell gave clamorous and brazen tongue. ravenspur started to his feet. "strange that anyone should come at this time of night," he said. "no, gordon, i will go. there can be no danger, for this is tangible." he passed along the halls and passages till he came to the outer oak. he let down the portcullis. "come into the light," he cried, "and let me see who you are." a halting, shuffling step advanced, and presently the gleam of the hall lantern shone down upon the face of a man whose features were strangely seamed and scarred. it seemed as if the whole of his visage had been scored and carved in criss-cross lines until not one inch of uncontaminated flesh remained. his eyes were closed; he came forward with fumbling, outstretched hands as if searching for some familiar object. the features were expressionless, but this might have been the result of those cruel scars. but the whole aspect of the man spoke of dogged, almost pathetic, determination. "you look strange and yet familiar to me," said ravenspur. "who are you and whence do you come?" "i know you," the stranger replied in a strangled whisper. "i could recognize your voice anywhere. you are my father." "and you are ralph, ralph, come back again!" there was horror, indignation, surprise in the cry. the words rang loud and clear, so loud and clear that they reached the dining-hall and brought the rest of the party hurrying out into the hall. vera came forward with swift, elastic stride. with a glance of shuddering pity at the scarred face she laid a hand on ravenspur's arm. "my dream," she whispered. "it may be the hand of god. oh, let him stay!" "there is no place here for ralph ravenspur," the old man cried. the outcast still fumbled his way forward. a sudden light of intelligence flashed over gordon as he looked curiously at his brother. "i think, sir," he said, "that my brother is suffering from some great affliction. ralph, what is it? why do you feel for things in that way?" "i must," the wanderer replied. "i know every inch of the castle. i could find my way in the darkest night over every nook and corner. father, i have come back to you. i was only to come back to you if i were in sore need or if i was deeply afflicted. look at me! does my face tell you nothing?" "your face is--is dreadful. and, as for your eyes, i cannot see them." "you cannot see them," ralph said in that dreadful, thrilling, strangled whisper, "because i have no sight; because i am blind." without a word ravenspur caught his unhappy son by the hand and led him to the dining-hall, the family following in awed silence. chapter iii the cry in the night the close clutch of the silence lay over the castle like the restless horror that it was. the caressing drowsiness of healthy slumber was never for the hapless ravenspurs now. they clung round the ingle nook till the last moment; they parted with a sigh and a shudder, knowing that the morrow might find one face missing, one voice silenced for ever. marion alone was really cheerful; her smiling face, her gentle courage were as the cool breath of the north wind to the others. but for her, they would have gone mad with the haunting horror long since. she was one of the last to go. she still sat pensive in the ingle, her hands clasped behind her head, her eyes gazing with fascinated astonishment at ralph ravenspur. in some strange, half-defined fashion it seemed to her that she had seen a face scarred and barred like that before. and in the same vague way the face reminded her of her native india. it was a strong face, despite the blight that suffering had laid upon it. the lips were firm and straight, the sightless eyes seemed to be seeking for something, hunting as a blind wolf might have done. the long, slim, damp fingers twitched convulsively; feeling upwards and around as if in search of something. marion shuddered as she imagined those hooks of steel pressed about her throat, choking the life out of her. "where are you going to sleep?" ravenspur asked abruptly. "in my old room," ralph replied. "nobody need trouble about me. i can find my way about the castle as well as if i had my eyes. after all i have endured, a blanket on the floor will be a couch of down." "you are not afraid of the family terror?" ralph laughed. he laughed hard down in his throat, chuckling horribly. "i am afraid of nothing," he said; "if you only knew what i know you would not wish to live. i tell you i would sit and see my right arm burnt off with slow fire if i could wipe out the things i have seen in the last five years! i heard of the family fetish at bombay, and that was why i came home. i prefer a slumbering hell to a roaring one." he spoke as if half to himself. his words were enigmas to the interested listeners; yet, wild as they seemed, they were cool and collected. "some day you shall tell us your adventures," ravenspur said not unkindly, "how you lost your sight, and whence came those strange disfigurements." "that you will never know," ralph replied. "ah, there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our narrow and specious philosophy. there are some things it is impossible to speak of, and my trouble is one of them. only to one man could i mention it, and whether he is alive or dead i do not know." marion rose. the strangely uttered words made her feel slightly hysterical. she bent over ravenspur and kissed him fondly. moved by a strong impulse of pity, she would have done the same by her uncle ralph, but that he seemed to divine her presence and her intention. the long, slim hands went up. "you must not kiss me, my child," he said. "i am not fit to be touched by pure lips like yours. good-night." marion turned away, chilled and disappointed. she wondered why ralph spoke like that, why he shuddered at her approach as if she had been an unclean thing. but in that house of singular happenings one strange matter more or less was nothing. "the light of my eyes," ravenspur murmured. "after vera, the creature i love best on earth. what should we do without her?" "what, indeed?" ralph said quietly. "i cannot see, but i can feel what she is to all of you. good-night, father, and thank you." ravenspur strode off with a not unkindly nod. as a matter of fact, he was more moved by the return of the wanderer and his evident sufferings and misfortunes than he cared to confess. he brooded over these strange things till at length he lapsed into troubled and uneasy slumber. the intense gripping silence deepened. ralph ravenspur still sat in the ingle with his face bent upon the glowing logs as if he could see, and as if he was seeking for some inspiration in the sparkling crocus flame. then without making the slightest noise, he crept across the hall, feeling his way along with his finger-tips to the landing above. he had made no idle boast. he knew every inch of the castle. like a cat he crept to his own room, and there, merely discarding his coat and boots, he took a blanket from the bed. into the corridor he stepped and then, lying down under the hangings of cordova leather, wrapped himself up cocoon fashion in his blanket and dropped into a sound sleep. the mournful silence brooded, the rats scratched behind the oaken paneled walls. then out of the throat of the darkness came a stifled cry. it was the fighting rattle made by the strong man suddenly deprived of the power to breathe. again it came, and this time more loudly, with a ring of despair in it. in the dead silence it seemed to fill the whole house, but the walls were thick, and beyond the corridor there was no cognizance of anything being in the least wrong. but the man in the blanket against the arras heard it and struggled to his feet. a long period of vivid personal danger had sharpened his senses. his knowledge of woodcraft enabled him to locate the cry to a yard. "my father," he whispered; "i am only just in time." he felt his way rapidly, yet noiselessly, along the few feet between his resting-place and ravenspur's room. imminent as the peril was, he yet paused to push his blanket out of sight. as he came to the door of ravenspur's room the cry rose higher. he stooped and then his fingers touched something warm. "marion," he said; "i can catch the subtle fragrance of your hair." the girl swallowed a scream. she was trembling from head to foot with fear and excitement. it was dark, the cry from within was despairing, the intense horror of it was dreadful. "yes, yes," she whispered hoarsely. "i was lying awake and i heard it. and that good old man told me to-day that his time was coming. i--i was going to rouse the house. the door is locked." "do nothing of the sort. stand aside." the voice was low but commanding. marion obeyed mechanically. with great strength and determination ralph flung himself against the door. at the second assault the rusty iron bolt gave and the door flew open. inside, ravenspur lay on his bed. by his bedside a nightlight cast a feeble pallid ray. there was nobody in the room besides ravenspur himself. he lay back absolutely rigid, a yellow hue was over his face like a painted mask, his eyes were wide open, his lips twitched convulsively. evidently he was in some kind of cataleptic fit and his senses had not deserted him. he was powerless to move and made no attempt to do so. the man was choking to death and yet his limbs were rigid. a sickly sweet odor filled the room and caused ralph to double up and gasp for breath. it was as if the whole atmosphere was drenched with a fine spray of chloroform. marion stood in the doorway like a fascinated white statue of fear and despair. "what is it?" she whispered. "what is that choking smell?" ralph made no reply; he was holding his breath hard. there was a queer grinning smile on his face as he turned toward the window. the fumbling clutching long hands rested for a moment on ravenspur's forehead, and the next moment there was a sound of smashing glass, as with his naked fists ralph beat in the lozenge-shaped windows. a quick cool draught of air rushed through the room, and the figure on the bed ceased to struggle. "come in," said ralph. "there is no danger now." marion entered. she was trembling from head to foot; her face was like death. "what is it, what is it?" she cried. "uncle ralph, do you know what it is?" "that is a mystery," ralph replied. "there is some fiend at work here. i only guessed that the sickly odor was the cause of the mischief. you are better, sir?" ravenspur was sitting up in bed. the color had come back to his lips; he no longer struggled to breathe. "i am all right," he said. his eyes beamed affectionately on marion. "ever ready and ever quick, child, you saved my life from that nameless horror." "it was uncle ralph," said marion. "i heard your cry, but uncle ralph was here as soon as i was. and it was a happy idea of his to break the window." "it was that overpowering drug," said ravenspur. "what it is and where it came from must always remain a mystery. this is a new horror to haunt me--and yet there were others who died in their beds mysteriously. i awoke to find myself choking; i was stifled by that sweet-smelling stuff; i could feel that my heart was growing weaker. but go, my child; you will catch your death of cold. go to bed." with an unsteady smile marion disappeared. as she closed the door behind her, ravenspur turned and grasped his son's wrist fiercely. "do you know anything of this?" he demanded. "you are blind, helpless; yet you were on the spot instantly. do you know anything of this, i say?" ralph shook his head. "it was good luck," he said. "and how should i know anything? ah, a blind man is but a poor detective." yet as ralph passed to his strange quarters, there was a queer look on his face. the long lean claws were crooked as if they were fastened about the neck of some enemy, some foe to the death. "the hem of the mystery," he muttered. "patience and prudence, and the day shall come when i shall have it by the throat, and such a lovely throat, too!" chapter iv brant street there was nothing about the house to distinguish it from its stolid and respectable neighbors. it had a dingy face, woodwork painted a dark red with the traditional brass knocker and bell-pull. the windows were hung with curtains of the ordinary type, the venetian blinds were half down, which in itself is a sign of middle-class respectability. in the center of the red door was a small brass plate bearing the name of dr. sergius tchigorsky. not that dr. tchigorsky was a medical practitioner in the ordinary sense of the word. no neatly appointed "pillbox" ever stood before ; no patient ever passed the threshold. tchigorsky was a savant and a traveler to boot; a man who dealt in strange out-of-the-way things, and the interior of his house would have been a revelation to the top-hatted, frock-coated doctors and lawyers and city men who elected to make their home in brant street, w. the house was crammed with curiosities and souvenirs of travel from basement to garret. a large sky-lighted billiard-room at the back of the house had been turned into a library and laboratory combined. and here, when not traveling, tchigorsky spent all his time, seeing strange visitors from time to time, mongolians, hindoos, natives of tibet--for tchigorsky was one of the three men who had penetrated to the holy city of lassa, and returned to tell the tale. the doctor came into his study from his breakfast, and stood ruminating, rubbing his hands before the fire. in ordinary circumstances he would have been a fine man of over six feet in height. but a cruel misfortune had curved his spine, while his left leg dragged almost helplessly behind him, his hands were drawn up as if the muscles had been cut and then knotted up again. tchigorsky had entered lassa five years ago as a god who walks upright. when he reached the frontier six months later he was the wreck he still remained. and of those privations and sufferings tchigorsky said nothing. but there were times when his eyes gleamed and his breath came short and he pined for the vengeance yet to be his. as to his face, it was singularly strong and intellectual. yet it was disfigured with deep seams checkered like a chessboard. we have seen something like it before, for the marks were identical with those that disfigured ralph ravenspur and made his face a horror to look upon. a young man rose from the table where he was making some kind of an experiment. he was a fresh-colored englishman, george abell by name, and he esteemed it a privilege to call himself tchigorsky's secretary. "always early and always busy," tchigorsky said. "is there anything in the morning papers that is likely to interest me, abell?" "i fancy so," abell replied thoughtfully. "you are interested in the ravenspur case?" a lurid light leapt into the russian's eyes. he seemed to be strangely moved. he paced up and down the room, dragging his maimed limb after him. "never more interested in anything in my life," he said. "you know as much of my past as any man, but there are matters, experiences unspeakable. my face, my ruined frame! whence come these cruel misfortunes? that secret will go down with me to the grave. of that i could speak to one man alone, and i know not whether that man is alive or dead." tchigorsky's words trailed off into a rambling incoherent murmur. he was far away with his own gloomy and painful thoughts. then he came back to earth with a start. he stood with his back to the fireplace, contemplating abell. "i am deeply interested in the ravenspur case, as you know," he said. "a malignant fiend is at work yonder--a fiend with knowledge absolutely supernatural. you smile! i myself have seen the powers of darkness doing the bidding of mortal man. all the detectives in europe will never lay hands upon the destroyer of the ravenspurs. and yet, in certain circumstances, i could." "then, in that case, sir, why don't you?" "do it? i said in certain circumstances. i have part of a devilish puzzle; the other part is in the hands of a man who may be dead. i hold half of the bank-note; somebody else has the other moiety. until we can come together, we are both paupers. if i can find that other man, and he has the nerve and the pluck he used to possess, the curse of the ravenspurs will cease. but, then, i shall never see my friend again." "but you might solve the problem alone." "impossible. that man and myself made a most hazardous expedition in search of dreadful knowledge. that formula we found. for the purposes of safety, we divided it. and then we were discovered. of what followed i dare not speak. i dare not even think. "i escaped from my dire peril, but i cannot hope that my comrade was so fortunate. he must be dead. and, without him, i am as powerless as if i knew nothing. i have no proof. yet i know quite well who is responsible for those murders at ravenspur." abell stared at his chief in astonishment. he knew tchigorsky too well to doubt the evidence of his simple word. the russian was too strong a man to boast. "you cannot understand," he said. "it is impossible to understand without the inner knowledge that i possess, and even my knowledge is not perfect. were i to tell the part i know i should be hailed from one end of england to the other as a madman. i should be imprisoned for malignant slander. but if the other man turned up--if only the other man should turn up!" tchigorsky broke into a rambling reverie again. when he emerged to mundane matters once more he ordered abell to read the paragraph relating to the latest phase of the tragedy of the lost ravenspur. "it runs," said abell, "'another strange affair at ravenspur castle. the mystery of this remarkable case still thickens. late on wednesday night mr. rupert ravenspur, the head of the family, was awakened by a choking sensation and a total loss of breath. on attempting to leave his bed, the unfortunate gentleman found himself unable to move. "'he states that the room appeared to be filled with a fine spray of some sickly, sweet drug or liquid that seemed to act upon him as chloroform does on a subject with a weak heart. mr. ravenspur managed to cry out, but the vapor held him down, and was slowly stifling him----'" "ah," tchigorsky cried. "ah, i thought so. go on!" his eyes were gleaming; his whole face glistened with excitement. "'providentially the cry reached the ears of another of the ravenspurs. this gentleman burst open his father's door, and noticing the peculiar, pungent odor, had the good sense to break a window and admit air into the room. "'this prompt action was the means of saving the life of the victim, and it is all the more remarkable because it was carried out by a mr. ralph ravenspur, a blind gentleman, who had just returned from foreign parts.'" a cry--a scream broke from tchigorsky's lips. he danced about the room like a madman. for the time being it was impossible for the astonished secretary to determine whether this was joy or anguish. "you are upset about something, sir," he said. tchigorsky recovered himself by a violent effort that left him trembling like a reed swept in the wind. he gasped for breath. "it was the madness of an overwhelming joy!" he cried. "i would cheerfully have given ten years of my life for this information. abell, you will have to go to ravenspur for me to-day." abell said nothing. he was used to these swift surprises. "you are to see this ralph ravenspur, abell," continued tchigorsky. "you are not to call at the castle; you are to hang about till you get a chance of delivering my message unseen. the mere fact that ralph ravenspur is blind will suffice for a clue to his identity. look up the time-table!" abell did so. he found a train to land him at biston junction, some ten miles from his destination. half an hour later he was ready to start. from an iron safe tchigorsky took a small object and laid it in abell's hand. "give him that," he said. "you are simply to say: 'tchigorsky--danger,' and come away, unless ralph ravenspur desires speech with you. now, go. and as you value your life, do not lose that casket." it was a small brass box no larger than a cigarette case, rusty and tarnished, and covered with strange characters, evidently culled from some long-forgotten tongue. chapter v a ray of light a sense of expectation, an uneasy feeling of momentous events about to happen, hung over the doomed ravenspurs. for once, marion appeared to feel the strain. her face was pale, and, though she strove hard to regain the old gentle gaiety, her eyes were red and swollen with weeping. all through breakfast she watched ravenspur in strange fascination. he seemed to have obtained some kind of hold over her. yet nothing could be more patient, dull, and stolid than the way in which he proceeded with the meal. he appeared to dwell in an unseen world of his own; the stirring events of the previous night had left no impression on him whatever. for the most part, they were a sad and silent party. the terror that walked by night and day was stealing closer to them; it was coming in a new and still more dreadful form. accident or the intervention of providence had averted a dire tragedy; but it would come again. ravenspur made light of the matter. he spoke of the danger as something past. yet it was impossible wholly to conceal the agitation that filled him. he saw marion's pale, sympathetic face; he saw the heavy tears in vera's eyes, and a dreadful sense of his absolute impotence came upon him. "let us forget it," he said almost cheerfully. "let us think no more of the matter. no doubt, science can explain this new mystery." the speaker's sightless eyes were turned upwards; he seemed to be thinking aloud rather than addressing the company generally. marion turned as if something had stung her. "uncle ralph knows something that he conceals from us," she cried. ralph smiled. yet he had the air of one who is displeased with himself. "i know many things that are mercifully concealed from pure natures like yours," he said. "but as to what happened last night i am as much in the dark as any of you. ah, if i were not blind!" a strained silence followed. one by one the company rose until the room was deserted, save for ralph ravenspur and his nephew geoffrey. the handsome lad's face was pale, his lips quivered. "i am dreadfully disappointed, uncle," he observed. "meaning from your tone that you are disappointed with me, geoff. why?" "because you spoke at first as if you understood things. and then you professed to be as ignorant as the rest of us. oh, it is awful! i--i would not care so much if i were less fond of vera than i am. i love her; i love her with my whole heart and soul. if you could only see the beauty of her face you would understand. "and yet when she kisses me good-night i am never sure that it is not for the last time. i feel that i must wake up presently to find that all is an evil dream. and we can do nothing, nothing, nothing but wait and tremble and--die." ralph had no reply; indeed there was no reply to this passionate outburst. the blind man rose from the table and groped his way to the door with those long hands that seemed to be always feeling for something like the tentacles of an octopus. "come with me to your grandfather's room," he said. "i want you to lend me your eyes for a time." geoffrey followed willingly. the bed room was exactly as ravenspur had quitted it, for as yet the housemaid had not been there. "now look round you carefully," said ralph. "look for something out of the common. it may be a piece of rag, a scrap of paper, a spot of grease, or a dab of some foreign substance on the carpet. is there a fire laid here?" "no," geoffrey replied. "the grate is a large open one. i will see what i can find." the young fellow searched minutely. for some time no reward awaited his pains. then his eyes fell upon the hearthstone. "i can only see one little thing," he said. "in a business like this, there are no such matters as little things," ralph replied. "a clue that might stand on a pin's point often leads to great results. tell me what it is that attracts your attention." "a bronze stain on the hearthstone. it is about the size of the palm of one's hand. it looks very like a piece of glue dabbed down." "take a knife and scrape it up," said ralph. he spoke slowly and evidently under excitement well repressed. "wrap it in your handkerchief and give it to me. has the stuff any particular smell?" "yes," said geoffrey. "it has a sickly sweet odor. i am sure that i never smelt anything like it before." "probably not. there, i have no further need of your services, and i know that vera is waiting for you. one word before you go--you are not to say a single word to a soul about this matter; not a single soul, mind. and now i do not propose to detain you any longer." geoffrey retired with a puzzled air. when the echo of his footsteps had died away, ralph rose and crept out upon the leads. he was shivering with excitement; there was a look of eager expectation, almost of triumph, on his face. he felt his way along the leads until he came to a group of chimneys, about the center one of which he fumbled with his hands for some time. then the look of triumph on his face grew more marked and stronger. "assurance doubly sure," he whispered. his voice croaked hoarsely with excitement. "if i had only somebody here whom i could trust! if i told anybody here whom i suspected they would rise like one person, and hurl me into the moat. and i can do no more than suspect. patience, patience, and yet patience." from the terrace came the sound of fresh young voices. they were those of vera and geoffrey talking almost gaily as they turned their steps toward the granite cliffs. for the nerves of youth are elastic and they throw off the strain easily. they walked along side by side until they came to the cliffs. here the rugged ramparts rose high with jagged indentations and rough hollows. there were deep cups and fissures in the rocks where a regiment of soldiers might lie securely hidden. for miles the gorse was flushed with its golden glory. "let us sit down and forget our troubles," said geoffrey. "how restful the time if we could sail away in a ship, vera, away to the ends of the earth, where we could hide ourselves from this cruel vendetta and be at peace. what use is the ravenspur property to us when we are doomed to die?" vera shuddered slightly and the exquisite face grew pale. "they might spare us," she said plaintively. "we are young and we have done no harm to anybody. and yet i have not lost all faith. i feel certain that heaven above us will not permit this hideous slaughter to continue." she laid her trembling fingers in geoffrey's hand, and he drew her close to him and kissed her. "it seems hard to look into your face and doubt it, dearest," he said. "even the fiend who pursues us would hesitate to destroy you. but i dare not, i must not, think of that. if you are taken away i do not want to live." "nor i either, geoff. oh, my feelings are similar to yours!" the dark violet eyes filled with tears, the fresh breeze from the sea ruffled vera's fair hair and carried her sailor hat away up the cliff. it rested, perched upon a gorse bush overhanging one of the ravines or cups in the rock. as geoffrey ran to fetch the hat he looked over. a strange sight met his astonished gaze. the hollow might have been a small stone quarry at some time. now it was lined with grass and moss, and in the center of the cup, which had no fissure or passage of any kind, two men were seated bending down over a small shell or gourd placed on a fire of sticks. in ordinary circumstances there would have been nothing strange in this, for the sight of peripatetic hawkers and tinkers along the cliffs was not unusual. but these men did not belong to that class. they were tall and spare; they were clad in dingy robes; on their heads were turbans of the same sad color. they were dark of feature, with thin faces and ragged beards. in appearance they were singularly alike; indeed, they might have been twin brothers some time past the prime of life. from the shell on the ground a thick vapor was rising. the smell of it floated on the air to geoffrey's nostrils. he reeled back almost sick and faint with the perfume and the discovery he had made. for that infernal stuff had exactly the same smell as the pungent drug which had come so near to destroying the life of rupert ravenspur only a few hours before. here was something to set the blood tingling in the veins and the pulses leaping with a mad excitement. from over the top of the gorse geoffrey watched with all his eyes. he saw the smoke gradually die away; he saw a small mass taken from the gourd and carefully stowed away in a metal box. then the fire was kicked out and all traces of it were obliterated. geoffrey crept back again to vera, trembling from head to foot. he had made up his mind what to do. he would say nothing of this strange discovery to vera; he would keep it for ralph ravenspur's ears alone. ralph had been in foreign parts and might understand the enigma. meanwhile it became necessary to get out of the asiatics' way. it was not prudent for them to know that a ravenspur was so close. vera looked into geoffrey's face, wondering. "how pale you are!" she said. "and how long you have been!" "come and let us walk," said geoffrey. "i--i twisted my ankle on a stone and it gave me a twinge or two. it's all right now. shall we see if we can get as far as sprawl point and back before luncheon?" vera rose to the challenge. she rather prided herself on her powers as a walker. the exercise caused her to glow and tingle, and all the way it never occurred to her how silent and abstracted geoffrey had become. chapter vi abell carries out his errand when ralph ravenspur reached the basement, his whole aspect had changed. for the next day or two he brooded about the house, mainly with his own thoughts for company. he was ubiquitous. his silent, cat-like tread carried him noiselessly everywhere. he seemed to be looking for something with those sightless eyes of his; those long fingers were crooked as if about the throat of the great mystery. he came into the library where rupert ravenspur and marion were talking earnestly. he dropped in upon them as if he had fallen from the clouds. marion started and laughed. "i declare you frighten me," she said. "you are like a shadow--the shadow of one's conscience." "there can be no shadow on yours," ralph replied. "you are too pure and good for that. never, never will you have cause to fear me." "all the same, i wish you were less like a cat," ravenspur exclaimed petulantly, as marion walked smilingly away. "anybody would imagine that you were part of the family mystery. ralph, do you know anything?" "i am blind," ralph replied doggedly. "of what use is a blind man?" "i don't know; they say that when one sense is lost the others are sharpened. and you came home so mysteriously, you arrived at a critical moment for me, you were at my door at the time when help was sorely needed. again, when you burst my door open you did the only thing that could have saved me." "common sense, sir. you were stifling and i gave you air." ravenspur shook his head. he was by no means satisfied. "it was the common sense that is based upon practical experience. and you prowl about in dark corners; you wander about the house in the dead of the night. you hint at a strange past, but as to that past you are dumb. for heaven's sake, if you know anything tell me. the suspense is maddening." "i know nothing and i am blind," ralph repeated. "as to my past, that is between me and my maker. i dare not speak of it. let me go my own way and do not interfere with me. and whatever you do or say, tell nobody--nobody, mind--that you suspect me of knowledge of the family trouble." ralph turned away abruptly and refused to say more. he passed from the castle across the park slowly, but with the confidence of a man who is assured of every step. the recollection of his boyhood's days stood him in good stead. he could not see, but he knew where he was and even the grim cliffs held no terrors for him. he came at length to a certain spot where he paused. it was here years ago that he had scaled the cliffs at the peril of his neck and found the raven's nest. he caught the perfume of the heather and the crushed fragrance of the wild thyme, but their scents were as nothing to his nostrils. for he had caught another scent that had brought him up all standing with his head in the air. the odor was almost exhausted; there was merely a faint suspicion of it, but at the same time it spoke to ralph as plainly as words. he was standing near the hollow where geoffrey had been two days ago. in his mind's eye ralph could see into this hollow. years before he had been used to lie there winter evenings when the brent and ducks were coming in from the sea. he scrambled down, sure-footed as a goat. then he proceeded to grope upon the grass with those long restless fingers. he picked up a charred stick or two, smelt it, and shook his head. presently his hand closed upon the burnt fragments of a gourd. as ralph raised this to his nostrils his eyes gleamed. "i was certain of it," he muttered. "two of the bonzes have been here, and they have been making the pi. if i could only see!" as yet he had not heard of geoffrey's singular discovery. there had been no favorable opportunity of disclosing the secret. ralph retraced his steps moodily. for the present he was helpless. he had come across the clue to the enigma, but only he knew of the tremendous difficulties and dangers to be encountered before the heart of the mystery could be revealed. he felt cast down and discouraged. there was bitterness in his heart for those who had deprived him of his precious sight. "oh, if i could only see!" he cried. "a week or month to look from one eye into another, to strip off the mask and lay the black soul bare. and yet if the one only guessed what i know, my life would not be worth an hour's purchase! and if those people at the castle only knew that the powers of hell--living, raging hell--were arrayed against them! but they would not believe." an impotent sigh escaped the speaker. just for the moment his resolution had failed him. it was some time before he became conscious of the fact that some one was dogging his footsteps. "do you want to see me?" he demanded. there was no reply for a moment. abell came up cautiously. he looked around him, but so far as he could see he and ravenspur were alone. as he caught sight of the latter's face he had no ground for further doubt. "i did want to see you and see you alone, sir," abell replied. "i believe i have the pleasure of speaking to mr. ralph ravenspur?" "the same, sir," ralph said coldly. "you are a stranger to me." "a stranger who brings a message from a friend. i was to see you alone and for two days i have been waiting for this opportunity. my employer asks me to deliver this box into your hands." at the same time abell passed the little brass case into ralph's hand. as his fingers closed upon it a great light swept over his face; a hoarse shout came from lips that turned from red to blue, and then to white and red again. so tchigorsky had behaved when he discovered that this man still lived. "who gave you this, and what is your message?" ravenspur panted. "the message," said abell, "was merely this. i was to give you the box and say: 'tchigorsky--danger,' and walk away, unless you detained me." "then my friend tchigorsky is alive?" "yes, sir; it is my privilege to be his private secretary." "a wonderful man," ralph cried; "perhaps the most wonderful man in europe. and to think that he is alive! if an angel had come down from heaven and asked me to crave a boon, i should have asked to have tchigorsky in the flesh before me. you have given me new heart of grace; you are like water in a dry land. this is the happiest day i have known since----" the speaker paused and mumbled something incoherent. but the stolid expression had gone from his scarred face, and a strange, triumphant happiness reigned in its stead. he seemed years younger, his step had grown more elastic; there was a fresh, broad ring in his voice. "tchigorsky will desire to see me," he said. "indeed, it is absolutely essential that we should meet and that without delay. a time of danger lies before us--danger that the mere mortal does not dream of. take this to tchigorsky and be careful of it." he drew from a chain inside his vest a small case, almost identical to the one that abell had just handed to him, save that it was silver, while the other was brass. on it were the same queer signs and symbols. "that will convince my friend that the puzzle is intact," he continued. "we hold the key to the enigma--nay, the key to the past and future. but all this is so much greek to you. i will come and see my friend on friday; but not in the guise of ralph ravenspur." "what am i to understand by that, sir?" abell asked. "it matters nothing what you understand," ralph cried. "tchigorsky will know. tell him : at euston on friday, not in the guise of ravenspur or tchigorsky. he will read between the lines. go and be seen with me no more." ralph strode off with his head in the air. his blood was singing in his ears; his pulse was leaping with a new life. "at last," he murmured; "after all these years for myself and my kin! at last!" chapter vii more light there was a curious, eager flush on ralph ravenspur's face. he rose from his seat and paced the room restlessly. those long fingers were incessantly clutching at something vague and unseen. and, at the same time, he was following the story that geoffrey had to tell with the deepest attention. "what does it mean, uncle?" the young man asked at length. "i cannot tell you," ralph replied. his tones were hard and cold. "there are certain things no mortal can understand unless----; but i must not go into that. it may be that you have touched the fringe of the mystery----" "i am certain that we are on the verge of a discovery!" geoffrey cried eagerly. "i am sure that stuff those strangers were making was the same as the drug or whatever it was that came so near to making an end of my grandfather. if i knew what to do!" "nothing--do nothing, as you hope for the future!" the words came hissing from ralph's lips. he felt his way across to geoffrey and laid a grip on his arm that seemed to cut like a knife. "forget it!" he whispered. "fight down the recollection of the whole thing; do nothing based upon your discovery. i cannot say more, but i am going to give you advice worth much gold. promise me that you will forget this matter; that you will not mention it to a soul. promise!" geoffrey promised, somewhat puzzled and dazed. did ralph know everything, or was he as ignorant as the rest? "i will do what you like," said geoffrey. "but it is very hard. can't you tell me a little more? i am brave and strong." "courage and strength have nothing to do with it. a nation could do nothing in this case. i am going to london to-day." "you are going to london alone?" "why not? i came here from the other side of the world alone. i have to see a doctor about my eyes. no, there is no hope that i can ever recover my sight again; but it is possible to allay the pain they give me." ralph departed. a dogcart deposited him at biston junction, and then the servant saw him safely into the london train. but presently ralph alighted and a porter guided him to a cab. a little later and the blind man was knocking at the door of a cottage in the poorer portion of the town. a short, stocky man, with a seafaring air, opened the door. "is it you, elphick?" ralph asked. the short man with the resolute face and keen, gray eyes exclaimed with pleasure: "so you've got back at last, sir. come in, sir. i am alone here as you know. i knew you'd want me before long." ralph ravenspur felt his way to a chair. james elphick stood watching him with something more than pleasure in his eyes. "we have no time to spare," ralph exclaimed. "we must be in london to-night, james. i am going up to see dr. tchigorsky." "dr. tchigorsky!" elphick exclaimed. "didn't i always say as how he'd get through? the man who'd get the best of him ain't born yet. but it means danger, sir. nothing we ever carried out with the doctor was anything else." "danger you do not dream of," ralph said impressively. "but i cannot discuss this with you, james. you are coming with me to london. get the disguise out and let me see if your hand still retains its cunning." apparently it had, for an hour later there walked from the cottage toward the station an elderly, stout man, with white hair and beard and whiskers. his eyes were guarded by tinted glasses; the complexion of the face was singularly clear and ruddy. all trace of those cruel criss-cross lines had gone. wherever elphick had learned his art, he had not failed to learn it thoroughly. "it's perfect; though i say it as shouldn't," he remarked. "it's no use, sir; you can't get on without me. if i'd gone with you to lassa, all that horrible torture business would never have happened." ralph ravenspur smiled cautiously. the stiff dressing on his face made a smile difficult in any case. "at all events, i shall want you now," he said. it was nearly seven when the express tram reached euston. ralph stood on the great bustling, echoing, platform as if waiting for something. an exclamation from elphick attracted his attention. "there's the doctor as large as life!" he said. "tchigorsky!" ralph cried. "surely not in his natural guise. oh, this is reckless folly! does he court defeat at the outset of our enterprise?" tchigorsky bustled up. for some reason or other he chose to appear in his natural guise. not till they were in the cab did ravenspur venture to expostulate. "much learning has made you mad," he said bitterly. "not a bit of it," the russian responded. "unfortunately for me the priests of lassa have discovered that i am deeply versed in their secrets. not that they believe for a moment that tchigorsky and the russian who walked the valley of the red death are one and the same. they deem me to be the recipient of that unhappy man's early discoveries. but your identity remains a secret. the cleverest eyes in the world could never penetrate your disguise." "it comforts me to hear that," ralph replied. "everything depends upon my identity being concealed. once it is discovered, every ravenspur is doomed. but i cannot understand why you escape recognition at the hands of the foe." a bitter smile came over tchigorsky's face. "can you not?" he said. "if you had your eyes you would understand. man, i have been actually in the company of those who flung me into the valley of the red death and they have not known me. after that i stood in the presence of my own mother, and she asked who i was. "the marks on my face? well, there are plenty of explorers who have been victims to the wire helmet and have never dreamt of entering lassa. i am a broken, decrepit wreck, i who was once so proud of my inches. the horrors of that one day have changed me beyond recognition. but you know." ralph shuddered from head to foot. a cold moisture stood on his forehead. "don't," he whispered. "don't speak of it. when the recollection comes over me i have to hold on to my senses as a shipwrecked sailor clings to a plank. never mind the past--the future has peril and danger enough. you know why i am here?" "to save your house from the curse upon it. to bring the east and west together, and tell of the vilest conspiracy the world has ever seen. do you know who the guilty creature is, whose hand is actually striking the blow?" "i think so; in fact i am sure of it. but who would believe my accusation?" "who, indeed! but we shall be in a position to prove our case, now that the secrets of the prison-house lie before us. we have three to fear." "yes, yes," said ralph. "the two bonzes--who have actually been seen near ravenspur--and the princess zara. could she recognize me?" ralph asked the question in almost passionate entreaty. "i am certain she could not," tchigorsky replied. "come, victory shall be ours yet. here we are at my house at last. by the way, you must have a name. you shall be my cousin nicholas tchigorsky, a clever savant, who, by reason of a deplorable accident, has become both blind and dumb. allons." chapter viii a master of fence lady mallowbloom's reception rooms were more than usually crowded. and every other man or woman in the glittering salon was a celebrity. there was a strong sprinkling of the aristocracy to leaven the lump; here and there the flash of red cloth and gold could be seen. in his quiet, masterly style tchigorsky pushed his way up the stairs. ralph ravenspur followed, his hand upon the russian's arm. he could feel the swish of satin draperies go by him; he caught the perfume on the warm air. "why do you drag me here?" he grumbled. "i can see nothing; it only bewilders me. i should have been far happier in your study." "you mope too much," tchigorsky said gaily. "to mingle with one's fellows is good at times. i know so many people who are here to-night." "and i know nobody; add to which circumstances compel me to be dumb. place me in some secluded spot with my back to the wall, and then enjoy yourself for an hour. i dare say i shall manage to kill the time." there were many celebrities in the brilliantly-lighted room, and tchigorsky indicated a few. a popular lady novelist passed on the arm of a poet on her way to the buffet. "a wonderful woman," the fair authoress was saying. "eastern and full of mystery, you know. did you notice the eyes of the princess?" "who could fail to?" was the reply. "they say that she is quite five and forty, and yet she would easily pass for eighteen, but for her knowledge of the world. your eastern princess is one of the most fascinating women i have even seen." others passed, and had the same theme. ralph stirred to a faint curiosity. "who is the new marvel?" he asked. "i don't know," tchigorsky admitted. "the last new lion, i suppose. some pretty begum or the wife of some oriental whose dark eyes appear to have fired society. by the crowd of people coming this way i presume the dusky beauty is among them. if so, she has an excellent knowledge of english." a clear, sweet voice arose. at the first sound of it, ralph jumped to his feet and clutched at his throat as if something choked him. he shook with a great agitation; a nameless fear had him in a close grip. "do you recognize the voice?" ralph gasped. the russian was not unmoved. but his agitation was quickly suppressed. he forced ralph down in his seat again. "you will have to behave better than that if you are to be a trusty ally of mine," he said. "come, that is better! sit still; she is coming this way." "i'm all right now," ralph replied. "the shock of finding myself in the presence of princess zara was overpowering. have no fear for me." a tall woman, magnificently dressed, was making her way towards tchigorsky. her face was the hue of old ivory, and as fine; her great lustrous eyes gleamed brightly; a mass of hair was piled high on a daintily poised head. the woman might have been extremely young so far as the touch of time was concerned, but the easy self-possession told another tale. the red lips tightened for an instant, a strange gleam came into the dark magnetic eyes as they fell upon tchigorsky. then the indian princess advanced with a smile, and held out her hand to the russian. "so you are still here!" she said. there was the suggestion of a challenge in her tones. her eyes met those of tchigorsky as the eyes of two swordsmen might meet. there was a tigerish playfulness underlying the words, a call-note of significant warning. "i still take the liberty of existing," said tchigorsky. "you are a brave man, doctor. your friend here?" "is my cousin nicholas tchigorsky? the poor fellow is blind and dumb, as the result of a terrible accident. best not to notice him." the princess shrugged her beautiful shoulders as she dropped gracefully into a seat. "i heard you were in london," she said, "and something told me that we should meet sooner or later. you are still interested in occult matters?" again ralph detected the note of warning in the speech. he could see nothing of the expression on that perfect face; but he could judge it fairly well. "i am more interested in occult matters than ever," tchigorsky said gravely, "especially in certain discoveries placed in my hands by a traveler in tibet." [illustration: "i am more interested in occult matters than ever," tchigorsky said gravely, "especially in certain discoveries placed in my hands by a traveler in thibet."--page .] "ah, that was your fellow-countryman. he died, you know!" "he was murdered in the vilest manner. but before the end, he managed to convey important information to me." "useless information unless you had the key." "there was one traveler who found the key, you remember?" "true, doctor. he also, i fancy, met with an accident that, unfortunately, resulted in his death." ralph shuddered slightly. princess zara's tones were hard as steel. if she had spoken openly and callously of this man being murdered, she could not have expressed the same thing more plainly. a beautiful woman, a fascinating one; but a woman with no heart and no feeling where her hatreds were concerned. "it is just possible i have the key," said tchigorsky. the eyes of the princess blazed for a moment. then she smiled. "dare you use it?" she asked. "if you dare, then all the secrets of heaven and hell are yours. for four thousand years the priests of the temple at lassa and the heads of my family have solved the future. you know what we can do. we are all powerful for evil. we can strike down our foes by means unknown to your boasted western science. they are all the same to us, proud potentate, ex-meddling doctor." there was a menace in the last words. tchigorsky smiled: "the meddling doctor has already had personal experience," he said. "i carry the marks of my suffering to the grave. i remember how your peasants treated me and this does not tend to relax my efforts." "and yet you might die at any moment. if you persist in your studies you will have to die. the eyes of western men must not look upon the secrets of the priests of lassa and live. be warned, dr. tchigorsky, be warned in time. you are brave and clever, and as such command respect. if you know everything and proclaim it to the world----" "civilization will come as one man, and no stone in lassa shall stand on another. your priests will be butchered like wild beasts; an infernal plague spot will be wiped off the face of the outraged earth!" the princess caught her breath swiftly. just for one moment there was murder in her eyes. she held her fan as if it were a dagger ready for the russian's heart. "why should you do this thing?" she asked. "because your knowledge is diabolical," tchigorsky replied. "in the first place, all who are in the secret can commit murder with impunity. as the anglo-saxon pushes on to the four corners of the earth that knowledge must become public property. i am going to stop that if i can." "and if you die in the meantime? you are bold to rashness. and yet there are many things that you do not know." "the longer i live, the more glaring my ignorance becomes. i do not know whence you derive your perfect mastery of the english tongue. but i do know that i am going to see this business through." "man proposes, but the arm of the priests is long." "ah, i understand. i may die to-night. i should not mind. still, let us argue the matter out. say that i have already solved the problem. i write a detailed account of the whole weird business. i write twenty detailed statements; i enclose the key in each. these statements i address to a score of the leading savants in europe. "then i place them in, say, a safe deposit until my death. i write to each of those wise men a letter with an enclosure not to be opened till i die. that enclosure contains a key to my safe, and presently in that safe all those savants find a packet addressed to themselves. in a week all europe would ring with my wonderful discoveries. think of the outcry, the wrath, the indignation!" the princess smiled. she could appreciate a stratagem like this. with dull, stolid and averted face, ralph ravenspur listened and wondered. he heard the laugh that came from the lips of the princess; he detected the vexation underlying it. tchigorsky was a foeman worthy of her steel. "that you propose to do?" she asked. "a question you will pardon me for not answering," said tchigorsky. "you have made your move and i have made mine. whether i am going to do the thing, or whether i have done so, remains to be seen. whether you dare risk my death now is a matter for you to decide. check to your king." again the princess smiled. she looked searchingly into tchigorsky's face, as if she would fain read his very soul. but she saw nothing there but the dull eyes of a man who keeps his feelings behind a mask. then, with a flirt of her fan and a more or less mocking curtsey, she turned to go. "you are a fine antagonist," she said; "but i do not admit yet that you are a check to my king. i shall find a way. good-night!" she turned and plunged into the glittering crowd, and was seen no more. a strange fit of trembling came over ravenspur as tchigorsky led him out. "that woman stifles me," he said. "if she had only guessed who had been seated so near to her! tchigorsky, you played your cards well." tchigorsky smiled. "i was glad of that opportunity," he said. "she meant to have me murdered; but she will hesitate for a time. we have one great advantage--we know what we have to face and she does not. the men are on the board, the cards are on the table. it is you and i against princess zara and the two priests of the temple of lassa. and we play for the lives of a good and innocent family." "we do," ralph said grimly. "but why--why does this fascinating asiatic come all those miles to destroy one by one a race that she can scarcely have heard of? why does she do it, tchigorsky?" "you have not guessed who the princess is, then?" tchigorsky bent down and whispered three words in ralph's ear. and not until brant street was reached had ralph come back from his amazement to the land of speech. chapter ix april days the terror never lifted now from the old house. there were days and weeks when nothing happened, but the garrison did not permit itself to believe that the unseen enemy had abandoned the unequal contest. the old people were prepared for the end which they believed to be inevitable. a settled melancholy was upon them, and it was only when they were together that anything like a sense of security prevailed. for the moment they were safe--there was always safety in numbers. but when they parted for the night they parted as comrades on the eve of a bloody battle. they might meet again, but the chances were strong against it. for themselves they cared nothing; for the younger people, everything. it was fortunate that the fine constitutions and strong nerves of geoffrey and vera and marion kept them going. a really imaginative man or woman would have been driven mad by the awful suspense. but geoffrey was bright and sunny; he always felt that the truth would come to light some day. and his buoyant, sanguine nature reacted on the others. nearly a month had elapsed since the weird attempt on the life of rupert ravenspur; four weeks since geoffrey's strange experience on the cliffs; and nothing had happened. the family had lapsed once more into their ordinary mode of living; blind ralph was back again, feeling his way about the castle as usual, silent, moody, in the habit of gliding in upon people as a snake comes through the grass. ralph came into breakfast, creeping to his chair without touching anything, dropping into it as if he had fallen from the clouds. marion, next to him, shuddered. they were quite good friends, these two, but marion was slightly afraid of her uncle. his secret ways repelled her; he had a way of talking with his sightless eyes upturned; he seemed to understand the unspoken thoughts of others. "what is the matter?" he asked. marion laughed. none of the others had come down yet. "what should be the matter?" she replied. "well, you shuddered. you should be sorry for me, my dear. some of these days i mean to tell you the story of my life. oh, yes, it will be a story--what a story! and you will never forget it as long as you live." there was something uncanny in the words--a veiled threat, the suggestion of one who had waited for a full revenge, with the knowledge that the time would come. yet the scarred face was without expression; the eyes were vacant. "won't you tell me now?" marion asked softly. "i am so sorry for you?" the sweet, thrilling sympathy would have moved a stone, but it had no effect upon ralph. he merely caressed marion's slim fingers and smiled. it was significant of his extraordinary power that he found marion's hand without feeling for it. he was given to touch those slim fingers. and yet he never allowed marion to kiss him. "all in good time," he said; "but not yet, not yet." before marion could reply, mrs. gordon ravenspur came into the room. marion seemed to divine more than see that something had happened. she jumped to her feet and crossed the room. "dear aunt," she said quickly. "what is it?" "vera," mrs. gordon replied. "she called me into her room just now saying she was feeling far from well. i had hardly got into her room before she fainted. i have never known vera do such a thing before." ralph was sitting and drumming his fingers on the table as if the subject had not the slightest interest for him. but, with the swiftness of lightning, a strange, hard, cunning expression flashed across his face and was gone. when marion turned to him he had vanished also. it almost seemed as if he had the gift of fernseed. "a mere passing weakness," marion said soothingly. "i should like to think so," mrs. gordon replied. "in normal circumstances i should think so. but not now; not now, marion." marion sighed deeply. there were times when even she was oppressed. "i'll go and see vera," she said. "i am sure there is no cause for alarm." marion slipped rapidly away up the stone stairs and along the echoing corridor toward vera's room. she was smiling now, and she kissed her hand to the dead and gone ravenspurs frowning upon her from the walls. then she burst gaily into vera's room. "my dear child," she cried, "you really must not alarm us by----" she paused suddenly. vera, fully dressed, was seated in a chair, whilst ralph was by her side. he seemed more alive than usual; he had been saying something to vera that had brought the color to her face. as marion entered he grew grave and self-contained; like a snail retreating into its shell, marion thought. he sat down and tattooed with his fingers on the dressing-table. "i had no idea you had company," marion smiled. "i intruded," ralph said gravely. there was a sardonic inflection in his voice. "yet i flatter myself that vera is the better for my attention." marion looked swiftly from one to the other. she was puzzled. almost flawless as she was, she had her minor weaknesses, or she had been less charming than he was, and she hated to be puzzled. vera was no longer pale and all signs of languor had departed, yet she looked confused and there was the trace of a blush on her cheeks. "sometimes i fancy that uncle ralph is laughing at us all," she said, with a laugh that was not altogether natural. "but i am all right now, dear marion. save for a racking headache, i am myself again." marion, solicitous for others always, flew for her smelling salts. in three strides ralph was across the floor, and had closed the door behind her. his manner had instantly changed; he was full of energy and action. "take this," he whispered. "take it and the cure will be complete. crush it up between your teeth and drink a glass of water afterwards." he forced a small white pellet between vera's teeth; he heard her teeth crushing it. with his peculiar gift for finding things, he crossed over to the washstand and returned with a glass of water. "you are better?" he asked, as vera gulped the water down. "oh, yes, uncle; are you a wizard or what? my headache seems to have lifted from me as one takes off a hat. the stuff you gave me----" "say no more about it; think no more about it. but whenever the same feeling comes over you again let me know at once. and you are not to mention this to anybody." "but my mother and geoffrey and----" "ah, you love geoffrey? but there is no need to ask you the question. you want to rid the house of its nameless terror; you want to be free, to marry geoffrey and be happy. dear child, all these things will come if you listen to me. i swear it. and now will you promise me that you will say nothing of this to a soul?" "dear uncle, i promise." ralph had grown cold and moody again. when marion returned with her salts he slipped out of the room as callously as if he were not in the least interested and while many anxious eyes followed vera at breakfast time, ralph alone was indifferent, brutally indifferent, marion thought. "are you thinking of the same thing that we are?" she asked. "no," ralph said shortly. "i was thinking what poor bacon this is." chapter x a little sunshine after luncheon, geoffrey was leaning over the stone balustrade of the terrace waiting for vera. beyond a slight restlessness and extra brilliancy of the eye she was better. she had proposed a ramble along the cliffs and geoffrey had assented eagerly. his anxiety was fading away like the ashes of his cigarette. at first he had been inclined to imagine that vera's indisposition had been a move on the part of the unseen foe. but he put this idea from him as illogical. the enemy was not in the habit of using the gloved hand like this. he struck down fiercely and remorselessly. "no," geoffrey murmured aloud; "vera could not have been spared!" a gentle hand was laid upon his arm. marion stood beside him. they were alone at that angle of the terrace and unseen from the house. "you are right," said marion. "don't worry about that any more." geoffrey nodded approvingly. he slipped his arm round marion's waist and kissed her in a brotherly fashion. marion inclined toward him with half-closed eyes and a brightened color. her limbs trembled; the pressure of her lips was warm and sweet. "dear little sister," geoffrey murmured. "what should we do without you?" marion drew herself away abruptly. she rested her clasped hands over the stone balcony so that geoffrey should not see their unsteadiness; her flushed face was half averted. it was a taking, a perfect picture. "what would vera say?" she asked. "as if vera would mind! don't we all love you the same? and how many times has vera seen me kiss you? if there were no vera, little sister, then you may be sure that i should have kissed you in a different way!" marion laughed at the easy impertinence. that geoffrey had no real love or passion for anybody but vera she knew perfectly well. she laughed again, but there was nothing spontaneous in it; indeed, anybody but a youthful egotist in love could have detected a certain jarring note of pain. "here is vera," said geoffrey. "let us ask her." they put it to her merrily. they might have been in a world beyond all sorrow or suffering. the music of their fresh young voices floated in the air. then marion bent over the balustrade and watched the lovers out of sight. her face grew hard; a veil of heavy years seemed to have fallen over it. "if he only knew!" she said; "if he only knew! why are clever people often so foolish? and why do they commit follies with their eyes wide open? well, it doesn't matter, for you will never know, dear geoffrey, how passionately and devotedly i love you. and you never, never know when temptation and inclination and opportunity go together. and i don't believe that anybody could resist temptation if he or she were certain not to be found out!" "i am perfectly sure they wouldn't." marion turned with a stifled cry on her lips. ralph ravenspur was behind her. the expression on his face was wooden and emotionless. "i hope you have not been listening to me," she said reproachfully. "i have been watching you, or rather feeling your presence for some time." ralph admitted. "i have been here since those young people went away. but you said nothing; at least nothing i heard until that bit of worldly wisdom dropped from your lips." "it was an unworthy thought, uncle ralph." "it might be unworthy of you, my dear, but i fancy it is true. even the very best of people give way to temptation. put it away from you; don't dwell upon your temptation, or it may get you into trouble." "my temptation! do you mean to say you know what it is?" "i do," said ralph. "you are deeply in love with your cousin geoffrey. there is wild blood in your veins, and that blood will out unless you keep your feelings well under control. ah, you may stare and look dismayed, which i am sure you are doing although i cannot see you. yes, there is always the temptation to pray that the family foe might remove vera from your path." a piteous cry came from marion's lips. who was this man who knew so much and could probe her secret soul? yet he was blind; he could not see. was it possible that some such horrible thoughts had crossed marion's mind? atrocious thoughts will come to the best of us unasked for, unsought. "oh, you are cruel!" she said. "perhaps i am," ralph admitted. "you see, i live in a dark world of my own and i have small belief in the virtues of my fellow-creatures. but you are an angel and i have amused myself by searing your wings." "is that because you think my secret is a shameful one?" "not in the least. who can help the wayward driftings of a woman's heart? and, anyway, your secret is safe with me." he felt for marion's fingers and put them to his lips. before the girl could reply he had drifted away, apparently feeling his way into space. and for a long time marion stood there gazing out to sea. meanwhile the lovers had forgotten everything but the beauty of the day, and that the world was for themselves alone. the sun shone for them, for them the blue sea thundered in white battalions against the cliffs; for them the lark poured out its song at the gate of heaven, and the heather bloomed on moor and headland. they strolled along until they came to a favored spot where the gorse flowered in yellow fires, and the crushed wild thyme was pungent under their feet. here geoffrey threw himself on the turf and vera reclined by his side. he could touch her hands and toy with the little ripples of her hair. to watch the play of those pretty features and look back the love he saw in those great starry eyes was a thing without alloy. "ah, me, if we could always be like this!" vera said. "you and i would be happy in any circumstances," said geoffrey thoughtfully. "only i should like to see something of the world." "what, go away and leave me all alone, dearest?" geoffrey smiled at this innocent coquetry. he touched the smooth satin cheek caressingly. vera only wanted him to disclaim any such intention and he knew it, too. there was no deception about the matter, but they were none the less happy for that. "of course not," geoffrey declared. "i should take you with me wherever i went. if we could only get the bar removed i should like to travel. i should like to see men and cities, and measure my strength with my fellows. i should like to go into parliament. ah, if we could only get the bar removed!" "if we only could," vera sighed. "but i can't imagine that they will touch us. we are so young and so innocent of wrong-doing. and yet this morning----" vera paused, half afraid of betraying ralph ravenspur's confidence. "only this morning you were a bit afraid. confess it." "i was, geoff. i felt strange when i awoke in the night. i felt cold and like death when i awoke to-day, and then i fainted." "but you are all right now, darling," geoff said anxiously. "yes, dear, i never felt better. still, it was a strange thing altogether. i was well when i went to bed, but in the night i had a curious dream. it seemed to me that i was lying half asleep with a singular pricking sensation of my lips and face. and then an angel came down and laid some white powder on my pillow, a white powder that looked like a mixture of salt and powdered glass. almost immediately the pain ceased and i slept again. then i awoke finally and had that fainting fit. don't you think it was a queer thing?" "yes, but what had the dream and the powder to do with it, little girl?" "i was coming to that, geoff. after i got better i remembered my dream and looked at the pillow. you smile, thinking that only a woman would do that. sure enough there was some trace of gritty powder there, and i collected it in a tissue paper. directly i got it to the light half of it melted; it seemed to dissolve in light like water. and here it is." vera produced a tiny packet from her pocket and opened it. there were several grains of some sharp powder there which, as geoffrey held them in his hand, dissolved to nothingness. his face was very pale. "darling, this is a dreadful thing," he murmured. "i fancy----" he paused, fearful of alarming vera. he saw the hand of fate in this; he saw the sword that was hanging over that beloved young life. a passion of anger and despair filled him, but for vera's sake he checked the feeling. and it seemed to him as if he had passed in a minute down a decade of years; as if in that brief space he had left his boyhood behind and become a man. "this must be looked into," he said sternly. "every precaution----" "has been taken," vera said quietly. "we have a protector among us, dearest. one who is worth all the precautions put together. do not fear for me and do not ask me any questions, because i must not answer them. but i am safe." geoffrey nodded. the cloud slowly lifted from his forehead. vera was speaking of her uncle ralph and there was no reason to ask any questions. was it possible, geoffrey wondered, that ralph ravenspur had gone to the heart of the mystery, that it was wrapped up in his life, and that he had come home to solve it? but of this he said nothing. he resolved to render every assistance. this vile thing was the work of earthly hands and earthly ingenuity could solve it. never was there cipher invented that was incapable of solution. geoffrey drew vera to his side and kissed her passionately. for a little time she lay in his arms in absolute content. her smiling eyes were clear, her features placid. in any case she feared no unseen danger. there must be some great sheltering power behind her, or she had never looked so sweet and placid as that. "i could not do without you, darling," geoffrey said. "and you are not going to do without me," vera smiled. "there is much yet to be done, but it is going to be accomplished, dearest. something tells me that the hour of our freedom is at hand. and something also tells me, geoff, that you are going to have a great deal to do with it." they came back at length up the slope leading to the castle. and there ralph came upon them in his own noiseless, mysterious fashion. he clung to them until vera had entered the house and then led geoffrey to the terrace. "there is nobody within earshot of us?" he demanded. geoffrey assured him that there was not. he was impressed with the earnestness of his uncle's manner. he had never seen him so moved before. "is there anything i can do for you?" he asked. "much," was the whispered reply. "if you are bold and resolute." "i am, i am. i would lay down my life as the martyrs of old did to solve the mystery." "ah," ralph said, in a dry, croaking whisper. "i felt sure i could trust you. there is a great danger and it is near. in that danger i want a pair of eyes. lend me yours." "dear uncle, i will do anything you please." "good. i like the ring in your voice. at half-past eleven to-night i will come to your room. there i will confide in you. till then, absolute silence." chapter xi another stroke in the darkness contrary to the usual custom, there was almost a marked cheerfulness at ravenspur the same evening. the dread seemed to have lifted slightly, though nobody could say why, even if they cared to analyze, which they certainly did not. and all this because it had seemed to the doomed race that vera was marked down for destruction, and that the tragedy, the pitiful tragedy, had been averted. it is hardly possible to imagine a state of mind like this. and vera half divined the reason for this gentle gaiety. she might have told them differently had she chosen to do so, but for many reasons she refrained. she did not even tell her mother. why draw the veil aside when even a few hours' peace stood between them and the terror which sooner or later must sap the reason of every one there? besides, uncle ralph had pledged her to the utmost secrecy. for once rupert ravenspur had abandoned his stony air. he sat at the head of the long table in the dining-room, where the lamplight streamed upon fruit and flowers and crystal, upon priceless china, and silver from the finest workshops in the world. grinling gibbons and inigo jones had toiled in that dining-hall as a labor of love; a famous master had painted the loves of the angels on the roof. between the oak panels were paintings by van dyck, cuyp and the rest of them. and over the floor servants in livery moved swiftly. rupert ravenspur might have been a monarch entertaining some of his favored subjects. it was almost impossible to believe that a great sorrow could be brooding here. there was everything that the heart of the most luxurious could demand. strangers might have looked on and envied. but the stately old man who called all this his own would gladly have changed lots with the humblest hind on the estate. now and then rupert came out of his reverie and smiled. but his tenderest smile and his warmest word were for vera, who he had placed on his right hand. now and again he stroked her hair or touched her fingers gently. marion watched the scene with a tender smile on her lips. only ralph ravenspur was silent. he sat with his sightless eyes fixed on space; he seemed to be listening intently, listening to something far away that could be heard by his ears alone. geoffrey touched him. "a penny for your thoughts, uncle," he said. "they are worth nothing," ralph replied. "and if i sold them to you for a penny you would give all ravenspur castle and your coming fortune to be rid of them." he croaked this out in a fierce whisper. there was a ring of pain in his voice, that pain which is the suffering of the soul rather than the body. yet he did not relax his rigid listening attitude. he might have been waiting for the unseen foe. the conversation proceeded fitfully, sometimes almost lively, anon lapsing into silence. it was hard for these people to speak. they had no interests outside the castle; they found it impossible to follow social or political life. daily papers arrived, but it was seldom that they were looked into. the dinner came to an end at length, and then the family circle drew round the fire. ravenspur was one of those big cold places where fires are always needed. mrs. gordon rose and walked to the door. her husband's eyes followed her. these two were gray and old before their time, but the flame of love still burned bright and clear. "you will not be long, dear," gordon ravenspur said. a somewhat sentimental remark in the ordinary way, but not in this place where the parting of a minute might mean parting for all time. mrs. gordon smiled back upon her husband. "i am going to bed," she said. "never mind me. i feel sleepy." gordon ravenspur nodded sympathetically. he knew what his wife meant as if she had put her thoughts into words. she had been terribly upset over vera and now that the danger was past a heavy reaction set in. "why should we sit here like this?" geoffrey exclaimed. "vera and marion, i'll play you two a game at billiards. come along." marion smilingly declined. she touched the back of ravenspur's wasted hand. "i am going to stay here just for a few minutes and take care of grandfather," she said; "then i will go to bed. give vera twenty in a hundred, and i will bet you a pair of gloves that she beats you easily." the young people went off together and in the excitement of the game other things were forgotten. vera played well and geoffrey had all his work cut out to beat her. finally vera ran out with a succession of brilliant flukes. "well, of all the luck!" geoffrey cried. "let's play another game, but after that exhibition of yours i must have a cigarette. wait a moment." the cigarettes were not in their accustomed place. geoffrey ran up the stairs to his bedroom. he passed along the dusky corridor on his return. in the gallery all was dark and still, save for something that sounded like two figures in muffling velvet robes dancing together. it seemed to geoffrey that he could actually hear them breathing after their exertions. with a quickening of his heart he stopped to listen. surely somebody buried under many thick folds of cloth was calling for assistance. "who is there?" geoffrey called. "where are you?" "just under the lely portrait," came a stifled response. "if you don't----" the voice ceased. in that instant geoffrey had recognized it as aunt gordon's voice. heedless of danger to himself he raced down the corridor, his thin evening pumps making little or no noise on the polished floor. nor had geoffrey lived here all these years for nothing. he could have found the spot indicated blindfolded. he could see nothing, but he could hear the struggle going on; then he caught the flash of something that looked like a blue diamond. it must have been attached to a hand, but no hand was to be seen. geoffrey caught at nothingness and grasped something warm and palpitating. he had the mysterious assailant in his grip; perhaps he held the whole mystery here. he heard footsteps pattering along the corridor as mrs. gordon ran for assistance. he called out to her and she answered him. she was safe. there was no doubt about that. no longer was there any need for caution on geoffrey's part. his fingers closed on a thin scraggy throat from which the flesh seemed to hang like strips of dried leather. at the same time the throat was cold and clammy and slippery as if with some horrible slime. it was almost impossible to keep a grip on it. moreover, the mysterious visitor, if slight, was possessed of marvelous agility and vitality. but geoffrey fought on with the tenacity of one who plays for a great end. he closed in again and bore the foe backwards. he had him at last. if he could only hold on till assistance came, the dread secret might be unfolded. then the figure took something from his pocket; the air was filled with a pungent, sickly sweet odor, and geoffrey felt his strength going from him. he was powerless to move a limb. one of those greasy hands gripped his throat. in a vague, intangible way geoffrey knew that that overpowering blinding odor was the same stuff that had come so near to ending the head of the family. if he breathed it much longer, his own end was come. he made one other futile struggle and heard approaching footsteps; he caught the gleaming circle of a knife blade swiftly uplifted, and his antagonist gave a whimper of pain as a frightened animal might do. the grip relaxed and geoffrey staggered to the floor. "that was a narrow escape," a hoarse voice said. "uncle ralph!" geoffrey panted. "how did you get here? and where has the fellow gone?" "i was close at hand," ralph said coolly. "a minute or two sooner and i might have saved gordon's wife, instead of your doing it. see, is there blood on this knife?" he handed a box of matches to geoffrey. the long, carved malay blade was dripping with crimson. but there were no signs of it on the floor. "let us follow him," geoffrey cried eagerly. "he can't be far away!" but ralph did not move. his face was expressionless once more. he did not appear to be in the least interested or excited. "it is useless," he said, in his dull mechanical tones. "for in this matter you are as blind as i am. there are things beyond your comprehension. i am going down to see what is happening below." he began to feel his way to the staircase, geoffrey following. "are we never going to do anything?" the younger man exclaimed passionately. "yes, yes. patience, lad! the day of reckoning is coming as sure as i stand before you. but to follow your late antagonist is futile. you might as well try to beat the wind that carries away your hat on a stormy day." mrs. gordon sat in the dining-hall, pale, ashen, and trembling from head to foot. it seemed as if an ague had fallen upon her. every now and then a short hysterical laugh escaped her lips, more horrible and more impressive than any outbreak of fear or passion. and yet there was nothing to be done, nothing to be said; they could only look at her with moist eyes and a yearning sympathy that was beyond all words. "it will pass," mrs. gordon said faintly. "we all have our trials; and mine are no worse than the rest. gordon, take me to bed." she passed up the stairs leaning on the arm of her husband. time was when these things demanded vivid explanations. they were too significant now. ralph crept fumblingly over the floor till he stood by marion's side. he touched her hand; he seemed to know where to find it. the hand was wet. ralph touched her cheek. "you are crying," he said, gently for him. "yes," marion admitted, softly. "oh, if i could only do anything to help. if you only knew how my heart goes out to these poor people!" "and yet it may be your turn next, marion. but i hope not--i hope not. we could not lose the only sunshine in the house!" marion choked down a sob. when she turned to ralph again he was far off feeling his way along the room--feeling, feeling always for the clue to the secret. chapter xii geoffrey is put to the test the house was quiet at last. when these mysterious things had first happened, fear and alarm had driven sleep from every eye, and many was the long night the whole family had spent, huddled round the fire till gray morn chased their fears away. but as the inhabitants of a beleaguered city learn to sleep through a heavy bombardment, so had the ravenspurs come to meet these horrors with grim tenacity. they were all upstairs now, behind locked doors, with a hope that they might meet again on the morrow. only geoffrey was up waiting for his uncle ralph. he came at length so noiselessly that geoffrey was startled, and motioned to him that he should follow him without a word. they crept like ghosts along the corridor until they reached a room with double doors at the end of the picture gallery. generations ago this room had been built for a ravenspur who had developed dangerous homicidal mania, and in this room he had lived virtually a prisoner for many years. after they had closed the two doors, a heavy curtain was drawn over the inner one, and ralph fumbled his way to the table and lighted a candle. "now we can talk," he said quietly, "but not loud. understand that the matter is to be a profound secret between us and that not a soul is to know of it; not even vera." "i have already given my promise," said geoffrey. "i know. still there is no harm in again impressing the fact on your mind. geoffrey, you are about to see strange things, things that will test your pluck and courage to the uttermost." geoffrey nodded. with the eagerness of youth he was ready. "i will do anything you ask me," he replied. "i could face any danger to get at the bottom of this business." "you are a good lad. turn the lamp down very low and then open the window. have you done that?" "yes, i can feel the cold air on my face." ralph crossed to the window and, putting out his hand, gave the quaint mournful call of the owl. there was a minute's pause and then came the answering signal. a minute or two later and a man's head and shoulders were framed in the open window. geoffrey would have dashed forward, but ralph held him back. "not so impatient," he said. "this is a friend." geoffrey asked no questions, though he was puzzled to know why the visitor did not enter the castle by the usual way. at ralph's request he closed the window and drew the heavy curtains and the lamp was turned up again. "my nephew," said ralph. "a fine young fellow, and one that you and i can trust. geoffrey, this is my old friend, sergius tchigorsky." geoffrey shook hands with tchigorsky. to his intense surprise he saw the face of the stranger was disfigured in the same way as that of his uncle. conscious that his gaze was somewhat rude he looked down. tchigorsky smiled. very little escaped him and to him the young man's mind was as clear as a brook. "my appearance startles you," he said. "some day you will learn how your uncle and myself came to be both disfigured in this terrible way. that secret will be disclosed when the horror that haunts this house is lifted." "will it ever be lifted, sir?" geoffrey asked. "we can do so at any time," tchigorsky replied in his deep voice. "you may be surprised to hear that we can place our hand on the guilty party at a moment's notice and bring the offender to justice. your eyes ask me why we do not do so instantly. we refrain, as the detectives refrain from arresting one or two of a big gang of swindlers, preferring to spread their nets till they have them all in their meshes. there are four people in this business, and we must take the lot of them, or there will be no peace for the house of ravenspur. you follow me?" "perfectly," geoffrey replied. "an enemy so marvelously clever must not be treated lightly. do you propose to make the capture to-night?" ralph ravenspur laughed. it was not a pleasant laugh and was mirthless. his scarred face was full of scornful amusement. "not to-night or to-morrow night, or for many nights," he said. "we have all the serpent wisdom of the old world against us, the occult knowledge of the east allied to the slippery cunning that western education gives. there will be many dangers before we have finished, and the worst of these dangers will fall upon you." ralph brought his hand down with a sudden clap on his nephew's shoulders. tchigorsky regarded him long and earnestly as if he would read his very soul. "you will do," he said curtly. "i am satisfied you will do and i never made a mistake in my estimate of a man yet. ravenspur, are you ready?" "ay, ay. i have been ready this long time." the lamp was extinguished and list slippers were donned, and with no more provision than a box of wax matches they left the room. instructed by ralph ravenspur, they fell behind him, each holding by the coat-tail of the other. down the corridor they went, down the stairs, along stone-flagged passages until they reached the vast series of cellars and vaults over which the castle was built. there were many of these with twists and turns and low passages; the place was large enough to conceal a big force of troops. and yet, though it was pitchy dark and intricate as a labyrinth, the blind man made no error; he did not hesitate for a moment. well as geoffrey imagined that he knew the castle, he was fain to confess his utter ignorance alongside the knowledge displayed by the blind guide. ralph pulled up suddenly and began to speak. "i brought you here to-night, geoffrey," he said, "so that you might have the first lesson in the task that lies before you. listen! can you hear anything?" "i hear the roar of the sea, the waves grating on the shingle." "yes, because we are on a level with the sea. there are deeper vaults yet, which you will see presently, and they are below the level of the sea. our ancestors used to place their prisoners there, and, by removing a kind of sluice, allowed the tide to come in and drown them. you see, those walls are damp." they were, indeed. as a wax vesta flared up, the dripping stones and the long white fungi gave the place a weird appearance. then ralph dropped suddenly, extinguished his match, and drew his companions behind a row of cupboard-like timbers. "somebody is coming," he whispered. the others could hear nothing. but the blind man's powers of hearing were abnormal. it seemed a long time before the sound of footsteps could be heard. then a figure in white, a fair figure with long shining hair hanging down her back and carrying a taper, crept down the steps. an exclamation trembled on geoffrey's lips--an exclamation of alarm, of admiration, of the utmost astonishment. but ralph laid a hand on his mouth. the figure passed into the vault beyond. "it was marion!" said geoffrey in a thrilling whisper. "and yet it did not look like marion. she seemed so dreamy; so far off." "she was walking in her sleep," ralph said quietly. "but the danger of it, the danger!" "my dear boy, there is no danger at all. blind as i am, i found out this peculiarity of marion's directly i returned. danger to her! i would not have a hair of her head injured to save ravenspur from destruction. geoffrey, it is through marion and marion alone, that we are going to solve the mystery." "ay," tchigorsky muttered, "that is so." ralph raised his hand to impose silence. the soft returning footfalls were clear to the ears. then, rigid, unbending, with dilated eyes, marion passed, the flash of the lantern behind her. "come," said ralph, "let us return. a good night's work, tchigorsky!" "ay," tchigorsky murmured; "a good night's work, indeed." chapter xiii reeling off the thread it was fortunate for all parties that geoffrey was possessed of strong nerves, or he would have been certain to betray himself and them. since he had left school at the time when the unseen terror first began to oppress ravenspur, he had known nothing of the world; he had learnt nothing beyond the power to suffer silently and the power of love. to confide in him was, perhaps, a daring thing on the part of ralph ravenspur. but, then, ralph knew his world only too deeply and too well, and he rarely made a mistake in a man. all the same, he followed as closely as possible the meeting between marion and geoffrey the following morning. marion came down a little pale, a little quieter and more subdued than usual. geoffrey rallied her in the spirit of mingled amusement and affection that he always assumed to marion. his voice was natural and unaffected. ralph was grimly satisfied. he knew now that his ally had brains as well as courage. "i believe you have been sitting up writing poetry," geoffrey laughed. "indeed, i had a very long night's rest," marion responded. "and i can't imagine why i look so pale and washed-out this morning!" "bad dreams and an evil conscience," vera suggested demurely. marion laughed. usually at meal times the young people had the conversation entirely to themselves. sometimes the elders joined in; sometimes they listened and smiled at the empty badinage; usually they were wrapped in their gloomy thoughts. ralph's face had the expression of a stone idol, yet he followed every word that was said with intense and vivid interest. "bad dreams, indeed," marion admitted. "they were with me all night. it seemed to me that i was wandering about all night looking for something. and i had nothing on but my nightdress. in india as a child i used to walk in my sleep. i hope i am not going to do that again." marion laughed and passed on to another subject. curiously enough, she seemed to shrink from speaking of her life in india. of her dead parents she would discourse freely; of her own early life she said nothing. it had always seemed to geoffrey that marion's childhood had been unhappy. there was an air of gentle melancholy when her features were in repose, an air far older than her years. meanwhile ralph had been following all this keenly. he appeared to be interested in his breakfast. the streaming sunshine filtered through the great stained glass windows full upon his scarred face; his head was bent down upon his plate. but the man's mind was at work. he had his opportunity to speak to geoffrey presently. "you will do," he said approvingly. "keep up that easy, cheerful manner of yours. whatever happens, try to ignore it; try to keep up that irresponsible boyish manner. you will find it invaluable in disarming suspicion later, when one false move may dash all our delicate plans to the ground." "i will do anything you require of me, uncle." "that is right; that is the spirit in which to approach the problem. and, remember, that what may appear to you to be the most trivial detail may prove to be of the utmost importance to our case. for instance, i am going to ask you to do something now that may produce big results. i want you to get your grandfather's permission to use the top room over the tower." "but what can i want it for? it is useless to me." "at present, yes; but later it will be useful. you require it for an observatory. you are going to try to repair the big telescope. you are enthusiastic on the subject, you are hot-foot to get to work at once. there is nothing but lumber there." "boxes belonging to marion, uncle. cases that have remained unpacked ever since she came over from india." ralph smiled in his most inscrutable manner. "mere trifles," he croaked. "but, there, i am one of the men who deny there are such things as trifles. you may lose a pin out of your watch, a trifle hardly visible to the eye a yard off. and yet your costly watch, with its marvelous mechanism, is useless without that 'trifle.' now go." an hour later and geoffrey was busy in the corridor with the big telescope, the telescope that nobody had troubled about at ravenspur for many years. geoffrey, in his shirt sleeves, was polishing up the brasses. vera was with her mother somewhere. there had been no trouble in getting permission from rupert ravenspur. it was doubtful if he even heard geoffrey's request. everything the young people asked they got, as a rule. why not, when a day might cut off their lives and their little pleasures for all time! the head of the family was fast becoming a fatalist. so far as he was concerned, there was no hope that the terror would ever lift. he had escaped once; the next time the foe would not fail. but there would be rest in the grave. marion found geoffrey in the corridor. the yellow and purple lights from the leaded windows filled the place with a soft, warm glow. marion's dark hair was shot with purple; her white dress, as she lounged in a window seat, was turned to gold. she formed a wonderfully fair and attractive picture, if geoffrey had only heeded it. but, then, geoffrey had no eyes for any one but vera. "what are you going to do?" marion asked. "read your fortune in the stars? get inspiration from the heavenly bodies to combat the power of darkness?" "i'm going to have a shot at astronomy again," geoffrey replied, in his most boyish and most enthusiastic manner. "i was considered a bit of swell at it at school. and when i saw this jolly old telescope lying neglected here, i made up my mind to polish my knowledge. i'm going to set it up in the tower turret." "but it is packed full of boxes--my boxes." "well, there is plenty of room for those boxes elsewhere--in fact, we've got space enough to give every box a room to itself. there is an empty bedroom just below. presently i'm going to shunt all your lumber in there." marion nodded approvingly. of course if geoffrey said a thing it was done. he might have turned the castle upside down and the girls would have aided and abetted him. "i should like to be present when those boxes are moved," she said. "there are hundreds of rare and curious things that belonged to my mother--things that the british museum would long to possess. remember, my ancestors were rulers in tibet for thousands of years. some day i'll show you my curios. but don't begin to move those boxes till i am ready to assist." "i shall not be ready for an hour, marion." "very well, then, i shall be back in an hour, astronomer." geoffrey finished his work presently. then he ran up to the turret-room and opened the door. the place was dusty and dirty to a degree, and filled with packing-cases. apparently they were all of foreign make--wooden boxes, with queer inscriptions, lacquered boxes, and one fragile wooden box clamped and decorated in filigree brass. "a queer thing," geoffrey murmured. "and old, very old, too." "over a thousand years. there is only one more like it in the world, and no christian eyes save four have ever looked upon it. when you take that box from the room, see that it is the last, geoffrey. you hear?" it was ralph who spoke. he had appeared silently and mysteriously as usual. he spoke calmly, but his twitching lips were eloquent of suppressed excitement. "very well," geoffrey said carelessly. he was getting used to these strange quick appearances and these equally strange requests. "it shall be as you desire, uncle." ralph nodded. he gave a swift turn of his head as if looking for some one unconsciously, then he crossed the room and stooped down beside the brass-bound box, which was at the bottom of a pile of packages. his long fingers felt over the quaint brasses. "a most remarkable-looking pattern," said geoffrey. "it is not a pattern at all," ralph replied. "the quaint filigree work is a language--the written signs of old tibet, only you are not supposed to know that; indeed, i only found it out myself a few days ago. it had been a long search; but, as i can only see with my fingers, you can understand that. but this is part of the secret." geoffrey was profoundly interested. "tell me what the language says?" he asked. "not now--perhaps not at all. it is a ghastly and terrible thing, and even your nerves are not fireproof. there is only one thing i have to ask you before i efface myself for the present. when you take up that box to carry it down stairs it is to slip through your fingers. you are to drop it." "i am to drop that box. is there anything else?" "not for the present. you are smiling; i feel that you are smiling. for heaven's sake take this seriously; take everything that i say seriously, boy. oh, i know what is in your mind--i am going in a clumsy way to get something. i might so easily get what i require by a little judicious burglary. that is what your unsophisticated mind tells you. later you will know better." ralph turned cheerfully round and left the room. he paused in the doorway. "don't forget," he said, "that my visit here is a secret. in fact, everything is a secret until i give you permission to make it public." this time he left. geoffrey had managed to drag one or two of the boxes away before marion appeared. she reproached him gently that he had not waited for her. there might be spooks and bogies in those packages capable of harm. "i dare say there are," geoffrey laughed. "but you were such a long time. every girl seems to imagine that an hour is like a piece of elastic--you can stretch it out as long as you like. at any rate i have done no harm. as far as i can judge there's only one good thing here." "and what is that?" marion asked. geoffrey pointed to the floor. "that one," he said. "the queer brass-bound box at the bottom." chapter xiv "it might be you" marion caught her breath quickly. the marble pallor of her face showed up more strongly against her dark hair. geoffrey caught the look and his eyes grew sympathetic. "what's the matter, little girl?" he asked. "it isn't like you to faint." "neither am i going to faint, geoff. but i had forgotten all about that box. i cannot go into details, for there are some things that we don't talk about to anybody. but that box is connected with rather an unhappy time in my youth." "hundreds of years ago," geoffrey said flippantly. "oh, but it is no laughing matter, i assure you. when my mother was a child she was surrounded by all the craft and superstition of her race and religion. that was long before she got converted and married my father. i don't know how it was managed, but my mother never quite broke with her people, and once or twice, when she went to stay in tibet, i accompanied her. "my mother used to get restless at times, and then nothing would do but a visit to tibet. and yet, at other times, nobody could possibly have told her from a european with foreign blood in her veins. for months and months she would be as english as you and i. then the old fit would come over her. "there was not a cleverer or more brilliant woman in india than my mother. when she died she gave me these things, and i was not to part with them. and, much as i should like to disobey, i cannot break that promise." it seemed to geoffrey that marion spoke more regretfully than feelingly. he had never heard her say so much regarding her mother before. affectionate and tender as marion was, there was not the least trace of these characteristics in her tone now. "did you really love your mother?" geoffrey asked suddenly. "i always obeyed her," marion stammered. "and i'd rather not discuss the subject, geoff. oh, they were bad people, my mother's ancestors. they possessed occult knowledge far beyond anything known or dreamt of by the wisest western savants. they could remove people mysteriously, they could strike at a long distance, they could wield unseen terrors. such is the terror that hangs over ravenspur, for instance." marion smiled sadly. her manner changed suddenly and she was her old self again. "enough of horrors," she said. "i came here to help you. come along." the boxes were carried below until only the brass-bound one remained. geoffrey stooped to lift it. the wood was light and thin, the brass-work was the merest tracing. a sudden guilty feeling came over geoffrey as he raised it shoulder-high. he felt half inclined to defy his uncle ralph and take the consequences. it seemed a mean advantage, a paltry gratifying of what, after all, might be mere curiosity. but the vivid recollection of those strained, sightless eyes rose before him. ralph ravenspur was not the man to possess the petty vice of irrepressible curiosity. had it not been a woman he had to deal with, and marion at that, geoffrey would not have hesitated for a moment. down below in the hall he heard the hollow rasp of ralph's voice. geoffrey made up his mind grimly. he seemed to stumble forward, and the box fell from his shoulder, crashing down on the stone floor. the force of the shock simply shivered it in pieces, a great nest of grass and feathers dropped out, and from the inside a large mass of strange objects appeared. [illustration: the force of the shock simply shivered it in pieces, and from inside a large mass of strange objects appeared.--page .] "i am very sorry," geoffrey stammered after the box had fallen. "never mind," she said, "accidents will happen." but geoffrey was rapt in the contemplation of what he saw before him--some score or more of ivory discs, each of which contained some painting; many of them appeared to be portraits. geoffrey picked up one of them and examined it curiously. he was regarding an ivory circle with a dark face upon it, the face of a beautiful fury. "why, this is you," geoffrey cried. "if you could only give way to a furious passion, it is you to the life." "i had forgotten that," marion gasped. "of course, it is not me. see how old and stained the ivory is; hundreds of years old, it must be. don't ask any more questions, but go and throw that thing in the sea. never speak of the subject again." geoffrey promised. he strode out of the house and along the terrace. as he was descending the steps, a hand touched his arm. ralph stood there. "give it me," he said, "at once." "give you what, uncle?" "that ivory thing you have in your pocket. i felt certain it was there. give it to me. assume you have cast it over the cliffs. marion will be satisfied." "but i promised marion that----" "oh, i know. and if you knew everything, you would not hesitate for a moment to comply with my request." "uncle, i cannot do this thing." a hard expression came over ralph's face. "listen," he said in his rasping voice. "the lives and happiness of us all are at stake. the very existence of the woman you love is in your hands." "i have schemed for this," he said. "i expected it. and now you are going to balk me. it is not as if i did not know what you possess." "that is because you must have overheard my conversation with marion." "i admit it," ralph said coolly. "i listened, of course. but you found it and i heard what i expected. it is for you to say whether the truth comes out or not." "the truth, the truth," geoffrey cried passionately. "it must out." "then give me that miniature. i'll ask you on my knees if you like." there was an imploring ring in the speaker's voice. geoffrey hesitated. "if no harm is to come to marion," he said, "i might break my word." ralph gripped him by the arm convulsively. "i swear it," he whispered. "on my honor be it. have i not told you before that not for all ravenspur would i have a hair of that girl's head injured! if ever a man in this world meant anything, i mean that. the miniature, come!" and geoffrey, with a sigh, handed the ivory disc to ralph. chapter xv ralph ravenspur's conceit "i should like to know why you wanted the ivory picture?" it was geoffrey who asked the question. he and ralph ravenspur were moving along the lanes that led up to the cliffs. they were deep lanes, with overhanging edges on either side--lanes where it was not easy for two conveyances to pass. "i dare say you would," ralph replied. "but not at present. in due course you must know everything. geoffrey, you are fond of novel reading?" "yes, especially books of the gaboriau type. and yet, in all my reading, i never knew a more thrilling mystery than that of the ivory portrait." "you had a good look at it, then?" "of course i did. the likeness to marion was amazing. it might have been her own photograph on the ivory. it was the same, yet not the same--marion transformed to an avenging fury." "an ancestress of hers, no doubt?" "of course. the idea of it being marion herself is out of the question." "that you may dismiss at once," ralph said. "the age of the medallion proves that and marion is an angel." "she is. uncle ralph, i am fearfully puzzled. what can marion's queer ancestors and all that kind of thing have to do with our family terror?" ralph declined to say, beyond the fact that there was a connection. a horseman was coming pounding down the lane and he stepped aside instinctively. "jessop," he murmured, "i can tell by the trot of his horse." jessop, one of the farmers on the estate, it was. geoffrey regarded his companion admiringly. he seemed to be able to dispense with eyes altogether. a long course of training in woodcraft stood him in good stead now. the apple-cheeked farmer pulled up so as to pass the squires at a walking pace. "morning, jessop," geoffrey cried cheerfully. "where are you going dressed in your best. and what are you doing with that feminine-looking box?" the big man grinned sheepishly. "riding into town," he explained. "fact is, missus and myself have got a lodger, a great lady, who's taken our drawing-room and two bedrooms. they do say it's going to be the fashion for the 'quality' to spend their holidays right in t'country. it's a rare help to us these hard times." ralph ravenspur turned round suddenly upon his nephew. "is it a fact?" he demanded. "is it as jessop says?" "i believe so," geoffrey replied. "i know that for the last five years the influx of visitors along this lonely coast has been steadily growing. it seems to have become quite the thing for good-class people to take cottages and farmhouses miles away from everywhere, but i have not heard of any of our tenants having them before." "i be the first here, sir," jessop replied. "the lady came over and said she had been recommended to come to us. not as i wanted her at first, but six guineas a week for two months ain't to be despised. but the lady has a power of parcels to be fetched and carried, surely. that's why i'm off to town." jessop touched his hat and rode on. for a time ralph was silent. "it's some time since i last visited an english watering-place," he said, "and scarborough was the spot in question. we had a furnished house there one season, a good house, well furnished, and beautifully situated. we paid eight pounds a week for it, and it was considered to be a lot of money. don't you think that jessop's lodger must be a very extravagant kind of woman?" geoffrey laughed. like most young men born to the purple, he had a light estimate of the value of money. "now you come to think of it, perhaps so," he said. "over at brigg, the farmers fancy they do well if they get ten shillings a room for the week." again ralph was thoughtful. he and his companion came up out of the lane, and then it dawned upon geoffrey that the other had turned, not towards the cliffs as arranged, but inland in the direction of jessop's farm. there was a long, deep lane to the west side of the stone farmhouse, into which ralph turned. from a gap in the hedge a peep into the garden could be obtained. there was a trim lawn bordered by old-fashioned flowers, two bay windows led from the house to the garden. these bay windows led from the show rooms of the house, rooms never opened except on state occasions. the house might have been made fit for anybody with very little alteration. ralph sat down on the grass and slowly filled an aged black pipe. "i'm going to smoke here while you see mrs. jessop. i have a fancy to find out all about this fashionable lady who buries herself in the country like this. call it curiosity if you like, but do as i ask you. if you can see the lady so much the better." geoffrey agreed cheerfully. a moment or two later and he was gossiping with the buxom farmer's wife in the kitchen, a glass of amber, home-brewed ale before him. he was a favorite with the tenantry, and none the less beloved because of the cloud that was hanging over him. "it does one's eyes good to see you again, mr. geoffrey," mrs. jessop cried. "and you so cheerful and bright, and all, dear, dear! i'm main sorry i can't ask you in the parlor, but we've got a lodger." "so jessop told me. not that i don't feel far more comfortable here. and what may your distinguished visitor be like, mrs. jessop?" "dark and handsome. and dressed over so. might be a princess, who had just slipped off her throne. and clever. she had books and books, some in languages that look like chinese puzzles." "some great society dame, no doubt." "i shouldn't be surprised, mr. geoffrey. but not english, i should fancy, though she speaks the language as well as you or i. and simple, too. just tea and toast for breakfast with a little meat and rice for luncheon and dinner with stewed fruit. and she never drinks anything but water. what she spends a week in food wouldn't keep one of our laborers. and she had pounds' worth of hot-house flowers sent from york every day." mrs. jessop paused. there was a rustling of something rich, and a lady entered the kitchen. geoffrey rose instantly from the table upon which he had been seated. he saw a tall woman who might have been anything between thirty and fifty years of age, a woman of great beauty. it was the hard, commanding style of beauty that men call regal. she might have been a queen, but for the faint suggestion of the adventuress about her. to geoffrey's bow she made the slightest possible haughty recognition. "i'm going out, mrs. jessop," she said. "i shall be back to luncheon. if a telegram should happen to come for me, i shall be along the cliffs between here and beauhaven." she flashed out of the kitchen all rustling and gleaming, and leaving the faint suggestion of some intoxicating perfume behind her. and yet, notwithstanding her proud indifference, it seemed to geoffrey that she had regarded him with more than passing interest just for the moment. "she is very beautiful," he said. "she is a total stranger to me, and yet she reminds me of somebody else, somebody whose name i can't recall, but who is totally different. it is a strange sort of feeling that i cannot explain." "she's interested for all her haughtiness," said mrs. jessop. "i'm sure if she has asked me one question about your family, she has asked a thousand." geoffrey strolled away round the house. there was a short cut to the place where ralph was seated, and this short cut lay along the lawn. geoffrey's feet made no noise. as he passed the window of the sitting-room he looked in. the place was full of flowers, white flowers everywhere. there were azaleas and geraniums and carnations, with delicate foliage of tender green, thousands of blooms, arranged wherever a specimen glass or a bowl could go. standing with his back to the window, a man was arranging them. and the man was a hindoo, or other eastern, one of the men geoffrey had seen going through that queer incantation on the cliffs. strange, more than strange, that mrs. jessop had said nothing of him. geoffrey prudently slipped away before he had been seen. he found his uncle doggedly smoking under the hedge. he looked like patience personified. "well," he said, "have you anything wonderful to relate?" "pretty well," geoffrey replied. "to begin with, i have actually seen the lady." "ah! but go on. tell me everything, everything mind, to the minutest detail." geoffrey proceeded to explain. whether he was interesting his listener or not he could not tell, for ralph had assumed his most wooden expression; indeed, a casual spectator would have said that he was not paying the slightest attention. then he began to ask questions, in a languid way, but geoffrey could see that they were all to the point. "i should not be surprised," he said, "if the man you saw in the house was one of the men you saw on the cliffs. mrs. jessop said nothing about him, because she knew nothing. so he was arranging the lady's flowers. what flowers?" "azaleas and carnations and geraniums. nothing else." "well, there may be worse taste, if there can be bad taste with flowers. any color?" "yes, they were all white. i was a little surprised at that, considering that the lady was so dark and eastern-looking." "of course you ascertained her name?" "indeed, i did nothing of the kind. i forgot all about it. but i had a good look at her, and the description i gave you is quite correct. uncle, i don't want to seem unduly curious, but i fancy you expected to find this lady here." ralph rose to his feet slowly, and knocked out the ashes of his pipe. he turned his face toward the castle. "i am not altogether surprised," he said. not another word was said for some time. ralph appeared to be deeply cogitating, so deeply that geoffrey asked of what he was thinking. "i was thinking," ralph said slowly, yet drily, and with the same dense manner, "that a pair of dark, gold-rimmed glasses would improve my personal appearance." chapter xvi the white flowers surely enough, when ralph ravenspur came into the great hall, where tea was being served, he was wearing a pair of dark glasses, with gold rims. slight as the alteration was in itself, it changed him almost beyond recognition. he had been doing something to his face also, for the disfiguring scar had practically disappeared. as he came feeling his way to a chair, the slight thread of conversation snapped altogether. "don't mind me," he said quietly. "you will get used to the change, and you cannot deny it is a change for the better. one of the causes leading to this vanity was a remark i overheard on the part of one of the servants. she expressed the opinion that i should look better in glasses. that opinion i shared. i have no doubt the maid was correct." all this was uttered in the dry, soft, caustic manner ralph constantly affected. nobody answered, mostly because it was assumed that no reply was expected. with a cup of tea in his hand ralph began to speak of other things. leading from the hall was a big conservatory. here marion was busy among her flowers. she was singing gently as she snipped a bud here and there, and vera was helping her. curled up in a leisure chair, geoffrey was absorbed in a book. the smoke from his cigarette circled round his head. ralph placed his cup down again and felt his way into the conservatory. he stood in the doorway listening to the controversy going on beyond. "i don't fancy i shall like it," said vera. "it will be too cold, too funereal." "my dear child," marion cried, "then we will abandon the idea. only don't forget that it was your own suggestion. you said it would look chaste." "did i really! then i had forgotten about it. and we are not going to abandon the idea. it shall not be said that i change my mind like a weathercock. the flowers on the dinner table to-night are all going to be white." marion paused in the act of cutting a lily. "i don't fancy i would," she urged. "after all, second thoughts are best. white flowers on a table do suggest a funeral, that is if they are all white. and in an unfortunate house like this anything melancholy is to be discouraged. i think i will throw these blooms away----" "you will do nothing of the kind," vera cried. "white it shall be, and you and i shall arrange them in the best possible style. why, you have enough already. come along and we'll 'fix' up the table at once. uncle ralph, how you startled me." "did i?" ralph said coolly. "i fancy it is my mission in life to startle people. what have you two been quarreling about?" "we were not quarreling," vera replied. "marion insists that white flowers on a dinner-table are cold and chilly, not to say funereal. i say they are chaste and elegant. and, to prove that i am right, the table to-night will be decorated with white flowers." "not with my consent," marion laughed. "i have set my face dead against the whole business. but spoilt vera always gets her own way." vera smiled as she passed on with an armful of the nodding white flowers. ralph passed slowly into the conservatory and closed the stained-glass door behind him. then he crossed the tiled floor rapidly as if his eyes were all that could be desired, and slipped up a glass panel at the far end of the conservatory. from this point there was a sheer fall down the cliffs on to a hard sandy beach below. "just the same," ralph muttered. "nothing altered. and just as easy." he crossed the tiles again and passed into the great stone flagged hall in his slow way. then he proceeded to light his pipe and strolled into the grounds. past the terrace he went until he came to the cliffs where he was out of sight of the house. then with the confidence of the mountain goat he made his way to the beach, the hard strip of beach that lay under the shadow of the castle. here he fumbled for some time among the damp slippery rocks, feeling for something with infinite care and patience. his perseverance was rewarded at last. his hands lay on a mass of flowers, damp and sodden and yet comparatively fresh. he lifted one to his nostrils and sniffed it. "as i thought," he said, "as i expected. how cunning it all is, how beautifully worked out! and nothing, however small, is left to chance. well, i came home in the nick of time, and i have found an ally i can depend upon. only it was just as well not to let geoffrey know that i knew of jessop's lodger before to-day. i wonder if my lady guesses how carefully she is being watched." half an hour later ralph was in the castle again, wandering about in his restless way and appearing to be interested in nothing, as usual. presently the great bell began to clang in the turret, and the family partly gathered in the dining room before dinner. vera was the last to arrive. "how lovely you look," geoffrey whispered. vera laughed and colored. she had a white dress without ornament and without flowers, save a deep red rose in her hair. "that red rose is the crowning touch," said geoffrey. "i thought it was to be all white to-night," ralph said. he had caught the whispered words, as he seemed to catch everything. "was that not so, vera?" "not for me, sir," vera replied. "i am in white." "i wish you could see her," geoffrey said tenderly, "she looks lovely. her eyes are so blue, her skin is like the sunny side of a peach." "and your tongue is like that of a goose," vera laughed. "never mind, uncle ralph. never mind. if you can't have the inestimable advantage of gazing on my perfect beauty, you shall have the privilege of sitting by me at dinner." geoffrey pleaded with comic despair, but vera was obdurate. as the bell clanged again, she laid a hand light as thistledown on ralph's arm. she was brighter and more gay than usual this evening and marion played up to her, as she always did. the elders were silent. perhaps the white flowers on the table checked them. they were so suggestive of the wreaths on a coffin. when once the cloth was drawn in the good old-fashioned way, and the decanters and lamps and glasses stood mirrored in the shining dark mahogany, the resemblance was more marked than ever. the long strip of white damask, whereon lamps and flowers and decanters rested, might have been a winding sheet. rupert ravenspur protested moodily. "it's dreadful in a house like this," he said. "who did it?" "i am the culprit, dearest," vera admitted prettily. "marion did all in her power to prevent me, but i would have my own foolish way. if you will forgive me i will promise that it shall not occur again." rupert ravenspur smiled. it was only when he was looking at vera that the tender relaxation came over his stern old face. then his eyes fixed on the flowers and they seemed to draw him forward. "you are forgiven," he said. "marion was right, as she always is. what should we do without your cheerfulness and good advice? upon my word i feel as if those flowers were drawing all the reason out of me." nobody replied. it was a strange and curious thing that everybody seemed to be regarding the waxen blossoms in the same dull, sleepy, fascinating way. all eyes were turned upon them as eyes are turned upon some thrilling, repulsive performance. the silence was growing oppressive and painful. geoffrey gave a little gasp and laid his hand upon his chest. "what is it?" he said. "there is a pain here like a knife. i am burning." nobody took the faintest notice. only ralph seemed to be alive, and yet there was no kind of expression on his face. heads were drawing nearer and nearer to the vases where the graceful flowers were grouped--those innocent looking blooms which were the emblems of all that was fair and fine and beautiful. what did it mean, what strange mystery was here? nobody could speak, nobody wanted to speak; all were sinking, lulled and soothed into a poppyland sleep, even geoffrey who seemed to be fighting for something he knew not what. then ralph reached out his hand to the foot of the table. his long, lean fingers were tangled in the strip of damask down the mahogany table on which lamps and decanters and glasses and dishes of fruit were placed. with a vigorous pull he brought the whole thing crashing on the polished floor, where two pools of paraffin made a blaze of the wreck that ralph had caused. then he slid over the floor and opened one of the windows, letting in the pure air fresh from the north sea. chapter xvii whence did they come? in the darkness nobody spoke for a moment. not one of them could have said anything for a king's ransom. apart from the feeling of suffocation, the gradual poppy sleep of death that filled the room as a great wave suddenly engulfs some rocky cave, the dramatic horror of the darkness held them fast. at the same time there was something of a shock, a healthy shock in the plunge from light to gloom. a fitful purple gleam still flickered where the blazing paraffin had licked the hard oak polished floor; the breath of the sea breeze was bracing. it was marion who first came to herself as one comes out of a horrid nightmare. "oh, oh," she shuddered. "who opened the window?" nobody responded for a moment. ralph had crept to geoffrey's side. it was marvelous how he found his way in the intense darkness. "say you did it," he whispered. "you must say you did it. speak." "i suppose i did," geoffrey murmured. "i seem to recollect something of the kind." "you have saved our lives," said marion. "will somebody ring the bell?" servants came without much dismay or surprise. they were used to amazing things at ravenspur. it would have caused no more than a painful sensation to come in some night after dinner and find the whole family murdered. "bring more lamps," ralph ravenspur said quietly. lamps were brought. the disordered litter on the floor was swept up, the broken globes, the dainty china, the glass and silver. the white flowers were no longer there. this was a puzzle to everybody but ralph, who had gathered them at the first distraction, and thrown them out of the window. there was silence for a minute or two after the servants had withdrawn. then rupert ravenspur dashed his fist on the table in a passion of despair. "great heaven!" he said. "how long, how long? how much more of this is it possible to bear and still retain the powers of reason? what was it?" "could it have been the flowers?" vera suggested. "it was my fault." "no, no," marion cried. "why your fault? those white blossoms were innocent enough; we packed them ourselves, we arranged them together." "still, i believe it was the flowers," geoffrey observed. "why should they have fascinated us in that strange way? it was horrible!" horrible indeed, and not the less so because the horrible was not conspicuous by its absence. that innocent flowers, pure white blossoms, could lend themselves to a dark mystery like this was almost maddening. and yet it must have been so, for no sooner had the flowers been removed and the air of heaven had entered the room than the grip and bitterness of death were past. "i am sure we were near the end," marion cried. "geoff, was it you who snatched the cloth from the table?" geoffrey was about to deny the suggestion when his eyes fell upon ralph's face. it was eager, almost pleading in its aspect. like a flash the changing expression was gone. "it must have been mechanical," geoffrey murmured. "one does those things and calls them impulses. inspiration would be a better expression, i fancy." they crowded round him and gave him their thanks, all save ralph, who sat drumming his fingers on the table as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. nothing seemed to draw him out of his environment. still, it was another man who came creeping to geoffrey's room when the lights were extinguished and the castle was wrapped in slumber. there was an inner room lying out over the sea, which geoffrey used indifferently for a smoking room and study. "i can smoke my pipe here without a chance of our being overheard," he said. "well, was the adventure this evening creepy enough for you?" geoffrey shuddered slightly. flagrant, rioting dangers would have had no terrors for him. it was the unseen that played on the nerves of imagination. "horrible," he said, "but why this mystery?" "as far as i am concerned, you mean? my dear geoffrey, it is imperative that i should be regarded by everybody as a poor blind worm who is incapable for good or evil. i want people to pity me, to make way for me, to treat me as if i were of no account, a needless cumberer of the ground. i want to see that you prevent these tragedies by sheer chance. i will strike when the time comes!" the hoarse voice had sunk to a whisper, the sightless eyes rolled, the thin fingers crooked as if dragging down an unseen foe to destruction. as suddenly ralph changed his mood and laughed noiselessly. "let us not prophesy," he said. "what did you think of the episode?" "i don't know what to think about it." "then you have no theory to offer?" "no, uncle. i am in the dark. that is where the keen edge of the terror comes in. i should say it was the flowers. as the atmosphere of the room grew warmer, as the heat from the lamps drew out the fragrance of the blooms, the perfume seemed to become overpowering. the perfume riveted attention, arrested the senses, and gradually sense and feeling appeared to go altogether." "perfectly right, geoffrey. still, there is nothing very wonderful about it. lucretia borgia used the same means to despatch her victims. a poisoned bouquet was a favorite weapon of hers, you remember." "but the poison there was conveyed through the palms of the hands. why do we never hear of that sort of poison nowadays?" ralph smiled as he refilled his pipe. "i've got some of it myself," he said, "or at least tchigorsky has. it is poor, inartistic stuff, compared to some of the poisons known to tchigorsky and myself. there are eastern poisons unknown to science; toxicology little dreams of the drugs that tchigorsky and your poor uncle wot of. "you are right. those flowers were impregnated with the deadly drug that comes out with warmth. it comes as quickly as a breath of wind and does its work and vanishes almost immediately, leaving no trace behind. another minute and the whole family of ravenspur had been no more. there would have been a fearful sensation: doctors would have discoursed learnedly--and vaguely--and there would have been an end to the matter. not a soul in england would have had the remotest idea of the source of the tragedy. look here." from under his coat ralph produced a single white carnation. "that was on the table to-night," he said. "take it in your hands. smell it. do you recognize anything beyond the legitimate perfume?" geoffrey held the perfect bloom to his nostrils. he could detect nothing further. "it seems to me to be as innocent as beautiful," he said. "so it is, so it is--at present. give it me back again. see, i have here a little white, dull powder. in it is the one-thousandth part of a grain of the deadly drug. i dust the powder on the carnation, thus. the natural moisture in the leaves absorbs it and the flower presents a normal aspect. smell it." "i smell nothing at all," said geoffrey. "not yet. hold it to the lamp for ten seconds." geoffrey did so. at the end of the brief space he placed it to his nostrils as ralph suggested. immediately a drowsy feeling came over him, a desire for sleep, a desire to be at rest in body and mind, in heart and pulses. indeed, it seemed to him as if his heart had stopped already. through a yellow scented mist he seemed to see his uncle and hear the latter's voice commanding him to drop the carnation. he could not have done it to save himself from destruction. then the flower was plucked away. "how long have i been asleep?" he asked, suddenly opening his eyes. "you have been across the styx and back in exactly fifty seconds," ralph said gravely. "now you see the effect of that stuff. wonderfully artistic, isn't it?" geoffrey gazed at the flower with sickening horror. ralph seemed to divine this, for he picked it up, sniffed it coolly and placed it in his button-hole. "the evil effect has gone, believe me," he said. "the dose was very small, and i did not mix it with water, which makes a difference." "still, i don't follow," geoffrey said. "we know those flowers were cut and arranged by vera and marion. it would have been impossible for any one to have entered the dining-room and replaced them with other white flowers. and for anybody to have had the time to impregnate them one by one--oh, it is impossible!" "not at all, geoffrey. a mystery is like a conjuring trick--seemingly insoluble, but you know how it is done, and then it becomes bald and commonplace. suppose the stuff is mixed with water and the mixture placed in a small spray worked by an india-rubber ball. then one goes into the dining hall for half a minute, gives two or three rapid motions of the hand, and the thing is accomplished." "yes, that sounds easy. you speak as if you knew who did it." "yes," ralph said, with one of his spasmodic smiles, "i do." "you know the author of this dastardly thing. tell me." "not yet. i dare not tell you, because you are young and might betray yourself. i could not confide my secret to any one, even the best detective in england. it is only known to tchigorsky and myself. you shall help me in drawing the net around the miscreants, but you must not ask me that." "and to-night's doings are to remain a secret?" "of course. nobody is to know anything. they may conjecture as much as they like. good heavens, if any one in the house were to know what i have told you to-night, all my work would be undone. you are my instrument, by which i ward off danger without attracting attention to myself. you are the unsuspecting boy, who by sheer good luck foils the enemy. keep it up, keep it up; for so long as you appear young and unsophisticated, there is less of the deadly danger." chapter xviii mrs. mona may geoffrey was slightly puzzled but, like a good soldier, he asked no questions. more and more he was coming to recognize that it was ralph's to command and his to obey. doubtless ralph had some good reason when he treated his nephew like a puppet, but then the puppet was a long way from a fool, and as the days went on, it came home to him with an increasing force that he had a master mind to deal with. he had been told off this afternoon to lurk more or less concealed at the top of the steep pitch leading to the village, and there wait until something happened. it came at the end of a few minutes in the shape of a lady in perfect cycling costume, wheeling a machine up the hill towards jessop's farm. as she came nearer to the spot where geoffrey was smoking, a ragged nomad sprang from the hedge and demanded alms. the man was coarse and threatening, he was by no means sober, and his demands took the by no means modest form of a shilling. a second later there was a slight scream and geoffrey darted forward. the sight of a woman in distress sufficed for him; ralph was forgotten in an instant. there was a scuffle and a plunge, a rapid exit of the nomad and, hat in hand, geoffrey was receiving the thanks of a beautiful woman, who was pleased to assure him that he was her preserver. "it is nothing," geoffrey stammered, "nothing, really." it was not usual for him to be confused like this. but then he was standing face to face with the handsome stranger who had taken mr. jessop's rooms, the lady with the love of white flowers, the woman who employed oriental servants, who were given to strange incantations, the creature in whom ralph ravenspur had taken so vivid an interest. and geoffrey's confusion grew none the less as it flashed upon him that the intoxicated tramp had been the god in the car designed by ralph to bring this introduction about. he steadied himself. there was work before him now. "you exaggerate my poor services," he said. "not at all, i assure you," the lady said. her eyes held a strange fascination; her voice was low and sweetly sedative. she was years older than geoffrey, but just the kind of siren who drove young men mad, or lured them to destruction. "few strangers would have faced so formidable an opponent for me." "most of my countrymen would," geoffrey said. "i hope you have a better opinion of englishmen than that. but englishmen are not favorites abroad." the dark eyes were dancing with amusement. "you are under the impression that i am not english?" she asked. "well, there is a certain grace," geoffrey stammered, "that spoke of----" "foreign blood. precisely. but all the same, i am proud to call myself an englishwoman. my name is mrs. may--mona may. you are mr. geoffrey ravenspur." "at your service. i had the pleasure of seeing you the other morning in mrs. jessop's kitchen. meanwhile, to prevent any further trouble from our predatory friend, i am going to walk with you as far as the farm." mrs. may raised no objection; on the contrary, she seemed pleased with the idea. she was dangerous, she was mixed up in some way with the conspiracy against the peace and happiness of the house of ravenspur, and yet geoffrey found it hard to resist her fascinations. she spoke almost perfect english, her dress, and style and manner were insular, but there was a flashing grace about her, a suggestion of something warm and eastern, that gleamed and flashed in spite of her cycling dress and the wheel she pushed along so skillfully. she gave a sigh of regret as the farmhouse was reached. "well, i suppose we must part," she said. "really, it seems years since i spoke to a gentleman and i have only been here for days. i have been ordered absolute rest and quietness for the benefit of my health and, upon my word, i am getting it. would you take pity upon my loneliness and come to tea?" many an older man than geoffrey had been excused from yielding to such a request. those eyes were so dark and pleading, and the man was young. besides, he had an excuse. had not his uncle ralph planned this thing and was it not intended to bring about an introduction! besides, once inside that room, it might be possible to find something that in the future would yield great results. "i shall be only too pleased," geoffrey murmured. "then come along," mrs. may said gaily. "if you are fond of a good cup of tea, then i have some of the most perfect in the world." she led the way into the old-fashioned drawing-room, which she had rendered beautiful with flowers. the stiff furniture looked stiff no longer. the hand of an artistic woman had been here and the whole aspect was changed. "you should have seen it when i came here," mrs. may smiled as she followed geoffrey's glance. "it was like a condemned cell. and yet there are things of price here. a little alteration and a few flowers--ah, what a difference flowers make!" she pointed to her own floral decorations. the room was ablaze with them. and they were all scarlet. there was not a single bloom of any other kind to be seen. "they match my style of beauty," mrs. may laughed. "i never have any other here." "you do not care for white flowers?" geoffrey asked. "i abhor them. they suggest beautiful maidens cut off in their prime, dead children, the tomb, and all kinds of horrors. i would not have one in the house." geoffrey was discreetly silent. remembering the hundreds of white flowers he himself had seen in this very room not so long ago, this speech staggered him. in a dazed kind of way he watched mrs. may light a spirit lamp under a silver kettle, after which she excused herself on the score of fetching the famous tea. geoffrey picked up an album and turned the leaves over rapidly. there were soldiers, one or two native indian officials, a great number of society people, professional beauties, and the like and--and marion! yes, her fair tender face smiled from the embossed, richly gilt page. the picture had been taken some years ago, but there was no mistaking those pure features. geoffrey closed the book and walked over to the window. surprise upon surprise had come upon him lately, but this was staggering. when mrs. may returned he was himself again. he could answer her questions gaily and smoothly. it was only when he was on his way home again that he recollected how much information he had imparted and how little he had got in return. "you must come and see me again," mrs. may said. "now, can't you come up some evening and dine with me? say thursday. unless i hear from you to the contrary i shall see you on thursday at seven. a primitive time, but then we are in the country." "you may be certain," geoffrey said carelessly, "that i shall come if possible. good-bye, mrs. may. in ordinary circumstances my people would have called upon you. you will know why it is impossible." mrs. may pressed geoffrey's hand with gentle sympathy. "you have my real regrets," she said. "what a horrible thing it is to think that you are all powerless to help it. good-bye." geoffrey found ralph at the entrance to the castle gate. there was a queer smile on his face, a smile of amused expectation. "you found her charming?" he asked. "and clever," said geoffrey. "i guessed your plot, uncle. she is very clever." "the cleverest woman in the world, the most wicked, the most unscrupulous. of course she asked you to dinner, and, of course, you will go. nobody is to know of it, mind." "uncle, how did you guess that?" "i'll tell you presently. and i'll tell you many things you will have to say and leave unsaid to--mrs. may." "tell me why marion's photograph is in her album." "so she showed you that!" "no, i found it out by accident. is marion connected with her?" "very closely, indeed. she is marion's evil genius. and yet through that pure and innocent girl we are going to strike at the heart of the mystery. ask me no questions, now; to-night we will go carefully into the matter." chapter xix vera is not pleased any stranger looking along the terrace at ravenspur would have been inclined to envy the lot of those who had their habitation there. it looked so grand, so dignified, so peaceful. brilliant sunshine shone upon the terrace; against the grey stone of the grand old façade, the emerald green of the lawns rose refreshing to the eyes, those old lawns like velvet that only come with the passing of centuries. people from the rush and fret of cities, excursionists, who had their sordid, humdrum life in towns, turned longing eyes to ravenspur. anybody who lived in a place like that must be happy. and some of them looked it. geoffrey, for instance, as he lounged on the terrace with a cigarette between his strong white teeth. he was seated with a cap over his eyes and appeared to be given over to a pleasant reverie. a rod and an empty fishing basket stood by his side. ralph ravenspur lounged up to him. perhaps he had been waiting for his nephew. at any rate, he always knew where to find him. he sat with the sunshine full upon his sightless eyes and smoked his pipe placidly. "there is nobody about?" he asked. "nobody," geoffrey replied. "do you want to say anything to me?" ralph made no reply. geoffrey watched him curiously. "do you know you seem to be a long way off to me this afternoon?" he said presently. "i can't quite explain my meaning. since you have worn those glasses you look a different man. there, now you are yourself again." ralph had taken off the glasses for a moment. "is the difference very marked?" ralph asked. "very marked, indeed. honestly, i should not have known you." ralph gave a sigh, whether of sorrow or satisfaction geoffrey could not say. "time will prove whether the disguise is of any value or not," he said. "i came to ask you about this evening. are you going?" "of course i am. mrs. mona may fascinates me. on the whole, i have deemed it advisable to say nothing to the others. we cannot call upon mrs. may and they need not know that i have had any intercourse with her." ralph nodded. perhaps he alone knew the real need for secrecy in this matter. "quite right," he said. "the less said the better. she wrote to you, of course?" "oh, yes. i had the letter yesterday." "and destroyed it, of course?" "upon my word, i've forgotten. i see you are angry with me. well, i will try not to make a similar mistake again." from the expression of his face ralph was greatly moved. his features flamed with anger, he was trembling with passion to his finger-tips. then his mood suddenly changed. he laid a kindly hand on geoffrey's knee. "my boy," he said, earnestly. "there are reasons, weighty reasons why i cannot take you entirely into my confidence. if i did so, you would see the vital necessity of caution even in the most minute matters. you will see that mrs. may's letter is destroyed at once." "i will, uncle. the rest of the family believe i am going to alton to-night." ralph nodded. he seemed already to have forgotten the circumstances. he had fallen into one of those waking reveries that were deep as sleep to most men. geoffrey spoke to him more than once, but failed to gain the slightest attention. then ralph rose and moved away like a man in a dream. geoffrey lounged about till he had finished his cigarette. he tossed the end away and then proceeded towards the house. he would get that letter and destroy it without further delay. but this was easier said than done, for the simple reason that the letter was nowhere to be found. high and low geoffrey searched for it, but all to no purpose. had he left it in the dining-room or the library? possibly in the latter place, seeing that he had written a couple of notes there earlier in the day. it was dim, not to say gloomy in the library, and for a moment geoffrey failed to see that vera was seated at the table. he crossed over and touched her caressingly on the cheek. she looked up coldly. "what are you looking for?" she asked. "a letter, dearest," geoffrey replied. "but why do you look so strange----" "oh, you ask me that! it is a letter you are looking for. then perhaps i may be so fortunate as to assist you. i have just found a letter lying here addressed to you. as it lay with face open i could not but read it. see here!" a square of thick scented notepaper filled with a dashing black caligraphy shook before geoffrey's eyes. it was mrs. may's writing beyond a doubt. geoffrey flushed slightly as he took the note. "read it," vera said quietly, "read it aloud." geoffrey did so. it struck him now--it had never occurred to him before--that the writer was slightly caressing in her manner of phrasing. there was a suggestion of something warmer and more personal than the stereotyped lines implied. "so this is the alton where you are going to-night?" vera went on. "who is the woman? how long have you known her?" the quick blood came flaming to geoffrey's face. he had never seen vera hard and cold like this before. it was a woman and not a girl who was speaking now. geoffrey resented the questions; they came as a teacher addresses a child. "i cannot tell you," he said. "it has to do with the family secret." "and you expect me to believe this, geoffrey?" "of course i do," geoffrey cried. "did you ever know me tell you a lie? and, after all the years we have been together, you are going to be jealous of the first woman who comes along! have i been mistaken in you, vera?" the girl's beautiful eyes filled with tears. she had been sorely vexed and hurt, far more hurt than she cared geoffrey to know. for it seemed to her that he had wilfully deceived her, that he was going to see this creature of whom he was secretly ashamed, that he had lied so that he could seek her company without suspicion in the minds of others. "if you give me your word of honor," vera faltered, "that you----" "no, no," geoffrey cried. "i merely state the facts and you may believe them or not as you please. who mrs. may is i decline to say. how i became, acquainted with her i also decline to explain. suffice it that she is mrs. may, and that she has rooms at jessop's farm." "and that is all you are going to tell me, geoffrey?" "yes, vera. if you have lost faith in me----" "oh, no, no! don't say such cruel things, geoff. whom have i beyond my parents and you in the whole world! and when i found that letter, when i knew what you said about alton was--was not true----" she paused unable to proceed. her little hands went out imploringly and geoffrey caught them in his own. he drew her to his side and gazed into her eyes. "darling," he whispered, "you know that i love you?" "yes, dear, it was foolish of me to doubt it." "i love you now and always. i can never change. i did not intend to tell you about this woman because it was all part of the secret. the wise man among us has said it, and his word is law. i am speaking of uncle ralph." vera nodded with a brighter glance. had not she a secret in common with ralph? "say no more," she whispered. "i am ashamed of myself." geoffrey kissed the quivering red lips passionately. "spoken like my own, vera," he said. "now i will give you my word of honor----" "no, no. it is not necessary, geoff. i was foolish. i might have known better. not another thought will i give to mrs. mona may." vera spoke in all sincerity. but our thoughts are often our masters and they were so in this case. mona may was a name graven on vera's mind, and the time was coming when with fervent gratitude she blessed the hour when she had found that letter. chapter xx a fascinating woman mrs. jessop's simple parlor had been transformed beyond recognition. the fine chippendale furniture had been brought forward; the gaudy settees and sofas had been covered with fine, eastern silks and tapestries. a pair of old dresden candlesticks stood on the table, and under pink shades the candles cast a glamor of subdued light upon damask and silver and china. as geoffrey was ushered in mrs. may came forward. she was dressed entirely in black, her wonderfully fine arms and shoulders gleamed dazzling almost as the diamonds that were as frosty stars in the glorious night of her hair. one great red bloom of some flower unknown to geoffrey was in her breast. as to the rest, the flowers were all scarlet. the effect was slightly dazzling. mrs. may came forward with a smile. "so you have managed to elude the philistines," she said. "ah, i guessed that you would say nothing to your friends about our little dinner." there was an eager note in the words that conveyed a half question. geoffrey smiled. "may i venture to suggest that the knowledge is not displeasing to you?" he said. "well, i admit it. in the circumstances to explain would have been a bore. your people cannot call on me and, being old-fashioned, they might not care for you to come here alone. therefore, being a man of the world, you told them nothing about it." geoffrey smiled, as he took the proffered cigarette. had he not been warned against this woman by ralph, her subtle flattery would have put him off his guard. it is always so sweet and soothing for a youngster to be taken for a man of the world. "you have guessed it all," he said. "my grandfather is a grand seigneur. he has no toleration for anything that is not _en règle_. what an exquisite cigarette!" mrs. may nodded. they were excellent cigarettes, as also was the liqueur she insisted upon pouring out for geoffrey with her own hands. he had never tasted anything like it before. and the dinner when it came was a perfect little poem in its way. not a flask of wine on the table that had not a history. long before the meal was over geoffrey found himself forgetting his caution. not that geoffrey had anything to be afraid of. he knew that in some way this woman was connected with the tragedy of his race; for all that he knew to the contrary, she might be the spirit directing the tragedies. she was his enemy, though she smiled upon him with a dazzling fascination calculated to turn cooler heads than his. but, at any rate, she had not asked him here to poison him at her own table. mrs. mona may was too fine an artist for that. presently geoffrey came out of his dream to find himself talking. mrs. may seemed to be putting all the questions and he was giving all the answers. and yet, directly, she asked no questions at all. she was sympathetic and interested in the family, as she explained with kindness and feeling. "and there is that poor blind gentleman," she said sweetly. her eyes were bent over her dessert plate. she was peeling a peach daintily. there was just for the fraction of a second a ring in her voice that acted on geoffrey as a cold douche does to a man whose senses are blurred with liquor. some instinct told him that they were approaching the crux of the interview. "my uncle ralph," he said carelessly. "he is a mystery. he keeps himself to himself and says nothing to anybody. sometimes i fancy he is a clever man, who despises us, and at other times i regard him as a man whose misfortunes have dulled his brain and that he strives to conceal the fact." mrs. may smiled. but she returned to the charge again. but strive as she would, she could get no more on this head out of geoffrey. she wanted to know who the man was and all about him. and she learned nothing beyond the fact that he was a poor nonentity, despised by his relations. geoffrey's open sincerity puzzled her. perhaps there was nothing to learn after all. "strange that he did not stay away," she murmured, "knowing that the family curse must overtake him." geoffrey shrugged his shoulders carelessly. "what can an unfortunate like that have to live for?" he asked. "he is broken in mind and in body and has no money of his own. it is just like the old fox who crawls to the hole to die. and we are getting used to the curse by this time." "you have no hope, no expectation of the truth coming to light?" it was on the tip of geoffrey's tongue to speak freely of his hopes for the future. instead he bent his head over the table, saying nothing till he felt he had full control of his voice once more. then he spoke in the same hopeless tones. "i have become a fatalist," he said. "please change the subject." mrs. may did so discreetly and easily. and yet in a few moments the doings of the ravenspurs were on her tongue again and, almost unconsciously, geoffrey found himself talking about marion, mrs. may listening quietly. "i have seen the young lady," she said. "she has a nice face." "marion is an angel," geoffrey cried. "her face is perfect. you have only to look at her to see what she is. nobody with a countenance like that could do wrong, even if she wished it. no matter who and what it is everybody comes under marion's sway. men, women, children, dogs, all turn to her with the same implicit confidence." "marion seems to be a warm favorite," mrs. may smiled. "and yet i rather gather that she does not hold first place in your affections?" "i am engaged to my cousin vera," geoffrey explained. "we were boy and girl lovers before marion came to us. otherwise--well, we need not go into that. but i never saw any one like marion till to-night." mrs. may looked up swiftly. "what do you mean by that?" she asked. "i mean exactly what i say. in certain ways, in certain lights, under certain conditions your face is marvelously like that of marion." as geoffrey spoke he saw that the blood had left the cheek of his companion. her face was deadly pale, so pale that the crimson flower in her breast seemed to grow vivid. there was a motion of the elbow and a wine glass went crashing to the floor. the woman stooped to raise the fragments. "how clumsy of me!" she said. "and why are you regarding me so intently? my heart is a little wrong, the doctors tell me--nothing serious, however. there!" she looked up again. she had recovered and her face was tinged with the red flush of health again. but her hands still shook. but geoffrey was taking no heed. he had dropped the match he was about to apply to his cigarette and was staring out of the window. the blind had not been drawn; the panes were framed with flowers. and inside that dark circle there came a face, a dark eastern face, with awful eyes, filled with agony and rage and pain. across the dusky forehead was a cut from which blood streamed freely. "you are not listening to me," mrs. may cried. "what is the matter?" "the face, a face at the window," geoffrey gasped. "a horrible-looking man, not of this country at all; a man with a gash in his forehead. he seemed to be looking for something. when he caught sight of me he disappeared." mrs. may had risen and crossed to the long french window opening on to the lawn. her back was towards geoffrey and she seemed determined, or so he imagined, to keep her face concealed from him. "strange," she said, carelessly, though she was obviously disturbed. "surely you were mistaken. some trick of the brain, a freak of imagination." geoffrey laughed. young men at his time of life, men, who follow healthy pursuits, are not given to tricks of the imagination. his pulse was beating steadily; his skin was moist and cool. "i am certain of it," he said. "what is that noise?" something was calling down the garden. long before this time the good people of the farm had gone to bed. "shall i go and see what it is?" geoffrey asked. "no, no," mrs. may whispered. "stay here, i implore you. i would not have had this happen for anything. what am i saying?" she passed her hand cross her face and laughed unsteadily. "there are secrets in everybody's life and there are in mine," she said. "stay till i return. there will be no danger for me, i assure you." she slipped out into the darkness and was gone. geoffrey stooped and bent over a dark blot or two that lay on the stone still at the bottom of the window. "blood," he muttered, "blood beyond a doubt. it was no delusion of mine." from outside came the swish of silken drapery. it was mrs. may returning. she seemed herself again by this time. "the danger is past," she said, "if danger you choose to call it. the next time we meet we shall laugh together over this comedy. i assure you it is a comedy. and now i am going to ask you to leave me." the woman was playing a part and playing it extremely well. with less innate knowledge, geoffrey would have been thoroughly deceived. as it was, he affected to make light of the matter. he held out his hand with a smile. "i am glad of that," he said. "you must let me come again, when, perhaps, you may be disposed to allow me to assist you. good-night and thank you for one of the pleasantest evenings of my life." the door closed behind geoffrey, and he stumbled along in the darkness until his eyes became accustomed to the gloom. out in the road some one crept up to him and laid a hand on his arm. like a flash geoffrey had him by the throat. "speak, or i will kill you," he whispered. "who are you?" "come with me at once," came the hoarse reply. "and release that grip of my throat. i am sergius tchigorsky." chapter xxi the mystery deepens geoffrey recognized the deep rasping tones of tchigorsky directly. his hand dropped to his side. no need to tell him that danger was in the air. it was the thick, still kind of night that goes with adventure. "something has happened?" geoffrey asked. "something is going to happen unless we prevent it," tchigorsky replied. "the enemy has been foiled three times lately and is getting uneasy. he begins to realize that he has to cope with somebody who understands the game. it is no use to work in this deadly mysterious fashion as long as certain people can read the danger signals and act upon them, and therefore it has been decided to fall back upon more vulgar methods. you are not afraid of danger?" "not in the least. try me." "the danger is great. you are dealing with some of the cleverest people on earth. if you are discovered you will be put away. your courage will be tested to the utmost. are you ready?" geoffrey hesitated but for a moment. his senses seemed to be braced and strengthened. he seemed to hear better all at once; his eyes penetrated farther into the gloom. there was a feeling of eagerness, of exultation upon him. he took tchigorsky's lean claw and laid it upon his left wrist. "feel that," he said. "is not my pulse steady? i am longing to go forward. only give me a chance to find the truth." tchigorsky chuckled. this was the kind of grit he admired. "you will do," he said. "and you will go alone on your expedition. you are acquainted with all the vaults and passages of the castle by this time; every inch of the ground is known to you. give me your coat and shoes." geoffrey handed them over, getting a pair of rubber-soled shoes and a rough pea jacket in exchange. in the pocket of the latter he found a revolver. "now what am i to do?" he demanded. "stand here," tchigorsky explained. "presently you will see a figure or two, perhaps more. you will not understand what they are saying, but that makes no difference. you are to follow them, stick to them. if nothing happens by dawn you can afford to leave them to their own devices. if circumstances place you in dire peril, be brave, for help is not far off." geoffrey might have asked another question or two. but tchigorsky turned away abruptly and was speedily lost in the darkness. and then followed for geoffrey the most trying part of the business, waiting for the first sign of the foe. half an hour passed and still no sign. had the affair miscarried and the miscreants got away in some other direction? strain his ears as he would, geoffrey could catch nothing. then at length something soft and rustling seemed to be creeping along on the lawn on the other side of the hedge. geoffrey crept through the gate into the garden. almost instantly he dropped on his face, for somebody carrying a lantern was softly creeping in his direction. it was the figure of a woman, a woman who had a black lace shawl so wrapped about her that in the feeble light it was impossible to make out her features. she paused and made a hissing sound between her teeth. as if they had been evolved out of geoffrey's inner consciousness, there appeared two men upon the lawn one was lying on his back, his head supported on the arm of his companion. they were indian natives of some kind, but of what race precisely geoffrey could not say. the prostrate man had an ugly cut across his forehead; it was the same man that geoffrey had seen looking through the window. a crafty, ugly, sinister face it was, full of cunning malignity. the eyes were dull, but the fires of hate were still in them. the woman stooped down and produced cool bandages soaked in some pungent liquid, which she proceeded to bind round the brows of the injured man. even at his respectful distance geoffrey could catch the odor of the bandages. he watched the weird midnight scene with breathless interest. there was something creepy about the whole business. if these people had nothing to conceal, all this surgical work might have taken place indoor; they might have called assistance. geoffrey tried to catch sight of the woman's features. but that was impossible. still, there was something familiar about her. geoffrey felt quite sure that he had seen that graceful figure before. she stood up presently and geoffrey no longer had any doubt. it was mrs. mona may. the injured man rose also. he staggered along on the arm of his companion and geoffrey could with some difficulty see them enter the sitting room. he paused in some doubt as to his next move, but before he was called upon to decide, mrs. may and the other native came out again. evidently they had left the injured man behind. then they emerged into the road and started off rapidly toward the cliffs. "going some way by the pace they are walking," geoffrey muttered, "and at the same time they must be back before daylight, or they would never have dared to leave that fellow at jessop's. what a good thing i know the country." geoffrey followed at a respectful distance, his rubber shoes making no sound. for the time of year the night was intensely dark, which was in geoffrey's favor. also, with his close knowledge of the locality, he had no fear of making mistakes. the couple were not more than fifty yards ahead of him. they had not the slightest idea they were being followed, seeing that they were talking earnestly and none too quietly in a language that was greek to geoffrey. now and again he caught the low laugh that came from the woman's lips. by and by the cliffs were reached, and here the two began to descend a path that would have been dangerous to unaccustomed feet even in the broad daylight. but the man seemed to know the way perfectly and the woman followed without hesitation. they came presently to the firm sand, fringed by the ebbing tide. then they turned to the right, pausing at length before a solid-looking expanse of cliff that stood right under ravenspur castle. one moment they loomed darkly against the brown rocks, the next minute they seemed to be swallowed up by the cliffs. they had entered the mouth of a cave. geoffrey followed still more cautiously. on and on they went, until at length they paused. then the light from the lantern grew stronger. from behind a ledge of seaweed-clad granite geoffrey watched them furtively. they were waiting for something--a signal, probably--before going farther. the signal seemed to come at last, from where it was impossible for geoffrey to judge, and then the advance was resumed. presently they emerged into the deep below-tide level vault under the castle, where geoffrey had seen marion walking in her sleep. mrs. may turned to her companion and gave him some sharp command. she had lost all her levity and geoffrey could see that her dark eyes were glowing. the native salaamed and laid his hand upon the lantern. the next instant the place was plunged into pitchy darkness. five, ten minutes passed, and nothing was heard but the lap of the ebbing tide on the shore. then a hand was gently laid on geoffrey's arm. chapter xxii deeper still so startled was geoffrey that he felt the moisture spurt from every pore like a rash. but, fully conscious of his danger, he suppressed the cry that rose to his lips, nor did he move as he felt a thick cloak thrown over his head. he slipped his revolver into his hand and fumbled it against the cold cheek of his antagonist. but the antagonist took it coolly. a pair of lips were close to geoffrey's ear and the smallest, faintest voice spelt out the letters, t-c-h-i-g-o-r-s-k-y. geoffrey put the weapon back in his pocket. at the same time he felt about till his fingers touched the hand of his companion. no doubt about it. the other was tchigorsky beyond question. perhaps he had been testing geoffrey's courage and resolution; perhaps the danger had deepened unexpectedly. presently the light of the lantern popped up again, in response to some subtle signal, and once more the conspirators moved on to the vault above. tchigorsky lifted his head. "where are they going?" geoffrey asked. tchigorsky responded with one of his diabolical chuckles. "they imagine that they are going into the castle," he said. "but they are not going to accomplish that part of the program." "but what do they want there?" "what should they want? you know something of those now whose business it is to wipe you out root and branch. more artistic methods having failed, they may deem it necessary to fall back on more vulgar plans. there are five people sleeping in the castle--six with your uncle ralph--who stand in the way. it is possible if the fiends are lucky that the castle may be devoid of life by daybreak." geoffrey could not repress a shudder. "fiends, indeed!" he said. "but why not stop it? why not let them enter and then take them all red-handed?" "what could we gain by that? we could not connect them with past crimes! at worst they would get a few months in gaol as suspects. when the time comes we must smash them all. and the time is coming." tchigorsky rose as if to go. "i follow them," he said, "you remain here, in the darkness. and if any one attempts to pass you do not let him do so. don't forget this thing. at all hazards you are not to let any one pass." geoffrey nodded as tchigorsky passed on his way. for a long time all was quiet, and then from above there came a startled cry followed by the sound of strife and a scream of pain and terror. it was all that geoffrey could do to restrain himself from yelling in response and rushing to the spot. then he became conscious that somebody was coming rapidly through the cave. he reached out his hand and grabbed at and caught a sinewy, slippery brown ankle. it only needed that touch to tell geoffrey that he was at grips with the native. down the fellow came on the slippery rocks, and the next instant the two were engaged in a life or death struggle. young, strong, vigorous as he was, his muscle knitted like iron with healthy exercise, geoffrey knew that he had met his match. the native had a slight advantage of him in point of years; he was greased from head to foot, rendering a grip difficult, and his flying robe came asunder like cobwebs at the first strain. he fought with the _abandon_ of a man who is reckless of life. over and over on the slippery rocks they rolled, each striving to get the other by the throat. by this time they were both breathing thick and fast, and geoffrey's mind began to wander toward his revolver. but to release his grip to get that might be fatal. he could hear his antagonist gasping as he rolled off a ledge of rock, and then geoffrey lifted his opponent's head and brought it down with a bang on the granite. in the very instant of his triumph something whistled behind him, and a jagged piece of stone came smashing on to his temple. he had a confused view of a native on his feet again, fast hurrying away, heard the rustle of garments and a further rustle of more garments, and then his arm was closed upon a female figure whom he pulled to the ground by his side. he felt the woman open her lips to scream, but he clapped his hand over her mouth. "no, you don't," he said grimly. "one of you has escaped and my friend the nigger has had a narrow escape, but i've got you, my lady. i've got you safe and i don't mean to let you go." he felt the slight figure in his arms tremble and palpitate; he heard voices above. once more the slim figure shivered. his hand was torn from her mouth and the woman spoke. "they are calling you," she said; "for god's sake let me go, geoffrey." for an instant geoffrey was too dazed and stunned to speak. "marion?" he gasped presently. "marion?" marion cowered down, sobbing bitterly. "you are surprised," she said. "no wonder. you wonder what i am doing here and i will tell you presently. but not now; i will place my secret in your hands; i will disguise nothing from you. for the present leave me." "leave you here! impossible!" "but i am safe, quite safe, geoffrey. oh, if you have any feeling for one of the most miserable creatures in the world, leave me. tell them above that those abandoned wretches have gone, that no sign of them remains. consider what i have suffered and am suffering for your family, and try to help me." conscious of his own weakness, geoffrey pondered. he might be doing a serious injury to the delicate plans formed by ralph ravenspur, but he had given the promise and there was an end of the matter. marion was in some way bound up with these people, but marion was pure as the angels and marion would do no wrong. why, then, should her good name be dragged in the mire? "you are so good, so good to me," marion murmured. "go before they become alarmed at your silence and leave me here. say that you saw nothing. and when the house is quiet i shall make my way back again." geoffrey retired upwards without further words. in the basement of the castle he found tchigorsky and ralph ravenspur. "they managed to elude you?" asked the former. geoffrey pointed to the ugly bruise on the side of his head. "yes," he said, "they both got away. but for this bit of an accident fighting in the dark i might have captured the dusky conspirator." "rather you had not, on the whole," ralph said. "something gave them the alarm as they reached the passages. of course their idea was to murder some or all of us in our beds, and our idea was to take them in the act. but they got the alarm and vanished. one of the fellows attacked me in the shrubbery just before dark, but i fancy he will not do it again." "i saw him," said geoffrey. "he came to mrs. may's for assistance. she pretended that i was mistaken, but she had to give in at last when circumstances became too strong for her. how did you manage to deal him that blow on the head, uncle?" ralph smiled grimly. "i have my own means of protection," he said. "what became of the fellow?" geoffrey explained all that had happened during and after the dinner at jessop's farm. his two listeners followed his statement with flattering interest. yet all the time geoffrey was listening intently for signs of marion. was she still in the vaults or had she managed to slip away to her bedroom? the thought of the delicate girl down there in the darkness and cold was by no means pleasant. "we have managed to make a mess of it to-night," said ralph. "how those people contrived to discover that there was danger afoot i can't understand. but one thing is certain, they will not be content to leave things as they are. they may try the same thing again or their efforts may take a new and more ingenious direction." "which direction we shall discover," said tchigorsky. "can you let me out here, or shall i go by the same means that i entered?" to geoffrey's relief ralph volunteered to open the hall door for his friend. "come this way," he said. "all the bolts and bars have been oiled and will make no noise." they slipped away quietly together. geoffrey listened intently. he fancied that he could hear footsteps creeping up the stairs, and in the corridor a door softly closed. then ralph ravenspur came back again. "tchigorsky has gone," he said. "after this it will be necessary for us to vary our plan of campaign a little. you have learned something to-night. you know now that our antagonists are two indians and a woman who is dangerous as she is lovely and fascinating. ah, what a woman she is!" "who is she?" geoffrey asked. "ah, that i cannot tell you. you must be content to wait. i do not want you to know too much, and then there is no chance of your being taken off your guard. when the surprise comes it will be a dramatic one. the more you see of that woman and the more you cultivate her the more you will find to wonder at." "but can i cultivate her after to-night?" "why not? she does not know the extent of your knowledge; she has not the remotest idea that you have been helping to foil her schemes. next time she will meet you as if nothing had happened." geoffrey thought of marion and was silent. that one so pure and sweet should be mixed up with a creature like that was horrible. ralph ravenspur rose with a yawn. he seemed to have lapsed into his wooden state. he felt his way down the big flagged hall toward the staircase. "we can do nothing more," he said. "i am going to bed. good-night." the door closed and then geoffrey was free to act. he could go down into the vault and bring marion up. but first he would try to ascertain if she was in her room. he passed up the stairs and along the corridor. outside marion's door he coughed gently. the door opened and marion stood there clad in a fair white wrap, with her glorious hair hanging free over her shoulders. her eyes were full of tears. "geoff," she whispered. "geoff, dear geoff." she fell into his arms, and pressed her lips long and clingingly to his. her hole frame was quivering with mingled love and emotion. then she snatched herself away from his embrace and, with the single whispered word, "to-morrow," closed the door behind her. chapter xxiii marion explains a brilliant sunshine poured into the terrace room where the ravenspurs usually breakfasted. an innovation in the way of french windows led on to a tessellated pavement bordered with flowers on either side and ending in the terrace overlooking the sea. a fresh breeze came from the ocean; the thunder of the surf was subdued to a drone. in the flowers a number of bees were busy, bees whose hives were placed against the side of the house. they were vera's bees and there were two hives of them. vera attended to them herself; they knew her and she was wont to declare that in no circumstances would they do her any harm. that was why, as geoffrey dryly put it, she never got stung more than once a week. "i believe one has been arguing with you now," geoffrey laughed. he was standing in the window as he spoke. he and vera were the first two down. the girl was on the pavement gravely contemplating the palm of her right hand. "no, indeed," she said. "and, anyway, it was my own fault." "irish," geoffrey cried. "that makes the second since monday. let me see." he took the little pink palm in his own brown hands. "i can't see the spot," he said. "does it hurt much?" "a mere pin prick, dear. i suppose you can get innoculated against that sort of thing. i mean that you can be stung and stung until it has no effect at all." "even by bees that know you and never do you any harm," geoffrey laughed. "but i dare say you are right. five years ago when we had that plague of wasps stenmore, the keeper, and myself destroyed over a hundred wasps' nests in one season. i must have been stung nearly a thousand times. after the first score i never noticed it; was not so bad as the touch of a nettle." "what! has vera been arguing with the bees again?" the question came fresh and clear from behind the hives. marion stood there, making a fair picture indeed in her white cotton dress. there was no shade of trouble in her eyes. she met geoffrey's glance squarely. her hand rested on his shoulder with a palpably tender squeeze. it was the only kind of allusion she made to last night's doings. she might not have had a single care or sorrow in the world. she seemed to take almost a childlike interest in the bees, the simple interest of one who has yet to be awakened to the knowledge of a conscience. geoffrey had never admired marion more than he did at this moment. "marion is afraid of my bees," vera said. marion drew away shuddering from one of the velvety brown insects. "i admit it," she said. "they get on one's clothes and sting for pure mischief. and i am a sight after a bee has been operating upon me. if i had my own way, there would be a fire here some day and then there would be no more bees." they trooped into breakfast, disputing the point cheerfully. it was impossible to be downcast on so perfect a morning. even the elders had discarded their gloom. ralph ravenspur mildly astonished everybody by relating an eastern experience _apropos_ of bees. "but they were not like these," he concluded. "they were big black bees and their honey is poisonous. it is gathered from noxious swamp flowers and, of course, is only intended for their own food. even those bees----" the speaker paused, as if conscious that he was talking too much. he proceeded with his breakfast slowly. "go on," said marion. "i am interested." "i was going to say," ralph remarked in his croaking voice, "that even those bees know how to protect themselves." it was a lame conclusion and marion said so. geoffrey glanced at his uncle. as plainly as possible he read on the latter's face a desire to change the conversation. it was sufficiently easy to turn the talk into another channel, and during the rest of the meal not another word came from ralph ravenspur. once more he was watching, watching for something with his sightless eyes. and geoffrey was watching marion most of the time. she was gentle and gay and sweet as ever, as if strong emotions and herself had always been strangers. it seemed hard to recall the stirring events of the night before and believe that this was the same girl. how wonderfully she bore up for the sake of others; how bravely she crushed her almost overwhelming sorrow. she stood chatting on the pavement after breakfast. she was prattling gayly to geoffrey, as the other gradually vanished on some mission or another. then her face suddenly changed; her grasp on geoffrey's arm was almost convulsive. "now then," she whispered. "let us get it over." geoffrey strolled by her side along the terrace. they came at length to a spot where they could not be seen from the house. marion turned almost defiantly. "now i am going to speak," she whispered. "not if it gives you any pain," said geoffrey. "my dear geoffrey, you don't want to hear my explanation!" "not if it causes you the least pain or annoyance. i couldn't do it." marion laughed. but there was little of the music of mirth in her voice. "never be it said again that man is a curious creature," she said. "you find me down in the vaults of the castle at midnight mixed up with murderers and worse; you compel me to disclose my identity and take me prisoner; you force me to plead for mercy and silence. and now you calmly say you don't want to know anything about it! geoffrey, are you indifferent to myself and my future that you speak like this?" geoffrey laid his hand on the speaker's arm tenderly. "marion," he said, "it is because i think so highly of you and trust you so implicitly that i am going to ask no questions. can you be any the worse because you are bound by some tie to that woman yonder? certainly not. rest assured that your secret is safe in my hands." "but i must tell you certain things, geoff. there is some one who comes to the castle, a friend of uncle ralph's, who is an enemy of this--of mrs. may's. i don't know whether you know the man--his name is tchigorsky?" no muscle of geoffrey's face moved. "i fancy i have heard the name," he said. "when does he come here?" "i--i don't know. secretly and at night, i expect. oh, if i could only tell you everything! but i cannot, i dare not. if this mr. tchigorsky would only go away! i fear that his presence here will eventually endanger uncle ralph's life. you may, perhaps, give him a hint to that effect. between mrs. may and tchigorsky there is a blood feud. it has been imported from tibet. i can't say any more." "and you interfered to save the life of others?" "yes, yes. some day you may know everything, but not yet. i am endangering my own safety, but i cannot sit down and see crime committed under my very eyes. it is all a question of an ancient secret society and a secret religion as old as the world. tchigorsky has certain knowledge he has no right to possess. don't press me, geoff." "my dear girl, i am not pressing you at all." "no, no. you are very good, dear old boy. only get tchigorsky out of the way. it will be better for us all if you do." geoffrey murmured something to the effect that he would do his best. at the same time, he was profoundly mystified. all he could grasp was that marion was bound up with mrs. may in ties of blood, the blood of ancient tibet. "i'll do my best," he said, "though i fear that my best will be bad. tell me, do you ever see this mrs. may by any chance?" "oh! no, no! i couldn't do that. no, i can't see her." geoffrey began to talk about something else. when at length he and marion parted she was sweet and smiling again, as if she hadn't a single trouble in the world. for a long time geoffrey lounged over the balcony with a cigarette, trying to get to the bottom of the business. the more he thought over it, the more it puzzled him. and how could he broach the matter of tchigorsky without betraying marion? ralph ravenspur was in his room smoking and gazing into space. as geoffrey entered he motioned him into a chair. he seemed to be expected. "well?" ralph said. "you have something to say to me. you look surprised, but i know more than you imagine. so tchigorsky is in danger, eh? well, he has been in danger ever since he and i took this black business on. we are all in danger for that matter. marion does not know what to do." "uncle, you know there is some tie between marion and mrs. may." "certainly i do. it is the crux of the situation. and marion is to be our _dea ex machina_, the innocent goddess in the car to solve the mystery. but i am not going to tell you what that relationship is." "marion hates and loathes the woman, and fears her." "fears her! that is a mild way of putting it. never mind how, i know what marion was talking to you about on the terrace. suffice it that i do know. so last night's danger was not ours, but tchigorsky's." "so marion said, uncle." "well, she was right. tell her that tchigorsky is profoundly impressed and that he is going away; in fact, has gone away. tchigorsky is never going to be seen at ravenspur castle any more. are you, tchigorsky?" at the question the inner door opened and a figure stepped out. it was one of the natives that geoffrey had seen in the hollow of the cliffs that eventful day. he could have sworn to the man anywhere--his stealthy glance, his shifty eye, his base humility. "tchigorsky has disappeared?" ralph demanded. the man bowed low, then he raised his head and, to geoffrey's vast surprise, gravely and solemnly winked at him. "never mind," he said. "how's this for a disguise, master geoffrey?" it was tchigorsky himself. chapter xxiv marion's double geoffrey was lying _perdu_ among the gorse on the cliff uplands. he had a field glass and a rook rifle by his side, for he was waiting for a rabbit. also he had stolen out here to think over the many matters that puzzled him. he was slightly disturbed and, on the whole, not altogether well pleased. why had his uncle and the mysterious tchigorsky taken him so far into their confidence and then failed him at the critical moment? he was prepared to take his share of the danger; indeed he had already done so and had proved his steel. and was not marion equally mysterious? true, he might have got more out of her, but had refrained from motives of delicacy. perhaps, after all, his elders knew best. a word slipped, a suspicious glance, might spoil everything. then geoffrey looked up suddenly. some two hundred yards away he saw a rabbit lopping along in his direction. at the same instant two figures came along the cliff. they were ladies and the sight of them astonished geoffrey, for it was not usual to see anything more modern than a shepherd or a dog at this wild spot. the figures paused. they were picked out clear against the sky line as geoffrey lay there. he recognized one of them. surely the tall lady, with the easy, swinging carriage and supple grace, could be none other than mrs. may. geoffrey arranged his glasses. they were powerful binoculars, and through them he could see mrs. may's features quite plainly. he looked through them again long and earnestly. and her companion was marion! just for an instant geoffrey doubted the evidence of his senses. he wiped the glasses with his handkerchief and looked through them long and earnestly. no doubt could any longer be entertained. it was marion--marion who had declared that she had never spoken to the woman--marion, who hated the sight of her. and here she was, walking along with mrs. may as if they were something more than friends. yes, it was marion beyond a doubt. she had discarded her white dress for one of blue; her sailor hat was replaced by a red tam-o'-shanter. all the same, it was not possible to mistake the graceful figure. even without the glasses geoffrey would have been prepared to swear to her. he lay low under the bushes. the two were coming in his direction. geoffrey did not want to listen, but something forced him there, some power he could not resist. nearer and nearer they came, until geoffrey could hear mrs. may's voice. "that is impossible, my dear zazel," she said. "but you are safe." "i am not so sure of that," was the reply. "and i'm only a pawn in the game." it was marion's voice; the same, yet not the same. it was a hoarse, strained voice, like the voice of a man who smokes to excess. certainly geoffrey was not prepared to swear to those as the tones of marion. "absurd, zazel. of course you know that we are all in it together. and look at the glorious reward when our task is over. we must succeed ultimately, there is no doubt about that in spite of tchigorsky. it is only a question of time. am i to believe that you are not going to be true to your oath?" "i shall not forget my oath. can the leopard change his spots? but i am getting so tired of it all. i should like to end it at one swoop. if you can do that----" "i have just shown you how it is possible." "there is sense in that suggestion. and it is so artistic. it would be quoted in the scientific papers and various ingenious theories would be put forth. but some might escape." "one, or two perhaps at the outside. let them. nobody could suspect us over that. and i have the bees safely in my possession." geoffrey heard no more. the figures passed by him and then repassed in the direction whence they came. no sooner were they out of sight than geoffrey rose to his feet. he felt that he must ascertain at once whether that girl was marion or not. the face was hers, the figure hers, but that voice--never! he would find out, he would know, he would---- then he paused. he came over the knoll of the irregular cliff and there strolling towards him in her white dress and straw hat was marion. she was gathering gorse and did not see him until he was close upon her. the pause gave geoffrey time to recover from his absolute amazement. so that creature had not been marion after all. a deep sigh of thankfulness rose to his lips. the sense of relief was almost painful. by the time that marion became conscious of his presence he had recovered his presence of mind. marion plainly could know nothing about her double and he was not going to tell her. "i heard you were here, geoff," she said. "jessop told me so just now. are you going home?" geoffrey nodded; he had no words for the present. "it is so lovely," marion went on. "i am quite proud of my courage in coming alone. do you see anything else here?" "nothing but rabbits," geoffrey replied, "and few of them to-day. you are the only human being i have seen since i started." then they walked home chattering gayly together. geoffrey felt his suspicions falling away from him one by one; indeed he was feeling somewhat ashamed of himself. to doubt marion on any ground was ridiculous; to doubt the evidence of his own senses was more absurd still. thank god he had met marion. all the same there were things to tell ralph ravenspur. he, at any rate, must know all that had been heard that morning. ralph was seated in his room with his everlasting pipe in his mouth, much as if he had not moved since breakfast. "i have news for you, uncle," geoffrey said as he entered the room. "of course you have, my boy. i knew that directly i heard your step on the stair. i hope you have stumbled on something of importance." "well, that is for you to say. i saw mrs. may. she came quite close to me on the cliffs. she had a companion. when i looked through my glasses i saw it was marion." ralph did not start. he merely smiled. "not our marion," he said. "not our dear little girl." "of course not. singular that you should have our love of and faith in marion when you have never seen her. i had my glasses and i could have sworn it was marion. then they came close enough for me to hear them speak, and i knew that i was mistaken. it was not marion's voice. besides, i met the real marion a few minutes later dressed in her white dress and hat." "so that is settled. what did the other girl wear?" "a loose blue dress. a serge, i should say." "and her hat?" "a scottish thing--what they call a tam-o'-shanter." "so that acquits our marion. she couldn't be in two places at once; she couldn't even wear two dresses at the same time. and our marion's voice is the music of the sphere--the sweetest in the whole world. but the face was the same." "the likeness was paralyzing. what do you make of it, uncle?" ralph smiled dryly. "i make a good deal of it," he replied. "let us not jump to conclusions, however. did you hear anything they were saying?" "of course i did. mrs. may was urging her companion to do something. she was pointing out how rich the reward would be. it was something, i fancy, that had a deal to do with us." "i shouldn't be surprised," ralph said grimly. "go on." "something artistic that would be commented on in the scientific papers, a thing that would not lead to suspicion." "yes, yes. did you manage to get a clue to what it was?" "i'm afraid not. mrs. may made one remark that was an enigma to me. she said that she had the bees safely in her possession." a queer sound came from ralph's lips; his face glared with a strange light. "you have done well," he said. "oh, you have done well indeed." and for the time not another word would he utter. chapter xxv geoffrey is puzzled it was a long time before ralph ravenspur spoke again. he remained so quiet that geoffrey began to imagine that his existence had been forgotten. he ventured to lay a hand on his uncle's knee. the latter started like one who sleeps uneasily under the weight of a haunting fear. "oh, of course," he said. "i had forgotten you; i had forgotten everything. and yet you brought me news of the greatest importance." "indeed, uncle. what was it?" "that you shall know speedily. the danger had not occurred to me for the moment. and yet all the time it has been under my nose." "still, you might easily be forgiven for not seeing----" "seeing has nothing to do with it. and there is nothing the matter with my hearing. the danger has been humming in my ears for days and i never heard it. now it is roaring like niagara. but, please god, we shall avert the danger." "you might take me into your confidence, in this matter, uncle." "that i shall before a day has passed, but not for the moment. we are face to face now with the most dangerous crisis that has yet occurred. the enemy can strike us down one by one, and nobody shall dream that there is anything beyond a series of painfully sudden deaths. failure of the heart's action the doctors would call it. that is all." at that moment tchigorsky returned to the room. no longer was he in the disguise of an indian. perhaps he had donned it to surprise geoffrey; perhaps he was just discarding the disguise after putting it to some practical use. to him ralph repeated all that geoffrey had said. he followed with the most rapt and most careful attention. "danger, indeed," he said gravely, "the danger that moves unseen on the air, and strikes from out of nothingness. i prophesied something like this, ralph." "ay, my friend," ralph replied, "you did. but not quite the same way." "because i did not know that fortune had placed the medium so close at hand. where are the bees?" geoffrey was listening intently. up to now he had failed to understand why his story had moved ralph so profoundly. and what could the bees have to do with it? yet mrs. may had mentioned bees. "they are in two hives outside the morning-room window," said ralph. "the bees are vera's pets, and they thrive for the most part along the flower borders of the terrace. they are ordinary bees." "in the ordinary bar-frame hives of course?" "oh, yes, they are quite up to date. you can see the insects working and all that kind of thing. the hives can be moved." "i suppose they are a nuisance occasionally?" tchigorsky asked. "yes," geoffrey smiled. "we have all been stung now and again." tchigorsky appeared to be satisfied on that head. he smoked a whole cigarette while he revolved a plan in his mind. "it is necessary to get the whole family out of the way for a time," he said slowly. "it will be necessary to do so without delay. unless i am greatly mistaken, the mischief has already been done. ralph, can you induce your father and the whole family to go away for a time--say till after dark?" "perhaps," ralph replied. "but not without explaining, and it is impossible to do that. but geoffrey might manage it. unless he does manage it one or more of us will pay the penalty before daybreak." "i will do anything you desire," geoffrey cried eagerly. "then go to your grandfather and get him to arrange a picnic over to alton keep. it is a perfect day, and it will be possible to remain out till dark, returning to a late supper. i know the suggestion sounds absurd--childish in the circumstances--but it will have to be done. say that there is a great danger in the castle which has to be removed. say that nobody is to know anything about it. go." geoffrey went at once. he found the head of the family in the library trying to interest himself in a book. he looked up as geoffrey entered, and a slight smile came over his worn face. there were two people in the house who could do anything with him--geoffrey and vera. "you look as if you wanted something," he said. "i do," geoffrey replied. "i want you to do me a great favor." "it is granted--granted on the principle that we make the last hours of the condemned criminal as comfortable as possible." "then i want you to get up a picnic to-day." rupert ravenspur dropped his glasses on the table. he wondered if this was some new kind of danger, a mysterious form of insanity, brought about by the common enemy. "i am perfectly serious," geoffrey said, with a smile. "not that it is any laughing matter. dear grandfather, there is a great danger in the house. i don't know what it is, but uncle ralph knows, and he has never been wrong yet. it was he who found out all about those dreadful flowers. and he wants the house cleared till dark. unless we do so, the morning will assuredly see the end of one or more of us." "is it a painless death?" the old man asked grimly. "if it is, i prefer to remain here." "but there is always hope," geoffrey pleaded. "and you always thinks of us. won't you do this thing? won't you say that it is a sudden whim of yours? mind, everybody is to go, everybody but uncle ralph. i shall ride and when i have ridden some distance i shall pretend to have forgotten something. perhaps you deem me unduly foolish. but i implore you to do this thing." rupert ravenspur hesitated no longer. he always found it hard to resist that young smiling handsome face. not that he was blind to the folly of the proceedings. on his own initiative he would as soon have danced a hornpipe in the hall. "i will go and see about it at once," he said. he had put off his somber air, and assumed a kind of ill-fitting gayety. gordon ravenspur and his wife received the suggestion with becoming resignation. to them it was the first signs of a mind breaking down under an intolerable strain. vera and marion professed themselves to be delighted. "it sounds odd," said the latter. "fancy the doomed and fated ravenspurs going on a picnic! and fancy the suggestion, too, coming from grandfather!" vera looked anxious. "you don't imagine," she said, "that his mind----" "oh, his mind is all right. you can see that from his face. but i expect that the strain is telling on him, and that he wants to get out of himself for a time. personally, i regard the idea as charming." the preparations were made, no great matter in so large and well-regulated an establishment as ravenspur castle. if the servants were astonished, they said nothing. the stolid coachman sat solemnly on the box of the wagonette; the demure footman touched his hat as he put up the step with the air of a man who is accustomed to do this sort of thing every day. geoffrey stood under the big portico and waved his hand. "you should drive with us," marion cried. "and you won't be long?" vera asked. "oh, i am duly impressed with the importance of the occasion," geoffrey laughed. "my horse will get there almost as soon as you arrive. call the spaniel." tut, the pet spaniel, was called, but no response was made, and finally the party drove off without him. geoffrey watched the wagonette with a strange sense of unreality upon him. he felt that he could have scoffed at a situation like this in the pages of a novel. and yet it is the truth that is always so improbable. our most solemn and most trivial thoughts always run along the grooves of the mind together, and as geoffrey passed round the house he caught himself wondering where the dog was. he whistled again and again. it was a most unusual thing for tut to be far from the family. outside the morning room window the dog lay as if fast asleep. "get up, your lazy beast," geoffrey cried; "after them, sir." but the dog did not move; he made no sign as geoffrey cuffed him with the side of his foot. the dog was dead. he lay still and placid; there was no sign of pain. there was nothing about the carcass to suggest poison. close by the bees were busy among the flowers. in the hives there seemed to be more noise than usual. geoffrey opened the windows of the morning-room, leaving the casement flung back behind him. a long claw was put forth to shut it. "the window must be kept closed," ralph ravenspur said quietly. "in fact, i have given orders that every window in the house is to be closed. why, you will see presently. did you notice anything as you came along?" "i was too excited," geoffrey replied. "i have just found poor tut outside. the dog has died suddenly. half an hour ago he was perfectly well, young, full of life and vigor. and now he is dead." "lies just outside the window, doesn't he?" ralph asked. he seemed to speak callously. a man who had passed through his experiences and emotions was not likely to feel for the loss of a dog. and yet there was intense curiosity in his tone. "just outside; close to the hives." "ah, yes. he was poisoned, you think?" "i expect so. and yet where could he get the poison? nobody comes here. perhaps it was not poison after all." a thin smile flickered on ralph's face. "yes, it was," he said; "the dog was poisoned by a bee sting." chapter xxvi geoffrey begins to understand geoffrey had no words for a time. slowly the hideousness of the plot was beginning to beat in upon him. mrs. may had mentioned bees to her mysterious companion, who had so remarkable a likeness to marion, and by a strange chance ralph ravenspur had the same morning, at breakfast, mentioned a certain asiatic bee, whose poison and whose honey were fatal to human life. "ah," said geoffrey slowly, "the bees mrs. may mentioned." "precisely, my boy. and the bees that i mentioned also. tchigorsky found the dog but a minute or two ago. he slipped downstairs with me the minute we heard the wagonette drive away. he was very anxious to see the hives. directly he caught sight of tut lying there he knew what had happened. he has gone to my room for something. when he comes back he will have something to show you." tchigorsky entered the room a moment later. he had in his hand a small cardboard box with a glass lid. inside something was buzzing angrily. it was an insect, the wings of which moved so rapidly that they seemed to scream, as a house fly does when the falces of a spider close upon him. "have a good look at it," tchigorsky said curtly. "is it dangerous?" geoffrey asked. "one of the most deadly of winged insects," the russian said. "it is a black bee from the forests near lassa. there is a larger variety, whose sting produces the most horrible sufferings and death. this sort injects a poison which stops the action of the heart like prussic acid, but without the rigidity caused by that poison. the lassa black bee invades other bees' nests and preys on their honey. they frighten the other bees, which make no attempt to drive them out, but go on working as usual. then gradually the whole hive gets impregnated with that poison, and an ordinary brown bee becomes as dangerous as a black one. this is the bee that killed your dog." "then the hives are already impregnated," geoffrey cried. "precisely. half a dozen of these black bees have been introduced into the hives. now, do you begin to understand the malignity of the plot? your dog was not dead when, with my net, i caught this fellow--i expected to catch him." "and ran great risk in doing so." "of course. it was a recreation compared with some of the risks i have run." "you are right there," ralph said in his deep, croaking tones. "look at the thing, geoffrey." with a shudder geoffrey took the box in his hand. there was nothing formidable about the insect under the glass lid. it had more anger and fury, more "devil" than the ordinary bee, but it was very little larger, of a deep, lustrous black, with orange eyes and purple gauzy wings. there was nothing weird about it. "was it imported for the purpose?" geoffrey asked. "undoubtedly," ralph replied. "imported by the woman who calls herself mrs. may. before she came over to england she must have had this house described to her with the greatest minuteness. otherwise she could not have so many instruments ready to her hand; she would never have thought of these bees, for instance. "if this scheme had not been discovered everybody in the house would have been stung before long, and every one assuredly would have died. those black bees are exceedingly fierce, and do not hesitate to attack everybody and everything. their sting is so sharp and so minute that it leaves no mark and no pain. half an hour passes, and then the victim falls down and dies." geoffrey regarded the specimen with new interest. he eyed it up and down as if examining a cobra through the glass sides of its prison house. tchigorsky took the box and flattened the lid down until the insect within was no more than a red smash on the glass. a little later and the thing was pitched over the cliffs into the sea. "it is a dreadful business," geoffrey said. "and, indeed, it seems almost hopeless to try to combat foes so ruthless, so resourceful, and so daring as ours. no sooner are we out of one horror than we are into another." "while life lasts there is always hope," said tchigorsky. "that's true," said geoffrey, more cheerfully. "at any rate we can avert the danger now. but how are we going to get rid of those things?" "we are going to catch them," said tchigorsky grimly. "we shall have to destroy all the other bees, i am afraid, and we shall be compelled to let miss vera draw her own conclusions as to the cause of the mischief." "and the honey, mr. tchigorsky?" "oh, the honey will be all right. that hasn't been stung, you know. i have tasted honey from a nest which the black bees have invaded, and have been none the worse for it. we had better surmise that for some inscrutable reason the bees have deserted their quarters. and we shall propose to know nothing at all about the matter. i flatter myself we shall puzzle the enemy as completely as our friends." the matter was discussed in all its bearings until the light began to fail and the glow faded gradually from out of the sky. then, after locking the inner door of the morning room, ralph produced two large gauze frames, some matches, and powdered sulphur. this, with a small bellows, completed the stock in trade. tchigorsky immediately set about his task in a workmanlike manner. the bees were all in the two hives by this time. over the hole in front of each a square of muslin was fastened, a pile of sulphur in front was lighted, and the fumes were gently wafted into the hole with the aid of the pair of miniature bellows. there was an angry murmur from within, the murmur of droning insects, then the quick scream of churning wings. the little strip of muslin was strained by alarmed and infuriated bees striving to escape. but not for long. gradually the noise died down, and tchigorsky signed to geoffrey to help him carry the hive into the house. there it was deposited on a table and the top lifted off. instantly the gauze frame was placed over it, and with a brush tchigorsky swept out the stagnant insects into a glass-topped box provided for the purpose. on the whole, there was not much danger, but it was just as well to be on the safe side. "not one left," said tchigorsky, after he had made a careful investigation. "but it's quite as well to be certain. i've put those insects into the box, but i don't fancy that any of them will revive. now for the other one." the other hive was treated in similar fashion. there was no hitch and finally the frame was replaced as if nothing had happened, with the exception that the tiny occupants were no more. in the glass boxes, among the piles of dead bees, geoffrey could see here and there the form of a black insect. from his coat pocket tchigorsky produced some long, thin strips of lead, which he proceeded to wind round the boxes containing the bees. "there," he exclaimed, "that job is done at last, and a nasty one it has been. to prevent any further mischief i'll just step across the terrace and throw these over into the sea. he moved off into the darkness, and as he did so there came the sound of a fresh young voice that startled geoffrey and ralph as if they had been criminals caught red-handed in some crime. "geoffrey, geoffrey, where are you?" the voice cried. ralph stepped across and closed the window as vera entered. it was quite dark outside, and ralph hoped that tchigorsky would see without being seen. vera flashed a look of gentle reproach at her lover. "how can you look me in the face after the way in which you have treated me?" she asked. "this is the first day's pleasure we have had for years, and you----" "did not care to leave uncle ralph," geoffrey said. "he seemed so lonely that i felt i could not let him remain like this." "geoffrey is a good fellow," ralph muttered. vera bent and kissed geoffrey fondly. she smiled without any show of anger. "i forgive him," she said. "still, i did miss him. where are you going, dear?" "across the terrace," geoffrey replied. "i'll be in to supper directly. it's all ready, and there is marion calling you. i'm coming." tchigorsky had crept to the window. he caught geoffrey's eye and waved to him vigorously. it was a sign that he wanted assistance at once. chapter xxvii an unexpected guest geoffrey gave one glance at ralph before he went. the latter nodded slightly and sharply, much as if he saw the look and perfectly comprehended it. vera had disappeared at marion's call. in the dining room beyond the servants were getting supper. from the distance came the pop of a cork. outside it was dark by this time. geoffrey closed the window. he did not speak, but waited for tchigorsky to give the sign. his feet touched something that gave out a faint metallic twang. geoffrey wondered. did this mean burglars! he was certainly near to a wire which was stretched across the terrace, close to the ground. it was precisely the precaution taken by modern burglars to baffle capture in case of being disturbed during their predatory proceedings. but burglars would not come to ravenspur. a minute's reflection convinced geoffrey of that. the name and horror of the house were known all over england. everybody knew of the watch and ward kept there, and no burglar in his senses would risk what amounted to almost certain capture. no, something far different was going on. and that something had been sprung hastily, for half an hour before these wires had not been there. geoffrey waited with comfortable assurance that tchigorsky was not far off. a stealthy footstep crept toward him; a shadow crossed the gloom. "is that you, tchigorsky?" geoffrey whispered. "yes," came the reply. "there are hawks about. listen." a little way down the terrace something was moving. geoffrey could hear what sounded to him like labored breathing, followed by a stifled cry of pain. "the one hawk is wounded and the other has sheered off," said tchigorsky. "it sounds like a woman," said geoffrey. "it is a woman, my dear boy. and such a woman! beautiful as the angels, fair as a summer's night. clever! no words can paint her talents. and she is in the toils. she cries, but nobody heeds." again came the cry of pain. there was a flash and a spurt of flame as tchigorsky struck a match and proceeded to light a lantern. he picked his way over the entanglement of wires; geoffrey followed him. "who laid this labyrinth?" geoffrey asked. "oh, a good and true assistant of ours, an old servant of your uncle's. we have more than one assistant, and elphick is invaluable. we laid the trap for the bird, and she has broken her wing in it. pity she had not broken her neck." geoffrey did not echo the last ferocious sentiment. he was aflame with curiosity. a little farther off in the dim path shown by the lantern's flare something dark lay huddled on the ground. there was a flash of white here and there, the shimmer and rustle of silken garments. it might have been geoffrey's fancy, but he seemed to hear a hurried whisper of voices, and saw something rise from the ground and hurry away. but the black and white heap remained. tchigorsky flashed his lantern upon it. geoffrey could just see that there was a strange malignant grin upon his face. "a lady," he cried in affected astonishment. "ravenspur, here is a lady! madame permit me to tender you our assistance. you are in pain." a white, defiant face looked up--a beautiful face disfigured for the moment by evil passions. there was murder in the eyes. the woman seemed to have no consciousness of any one but tchigorsky. "it is you," she hissed. "_toujours_ tchigorsky." "yes, it is i. but i have unfortunately forgotten your name. strange that one should do so in the case of one so lovely and distinguished. you are----" "mrs. may. mrs. mona may." she had caught sight of geoffrey now and a smile came, forced to her lips. "mrs. mona may," said tchigorsky. he spoke in the same slightly mocking strain. "mrs. mona may. how stupid of me to forget. and yet in my muddled brain the name was so different." geoffrey bent over the woman anxiously. "you are in pain," he said. "may i assist you?" "indeed, it is very kind of you, mr. ravenspur," mrs. may replied. "i tripped over something. i have hurt my ankle." "barbed wire," said tchigorsky. "laid down to trap--er--burglars." "but on no other occasion----" mrs. may paused and bit her lips. tchigorsky smiled. he understood what she was going to say. on no other occasion when she had been here had she encountered a similar obstacle. geoffrey was frankly puzzled. "how did you get here?" he asked. "when the gates are closed----" "but they were not closed an hour ago when i slipped into the yard," was the reply. "i am ashamed to say that i allowed sheer vulgar curiosity to get the better of me, and now i am properly punished for my error of taste." "nothing but curiosity," tchigorsky murmured. "my dear ravenspur, you may dismiss any unworthy suspicions from your mind. the glamor of your name and the fatal romance that clings to your race have proved too much for the most charming and most tender-hearted of her sex." "i have no suspicions at all," said geoffrey. "of course not," tchigorsky spoke in the same mocking way. the light yet keen sarcasm was lost on geoffrey, but the other listener understood. "mrs. may would not injure a living creature--not a fly or a bee." the white face flashed again. by this time the woman was on her feet. one foot she found it almost impossible to put to the ground. "get a conveyance and take me home," she moaned. "perish the thought," tchigorsky cried. "would the ravenspurs outrage the sacred name of hospitality like that? circumstances compel the life of the cloister and the recluse, but there are limits. suspicious as the family must be, i am sure they would not fear an unfortunate lady with a sprained ankle." "of course not," geoffrey observed. "i will go and prepare them." he had read that suggestion in tchigorsky's eyes. heedless of mrs. may's protests, he had vanished toward the house. tchigorsky had stooped and taken the woman in his arms as if she had been a child. "what a precious burden!" he said. "scarred and battered, old tchigorsky is a fortunate man, madam. there, you need not struggle; your little fluttering heart has no occasion to beat like that. i am not going to throw you over the cliffs." the last few words were uttered in tones of smothered ferocity. "you are a devil," the woman muttered. "ay, you are right there. never was the devil stronger in my heart than he is at this moment. never was i more tempted to pitch you over the terrace into the sea. but there is worse than that waiting for you." "what are you going to do with me?" "i am going to carry you into the house; i am going to introduce you formally to the family of ravenspur. i am doing you a kindness. think how useful the information afforded you will be later!" "you are certainly the boldest man in england." "as you are the most utterly abandoned and unscrupulous woman. i can only die once. but i am not going to die before i see you and your hellspawn all hanged." "why don't you denounce me now?" "madam, i never did care for unripe fruit. the pear is ripening on the tree, and i will pluck it when the time comes." tchigorsky pushed the window of the morning room open and laid his burden down on a couch. almost immediately rupert ravenspur, followed by mrs. gordon and geoffrey, came into the room. ralph was already there. geoffrey proceeded to explain and make the necessary introduction. "and who is this gentleman?" rupert ravenspur demanded, his eye on tchigorsky. "a friend of mine," ralph put in, "dr. tchigorsky." ravenspur bowed, not that he looked overpleased. "permit me to place my hospitality at your disposal," he said. "it is many years since we entertained at ravenspur, nor do we, in ordinary circumstances, desire them. at present i cannot do less than make you welcome. madame, i regret that your curiosity should have ended so disastrously." "i am properly punished," mrs. may groaned. "my poor foot!" in the presence of pain and suffering even ravenspur's displeasure disappeared. mrs. gordon proceeded to cut away the high french boot and bathe the small foot in warm water. almost immediately mrs. may declared the pain to have passed away. there were tears in her eyes--tears that moved some of the onlookers. "i am sure i don't deserve this," she said. "i have behaved so abominably that i really don't know what to say." "say nothing," mrs. gordon replied simply and gently, "but come in to supper. i understand that you are staying at jessop's farm. a message shall be sent them that you will not return till morning. meanwhile, if you will lean on me we will manage to reach the dining room." the procession started. in the doorway stood vera. she came forward with a speech of condolence. tchigorsky was watching the pair. there was a hard gleam in his eyes; the clenching of his hand as over the hilt of a dagger. beyond, with a face white as her dress, stood marion. she staggered against the table as she saw mrs. may. her face was full of terror. geoffrey wondered what it all meant. and was this the wildest comedy or the direst tragedy that was working out before his eyes? chapter xxviii more of the bees of the real palpitating horror of the situation only three people round the table knew the true inwardness. they were tchigorsky and ralph and mrs. may. geoffrey guessed much, and probably marion could have said a deal had she cared to. her face was smiling again, but the uneasy, haunted look never left her eyes. and all through the elaborate, daintily served meal mrs. may never glanced at the girl once. and yet, here under the ravenspur roof, partaking of the family hospitality, was the evil itself. ralph smiled to himself grimly as he wondered what his father would say if he knew the truth. once or twice as he spoke mrs. may glanced at him curiously. she was herself now; she might have been an honored guest at that table for years. "your face is oddly familiar to me," she said. "i regret i cannot say the same," ralph replied. "i am blind." "but you have not always been blind?" "no. but my misfortune dates back for a number of years. it is a matter that i do not care to discuss with anybody." but mrs. may was not to be baffled. she had an odd feeling that this man and herself had met before. the face was the same, and yet not the same. "were you ever in tibet?" she asked. "i had a brother who once went there," ralph replied. "i am accounted like him. it is possible you may have met my brother, madam." the speech was sullen, delivered with a stupid air that impressed mrs. may that she had nothing to fear from him. and yet the words had a curious effect on her. her face changed color and for the first time she glanced at marion. the girl was trembling; she was ashy grey to her lips. tchigorsky, observing, smiled. "tibet is a wonderful country," he said, "and lassa a marvelous city. i had some of my strangest experiences there. i and another man, since dead, penetrated all the secrets of the holy city. it was only by a miracle that i escaped with my life. but these i will carry to my grave." he indicated the scars on his face. vera was profoundly interested. "tell me something of your adventures there," she said. "some day, perhaps," tchigorsky replied. "for the most part they were too horrible. i could tell you all about the beasts and birds and insects. i see you have some bees outside, miss vera. did you ever see tibet bees?" "are they different to ours?" vera asked. tchigorsky glanced up. mrs. may was regarding him with more than a flattering interest. a slight smile, almost a defiance, parted her lips. marion was looking down at her plate, crumbling a piece of bread absently. "some of them," said tchigorsky. "some are black, for instance. i have a place in kent where i dabble in that kind of thing. i have a few of the bees with me." tchigorsky took a small box from his pocket and laid it on the table. vera inspected the black bees for a moment and then handed them back to tchigorsky. by accident or design he let the box fall, the lid flew open, and immediately half a dozen sable objects were buzzing in the air. a yell of terror broke from mrs. may, a yell that rang to the roof. she jumped to her feet only to sink again with the pain of the injured limb. she seemed to have lost all control of herself; she turned and addressed tchigorsky in some liquid tongue that conveyed nothing to any one except that she was denouncing the russian in a fury of passionate anger. geoffrey had risen, too, greatly alarmed. from the head of the table, ralph ravenspur coolly demanded to know what it was all about. "the man is mad," mrs. may screamed. "he is a dangerous lunatic. those are the black bees of tibet. they are the most fearsome of insects. ah!" one of the droning objects dropped on her hand, and she yelled again. she was a picture of abject and pitiable terror. "i am doomed, doomed," she moaned. "killed by a careless madman." "is there any danger?" geoffrey demanded. only the life led among so many perils caused the family to wait calmly for the next and most dramatic development. perhaps the way in which tchigorsky was behaving gave them confidence. if he was a madman, as mrs. may asserted, then the madman was wonderfully calm and placid. "you are alarming yourself unnecessarily," he said. "see here." he reached over and took the bee from mrs. may's arm. the insect had become entangled in her sleeve and was buzzing angrily. "the little creature is furious," he said. "as a matter of fact, they are always more or less furious. if there is any danger there is danger now." he held the bee lightly in his hand. then he released it. "the stings have been removed," he said. "i bred these myself, and i know how to treat them. i am sorry to have caused a disturbance." he spoke with serious, earnest, politeness, but there was a mocking light in his eyes as he turned upon mrs. may. nobody had a thought or a glance for anybody else, and the spectacle of marion lying back half fainting in her chair passed unnoticed. "then they are usually dangerous?" vera asked. "my dear young lady, they are dreadful," tchigorsky explained. "they invade other nests and eat the honey as they might have invaded your hives. by way of experiment i tried one of these on your hives to-night, and your bees seemed to recognize an enemy at once. they all deserted their hives and not one of them has returned. as some amends for what i have done i am going to send you two of the finest swarms in england." vera shuddered. "i shall never want to see a bee again," she said. once more the eyes of tchigorsky and mrs. may met. she knew well that tchigorsky was talking at her through the rest, and that in his own characteristic way he was informing her that the last plot had failed. with a queer smile on her face she proceeded to peel a peach. "you are so horribly clever," she said, "that i feel half afraid of you. but i don't suppose we shall meet again." "not unless you come to russia," said tchigorsky, "whither i start to-morrow. but i am leaving my affairs in competent hands." again was the suggestion of a threat; again mrs. may smiled. the smile was on her face long after the three most interested in the tragedy had left the dining hall and gone to the billiard room for a smoke. "are you really leaving us?" geoffrey asked. "i want mrs. may to imagine so," said tchigorsky. "in a day or two her spies will bring her information that i have left england. as a matter of fact, i have succeeded in tapping a vein of information that has baffled me for a long time. "still, i am not going away and my disguise will be the one you saw me in. if luck goes well i shall be attached to mrs. may in the character of a native servant before long. so if you see any suspicious-looking asiatic prowling about, don't put a bullet into him, for you may kill me by mistake." geoffrey smiled and promised. "that was a rare fright you gave mrs. may over the bees," he said. "how did you manage it?" tchigorsky smiled as he lighted a cigarette. "i stole them from the woman's spare supply," he said. "i have been all over her possessions to-day. i almost suffocated the horrible little things and removed their stings. of course, they won't live many hours. i did it in a spirit of mischief, intending to release them in my lady's own sitting room. i couldn't resist the temptation to try her nerves to-night." "you are getting near the truth?" geoffrey asked. "very near it. we want certain evidence to bring the whole gang into the net, and then we shall strike--if they don't murder us first. but----" the speaker paused as vera entered the room. "where is mrs. may?" geoffrey asked. "she has gone to her room," vera explained. "her foot is so painful that she has decided to accept an invitation to spend the night here." "good," tchigorsky muttered. "it could not have been better." chapter xxix mrs. may at ravenspur the woman known as mrs. mona may had lost no time in adapting herself to circumstances. that she had found her way on to the terrace for no good purpose was known to three people, although in all probability she imagined that tchigorsky alone was acquainted with her designs. he had laid a trap for her and to a certain extent he had forced her hand. but she was too brilliant and unscrupulous a woman not to be able to turn misfortune to her own advantage. and was she not here----here a guest among those who for some reason she hated from her soul? why, it matters not for the present. from mrs. may's point of view tchigorsky alone knew, and tchigorsky was going away ere long. but whether tchigorsky remained or not, mrs. mona may could defy him to prove that she was in any way connected with the misfortunes of the ravenspurs. once the man she had most reason to dread had withdrawn to the billiard room, the adventuress lost no time in ingratiating herself with her involuntary hosts. this was the woman with whom geoffrey had dined. vera regarded her curiously. she was very beautiful and fascinating. she had a manner that attracted. her conversation was bright and interesting. "you must not mind me," she said to vera. "and you must not grudge me a little of your lover's company." vera blushed divinely. "how did you guess that?" she asked. "oh, there are signs, my dear. i have had my own romance and i know. but women of my age can never really rival young girls like yourself. we lack the one great charm." "i should not have thought so," said vera. mrs. may patted the girl playfully on the cheek. "that is a very pretty compliment," she replied. "but it does not alter facts. a woman of forty may be fascinating. she has the brilliant parts. but, alas! it is only once that she can possess youth." the speaker turned away with a gentle sigh and began to discuss the art treasures in the drawing room with mrs. gordon. all the time marion had held coldly aloof from the stranger. "you are not like yourself to-night," vera murmured. marion's dark eyes were lifted. there were purple rings under those eyes and a hunted expression on the white face. it was the face of one who has seen a terror that it is impossible to forget. "am i not?" she said indifferently. "perhaps so." "don't you like that woman?" vera asked. "frankly, i don't," marion admitted. "but there are reasons. strange that you don't recognize the likeness between us. geoffrey did at once." vera started. strange, indeed, that she had not noticed it before. and, now that marion had spoken the likeness was surprising. making allowance for the disparity of years, the two faces were the same. "is there another mystery?" vera asked. marion smiled like her old self. "indeed there is," she confessed. "but it is a poor, vulgar little thing beside your family mystery. mrs. may is a connection of mine. as a matter of fact, she is closely related to my mother's family. she is not a good woman, and i hope you will see as little of her as possible." "but i suppose she came to see you?" "oh! dear no. she would never have done that. she knows perfectly well that i should strongly oppose her coming here. beyond question, her taking up her residence for the benefit of her health in this village was simply a coincidence." vera looked closely at the visitor. "mrs. may doesn't look like an invalid," she said. "she doesn't. it is her heart. any sudden excitement might be fatal to her. is it not strange that i have the seeds of the same complaint?" "you, marion? i never heard that before. and you are here!" "oh, yes, i am here. a bad place for heart troubles, you would say. but i am young and strong. i merely made the remark--perhaps it would have been better had i not said anything about it." mrs. may was talking. she protested gently against the trouble she was causing. indeed, there was no reason why she should not have gone back to her farm. still, her kind friends were so very pressing she would stay the night. but she must be up and away early in the morning. she had pressing business, tiresome law business, to see to in york. "and now i am not going to keep you up any longer," she said with a brilliant smile. "who will help me upstairs? will you, dear?" she had risen to her feet and approached marion. the girl seemed to shrink back; it looked as if she was being dragged into some painful undertaking. then the natural sweetness of her disposition conquered her dislike. "if you think i can manage it," she said. mrs. may hobbled upstairs, leaning on marion's shoulder, chatting gaily. the latter helped her into the room set apart for the involuntary guest and at a sign closed the door. all her smiles and pretty feminine blandishments vanished; her eyes were dark and hard; her manner was cold and stinging. "you fool," hissed mrs. may. "this is a nice thing you have done!" marion smiled wearily. she seemed to have suddenly fallen under the mantle of years. she dropped into a chair like somebody old and weary. "what have i done?" she asked. "fallen in love with geoffrey ravenspur." the words came like a blow. marion staggered under them. "i deny it," she said weakly. "it is false." "it is true, you idiot. you are blushing like a rose. and to-night, when that fiend tchigorsky played that fool's trick upon us you had no eyes for any one but geoffrey. frightened as i was, i could see that. your looks betrayed you. what are you going to do about it?" marion shook her head sadly. never had any one at ravenspur ever seen her look so forlorn and dejected as she did at this moment. "i don't know," she said hopelessly. "i know what i ought to do. i ought to kill you and throw myself into the sea afterwards. why should i go on leading my present life? why should i shield you? what are you? what are you to me?" "you dare ask me that question?" "oh! i dare anything in my present mood. still, i am in your power. you have only to say the word and it is done." "then why do you take every means of thwarting me?" marion rose and crossed over to the door. her eyes were shining. there was a certain restless motion of her hands. "take care," she whispered. "don't drive me too far. oh, if i could only live the last four years of my life over again!" chapter xxx a leaf from the past ralph ravenspur, with tchigorsky and geoffrey, sat smoking in the billiard room until vera came in to say good-night and drive them off to bed. as they were about to separate at the head of the stairs ralph gave them a sign to follow him. "come to my room for half an hour," he said. the others complied. tchigorsky slipped away for a while, and on his return he laid the end of a long silk thread on the white table cover. "part of a little scheme," he said. "this is one end of the silk thread. where the other end is matters nothing for the present. ralph, everybody has retired?" "everybody," ralph replied as he filled his pipe. "i fancy you said that no servants sleep in the house." "they have not done so for a long time," geoffrey explained. "not that we entertain the least suspicion of any of them. we merely made the change for safety's sake." tchigorsky nodded his approval. he arranged the silk thread neatly on the table, coiling the end round a daisy pattern worked into the damask cloth. "for mrs. may's benefit?" geoffrey asked. "precisely," tchigorsky said gravely. "i take a great interest in her." geoffrey smoked a whole cigarette before he spoke again. "by the way," he exclaimed, "who and what is mrs. may?" "the devil fairly disguised," ralph croaked. "a beautiful mephistopheles, a fascinating beelzebub, a dark-eyed fiend, a--a----" he pulled up choking with all-consuming rage. his arm was sawing the air as if feeling for the white throat of his lovely foe. "steady, there," tchigorsky muttered. "steady, ralph, my friend. shall we enlighten master geoffrey a little as to the kind of woman she is?" ralph nodded over his pipe. "if you like," he said. "only the tale shall be yours. when i come to think of it, i go out of my mind, as i did that night in the black valley. tell him, tchigorsky; tell him by all means--but not all." "ay, ay, i shall know where to leave off. i'll sit here where i can watch the table. i am interested in that silk thread. so long as it remains simply coiled up there i can go on talking. when it moves----" "you are wasting time," geoffrey suggested. "true. but to make amends i am going to interest you from the very outset. doubtless you are curious to know the meaning of those scars on my face and on the face of your uncle. lately he has managed artistically to disguise his for reasons that will appear later. there was nothing to gain by hiding mine and pretty ugly they are. "these scars were branded on us both at the same time by the priests of the great temple in the hills beyond lassa. three of us had penetrated there, but the other one knew nothing of the mysteries of buddha, for the simple reason that he was the servant of your uncle--one elphick by name. elphick is doing good work for us elsewhere, but you shall see him in time. "now, these two men, who had disguised themselves as buddhist priests and had penetrated all the mysteries of that most mysterious creed, had made a boast two years before at lahore of what they meant to do. and the words of their vaporings were carried to the ears of a woman who was a brahmin, though it appeared as if she had abandoned her religion and had married an englishman. "this englishman had been to lassa himself and, when a girl, his wife had fallen in love with him and he married her. there was a good deal of scandal about it at the time, but there are so many scandals in india that this one was quickly buried under a layer of other slanders. some said that that officer had managed to pick up some of the holiest mysteries of buddha, and that the lovely native had married him to close his lips. certainly, he would never speak of lassa and when the place was mentioned he always showed signs of agitation. "well, we went. we were not afraid. both of us knew the east, we spoke many languages, we could assume any disguise. and in a short time, as honored pilgrims from a far land, we were free of the holy temple in the hills beyond lassa. soon we were picking up all the mysteries." "are there any mysteries?" geoffrey asked. ralph gave a quick barking laugh like the snap of a pistol shot. all this time his grave, wooden smile never relaxed. "ay," tchigorsky went on, "mysteries! the things we saw and the things we learned would have driven many a strong man mad. occult sciences! what do we know of them? i tell you the greatest man who walks the earth, a whole regiment of the finest scientists in europe, would be a set of chattering monkeys alongside a buddhist priest. we have seen the dead rise from their graves and heard them speak. we came near to learn the secret of eternal life. and yet everlasting life and the unveiling of the future would not tempt me there again." tchigorsky's voice had fallen to a harsh whisper. as geoffrey glanced at ralph he saw that the latter's face was bathed in a profound perspiration. "we were thus situated for some months," tchigorsky resumed. "gradually every mystery connected with life and death was opening up before us, and the secret of universal knowledge was within our grasp. then one day there was a commotion in the city, and we found that there was to be a great feast in honor of a princess of the royal blood who had come back to lassa after a long pilgrimage. we were bidden to that feast and had places of honor near to the seat of the princess. "she came in presently, gorgeously attired in flowing robes and strings of diamonds and emeralds in her hair. she was a magnificent creature. i have seen many a native queen on her throne, but none to compare with that woman who sat flashing her lovely eyes round the table. "as i looked at her again and again i had an odd feeling that i had seen her before. i turned to speak to ralph here and beheld with distended eyes and dropped jaw that he was regarding the princess. "'what is it?' i asked. 'do you know her, too?' "ralph whispered a few words in my ear--a few pungent words that turned me cold. and what he saw was this. in the princess we had the woman from lahore--the woman who had forsaken her tribe to marry an english officer. we had heard before that she was in the habit of going away for long periods, and we knew that her husband must have possessed himself of buddhist secrets, perhaps sacred buddhist script, or that woman would never have been allowed to come and go like this. "had she married an englishman in the ordinary way and subsequently returned to lassa, she would have been torn to pieces. she had been granted absolution on purpose to wrest those secrets from the englishman who had stolen them. and we two had boasted in the hearing of this woman that we were going to learn those secrets for ourselves. "would she recognize us? that was the question. remember that we were most carefully disguised, we spoke the language without flaw, we had the same tale to tell--a tale that we had rehearsed over and over again. there was no reason why we should not pass muster. "hope began to revive. then i looked up and caught that woman's eye and she smiled. i dream of that smile sometimes at night, and wake up cold and wet and shivering from head to foot. not that i have more fear than most men, but then i had seen men put to death in tibet. the torture of the wheel would be a pleasant recreation alongside of death like that. "we were recognized. no need to tell us that. doubtless that woman had followed us step by step, giving us all the latitude we required, and now she had come to teach us the pains and penalties attaching to our office. she favored us with no further glance until the feast had concluded and what passes for music had begun, when she honored both of us with a summons to her side. "of course, we went. in the circumstances there was nothing else to do. she made room for us; she smiled dazzlingly upon us. and then slowly and deliberately, as a cat with a mouse, she began to play with us. "'i speak to you thus,' she said, 'because there are others who seek for the secrets of the faith. there were two christian dogs who came up from lahore. one was called tchigorsky, the other was called mayton' (mayton was your uncle ralph's pseudonym, geoffrey), 'and they boasted what they were going to do. they knew the language, they said. and, behold, the one called tchigorsky was very like you, holy man.' "it was coming. i bowed gravely as if the comparison was not pleasing to me. a wild yell of hysterical laughter came to my lips, but i managed to suppress that. there were no knives on the table, and i had not dared to use my revolver. had there been a knife on the table i should have stabbed that woman to the heart and taken the consequences. "but your revolver, tchigorsky," geoffrey suggested. "my dear boy, holy fathers and shining lights of the buddhist faith do not carry regulation army revolvers," tchigorsky said grimly. "all i could do was to wait." "'did you know those english at lahore?' the princess asked. "i disclaimed the knowledge, saying that at that time i was in cawnpore. then being closely questioned, i proceeded to give a detailed history of the movements of myself and my companion for the last year or so. i was lying glibly and easily, but i had no comfort from the knowledge. it was easy to see that not one word was believed, and that i was walking into the trap. "'at dargi you were,' said the princess. 'what are the five points of the temple there?' "for the life of me i could not tell her. as a matter of fact, i had never been near dargi in my life. and the question was one that any buddhist who had been there would have answered offhand. "'i have forgotten,' i answered as calmly as possible. 'i have a bad memory. i forget all kinds of things.' "those dark eyes seemed to look me all through. "'you will forget your own name next,' the princess said. "'i'll remember that,' i replied. 'i am rane el den, at your service.' "then came the reply in excellent english. 'your name is sergius tchigorsky, and your companion is ralph james mayton. i have found you out. i have only to raise my hand and your fate is sealed.' "it was all over. i said nothing. i asked no pity. pity! you might as well strive to soften the heart of the wounded tiger that has you down with a handful of nuts. then i----" tchigorsky paused. his eyes were on the table. he pointed to the silken thread that was slowly moving in the direction of the door. "hush!" he said softly. "blow out the light." chapter xxxi the silk thread intensely interested as he was in the story that tchigorsky had to tell, geoffrey nevertheless watched the slowly moving thread on the table. gradually and very slowly the silken tag began to draw away from the pattern on the tablecloth, tchigorsky following it with grim eyes. "you find it strange?" he asked geoffrey. "strange and thrilling," geoffrey replied. "it appeals to the imagination. some tragedy may be at the other end of that innocent-looking thread." "there may be; there would be if i were not here. we are dealing with a foe whose cunning and audacity know no bounds. you see i have been among the foe and know something of their dealings." a passionate anger rose up in geoffrey as he watched the gliding thread. "then why not drop upon them?" he cried. "why not produce your proofs and hand the miscreants over to the police?" "what good would that do?" tchigorsky replied. "could we prove that the foe had had a direct hand in the tragedies of the past? could we demonstrate to the satisfaction of a jury that mrs. may and her confederates were responsible for those poisoned flowers or the bees? and if we get them out of the way there are others behind them. no, no; they must be taught a lesson; they must know that we are all-powerful. and they must feel the weight of our hands. then the painful family scandal----" "you are going too far," ralph interrupted warningly. tchigorsky checked himself after a glance at geoffrey. "i am not to be told everything," he said. "why?" "because we dare not," ralph murmured. "it is not that we cannot trust you, but because we dare not." with this geoffrey was fain to be content. by this time the thread had left the table, and was lying on the floor. "the other end is tied to mrs. may's door," tchigorsky explained. "when that door was cautiously opened, of course, the thread moved. geoffrey, you stay here. ralph, will you go up by the back staircase and get up to the corridor. wait there." "is there danger?" geoffrey whispered. "not now," said tchigorsky, "but this audacity passes all bounds. that woman had planned to strike a blow at the very moment when she was enjoying the hospitality of this roof. the boldness of it would have averted all suspicion from her. one of the family mysteriously disappears and is never heard of again. in the morning not one lock or bolt or bar is disturbed. and yet the member of the family is gone. england would have been startled by the news to-morrow." "you heard all this?" geoffrey cried. "yes," tchigorsky said quietly. "that disguise i showed you was useful to me. it is going to be more useful still." "but the danger! it must be averted," geoffrey whispered. already tchigorsky was leaving the room. the lamp had been extinguished, after taking care to place a box of matches close beside it. in the darkness geoffrey waited, tingling to his finger tips with suppressed excitement. meanwhile, tchigorsky felt his way along in the darkness. he was counting his steps carefully. he reached a certain spot and then stopped. ralph strolled down the back staircase, and thence down a flagged passage into the hall, where he climbed the stairs. light and darkness, it was all the same to him. there was nobody in the house who could find his way about as well as he. then he waited for the best part of half an hour. he could hear queer sounds coming from one of the bedrooms, a half cry in light feminine tones, a smothered protest and then the suggestion of a struggle. yet ralph never moved toward it; under cover of the darkness he smiled. then he heard a door creak and open; he heard footsteps coming along in his direction. the footsteps were stealthy, yet halting; there was the suggestion of the swish of silken drapery. on and on that mysterious figure came until it walked plump into ralph's arms. there was a faint cry--a cry strangled in its birth. "mrs. may," ralph said quietly, "i am afraid i startled you." the woman was gasping for breath, iron-nerved as she was. she stammered out some halting, stumbling explanation. she was suffering from nervous headache, she was subject to that kind of thing, and there was a remedy she always carried in her jacket pocket. and the jacket was in the hall. "go back to your room," said ralph. "i will fetch it for you." "there is no occasion," the woman replied. "the shock of meeting you has cured me. but what are you doing?" "sleeping on the stairs," ralph said in his dullest, most mechanical way. "sleep--sleeping on the stairs! why?" "i frequently do it. i suffer from insomnia. the accident that deprived me of my sight injured my reason. this is one of my lucid intervals. for years i slept in the open air; the atmosphere of a bedroom stifles me. so i am here." "and here you are going to remain all night?" "yes. i presume you have no objection." mrs. may was silent. did this man know the terrible position he had placed her in? was he telling the truth, or was he spying on her? was he dangerous enough to be removed? or was he the poor creature he represented himself to be? "you should get your clever friend tchigorsky to cure you," she said. "tchigorsky has gone away. i don't know when i shall see him again." that was good news, at any rate. mrs. may stooped to artifice. there were reasons why this man should be got out of the way at present. he had brought danger by his stupid eccentricity, but the bold woman was not going to change her plans for that. "be guided by me," she said. "go to your room." "i am here till the morning," ralph said doggedly. "go to yours. we are a lost, doomed race. what does it matter what i do?" it was useless to combat sullen obstinacy like this. mrs. may uttered a few clear words in a language that not one in a million would understand--certainly not three people in england. it never occurred to her for a moment that ralph ravenspur might be one of the three, but he was. he listened grimly. no doubt the mysterious words had nothing to do with the matter, but a door in the corridor opened, and marion emerged, carrying a light in her hand. she came swiftly down the corridor, her long hair streaming behind her. as she saw ralph she gave a sigh of relief. "come quickly to vera's room," she said. "i want your help." in her intense excitement she seemed not to notice mrs. may. the latter stood aside while the other two passed along. she slipped into her own room and closed the door. "foiled," she hissed, "and by that poor meaningless idiot. is it possible that he suspected anything? but no, he is only a fool. if i had only dared, i might have 'removed' him at the same time. on the whole, it was a good thing that marion did not see me." without the least trace of excitement and without hurry, ralph followed marion. a light was burning in the room and vera, still dressed, was lying on the bed. she was fast asleep, but her face was deadly cold and her breathing was faint to nothingness. ralph's fingers rested on her pulse for a minute. "how long has she been like this?" ralph asked. "i don't know," marion replied. "i was just dropping asleep when i fancied i heard vera call out. in this house the mere suggestion sufficed. i crept quietly along and came in here. the room was empty save for vera and there was no sign of a struggle. i should have imagined it to be all fancy but for the queer look in vera's face. when i touched her i found her to be deadly cold. is--is it dangerous?" ralph shook his head. "mysterious as ever," he said. "the miscreant is by us, almost in our hands, and yet we cannot touch him. vera has been rendered insensible by a drug. the effect of it will pass away in time. she will sleep till morning, and you had better remain with her." "of course, i should not dream of leaving the poor child alone." ralph just touched marion's cheek. "you are a good girl--an angel," he murmured. "what we should do without you i cannot say. stay here and have no fear. i shall not be far away. i am going to sleep for the rest of the night on the floor outside." "on the floor, my dear uncle?" "bah! it is no hardship," said ralph. "i have had far less comfortable quarters many a time. i am used to it and like it. and i sleep like a hare. the slightest noise or motion and i am awake instantly." marion raised no further protests. this singular individual was in the habit of doing as he pleased, and nothing could turn him from his humor. he bade marion good-night and softly closed the door. but he did not lie down at the head of the stairs. on the contrary, he crept quietly down to his room again. there tchigorsky and geoffrey waited him. the lamp was once more lighted. tchigorsky had a grin on his face. "foiled her?" he asked. "i heard you." "for the present, at any rate," ralph replied. "that charming woman does me the honor to regard me as a benighted idiot." tchigorsky dropped into a chair and rocked to and fro, shaking with noiseless mirth. chapter xxxii more from the past geoffrey looked from one to the other for explanation. "won't you tell me what has happened?" he asked. "as a matter of fact, nothing has happened," ralph replied. "a little time ago tchigorsky outlined a bold stroke on the part of the foe. he suggested that it was possible, without removing a single bolt or bar, to spirit away one of the family, who would never be heard of again. tchigorsky was making no prophesy; he was speaking from knowledge. well, the attempt has been made and it has failed." "who was the victim, uncle?" "your cousin, vera. sit down, my boy; if you go plunging about like that you will ruin everything. did i not tell you that the attempt had been made and had failed? vera is safe for a long time to come." geoffrey dropped into his seat again. "how did you manage it, uncle?" he asked. ralph gave the details. he told the story dryly. "so i not only prevented the dastardly attempt to carry vera away," he concluded, "but i baffled the foe altogether. there was not the slightest suspicion that i was on the stairs except by the merest accident." "but you say that marion was with vera?" "she was. that nimble wit of hers led her to suspect danger. but marion could not have averted the tragedy. a slender girl like her could have done nothing against a strong and determined foe. if necessary, she would have been carried off and they would have killed two birds with one stone." geoffrey shuddered. he was sick of the whole business. for the moment he was a prey to utter despair. it seemed hopeless to fight against a foe like this, a foe striking in the dark and almost moving invisibly. "some one ought to watch that room," he said. "it is unnecessary. i am supposed to be sleeping close by. already the foe has learned that i slumber with one eye open. don't be cast down, geoffrey. two more of the enemy are on their way to yorkshire, and when they are here the mouth of the net is going to close. i pledge you my word that no further harm shall come to anybody. and tchigorsky will say the same." "on my head be it," tchigorsky muttered. he twisted a cigarette dexterously with his long fingers. "there is nothing to fear," he said, "nothing with ordinary vigilance. the danger will come when the time for defence has passed and it is our turn to attack. then there will be danger for the three of us here. shall we go to bed?" "i could not sleep for a king's ransom," said geoffrey. "then we will chat and smoke awhile," said tchigorsky. "if you like, i will go on with the history of our adventures in lassa." geoffrey assented eagerly. tchigorsky proceeded in a whirl of cigarette smoke. "we knew we were doomed. we could see our fate in those smiling, merciless eyes. that woman had lived among civilized people; she knew western life; she had passed in society almost for an englishwoman. "but she was native at heart; all her feelings were with her people. all the past could not save us. she meant us to die, and die with the most horrible torture under her very own eyes. her life in india was a masquerade--this was her real existence. "'you fancy you are the first,' she said. 'did you ever know a russian traveler, voski by name? he was very like you.' "i recollected the man. i had met him years before, and had discussed this very lassa trip. "'yes,' i said, for it was useless to hold up our disguises any longer. 'what of him?' "'he came here,' the princess said. 'he learned some of our secrets. then it was found out and he had to walk the black valley. he died.' "all this was news to me. so astonished was i that i blurted out the truth. only a year before, long after voski was supposed to be dead, i had met him in london. when i mentioned lassa he changed the subject and refused to continue the conversation. i fancied that he suspected me of chaffing him. now i know that he had been through the horrors of the black valley and--escaped. "the eyes of the princess blazed when she heard this. she was a wild devastating fury. it seemed almost impossible to believe that i had seen her in a tea gown at simla, chattering society platitudes in a white sahib's bungalow. and i bitterly regretted betraying myself, because i knew that, wherever he was, voski would be hunted down and killed, as they were seeking to kill me, as they would slay ralph ravenspur, only they have not recognized him." "hence the changed face and the glasses?" geoffrey asked. "you have guessed it," said ralph. "i did not want to be known. i am only a poor demented idiot, a fool who cumbers the ground." "i had betrayed voski without doing any good to myself," tchigorsky resumed. "if any harm has come to him, i am his murderer. presently the princess calmed down, and the old cruel mocking light came back to her eyes. we were speaking english by this time--a language utterly unknown to the awestruck, open-mouthed priests around us. "'let us pretend that this is my drawing room in india, and that i am entertaining you at tea,' she said. 'later you shall know something of me in my real character. i suppose you recognized the risks that you ran?' "'perfectly,' i replied. 'we are going to be done to death in barbarous fashion, because we have come here and learned your secrets as your husband did.' "i could afford this shot. i could afford to say anything. we were going to perish by a death the horror of which is beyond all words, and had i pulled the nose of the princess, had i strangled her as she sat there, the punishment could have been made no worse. "'take care,' she said, 'you are in my power. what do you mean?' "'i mean that your husband penetrated the secrets of buddha, and that you married him so as to regain those secrets. there were papers and the like, or he would merely have been assassinated in the ordinary vulgar manner, and there would have been an end of the business. your husband has got an inkling of this and that is why he has hidden the documents and refuses to give them up; he would be murdered if he did.' "'you are a bold man,' the princess said. "'not at all,' i replied. 'a man can only die once. would you say that the condemned murderer was rash for attempting to pick the pocket of the gaoler, even for attempting to murder him? what i say and what i do matters nothing. and you know that i am telling the truth.' "the princess smiled. my friend ralph here will remember that smile." "i could see then," ralph muttered, "and i do remember it." "'very well,' the princess replied, 'you are candid and i will be the same. what you have said about my husband is perfectly true. i did marry him to recover those papers. and when i accidently let out the truth that i was not outcast of my tribe he saw his danger. he is safe till those papers are mine. and then i shall kill him. "'and yet i love that man--i shall be desolate without him. but my religion and my people come first. for them i lose my caste, for them i degrade myself by becoming the wife of a white sahib, for them i shall eventually die. and yet i love my husband. ay, you cannot command the human heart.' "at this i laughed. the princess joined me. "'you think i have no heart,' she said, 'but you are mistaken. you shall see. for the present i have my duty to perform. i do it thus.' "she rose to her feet and clapped her hands and spoke in terse, vigorous sentences. a minute later we were bound and our disguises slipped from us. and there for the present you must be content to leave us. to-morrow i shall tell the rest." tchigorsky rose and yawned, but geoffrey would fain have had more. "the princess," he said; "at least tell me if i know her." "of course you do. princess zara is the woman who calls herself mrs. mona may." chapter xxxiii vera sees something it was nearing dawn when vera came to herself out of an uneasy slumber. the darkest hour that precedes the faint flush in the eastern sky was moving away. there was a light in the room. vera rubbed her eyes wondering. it was one of her fancies to have no light in her room. better to lie with horrors she could not see than have the glimmer from a nightlight filling every corner with threatening shadows. vera sat up in bed, forgetting for the moment that she had a racking headache. something had happened while she slept. something was always happening in that house of fears, so that vera was conscious of no new alarm. in a big easy chair at the foot of the bed marion reclined, fast asleep. vera checked an impulse to wake her. in that miserable household sleep was the most blessed of all luxuries. why, then, should marion be disturbed? doubtless she had come there to protect and, doubtless the girl would know all about it in the morning. "i will not wake her," vera murmured. but she could not sleep herself. the splitting, blinding headache was very much in evidence just now. vera felt that she would give anything for a glass of cold spring water. she poured out that in her own bottle, but it was flat and tepid. she would go down into the stone-flagged outer kitchen, where the pump was, and get some fresh. in any case, she had not the least idea of going to bed again. vera partly dressed herself, doing up her hair in a big shining knot, and then, in slippered feet, crept down to the kitchen. she had no need of a light--there was already enough to show the way. how cool and refreshing the water was! she drank a glass and then laved her face in the crystal fluid. all headache was gone by this time, though vera had a curious trembling of her lower limbs that she could not account for. she opened a side door leading into a green quadrangle, and from there made her way to the terrace. for a few minutes she stood in a dark angle facing the house, just picked out, as it was, from the gloom. along the dim corridor some one was advancing with a light. what could it mean? what was going on? vera crouched close into the dark corner. she had an idea that she was going to witness something. the light in the corridor stopped and grew brighter. from the black shadow of the house a human figure crept out and slid along the terrace to a spot where it was just possible for a man of strong courage and cool head to make his way down to the beach at low tide. at high water the sea swept the foot of the cliff. vera strained her eyes to make out the figure. it passed so close to her that she might have touched the hem of the white diaphanous garment about it; a faint, sour kind of perfume was in the air. these swiftly flying feet made not the slightest noise. vera guessed at once that this was one of the orientals whom she and geoffrey had seen along the cliffs on a memorable occasion. she was not far wrong. if not the same, they belonged to the same noisome band. almost before vera could recover from her surprise another figure followed. vera watched with intense eagerness. slight and frail though she was, she was not in the least afraid. she came from the wrong race for that. she had made up her mind to know what was going on even if she ran some danger in obtaining the knowledge. and what did that light mean? she was soon to know. presently another figure came along, a tall figure which in the gloom bore a strong resemblance to tchigorsky. the figure wore boots and a european dress and did not seek concealment. by its side was yet another figure also clad in european dress. "you say this is the place?" the latter man whispered in indifferent english. "yes, yes," was the reply, in still more indifferent english. "it is to this place that my master, dr. tchigorsky, bade me bring you. and there is the signal." the light in the corridor waved again. "i am not satisfied," the stranger muttered. "i am in great danger." "but not here," the other said eagerly. "nobody knows you are here. the princess has not the least idea of your presence. and dr. tchigorsky, my master, bade me hunt for you until i found you. and i have done it." "oh, yes, you have done it right enough. and dr. tchigorsky would not have sent for me unless there had been danger. but why not meet him in daylight in a proper and natural manner?" the other spat gravely on the pavement. "the doctor is a great man," he said. "he knows. would you have your enemies to guess that you have seen my master? that is why i bring you here at night. that is why there is the great secret." the tall man muttered something that sounded like an acknowledgment of the force and cogency of this reasoning. "i dare say it is all right," he said. "fetch your master." the servant salaamed and departed in the direction of the house. he returned presently with the information that tchigorsky had gone along the terrace. there was a summer house a little way off, where tchigorsky waited. vera felt her heart beating faster. there was no summer house along the terrace--nothing but a broken balustrade that rupert ravenspur was always going to have mended. over this there was a sheer drop to the sea below. as the pair moved on, vera followed. then what followed seemed to happen in the twinkling of an eye. a white-robed figure emerged and flung himself upon the stranger. at the same time the other miscreant, who had acted as tchigorsky's servant, attacked him from behind. "you rascals," the stranger cried, speaking this time in french. "so i have been deceived. you are going to throw me over the cliff. there is no escape for me. well, i don't much mind. the agony of suspense has taken all the sweetness out of life for me. i knew that sooner or later this was bound to come. but i am going to take a toll." the stranger's breath was coming rapidly between his teeth. vera tried to scream, but no sound emerged from her lips. she stood rooted to the spot, watching what seemed to her a long one-sided struggle. as a matter of fact, it had not lasted more than ten seconds. gradually the stranger was forced back. back and back they forced him to the very edge of the cliff. there was no escape for him now. he reached out two long and swinging hands; he grasped two arms, one for each of his would-be assassins, and then he jumped backwards. two fearful wailing yells rent the air; there was a mocking laugh, and silence. had she really seen this thing or had she dreamed it? vera was not sure. just for a brief moment her senses left her. when she came to herself again she crept along to the house and thence to her bedroom. she locked the door and flung herself upon the bed, pressing her hands to her eyes. "how long will it last?" she murmured. "how long can one endure this and live? oh, heaven! is there no mercy for us?" then the blessed mantle of oblivion fell again. chapter xxxiv exit tchigorsky it seemed to have been tacitly agreed by geoffrey and marion that nothing could be gained by telling vera of the danger that she had escaped. nothing could be gained by a recital of the dastardly attempt on the previous evening, and only another terror would be added to the girl's life. and, heaven knows, they all had terrors enough. on the other hand, vera had made up her mind to say nothing to the family generally as to her startling adventures. of course, geoffrey and ralph ravenspur would have to know, but the rest were to be kept in the dark. vera's white face and serious air were accounted for by the headache from which she was palpably suffering. some of the others understood, and they were full of silent sympathy. "it is nothing," said vera. "a walk along the cliffs will soon set me right." as she spoke she looked at geoffrey significantly. he knew immediately that the girl had something important to say to him. he slipped outside and vera followed him. not till they were out of sight of the house did she speak. "dr. tchigorsky is still about?" she asked. "yes, dear," geoffrey replied. "as a matter of fact, he is hiding in uncle ralph's room. he has his own reasons for so doing, but the reasons are to remain a profound secret. i ought not to have told you. you are not to tell any one." vera gave a sigh of relief. "i promise that," she said. "and i am exceedingly glad to hear that dr. tchigorsky is safe. i was not sure whether i had not seen his murder." geoffrey regarded vera in amazement. "why, you were in your room all night," he cried. "you were----" he was going to say "drugged," but he pulled himself up just in time. vera told her story without further preamble. it was a thrilling story and none the less so because simply told. "i don't profess to understand it," vera concluded. "i tell it to you just as it happened. on the whole, i thought it as well to keep the information to myself. i dare say that dr. tchigorsky can solve the problem." "he shall have a chance," said geoffrey. "i'll tell him after luncheon. but i should not tell a soul else this, vera." "i had no intention, geoffrey. and now, hadn't we better go back and say good-bye to mrs. may. she is leaving the house directly." mrs. may did leave the house in the course of the morning, all smiles and blandishments. she had a particularly tender word and squeeze of the hand for geoffrey, whom she pressed in a whisper to come and see her before long. "i will," geoffrey replied. "you may rely upon that." it was with a feeling of intense relief that he was rid of her. it seemed hard to believe that the smiling polished woman of the world, the _dernière cri_ of western civilization, should be one and the same with the fanatic princess of the fanatical east. there was something wild and bizarre about the very suggestion. there was one last smile for every one but marion, who had not appeared, and mrs. may was gone. geoffrey made his way up to his uncle's room. there he found the two friends smoking. tchigorsky looked at him from behind a cloud of thin smoke. "you have news, my young friend," said tchigorsky. "i see it in your eyes." "i have the most important news," said geoffrey, "only it does not convey any impression to me. it is a discovery of vera's. she had a fine adventure last night. she was not sure whether or not she had seen your murder, tchigorsky." "say on," tchigorsky said calmly. "say on, my boy." geoffrey said on accordingly. he fully expected to surprise his hearers, and he was not disappointed. every word he said was followed with rapt attention. "and now can you explain it?" geoffrey asked eagerly. "to me the explanation is perfectly clear," tchigorsky replied. "last night i told you that there were two other parties to the vendetta now in england, and that it was necessary to get them into the net before we close it. that is no longer necessary, for the simple reason that these two men are dead--drowned." "do you mean that they perished with that stranger last night?" "certainly, i do. a fine determined fellow, whose death i cannot sufficiently deplore. and he had his vengeance upon his foes. if he perished, they perished also." "but who was he, tchigorsky?" "the other man--my fellow-countryman, voski. don't you remember my telling you how the princess spoke of him? he has been hunted down at last. they lured him here and destroyed him under the pretence that i wanted to see him. my presumed servant had only to mention my name, and the thing was done." "but why bring him here?" "because the place is so quiet. because they wanted to give their mistress, the princess, a pleasant surprise. i don't suppose she knew they were coming." "but the light in the corridor?" "that was a curious and useless coincidence. the light in the corridor was mine. i was looking for something. neither of those miscreants was ever in the house at all. at the same time they had naturally been informed where i was. to-day they would have gone to their mistress with the pleasing news that they had despatched voski. i am certain they were saving the news for her." "what shall you do about it?" asked geoffrey. "i shall not do anything at present," tchigorsky replied. "i have a little idea that may work out to our advantage later. meanwhile nobody knows of the tragedy and nobody is to know. this afternoon you are going out fishing in a boat, but in reality you are going to look for their bodies. if you can find them all----" "we are certain to find them all," ralph interrupted. "they will be carried round gull reef on the spit of sand under the caves and deposited on the beach, whence the tide ebbs at four o'clock to-day. i have not lived here all my life for nothing. we shall find those bodies within a yard of where i say." "and bring them up the cliff," geoffrey shuddered. "ugh!" "you will do nothing of the kind," tchigorsky said coolly. "bring voski, of course, but you are to bury the two ruffians in the sand. it will be easy to do so, and pile some rocks over them afterwards." geoffrey ventured to suggest that such a course might end disastrously, the officers of the law not to know of it. tchigorsky waved the suggestion aside contemptuously. it was no time for nice points like these. "those foul creatures are dead, and there is an end of it," he said. "what can it matter whether there is an inquest held on them or not? if it is, then there will be an end of my scheme. i say you must do this. the future happiness of the family depends upon it. it is also of the utmost importance that princess zara does not know of the death of her miscreants." geoffrey nodded. he began to see daylight. and, after all, the concealment of these bodies was no crime. "what do you say, uncle ralph?" he asked. "say that tchigorsky is right," ralph croaked; "tchigorsky is always right. when we get voski's body, what shall we do with it?" "lay it out in the corridor, where i can get a look at it," said tchigorsky. "for the present i do not exist--at least, so far as this house is concerned. all you have to do is to follow my directions." the strange pair set out on their excursion in the afternoon. it was a long pull from the village to the cliffs, but it was accomplished at length. the boat was run aground at the least dangerous spot and ralph and geoffrey set out along the sands. the former's step was as free and assured as that of his younger companion. "ah," geoffrey cried, "you are right. there they are." "i knew it," ralph replied. "see if they are injured." geoffrey steeled himself to his gruesome task. the three men lay side by side as if they had been placed so by human hands. as far as geoffrey could judge, there were no signs of violence on the bodies of either of the natives. they lay by each other, their faces transfixed with rage and horror. beyond doubt, these men had been drowned, sucked down by the strong current and then cast up again by the sea as if in cruel sport. "no hurts on either," geoffrey muttered. "it is possible. look at the other one." geoffrey did so. he saw a face fixed with a grim smile, the smile of the man who can meet death and knows how to punish those who injure them. the face was seared and criss-crossed just like tchigorsky's and ralph ravenspur's; indeed, with its strange disfigurement the dead russian would have passed for tchigorsky. the face was black and swollen from an ugly bruise in the forehead. had not he known the truth, and had any one told geoffrey that tchigorsky lay there, he would have believed it. a spade had been placed in the bottom of the boat, and with it two deep graves were dug in the sand. into them the bodies of the orientals were cast; the sand was made smooth again, and a layer of heavy rocks laid on the top. the body of the russian was conveyed to the boat and thence to the house. there was nobody to see the mournful entry. all the family were on the terrace. a startled servant or two came forward and gave the necessary assistance to convey the body to the dimly lighted corridor. "go to the village and fetch the constable," said geoffrey. "we have found a dead body on the beach." the servant went off; the gallery was deserted. in a few minutes the family would be in the house again, and the story would have to be told. tchigorsky looked cautiously from his hiding place. "is the coast clear?" he asked. "perfectly clear," said geoffrey. tchigorsky came forward. for a long time he examined the body. the regret on his face was tempered by a gleam of grim satisfaction. "it is very like you," said geoffrey. "it is me," tchigorsky whispered. "you are to recognize it as me. the idea is that i fell over the cliffs in the darkness and was drowned. i will explain later. somebody comes." tchigorsky darted off as marion appeared. she looked white and agitated. "another horror," she said. "sims just told me. who is it?" "i regret to say it is dr. tchigorsky," said ralph. "he must have walked over the cliff in the darkness. see here." marion bent over the body with a shudder. "poor fellow," she said tenderly. "tchigorsky beyond a doubt." ralph turned away, as if in grief. but the grin on his face was the grin of mephistopheles. chapter xxxv mrs. may is pleased geoffrey was fain to confess that he couldn't quite follow. he turned to ralph, who once more had recovered his old expression--an expression tinged with profound regret. from the hall below came the tones of rupert ravenspur demanding to know what it was all about. "go and tell your grandfather," ralph said quietly. "everybody who comes near us is fated, it seems. poor tchigorsky is no more. he was a mysterious man, and wonderfully reticent as to his past life, but he was the most interesting man i ever met. but i shall never hear anything more about tibet." "he was a very old friend of yours?" marion asked. "not so very old," ralph replied. "and i should hardly call him a friend. we were mutually interested in certain scientific matters. but as to the marvelous side of things he told me nothing." speaking by the letter this was perfectly true. tchigorsky had told ralph nothing, for the simple reason that they had learned and suffered together. "then why did he come here?" marion demanded. "to try to solve the mystery. he declared that orientalism was at the bottom of it. but we shall never know now. tchigorsky is no more, and such knowledge as he may have possessed has gone down to the sea with him." marion turned away with a sigh. slight as their acquaintance had been, she had been drawn to tchigorsky, she said. strange that whoever tried to help the house of ravenspur should come under the ban. "but tchigorsky was drowned," said ralph. "no, indeed," marion replied. "oh, i know there are no signs of violence on the body. i know how dangerous the broken balustrade is; but i have my opinions all the same." "you are wrong in this case," ralph said, as he walked away. presently other people began to arrive. for the first time for many years ravenspur was invaded by strangers--a policeman or two, a fussily polite inspector, a journalist with a colleague, pushing everywhere. they would have interviewed rupert ravenspur, but the cold glitter of his eye awed even them. the police let ralph alone, but geoffrey was subjected to severe questioning. on the whole he came out of the ordeal better than ralph had anticipated. "you managed that very well," he said. "i feel horribly mean and guilty. all these prevarications--" "call them lies, if you like," ralph put in coolly. "it doesn't matter. think of the good cause. if ever the end may justify the means it is here. you are deceiving only our enemies; you are injuring nobody. and you are giving tchigorsky a heaven-sent opportunity." "i doubt it, uncle. clever as tchigorsky is, well as he may disguise himself, he will fail. did not princess zaza pick you both out at lassa?" "that was not quite the same thing. remember she knew beforehand that we were going to make the attempt to reach the holy city. she allowed us to go so far because she is naturally a cruel woman. moreover, all the time her spies had been dogging our footsteps. "before nightfall she will firmly believe tchigorsky to be dead, which is a great point in his favor. she does not know that her other two miscreants have met with a deserved fate. tchigorsky will go to her, passing as one of them, and will tell her a wonderful tale as to how he and his ally compassed voski's death. he will tell how that death entailed the death of his companion." "it is a fearfully dangerous position." "oh, it is. but tchigorsky will not mind that. he loves danger for its own sake. and he will be able to act the character to the life. he speaks the language perfectly; he is up to all the rites and ceremonies. tchigorsky will not fail." the inquest was appointed for the afternoon. it was not likely to last long, and the verdict in the minds of most people was a foregone conclusion. tchigorsky had walked out into the darkness, he had stumbled over the cliffs, and there was an end of the matter. meanwhile the police seemed to have taken possession of the house. and all the time tchigorsky was seated in a comfortable lounge in ralph's room, smoking cigarettes and making plans for the future. geoffrey had gone out after luncheon. he would not be wanted for a full hour and resented the vulgar curiosity of these strangers. already some of the jury had arrived, and were critically examining the broken balustrades with an owl-like wisdom which, in other circumstances, would have been amusing. geoffrey walked along up the slope toward jessop's farm. he met a small governess cart drawn by a donkey coming down the hill. in it was mrs. may driving slowly along. she pulled up as she saw geoffrey and held out her hand. her face was very clear and bright to-day. "you see, i have already adapted myself to circumstances," she said when geoffrey had asked politely and feelingly after the injured foot. "the donkey and i are old friends and jessop got the cart for me. so i am all right. by the way, what is it i hear about your finding a body down on the sands?" "it is quite true," geoffrey said gravely. "the body of dr. tchigorsky." "tchigorsky! dr. tchigorsky! do you really mean that?" the smooth, velvety voice had risen to a hoarse scream. disappointment, joy, relief danced across the woman's gleaming eyes. for the moment she seemed to forget that she had a companion. "what a dreadful thing!" she said, catching her natural voice again. "how did it happen?" geoffrey gave her the details without flinching. "it was a bit of shock for us," he said, "but we are accustomed to them. of course it will be brought in that the poor fellow met with an accident, but there is not the slightest doubt that the poor fellow was murdered." "murdered! why should you say that?" "i don't know. of course i have no evidence. but tchigorsky chose to interest himself in our affairs, and he has paid the penalty. that was exactly what marion said when she saw the body." "so that poor child actually saw the corpse! how terrible!" "marion did not seem to mind. she is small and slender, but has courage and resolution." mrs. may nodded. she had received information that was a long way from being distasteful to her. she plied geoffrey with questions as to what tchigorsky had said and done, but geoffrey evaded them all. tchigorsky had said nothing; he had hinted vaguely at what he was going to do. "i knew him years ago," said mrs. may. "oh, indeed!" geoffrey replied. "he never mentioned that." mrs. may drew a long breath. evidently she had nothing to fear. her arch-enemy had gone to his account, leaving no mischief behind. sooner or later the man would have had to be removed; now he had gone away, saving all the trouble. really, it was very considerate of tchigorsky. "you might come to the inquest and say he was a friend of yours," said geoffrey. mrs. may looked at him sharply. had she said too much or did he suspect? but geoffrey's eyes were clear and innocent of meaning. mrs. may shuddered. these kind of horrors made her ill, she said. "pray do not mention that fact," she implored. "it can do no good and it may cause a great deal of harm." geoffrey disclaimed every intention of making mischief. besides, as mrs. may pointed out, there was his uncle ralph. geoffrey shrugged his shoulders. "it is a hard thing to say," he murmured, "but my poor uncle's testimony would not carry much weight. that accident he had some years ago injured his brain. but he is harmless." mrs. may exchanged a few more or less banal remarks with her companion and drove on. she had got nothing out of geoffrey, but he had baffled her and, what was more, had succeeded in lulling a set of lively suspicious to sleep. the inquest turned out as he had anticipated. the suggestion of foul play was never raised. a surgeon testified to the fact that the deceased met his death by drowning, and that the injury to the face was doubtless caused by a fall on the rocks. beyond that the condition of the body was normal. geoffrey's evidence was plain and to the point. he had little to say. he repudiated the suggestion that the family enemy had had anything to do with the thing. dr. tchigorsky was merely a passing visitor; he had met with an accident, and there was an end of the matter. it was impossible to say more than that. then, to the manifest disappointment of those who had come prepared to be thrilled with sensational details, the inquest was over almost before it had begun. directed by the coroner, the jury brought in a verdict of "found drowned, but how the deceased came by his death there was no evidence to show." rupert ravenspur rose from his seat and ordered the servants to clear the house. "see that they are all out at once," he said. "half an hour ago i found two women--ladies, i suppose they call themselves--in the picture gallery with guide books in the hands. really, there is no sense of decency nowadays." the curious crowd were forced back and once more ravenspur resumed its normal aspect. "i will see to the burial," ravenspur said. "the poor man seems to have no friends. and i feel to a certain extent guilty. geoffrey, you will see that all proper arrangements are made for the funeral?" geoffrey bowed his head gravely. "yes, sir," he said. "i will see to that." chapter xxxvi mrs. may learns something mrs. may sat among her flowers after dinner. she had dined well and was on the very best of terms with herself. it had been a source of satisfaction to see the body of her worst enemy laid to rest in the village churchyard that afternoon. for years she had planned for the death of that man and for years he had eluded her. to strike him down foully had been too dangerous, for had he not told her that he was prepared for that kind of death? had he not arranged it so that a score of savants in europe should learn the truth within a month of his decease? "and kindly fate has removed him for me," she said as she puffed with infinite content at one of her scented cigarettes. "there is no longer any danger. what have i to fear now from those wise men of the east? nothing. they will see that tchigorsky has died a natural death and will destroy those packets. i can act freely now." a strange look came over the lovely face, a look that boded ill for somebody. then the whole expression changed as geoffrey entered. she had seen him that afternoon; she had asked him to come and he had half promised to do so. that mrs. may hated the young man and all his race with a fanatical hatred was no reason why, for the present, she should not enjoy his society. she was a strange woman, this eastern, with a full knowledge of western ways and civilization. she could be two distinct beings in as many minutes. a moment ago she was a priestess thirsting for the blood of those who had defiled her creed, for the blood of those to the third or fourth generation, and almost instantly she was the charming hostess she would have been in a country mansion or a west end drawing room. she waved geoffrey to a seat. "i hardly dared hope you would come," she said. "but now you are here, make yourself at home. there are some of the cigarettes you liked so well and the claret purchased for me by a connoisseur. i never touch wine myself, but i know you men appreciate it after dinner." geoffrey took a cigarette and poured himself out a glass of the superb claret. the bouquet of it seemed to mingle with the flowers and scent the room. geoffrey mentally likened himself to an italian gallant upon whom lucretia borgia smiled before doing him to death. not that he had any fear of the wine. mrs. may was a criminal, but she was not a clumsy one. she would never permit herself to take risks like that. nevertheless, it was very pleasant, for when mrs. may chose to exercise her fascinations there was no more delightful woman. and there was always the chance of picking up useful information. mrs. may touched lightly on tchigorsky, to which geoffrey responded with proper gravity. had mrs. may known that tchigorsky himself was not more than a mile away she would have been less easy in her mind. "no more visions lately?" she asked. "no more," geoffrey replied. "but they will come again. we are hopelessly and utterly doomed; nothing can save us. it is to be my turn next." mrs. may started. there was an expression on her face that was not all sympathy. "what do you mean by that?" she demanded. geoffrey slowly extracted from his pocket a sheet of paper. he had discovered it in his plate that morning at breakfast time. long and earnestly it had been discussed by himself and ralph and tchigorsky, and it had been the suggestion of the last-named that geoffrey should find some pretext for mentioning it to mrs. may. "this was by my plate this morning," he said. "i don't mind showing it to you, because you are a good friend of mine. it is a warning." it was a plain half sheet of note-paper, the sort sold in general shops at so many sheets a penny. the envelope was to match. just a few lines had been laboriously printed on the paper. "take care," it ran. "you are marked down for the next victim; and they are not likely to fail. you are not to go on the sea till you hear from me once more; you are not to venture along the cliffs. if you show this to anybody i shall not be able to warn you again, and your doom will be sealed.--one who loves you." that was all there was; nothing at the top or the bottom. mrs. may turned this over with a puzzled face and a hand that shook slightly. under her smile was another expression, the look of one who has been betrayed and is in a position to lay her hand upon the guilty person. "you are fortunate to have friends with the enemy," she said. "but do you think you were wise to show this to me?" she was playing with him as the cat plays with the mouse. it was a temptation she could not resist, feeling sure that geoffrey would not understand. but he did, though he did not show it on his face. "why not?" he asked innocently. "are you not my friend? personally i believe it is a hoax to frighten me. you can keep that paper if you please." "then you are not going to take any notice of the warning?" asked mrs. may. there was a note of curiosity, sharp, eager curiosity, in the question. geoffrey did not fail to notice it, though he shook his head carelessly. "i am going to ignore it, as one should ignore all anonymous letters," he said. "if the writer of that letter thinks to frighten me, then he or she is sadly mistaken. i shall go on with my life as if i had never received it." mrs. may's lips framed the sentence, "the more fool you," but she did not utter it. it filled her with satisfaction to find that the warning had been ignored, as it had filled her with anger to know that a warning had been received. and mrs. may knew full well who was the author of that letter. "i don't think that i should ignore it," she said. "it may be a cruel piece of mischief; and, on the other hand, it may be dictated by a generous desire to help you. so the moral is that you are to keep clear of the cliffs and the sea." geoffrey flicked the ash off his cigarette and laughed. he poured himself out a second glass of the amazing claret. "it is an unusual thing for me to do," he said, "but your claret is wonderful. you speak of the moral, i speak of the things as they are going to be. to-morrow i shall go out fishing alone as if nothing had happened." "ah, but you have not spoken of this?" mrs. may indicated the letter lying on the table. geoffrey looked at her reproachfully. "have we not trouble and misery enough in our house without making more?" he asked. "now, i put it to you as a lady of brains and courage, if you had been in my position, would you have shown that to your family?" geoffrey lay back in his chair with the air of a man who has put a poser. at the same time he had ingeniously parried mrs. may's question. as a matter of fact, nobody but ralph and tchigorsky had seen the paper. and the latter point-blank refused to give his reasons why the letter was to be disclosed to mrs. may. she looked at geoffrey with real admiration. "i shouldn't," she said. "of course, you are right and i am wrong. and i dare say you will be able to take care of yourself." he was going to disregard the warning; he was going out alone; and nobody knew what was hanging over his head! here was a fool of fools, a pretty fellow to assist. much good that warning had done. geoffrey rose to his feet. "and now i must go," he said. "still, i hope to come again." the door closed, and she was alone. hardly had he departed before a dark figure in a white robe crept out of the gloom of the garden into the room. mrs. may looked at the ragged looking stranger fixedly. "who are you, and whence do you come?" she asked in her native tongue. the man salaamed almost to the ground. "i am ben heer, your slave," he said, "and i bring you great news." "oh!" mrs. may said slowly; "and so you have come at last." chapter xxxvii diplomacy mrs. may crossed rapidly and noiselessly to the door and closed it. not that there was any need for caution, seeing that the primitive household had been abed long ago. but precaution is never wasted. there was coffee in the grate kept hot by means of a spirit lamp. mrs. may poured out a cup and handed it to her guest. she lay back in her chair watching him with a keen glance and the easy, natural insolence, the cruel cutting superiority of the great over the small. the man stood, his hands thrust into the folds of his loose sleeves, a picture of patient resignation. "how did you get here?" the princess asked. "at the great house in london i asked, o mistress," ben heer replied. "i came over, as thou knowest, to do certain work. there was yet another one with me. and when my work was done i came on to tell what thy slave had accomplished." "you have proofs of what you say?" "else i had not been here. for two years we have followed up the track of the victim. it was as if we had searched for one single perch in the whole of a great lake of water. but we never tired and never slept both at the same time. then at last we got near, and it came to the knowledge of the prey that we were upon him. that was long before the last cold weather that nearly starved us." the man paused and shivered. the princess nodded with careless sympathy. she had never tried a winter in england, but she could imagine what it was. "he knew us at last," ben heer resumed. "he met us face to face in the public street, and he knew that his hour had come. a night later he was in paris. at the same time we were in paris also. he tried rome, vienna, berlin. so did we. then he came back to london again. when he did so we knew that he had bowed his face before the all-seeing, and prayed that the end might come speedily." the princess followed all this with impatience. but the man was speaking after the manner of his kind and could not be hurried. he would go on to the end without omitting a single detail and the princess was forced to listen. despite the western garb and the evidences of western life and custom about her, she was no longer mrs. may, but princess zara. she had only to close her eyes and the droning intonation and passionless voice of the speaker took her back to lassa again. and the day was near, ah! the day was near, when the goal would be reached. "once we had him and once he escaped," ben heer went on. "he was a brave man was voski, and nothing could break down those nerves of iron. he knew that the end was near. it was in a big house--a house near to london--that we found him. "there were servants, and they were glad to have their fortunes told. it was their evening meal on the table when we got there, and the man voski sahib was out. then, behold, after that evening meal the servants slept till the dawn, and at midnight the master returned. he came into his study and the bright flash of the lightning came at the touch of his fingers." "electric light," the princess said impatiently. "go on." "then he saw us. we knew that he had no weapon. the door we barred. then voski, he sit down and light a cigar, smiling, smiling all the time. when we look at him we see that he moves not so much as a little finger. there was no sign of fear, except that he look at a little box on the table now and then." "ah," the princess cried. "you got it, eh?" ben heer made no direct reply. he was not to be hurried. he meant to describe a sordid murder in his own cold-blooded way. probably he did not regard the thing as a crime at all; he had been acting under the blessing of the priests. "'you have come for it?' he asked. "we bowed low with respect, saying that we had come for it. he lay back in his chair, making a sign for me to approach. previously we had told him that it was useless for him to call out to the servants." "you did not tell those servants their fortunes in your present garb?" "no, no, my mistress. we no such pigs as that.... sahib voski bid me approach. my friend had the 'pi' ready on the cloth.... it was held to the head of the other. and so he died peacefully in his chair." "ah, so you say. where are your proofs?" ben heer slowly withdrew a white packet from the folds of his dress. "what better proof could the slave of my illustrious mistress have?" he asked. "it is here--the precious stone with the secrets of the gods written on it. behold!" with a slightly dramatic gesture a glittering fragment of something that looked like green jade was held on high. the princess grasped it eagerly and devoured it with her eyes. words were pouring in a liquid stream from her lips; she was transformed almost beyond recognition. "at last," she murmured, "at last! but the other one--your companion. how did he die? you say he is dead. how?" ben heer shook his head sadly. "i cannot say," he replied. "it might have been some scheme on the part of sahib voski. when we got back to our room in london we were both dreadfully ill. for days i lie, and when i get better they tell me my poor friend is dead and buried. "then i understood why voski sahib smile and smile in that strange way. it was witchcraft, perhaps, or some devil we do not know in the east--but there is the stone." the princess was regarding the shining stone with a besotted enthusiasm that seemed grotesquely out of place with her dress and surroundings. perhaps this suddenly flashed upon her, for she carefully locked up the stone. "you have done well, ben heer," she said, "and shall not go unrewarded. the worst part of our task is over, the rest is easy." "then the princess goes not back to lassa?" ben heer asked. "oh, not yet, not yet. not till they are destroyed, root and branch to the smallest twig on the tree. i have not spared myself and i am not going to spare others. yet there remain those of the accursed race yonder, the ravenspurs. they know too much, they have that which i require. i will kill them off--they shall die----" "as my mistress slew her husband when his life was of no more value to her?" "ah, so you know that. you would not reproach me, ben heer?" "does the slave reproach the master who keeps his carcass from the kennel?" ben heer asked, as he bowed low. "my mistress was right; her hands were washed whiter than the snow in the blood of the christian. it was well; it was just." "then you shall help me, for there is much to be done. take this ring. place it on your finger and go to the others. they are outside waiting. give them the call, thus." the princess made a faint noise like the drowsy call of a bird and ben heer caught it up at once. he had heard it many times before. then he slipped out like a cat in the darkness, and presently the call came from the gloom. a moment later it was answered and then all was still again. mrs. may, who had discarded the princess for a moment, closed her window, drew the blinds and lighted a cigarette. it was a glad night for her. "so those two are out of the way," she murmured. "the road is clear at last--clear to the vengeance that must be mine. and with the vengeance comes the wealth that should make me a feared and dreaded power in the east. give me but the wealth and lassa shall be my footstool." chapter xxxviii geoffrey gets a shock ralph ravenspur had wandered along the cliffs and geoffrey had followed him. the latter came up to the blind man at the loneliest part of the rugged granite, and there for a time they sat. ralph was graver and more taciturn than usual, till presently his head was raised and he seemed to be listening to something intently. "what is the matter?" geoffrey asked. "somebody is close to us," ralph explained. "somebody is creeping up to us in the gorse. nay, you need not move. we are safe here on this bare ledge. there is one thing there is no cause to fear in dealing with these miscreants, and that is firearms. weapons of that description make a noise and your oriental hates noise when he is out on the kill. ah, what did i tell you? somebody is close by." a figure rose out of the gorse, a slender figure with a ragged beard and brown face. the stranger crept along and dropped by geoffrey's side. "don't be alarmed," he said. "it is only i--tchigorsky." geoffrey was astonished, though he had no occasion to be. ralph took the matter coolly. "i expected something like this," he said. "i knew you would desire to see me, and that is why we came along the rocks." tchigorsky lay on his back puffing at a cigarette. "keep your eyes open," he said to geoffrey. "one can't be too particular. not that there is any danger, for i've sent those two wretches off on a wild-goose chase for an hour or two, and the she-devil is down with one of her blinding headaches. you wouldn't think she was a woman whose heart is in a weak state, eh?" "i shouldn't have supposed she had one," said geoffrey. "have you seen her?" "i was in her company for a long time last night," tchigorsky explained. "i posed as one of the murderers of voski; i gave her proofs of my success." "the forged garuda stone," ralph chuckled. "the same," tchigorsky said gravely. "it was a magnificent forgery, and calculated to deceive those pious murderous old rascals at lassa. at any rate, i am now deep in the confidence of the princess, and attached to her subordinates, who are pledged to assist in wiping out the ravenspur family." geoffrey sighed involuntarily. he would have liked to know why this vendetta aimed at his family, but he knew that the question would be useless. still, he felt that a great deal had been gained during the last few hours. "have you learned what the latest villainy is?" ralph asked. "not yet. there is much uneasiness and alarm felt over the recent failures, and my dusky allies are getting a little frightened. for the next day or two i expect we shall lie low and plan some big _coup_. "what i want to secure now are the princess' private papers. i know she has them and is in regular communication with the priests at lassa. give me these and i can expose the whole plot. let me wipe these three people out, and then lassa shall get a hint that will save further trouble from that quarter. "a hint from the india office that any more rascality will mean an expedition to lassa and the destruction of their temples will suffice. but first i must have my proofs. without proofs i am helpless." "find them," ralph croaked; "find them. never mind the scandal, never heed what people may say. bring the matter home, hang those wretches, and we shall never more be troubled by this plague from the east. if i had my way i should shoot the whole lot." "and be hanged for your pains," tchigorsky replied. "ah, my friend, there are serious flaws in the criminal laws of this fine country of yours. patience, patience. i shall find out everything in time." "there is one thing i am curious to know," said geoffrey. "i want to know who was the girl on the cliff with mrs. may that afternoon, the girl who has such an amazing likeness to marion. have you discovered that, tchigorsky?" "that is what i am trying to get at myself," tchigorsky replied with great gravity. "it is one of the mysteries of the campaign." geoffrey said no more on the point, chiefly because he had no more to say. yet it was haunting him now as it had done for some time past. it filled his mind as he made his way down the cliffs after luncheon. and then, to his surprise, as he gained the sands he saw a figure rise from the rocks and flit along the beach until it flashed round a distant point. it was the girl who bore that surprising resemblance to marion. she was dressed, as before, in a blue skirt and red tam-o'-shanter. with a sudden impulse geoffrey followed. his feet flew over the heavy sands, making no noise. as he turned the rocky point he saw no signs of the girl, but there on the beach with her sketch-book on her knee was marion herself, so deeply interested in manipulating her water colors that she did not see geoffrey till he hailed her. "did you see her?" geoffrey gasped. marion smiled at his excited face. "see whom?" she asked. "oh, yes, some girl did pass me; but i was so busily engaged that i did not look up. how do you think my sketch is progressing? i have been at it all the morning. vera made me a small bet that i should not finish it to day, so i am going to win my bet, or perish in the attempt." geoffrey was hardly listening. he recollected that there had been some little chaff at luncheon over some sketch, but he had paid little heed to the subject. "it was the same girl," he said. "the girl so like you. oh, marion, how unfortunate you did not look up!" "it was indeed," marion replied. she appeared to be deeply interested. "i would have given anything to see her. but it is not too late. put my materials in your boat, geoff, and i will follow up the cliffs. i can't be very much use--i'm afraid--but at any rate i may solve this much of the mystery." geoffrey returned to his boat. it seemed very strange to him that marion should not have seen the girl, and also that on each occasion these two should have been so close together without meeting. geoffrey pushed his boat out, got his sails up, and then stood out for the bay. it was very quiet, and no other boats were to be seen. one or two of the upper windows of the castle were visible from there, but no other signs of habitation. the breeze freshened as geoffrey reached the open sea. some distance from him a pile of wreckage covered with a mass of seaweed floated on the water. "i'll anchor here and get my lines out," said geoffrey. he luffed and as he did so a puff of wind filled the sail. the mast gave an ominous crack, and the whole thing snapped and went by the board. geoffrey stared with widely open eyes. the wind was as nothing, barely enough to belly the sail. then he looked down and saw that the mast had been almost sawn away. somebody had cut it nearly through, so that the first puff would suffice. geoffrey felt vaguely alarmed and uneasy. he was a good four miles from shore and was an indifferent swimmer. the sea was too dangerous and rough for bathing. there might be further treachery. he sat down and pulled hard at the oars with the idea of returning to the beach again. as he bent his back to the work, he toppled over the seat with two short stumps in his hands. the oars, too, had been sawed through and geoffrey was helpless, four miles from land in an open boat, with no means of progress and nobody in sight. the position was alarming. there would be nothing for it but to wait until some passing craft came along and picked him up. but the time went by without any sign of a boat and starvation might be the result. nor was the position improved when it began to dawn upon geoffrey that the boat was filling fast. he saw that a large hole had been bored in the bottom and filled with some kind of substance that slowly dissolved in the water. with a tin dipper geoffrey worked away with all his might, but he could only keep the water from rising higher, and knew that the exertion would soon tell upon him. "help!" he cried. "help! help! help!" he ceased to call as suddenly as he had begun. what was the use of calling so long as nobody could hear him? and why waste the breath that would be so precious to him later? he could not see that the mass of wreckage and seaweed had drifted close to the boat. he saw nothing till a line thrown into the boat struck him smartly on the face. he looked up. "can you manage to keep her afloat?" a hoarse voice came from the wreckage. "for an hour, perhaps," geoffrey replied. "why?" "that will do," said the other. "i've got a paddle here. hitch the rope on to the nose of the boat and bail out for all you are worth. this is another of the princess's little tricks. i expected it. only it hasn't turned out quite in the way that i anticipated. now, bail away." "tchigorsky," geoffrey gasped. "tchigorsky!" "very much at your service. i rigged up this contrivance this morning and pushed off with it, not long before you came down. but never mind me. stick to your dipper, and i'll tell you all about it when we are ashore." it was hard and weary work for both of them, but it was accomplished at last. geoffrey was utterly exhausted when the boat was safely beached, and tchigorsky, too, felt the effect of his exertions. he lifted himself cautiously off his raft and made a dart for one of the caves. inside he had dry clothing, long flowing robes, wig, and hair for his face, pigments that changed the hue of one hemisphere to that of another. geoffrey, limp and exhausted, watched the artistic transformation with admiration. "it's wonderful," he said, "but then you are a wonderful man, tchigorsky. how did it all happen? who did it?" tchigorsky smiled as he touched up his face. "it was inspired by a woman and carried out by a woman," he said. "i dared not warn you before you started, and indeed i expected further developments. but a woman doctored your boat for you." geoffrey started as an idea came to him. "was she young and good looking?" he asked "dressed in----" "dressed," tchigorsky smiled, "in a blue serge dress and a red tam-o'-shanter. i need not ask if you have met the lady before." chapter xxxix princess zara's terms geoffrey had no reason to fear anything from his adventure in the way of catching cold, seeing that beyond his feet he was not in the least wet. but the exertion had brought the great beads to his forehead, and he lay at the entrance to the cave exhausted. meanwhile tchigorsky had appeared again clad in the long oriental robes that suited him so well. even in the strong light that filtered through a crack on to his face geoffrey found it impossible to recognize him. "are you feeling better?" he asked. "all right," geoffrey gasped. "i'm a little bit pumped, of course." tchigorsky pointed to the boat pulled over the ledge of rock. "then oblige me by shoving her off and letting her sink in shallow water," he said. "it is not pleasant and may cause your friends a great deal of anxiety, but for a little while it will be necessary for the world to regard you as one who has met with a watery grave." "but surely this does not apply to my family?" geoffrey asked anxiously. "to your family most of all," said tchigorsky coolly. "it is all part of the scheme. "my dear boy, i am the last man in the world to cause unnecessary suffering--goodness knows i have had enough of my own--but one must be cruel to be kind sometimes. i have worked out the scheme; i have seen the enemy's cards, and i am playing mine accordingly. i tell you the step is imperative." "but vera," geoffrey groaned. "it will kill vera. in normal circumstances the shock would be great; with a girl who has been so awfully tried the news may mean loss of reason." "i have thought of that," tchigorsky said. "at least your uncle ralph and i have worked it out between us. miss vera is not to know anything of our scheme, but she is to know that you are safe and well. come, i fancy you can trust ralph ravenspur." geoffrey nodded. he felt easier in his mind. not that he was satisfied, but it would be flying in the face of providence to interfere with the delicate and deeply laid scheme of a man like tchigorsky. "all right," he said. "i'll do as you desire." "then push the boat off without further delay. you will understand why i don't want to be seen in the matter. go, before any one comes along." geoffrey went obediently. he had not much fear of anybody passing. nevertheless he did not neglect proper precautions. as he reached the cave again he found tchigorsky lying on a heap of dry seaweed smoking a cigarette. "i suppose i have to thank mrs. may for this?" geoffrey asked. "for this and other things," tchigorsky nodded. "i knew it was coming; in fact, very little can happen now that i am not in a position to discount. my ruse succeeded capitally. behold in me ben heer, one of the two miscreants who succeeded in destroying voski. my colleague perished in the attempt." "the princess is convinced of that?" "absolutely. she is certain that i, sergius tchigorsky, have gone over to the great majority. besides, i have placed proofs of my alleged crime in her hand--the garuda stone all the fuss was about. it is a clever imitation, but that is beside the question." "so you have been taken into her confidence?" "well, not exactly that. but every new scheme is relegated so far as details are concerned to some of us, and therefore i am in a position to discount the future. in ordinary circumstances i should simply have warned you against going fishing to-day, and thus checkmated the foe again; but that would have been inartistic. "besides, i wanted the princess to regard you as another victim, hence the whole of this rather cheap dramatic business. you will come to life again in a few hours--when we shall have to be guided by events." "who was it who tampered with the boat?" "you will learn in good time. let us meanwhile assume that it was the work of one of my dusky companions. for the present you and i remain where we are--till dark probably--when it will be possible to smuggle you up to your uncle's room. i have not been regardless of your creature comforts. here are cold meat and a bottle of champagne. we dine together." geoffrey accepted his portion with resignation. and tchigorsky was an entertaining companion. there was no dullness in his presence. "very well," geoffrey said as he lighted a cigarette. "we are safe here. now's the time for a further recital of your thrilling adventures in lassa." "agreed," tchigorsky cried. "where did i leave off?" "you had been gagged and bound at the instigation of the princess." "true. it is also true that but for the intervention of the same princess we should have been torn to pieces on the spot; and, incidentally, i may mention that that would have resulted in the absolute extinction of the house of ravenspur. the men who a moment before had been grave, reserved priests were transformed instantly into raging fiends. "had they been possessed by devils they could not have flamed out more suddenly. they were mad to know that the secrets of all ages had passed into the hands of christian dogs--dogs who had defiled their altars. and yet much the same kind of barbarous fanaticism has been displayed in civilized dominions. they were not any worse than the bigots who burned your english martyrs. "we should have been torn to pieces on the spot, as i told you, but for the authority of the princess. so commonplace a death did not suit her ideas of the eternal fitness of things. many and many a time afterwards, when racked by agony, i deeply deplored that supposed act of clemency. it would have been a far more merciful death. "well, we were spared for the moment and cast into a loathsome dungeon, where we were overrun with vermin, great rats which we had constantly to drive off, and spiders whose bite was very painful. "how long we lay without food i don't know; anyway, it seemed days. perhaps it was only so many hours. try lying in the pitch dark fighting with nameless unseen terrors and see how many bitter years can be crammed into a minute. and yet we knew there was far worse to come. but for the fact that we were together and could cheer the black hours with the sound of each other's voices we should have gone mad. one moment we were cast down in the depths of gloom, the next we prayed for death; anon we laughed and sang sketches of gay songs. we were not insane, but were treading perilously near to the borderland. "then, after many years--or so it seemed to us--they fetched us again. we were not led into the banqueting hall, but to a long, low vault-like place on the floor of which were two shallow tanks or baths covered over with a frame of iron, and from the frame of iron ran long sliding rods for all the world like a bird cage, only the sliding wires of the cage ran far into the room. "around these cages were glowing charcoal fires, the greater part of the sliding bars or wires growing red and crocus blue from the heat. what did it mean? "i wondered. ah! i was very soon to know." tchigorsky drew a deep breath and a shudder passed over his powerful frame. the moisture on his forehead was not due to the heat alone. "on a throne of stone the princess was seated. a few of the higher grade priests were grouped around her. evidently they had been discussing us, and had made up their minds. we were not going to be tried even. [illustration: on a throne of stone the princess was seated, a few of the higher grade priests grouped around her.--page .] "'stand there!' the princess commanded! 'dogs, do you want to live?' "ralph ravenspur said nothing. he was ever a man of few words. "'we have no desire to die,' i replied. 'nothing that breathes ever has. even if i were an old man with one foot in the grave the desire for life would be as strong upon me as it is now!' "the princess smiled. i will not try to describe that smile. if you had seen it you would have given ten years of your life to forget it again. "it is in your hands to live,' the woman said; 'it is for you to say whether or not you return to your people. but you shall not carry our cherished secrets to the west. you shall live, you shall go free, but you shall take no memory of the past with you!' "i guessed at once what she meant. there were attendants upon the priests, poor fools who fetched and carried, who would undertake errands one at a time, but who had no reasoning powers, no wits of their own. "they were not born idiots; they had been made so. they are put under drugs, a portion of the scalp is removed, and then some small fragment of the brain is destroyed. we could have our liberty if we chose, but at what price! we could go free, but for the rest of our lives we should never know the blessed light of reason again. "i tell you it came to me like a cold shock and turned me faint and giddy. as i glanced at my companion i saw that he was ghastly as myself. what use was life to us under such conditions! and the fiends were equal to the cruelty of getting us to consent to this operation and then detaining us afterwards. we should be a mockery among them and a warning to others. "there was no reason to discuss this defined cruelty, this vile offer. we glanced at each other and shook our heads. far better death than this. we knew how to die; we could have drawn our revolvers and shot each other then and there. but we did not. while there was life there was hope." chapter xl the iron cage tchigorsky made a long pause before he resumed his story. his nerves appeared to require composing. it was impossible to shake off the horror of the past. at length he went on again. "i saw the cruel light flame into the eyes of the princess; i saw that she was pleased and yet sorry to learn our decision. she gave a sign and we were brought nearer to her. "'you understand what your refusal means!' she said. 'you have been here long enough to know how carefully our secrets are guarded and also how we punish those who try to read them. where are those scripts?' "we had no scripts and i said so. as a matter of fact, such formulæ and papers as we had managed to become possessed of had been smuggled beyond lassa to ralph ravenspur's servant, elphick, who had conveyed them to a place of safety. but my statement was without effect. "'strip them,' she said, 'and put them in the baths.' "we were going to learn then what those cages were for. "there is no need to remove our clothing,' i cried. 'we will do it ourselves!' "i was afraid our revolvers should be discovered, or the cartridges be rendered useless by immersion. ralph seemed to understand, for, like myself, he quickly discarded his robes and slippers and professed himself to be ready. "then the grating was raised and we were placed on our back in a shallow bath formed in the shape of a coffin, and not more than ten inches deep. as first the baths were empty, but gradually they were filled with water until we had to raise our faces and press them against the bars to breathe. i thought that we were to be suffocated in this shallow water--a dreadful idea that filled me with stifling anxiety--but there was worse to come." again tchigorsky paused and wiped his brow. "the suspense was torture; the terrible uncertainty of what was going to happen was agony. imagine being drowned with a bare half-inch of water over your lips and nostrils. i turned my head a fraction of an inch on one side, and then i saw that the water could not rise quite high enough to drown me without overflowing the edge of the bath. evidently this was but the first chapter in the book of lessons. we could breathe by placing our faces against the bar. what next? "there was no occasion to ask the question. though my heart was drumming like the wings of an imprisoned fly, and though there was the roar of a furnace in my ears, i could make out the crack and rattle of machinery, and the bars over the cage began to move. my face, to escape the water, was so closely pressed to the bars that the friction was painful. "the bars slid along, and as they did so i remembered the long projecting ends which were glowing yellow and blue in the braziers. my heart ceased drumming and then seemed to stand still for the moment. i had guessed the riddle. a second later and the horizontal bars over my face were white hot. "here was the situation, then--i had either to press my face against those cruel bars or drown in a few inches of water. could the mind of man imagine a more diabolical torture? i cried aloud; i believe my friend did also, but i cannot say. my face flinched involuntarily from the scar of the blistering iron; i held my breath till the green and red stars danced before my eyes. "flesh and blood could stand it no longer, and i was literally bound to raise my head. into the flesh, as you have seen for yourself, those hot barriers pressed, while i filled my lungs with a deep draught of delicious air. but the agony was so great that i had to go down again. the water cooled the burns for the moment. but you can imagine how it intensified the agony afterwards. "when i raised myself again the bars were cool. but only for an instant, for they came hot once more, this time in a horizontal direction. the same ghastly business was enacted; again there was the sense of semi-suffocation, again the long draught of pure air and the pain from the bars. and then, while wondering, half-delirious, how long it could last, something gave way and i fainted. "that i deemed to be death; but it was nothing of the kind. when i came to i was lying on the floor writhing in agony from my wounds. fortunately i had not lost my sight, nor had ralph at that time. he was to discover later that the injuries received were fatal to his eyes. "he was lying by my side and groaning with pain like myself. a more hideous and more repulsive sight than my companion's face i never wish to look upon. and doubtless he had the same thoughts of me. but i did not think of that at the moment. "we were alone. i staggered to my feet and across to the door. it was fastened, of course. for a time we were too maddened by pain to take heed of anything, but gradually reason came back to us. my first idea was of revenge. ralph had grasped for his robes and his revolver was in his hand. "'heaven help the first man who comes in!' he yelled. "like a drunken lunatic, i applauded the sentiment. for a minute we were both mad as the drugged malay who runs amuck. fortunately nobody did come in for some time, and gradually wiser counsels prevailed. we slipped into our garments and hid our revolvers. then from raging madmen we passed to tears. we were so spent and exhausted that we cried like little children. "but men like ourselves are not easily daunted. the pain was still great, but this only stimulated our desire to live and gain the better of those who had so cruelly used us. later a priest conducted us into another room, where the princess awaited us. "she smiled as she looked at our faces. that smile was nearly the end of her. many a time since have i regretted that i didn't finish her career then and there. had she betrayed the least sign of fear i should have done so. and by so doing your people would have been saved many a bitter sorrow." "at the expense of your life," geoffrey said. tchigorsky shrugged his shoulders. "what matter?" he said. "the few suffer for the many. well, as i was saying----" the speaker paused suddenly as his eye caught something moving along the beach. it was the figure of a woman creeping along as if in search of some missing object. she proceeded very slowly until she approached the spot where the boat lay filled and sunk, and then she paused abruptly. for a minute she stood fascinated by the sight, then she flung her hands high in the air, and a bitter wailing cry escaped her. if she had been a fisherman's wife suddenly brought face to face with the dead body of her husband or lover, her wail of anguish had not been more poignant. "who can she be?" geoffrey asked. tchigorsky said nothing. the woman stood with her hands raised. as she turned and ran towards the cliffs, moaning as she went, geoffrey started. "marion," he said. "marion." he would have dashed forward, but tchigorsky restrained him. "that is not your marion," he said. "your marion does not dress like that." geoffrey looked again. it was marion and yet not marion. it was the girl in the blue serge dress and red tam-o'-shanter who resembled her so strikingly. what did this girl know about him, and why did she stand wailing over his boat? he felt he must solve this mystery. "sit down," tchigorsky said slowly. "sit down." "but," geoffrey cried, "i insist upon knowing----" "and spoiling everything. sit down, i say, or i shall have to detain you. i don't fancy you would care to measure your strength with mine." geoffrey dropped into his seat. "perhaps not," he said. "i don't believe you want me to know who that girl is." "i have heard worse guesses," tchigorsky said dryly. chapter xli waiting they were growing uneasy at the castle. there was a forced cheerfulness about the small party that testified to the nervous tension that held them. for some years now there had been a tacit understanding on the subject of punctuality. such a thing was necessary when any moment might precipitate the next catastrophe. the mere fact of anybody being late for five minutes sufficed to put the rest in a fever. and geoffrey had not come in to tea at all. the thing was almost in itself a tragedy. geoffrey was always so considerate of others. nothing in the world would have induced him to stay away without first saying he was going to do so or sending a message. and tea had been a thing of the past for a good hour. what could have become of him? nobody asked the question, but it was uppermost in the minds of all. vera was chattering with feverish gayety, but there was a blazing red spot on her ghastly white face, and her eyes were wild and restless. marion had slipped away. the only one who betrayed no anxiety was ralph. he sat sipping his chilled tea as if he had the world to himself and there was nobody else in it. presently, with one excuse or another, all slipped away until vera was alone with ralph. he was so quiet that she had almost forgotten his presence. when she thought herself alone she rose to her feet and paced the room rapidly. she pressed her hands to her throbbing temples. "god spare him," she whispered, "spare him to me! oh, it is wicked to feel like this and so utterly selfish. but if geoffrey dies i have nothing to live for." the tears rose to her eyes, tears of agony and reproach and self-pity. ralph crossed the room silently. he was upon the girl ere she had heard the soft fall of his footsteps. he laid a hand on vera's arm. "geoffrey is not going to die," he said. vera suppressed a scream. she might have cried out, but something in the expression of ralph's face restrained her. "are you sure of that?" she asked. "as sure as one can be certain of anything, child. we are alone?" "there is nobody else here, uncle." "one cannot be too careful," ralph muttered. "then geoffrey is safe." "thank heaven. you have sent him somewhere, uncle?" "no, i have not sent him anywhere. and you are not to ask any questions. i have told you so much to spare you the agony and suspense that will overtake the others. i tell you because had you not known, the mental strain might have broken you down," continued ralph. "before long it will be proved almost beyond a demonstration that geoffrey has become a victim to the family foe. there will be evidence to convince a jury, but all the time geoffrey will be safe." vera said nothing. she could only gasp. ralph's hand lay on her shoulder with a grip that was not devoid of pain. "you are not to show your feelings to any one," he croaked. "you are not to betray your knowledge by a single sign. ah, if i could tell you how much depends upon your courage, reticence, and your silence!" "i think you can trust me, uncle ralph." "i think i can, dear. i like the ring of your voice. you are to be quiet and subdued as if you were unable to comprehend the full force of the disaster. much, if not everything, depends upon the next few hours. now go, please." ralph slipped away into the grounds. a little later he was making his way along the cliffs toward the village. for a brief time vera stood still. she was trying to realize what ralph had said. "what did it mean?" she asked herself again and again. but she could find no answer to the puzzle. still geoffrey was safe. whatever sensation the next few hours might produce geoffrey had come to no harm. it would be hard to see the others suffer, hard to witness their grief and not lighten it by so much as a sign. but ralph had been emphatic on this point. had he not said that everything hinged upon her reticence and silence? vera went slowly to her room, her feet making no sound on the thick pile carpet. a flood of light streamed through the stained glass windows into the corridor. in the big recess at the end a white figure lay face downward on the cushions. vera approached softly. she saw the shoulders rise and fall as if the girl lying there were sobbing in bitter agony. it was marion. marion the ever cheerful! surely her grief must be beyond the common? "marion," vera whispered. "dear marion." she bent over the prostrate figure with heartfelt tenderness. marion raised her face at length. it was wet with tears and her eyes were swollen. at first she seemed not to recognize vera. "go away," she said hoarsely. "why do you intrude upon me like this? am i never to have a minute to myself? am i always to carry the family troubles on my shoulders?" she spoke fiercely, with a gleam in her eyes that vera had never seen before. she drew back, frightened and alarmed. it seemed incredible that gentle marion could repulse her like this. but she did not go. marion was beside herself with grief; she did not know what she was saying. it was impossible to leave her in this condition. "you are grieving for geoffrey," she said. "he will come back to us." "geoffrey is dead," marion wailed. "he will never come back. and i----" she paused; she had not lost control of herself entirely. but the look in her eyes, the expression of her face, the significant pause told vera a story. it burst upon her with the full force of a sudden illumination. "marion," she whispered, "you love him as well as i do----" so her secret was known at last! and marion was only a woman, after all. the selfishness of her grief drove away all other emotions. "as you do?" she cried. "what do you with your gentle nature know of love? you want the wild hot blood in your veins to feel the real fire of a lasting, devouring affection. "i tell you i love him ten thousand times more than you do. look at me, i am utterly lost and abased with my grief and humiliation. am i not an object of pity? geoffrey is dead, i tell you; i know it, i feel it. love him as you do! and you stand there without so much as a single tear for his dear memory." vera flushed. the words stung her keenly. how cold and callous marion must think her! and yet marion would have been equally cold and self-contained had she known. and it was impossible to give her a single hint. "my heart and soul are wrapped up in geoffrey," she said. "if anything happens to him i shall have nothing to live for. but i am not going to give way yet. there is still hope. and i shall hope to the end." marion sat up suddenly and dried her tears. "you are a reproach to me," she said with a watery smile. "not one word of reproof has passed your lips, and yet you are a reproof to me. and to think that you should have learned my secret! i could die of shame." vera kissed the other tenderly. "why?" she asked. "surely there is no shame in a pure and disinterested affection." "from your point of view, no," said marion. "but if you could place yourself in my position you would not regard it in the same light. i have cared for geoffrey ever since i came here; all along i have loved him. i knew that he was pledged to you, and knew that he could never be anything to me and still i loved him. who shall comprehend the waywardness of a woman's heart? and now he is dead." once more the tears rose to marion's eyes; she rocked herself to and fro as if suffering from bitter anguish. "i do not believe that geoffrey is dead," said vera. "something tells me that he will be spared. but why go on like this? anybody would imagine that you had something to do with it from the expression of your face." marion looked up suddenly. "something to do with it?" she echoed dully, mechanically. "i wasn't speaking literally, of course." vera went on. "but your curious expression----" "what is curious about my expression?" "it is so strange. it is not like grief, so much as remorse." marion broke into a queer laugh, a laugh she strangled. as she passed her handkerchief across her face she seemed to wipe out that strange expression. "i hope remorse and i will remain strangers for many a long day," she said more composedly. "it is so difficult to judge from faces. and i must try to be brave like yourself. i have never given way before." "i believe you are the bravest of us all, marion." "and i that i am the greatest coward. i have even been so weak as to allow the secret of my life to escape me. vera, i want you to make me a most sacred promise." "a dozen if you like, dear." "then i want you to promise that geoffrey shall never know of your discovery. at no time are you to tell him. promise." marion looked up eagerly and met vera's eyes. they were clear and true and honest; they were filled with frankness and pity. "i promise from my heart," she said. "not now nor at any time shall geoffrey know what i have learned to-day." marion blessed the speaker tenderly. "i am satisfied," she said. "he will never know." chapter xlii the search mrs. may sat out on the lawn before the rose-garlanded windows of her sitting room. a japanese umbrella was over her dainty head, a scented cigarette between her lips. for some time she had been long and earnestly sweeping the sea with a pair of binoculars. she rose at length and made her way down the garden. there was a rugged path at the bottom, terminating in a thicket that overhung the cliffs. here it would be possible for a dozen men to hide without the slightest chance of being discovered. nobody ever went there by any chance. shaded from the house, mrs. may paused. a softened whistle came from her lips, and then there came from the ground the dusky form of the man who called himself ben heer. he salaamed profoundly. "well!" the woman demanded impatiently. "well?" "well, indeed, my mistress," the sham ben heer replied calmly. "it fell out as you arranged. behold a puff of wind carried away the masts, and behold the oars came into fragments. then the boat began to fill and now lies bottom upward at the foot of the cliff." "but he might have been a powerful swimmer." "he was no swimmer at all. i saw everything." "it was not possible for him to be picked up?" "not possible, my mistress. there was no boat, no sail to be seen. the boat foundered and there was an end of it. i waited for some time and i saw no more." mrs. may nodded carelessly. she might have been receiving the intelligence of the drowning of a refractory puppy. she betrayed neither regret nor satisfaction. "of course, they will guess," she said. "when they come to examine the boat and the oars they will see at once that there has been foul play. once more they will know that the enemy has struck a blow." "my mistress is all powerful," ben heer murmured. "they will try to trace us once more, ben heer." the sham asiatic shrugged his shoulders carelessly. "and they will fail," he said. "they know not the powers arrayed against them; the dogs know not my gracious mistress. meanwhile thy slave can see through the bushes that somebody awaits your presence." mrs. may glanced in the direction indicated by ben heer. on the lawn rupert ravenspur was standing. the woman smiled. there was the head of the hated house actually seeking out the foe. "your eyes are sharper than mine," she said. "well, you have need of them. meanwhile you had better discreetly disappear for the time." mrs. may advanced to greet her guest. he bowed with his old-fashioned grace. "this is an unexpected honor," the woman said. "i can claim nothing on the score of politeness or gallantry," rupert ravenspur replied. he was quiet and polished as usual, but there was a look of deep distress on his face. "i came here not to see you, but in the faint hope of finding my nephew geoffrey. i have ascertained that he came to see you sometimes." "he has been so good," mrs. may murmured. "i assure you i appreciate the company of a gentleman in this deserted spot." "then he has not been here to-day?" "i have not had the pleasure of seeing mr. geoffrey to-day." ravenspur groaned. he turned his face away ashamed that a woman should see him in a moment of weakness. out of the corner of her eye she regarded him. there was not a drop of pity in her heart for him. "i hope you don't anticipate anything wrong," she said. "mr. geoffrey is not a boy that he cannot----" "oh, you do not understand! it is not that at all. in ordinary circumstances i could trust geoffrey to the end of the world. he is a good fellow, and capable of taking care of himself and upholding the family honor. but others as strong and more cunning have fallen before the dreaded foe, until all confidence has left us. i fear much that harm has come to geoffrey." "but surely in the broad daylight----" "daylight or darkness, it is the same. you know nothing of the boy?" "nothing, save that he was going fishing to-day." ravenspur started. "oh," he cried. "then i shall soon know the worst. i am sorry to have troubled you; i will go down to the beach. the others are searching in all directions. nobody will return to the house until we know the lad's fate." ravenspur bowed and was gone. mrs. may smiled after him. so the castle was going to be left for the time being. "this is a chance not to be lost," she murmured. "the full run of the castle! fate is playing into my hands with a vengeance." full of the wildest apprehensions, ravenspur made his way to the beach. it was no easy task for a man of his years, but he made light of it, as he used to half a century ago. two fishermen coming up touched their hats. "have you been out to the west of gull point to-day?" ravenspur asked. "no, sir," was the reply. "not one of us. the mackerel came in from the east, and there were so many we had every bottom afloat. i did hear as mr. geoffrey had gone out in the west bay, but i can't say for sure." again ravenspur groaned; no longer had he the least doubt about what had happened. there had been more foul play, and geoffrey had gone down under the dark waters. the old man's heart was full to bursting, but his grief was for vera more than for himself. "i am afraid there has been another of those tragedies that are so mournfully identified with our name," he said. "wass and watkins, will you come with me?" the fishermen dropped the brown tangled nets upon their shoulders and followed. they were all tenants, vassals almost, of the ravenspurs and ready to do their bidding. the foe would have had a hard time did he fall into the clutches of these veterans. "i am going down to search the beach," ravenspur explained. "i know that my nephew went out fishing this afternoon. i shall know his fate soon." it was some time before anything was found. wass came stumbling over the rocks, and there in a clear pool he saw the boat bottom upward. at the cry of dismay that came from him, watkins hurried up. "give a hand with the painter, bill," wass said hoarsely. "there's the boat right enough with a good round hole under the gunwale." ravenspur watched in silence. he saw the boat beached; he saw the hole in her side. wass pointed to the mast where it had been sawn off. "poor young gentleman," he exclaimed with a hearty outburst of grief. "and to think that we shall never see him again. look at this, sir." "the mast seems to have been sawn off," said ravenspur. "almost off, sir," said watkins. "enough to give if a puff of wind came. and that hole has been plugged with soft glue or something of the kind. if i could only lay a hand on 'em!" he shook his fist in the air in impotent rage; tears filled his eyes. ravenspur stood motionless. he was trying to bring the force of the tragedy home to himself, trying to shape words to tell vera without cutting her to the heart. he was long past the more violent emotions. he turned to wass like a man in a dream. "go up to the castle," he said. "see my son gordon and bid him come here. they must all come down, all aid in the search. not a word more; please go." chapter xliii nearer to geoffrey the position was a strange one. there was something unreal about the whole thing. nor was it pleasant to remember that by this time the family had missed him, and were doubtless bewailing him for dead. "i am afraid there is no help for it," said tchigorsky. "i could not see my way to certain conclusions and ends without inconvenience." "something more than inconvenience," geoffrey murmured. "anxiety, troubles, what you like," tchigorsky replied coolly. "it is necessary. i want to have the castle cleared for a time, and i could think of no better and less suspicious way of doing it. the anxiety and suspense will not last long and by daylight your people shall see you again. and the one who is most likely to suffer has been already relieved." so geoffrey was fain to wait in the cave listening to tchigorsky's piquant conversation, and waiting for the time to come for action. "there will be plenty to do presently," the russian said. "meanwhile i am going to leave you to yourself for a space. the woman who regards me as her servant may need me. and, remember, you are not to leave the cave in any circumstances, else all my delicately laid plans will be blown to the winds." so saying tchigorsky disappeared. it seemed hours before anything happened. it was safe in the cave. nobody was likely to come there, and if they did there was not the slightest chance of discovery, for the cave went far under the cliff and was dark as the throat of a wolf. by and by there came the sound of voices on the beach, and rupert ravenspur, followed by the two fishermen, appeared. geoffrey's heart smote him as he saw his grandfather. then they found the boat, and directly afterwards the two fishermen rushed away, leaving ravenspur behind. it was only the strongest self-control that prevented geoffrey from making his presence known to the figure gazing so sadly at the boat. but he remembered tchigorsky's warning. after all, he reflected, it would only be for a little time. and the head of the family knew nothing of the great conspiracies working themselves out around him. his open honorable nature would have shrunk from the subtle diplomacy and cunning that appealed so powerfully to tchigorsky. rupert ravenspur would not have tolerated the position for a moment. he would have insisted upon going to mrs. may and having the matter out at once, or he would have called in the police. and that course would be fatal. so geoffrey was constrained to stay and watch. presently he saw the fishermen return, followed by the family. there was a gathering about the foundered boat, and then geoffrey turned his eyes away, ashamed to witness the emotion caused by what they regarded as his untimely death. he had seen them all and beheld their grief. he could see marion bent down with a handkerchief to her streaming eyes and the head of the family comforting her. he saw vera apart from the rest, gazing out to sea. beyond, a fleet of boats were coming round the point. they were small fishing smacks in search of the drowned ravenspur. geoffrey pinched himself to make sure he was awake. it is not often that a live man sits watching people search for his dead body. but there was comfort in the knowledge that vera was aware of everything. geoffrey could see that she had been told. that was why she kept apart from the rest. she walked along the sands past the mouth of the cave, her head bent down. flesh and blood could stand it no longer; in the mouth of the cave geoffrey stood and called vera softly by name. the girl started and half turned. "don't be alarmed," geoffrey whispered. "i am in the cave. it is safe here. watch your opportunity and come in, for i must have a few words with you. only do it naturally and don't let anybody suspect." vera had turned her back to the cave, and appeared to be sadly gazing over the sea. gradually she slipped back, watching the others, who apparently had forgotten her, until she was lost in the gloom of the cavern. a moment later and geoffrey had her in his arms. it was good to feel her heart beating against his, to feel her kisses warm on his lips. "did tchigorsky tell you?" he asked. "no, uncle ralph. oh, i am so glad to see you again, geoffrey. i knew you were not lost, that you would be safe after what uncle said, and yet all the time there was a strange void in my heart." "but my darling, i am safe." vera laid her head restfully on his shoulder. "i know, i know!" she said. "but i have had a foretaste of what might have been. when wass and watkins came and told me that your overturned boat had been found, i began to realize what it might be to live without you. dear geoff, will it be long before all this anxiety is disposed of?" geoffrey kissed her trembling lips. "not long, so tchigorsky says, and i have implicit faith in him. the present situation is all part of the plot of our salvation. and the others?" "are heartbroken. my poor grandfather looks ten years older. you know how entirely he has been wrapped up in us. i feel sure that if he could have saved us by sacrificing the rest, himself included, he would have done so." "i know," geoffrey said hoarsely. "i know, dear. and marion?" "marion is sorely disturbed. i hardly know what to make of marion. for the first time she positively appears to be frightened. and marion is not the girl who cries. i was alarmed about her a little time ago," replied vera. "ah, well, it won't be very long," geoffrey said consolingly. "to-morrow morning tchigorsky has promised that i shall be safe and sound in the bosom of the family again. what are they going to do now?" "they are going to search until they find you. all the boats from the village are out, even the servants are assisting. you can understand how i should feel if i did not know everything. i could not stay in the house; i could do no more than wander along the shore feeling that i was helping. it would be impossible to remain in the house and that is what they all feel. there is a full moon to-night, and they will be here till they are exhausted." geoffrey nodded. he was wondering how he was going to account for his absence and for the manner in which he was finally to turn up safe and sound again. he would have to concoct some story of being picked up by a passing boat and landed some way down the coast. "they guess i am a victim to the vendetta?" he asked. "of course. they say the mast and oars were partly sawn away. it will be the talk of the country in a few hours. geoffrey, i must go. don't you see that they have missed me?" vera had been missed. already marion was calling her. there was just the chance that she might be yet another victim. vera slipped out of the cave, walking backwards as if she were looking for something. "you won't betray yourself?" said geoffrey. "i'll try not to, dear. i understand how necessary it is that the truth should be concealed. and yet it is hard not to be able to ease their minds." vera was clear of the cave by this time, and her voice ceased. a few yards farther on and marion came up to her. she was looking pale and ghastly; there were rings under her eyes; her nerves had had a terrible shock. "i couldn't imagine where you had got to," she said. "i looked round, and you had disappeared. i feared you had been spirited away." "by the cruel foe, marion? one by one we go. it may be your turn next." "would to heaven that it was!" marion whispered vehemently. "a little time ago i fancied that i was strong enough to bear up against anything. now i know what a feeble creature i am. before this happened i would a thousand times have been the victim myself. and i--i----" she paused and beat the air impotently. vera wondered. could this really be the strong, self-reliant marion who had uplifted them in so many troubles, this the girl who always had a smile on her face and words of comfort on her lips? this was a weak, frightened creature, with eyes that were haunted. "be brave," said vera, "and be yourself. what should we do without you? why, you are so full of remorse you might have been responsible for geoffrey's death yourself." marion looked up swiftly and then her eyes fell. "it is because i love him," she said. "and i love him, too. but i try to be brave." marion was silent under the reproof. vera was calm and collected. what a reaction there would be later, marion thought. "you have not given up all hope?" she asked. "no, i cannot. it would be too cruel. i cannot imagine that anything really serious has happened to geoffrey. i cannot feel anything for the present, save for you. and my heart is full for you, marion." "ay," marion said drearily. "it need be." vera turned and walked swiftly across the sands. she wanted to be alone now that no danger threatened. then presently the moon rose and shone upon the people gathered on the fringe of the sea. to the impatient geoffrey came ralph ravenspur with a cloak and slouched hat over his arm. chapter xliv still nearer he entered as coolly and easily as if he had been doing this kind of thing all his life, as if he had the full use of his eyesight. "i can't see you, but, of course, you are there," he said. "tchigorsky sent me because he cannot come himself. the jade he calls his mistress has need of him. muffle yourself and follow me. not too closely." geoffrey was only too glad of the opportunity. he passed under the shadow of the rocks until he gained the path to the head of the cliffs and here ralph paused. "we are safe now," he said. "you can remove your disguise and cross the terrace. there is not a living soul in the castle at present." "all the servants are on the beach, then?" "every one of them, both male and female, which is a flattering testimony to your popularity, geoffrey. i opine that they will be pleased to see you in the morning. by the way, have you concocted a plausible story to account for your escape?" "i haven't," geoffrey admitted with a smile. "i preferred to leave it to the greater talents of tchigorsky and yourself. i have no genius for fiction." ralph muttered that the matter might be safely left in their hands, and then they entered the deserted castle and made their way to ralph's room. here the two doors were closed and ralph sat down silently over his pipe. "is anything going to happen?" geoffrey asked. "a great deal during the next hour or two," ralph replied. "but it is impossible to forecast, and you will see it all for yourself in good time. i can't do anything until i have heard further from our friend tchigorsky." half an hour passed in dead silence, and then there was a rapping on the window. when the casement was thrown open, the head of tchigorsky appeared. he was clad in oriental robes and had made his way upwards by climbing the thick ivy that grew on that side of the house. he nodded to geoffrey. "i told you we should meet again," he said. "i have just ten minutes to spare. a cigarette, please." geoffrey handed over the cigarette. "have you discovered it all?" ralph asked. "i have discovered nothing," tchigorsky said calmly from behind the cloud of smoke. "at present i have not the remotest idea which way she will strike." "ah, she is in one of her suspicious moods." "when she trusts nobody. quite right. all i can tell you is that she is coming here presently. she is well aware that there is not a soul in the house. she knows that this state of things is likely to last for some time. she will come by and by, and with her she will bring some great danger to the house of ravenspur. what form that danger is to take i cannot say. but i shall find out." the last words came from tchigorsky's lips with a snap. "but she will want confederates," said geoffrey. "she may or she may not. she is a woman of infinite resource. nobody knows what mischief she is capable of. if she brings me along, i may be exceedingly useful; if she leaves me behind i shall be more usefully employed in going over her papers and documents. you see, i know the language. but, be that as it may, this is going to be an eventful night." tchigorsky finished his cigarette and rose to go. he had few instructions to leave behind him, and these few were of an exceedingly simple nature. all that geoffrey and ralph ravenspur had to do was to watch. they were to keep their eyes open and be largely guided by events. and there were to be no lights. half an hour passed before ralph rose and softly opened the door. for a little time he threw the casement open wide. as geoffrey drew a match from his box ralph laid a restraining hand on his arm. "no more smoking," he said. "i purposely opened the casement to sweeten the air of the room. my dear boy, you do not want to betray us with the smell of fresh tobacco. the enemy would take alarm at once." "i had forgotten," geoffrey murmured. "how stupid of me!" again silence and painful tension on the nerves. presently below came the soft fall of a foot, and then a noise as if a human body had come in contact with some object in the dark. there was the scratch of a match, and a ball of flame flickered in ghastly fashion in the hall. "the foe is here," ralph whispered. "go and look over. your rubber-soled boots are in the corner. put them on." geoffrey did as he desired. he crept along the corridor until he could look down into the hall. there he saw a woman--a woman who wore short skirts and a closely fitting jacket. she had a small lantern in her hand, the light of which she seemed to lower or heighten by pressing a stud. behind her came the two orientals, who carried a small but heavy brass-bound box between them. this, at a sign from the woman, they deposited on the floor. as far as geoffrey could judge neither of these men was tchigorsky. he could catch the sound of whispered conversation, but the words conveyed no meaning to his ears. the two discoursed in a language he did not understand. a hand was laid on geoffrey's arm. he turned to see ralph by his side. the latter bent over the balustrade listening with all his ears. down below the brass box was being opened and the contents were placed upon the floor. the contents looked like machinery, but it was machinery of a kind that geoffrey had never seen before. there was a small disk of hammered copper, and to this was attached a number of what seemed to be india-rubber snakes. at a sign from the woman the two asiatics picked up the box and its contents and started away toward the kitchen. noiseless as they were, ralph heard them. he clutched his companion's arm. "they have gone," he whispered. "in which direction?" "they had moved off towards the kitchen," said geoffrey. "good! this thing is turning out exactly as i expected. they had something with them?" "yes, a thing like a copper octopus with india-rubber tentacles. they have taken it with them. a most extraordinary affair." "it will be more extraordinary still before it is finished," ralph said grimly. "follow them and report what you see. take good care not to be seen. unless i am mistaken they are going down to the vaults and are planning a _coup_ to do for us all to-night." geoffrey crept silently down the stairs. then he made his way swiftly along the passages until he came to the cellars. then the steady blowing of a current of fresh air told him that ralph's suggestion was right. down he went until he came to the channel leading to the vaults. but he was cautious. he peeped down. below him were three figures, and once more they had spread out their queer apparatus. by the side of it were two large glass-stoppered bottles, such as one sees in a laboratory, receptacles for acids and the like. they were tightly tied over the stoppers. the woman picked up one of them and removed the parchment. before she drew the stopper she donned thick glasses and a mask for her face, the two orientals doing the same. they were evidently dealing with some very dangerous poison. the stopper was removed and a few spots of the acid dropped on the copper disc. a white smoke arose, which, small as it was, filled the air with a pungent odor. almost immediately the acid was wiped off and the odor ceased. only just a whiff of it reached geoffrey's nose, but it turned him faint--giddy for an instant. what was going to happen next? chapter xlv baffled geoffrey had not long to wait. from where he was standing he could see down into the vault perfectly well. he would have been better satisfied had he understood what those people were talking about, but their words conveyed nothing to him. on the floor of the vault the queer-looking machinery was spread out, and to the ends of the india-rubber tubes wires were attached. no sooner had this been accomplished than the woman, after giving some rapid instructions to her allies, left the vault. she was so quick that geoffrey barely had time to conceal himself behind a pillar before she passed him. the woman was masked and disguised beyond recognition, but geoffrey had no need to be told who she was. he knew that he was in the presence of mrs. may. and, despite his knowledge of her cleverness and resource, he found himself marveling to see her display so fine a knowledge of the house. the woman passed along, dragging a number of fine light wires after her. the other ends of the wires were attached to the queer-looking apparatus in the vault. mrs. may went along the passages, along the corridor, and up the stairs as if she had been accustomed to the house all her life. surely she must have been here many times before, or she would not have exhibited such fearless confidence. the idea of the black, gliding figure creeping about the house in the dead of night filled geoffrey with loathing. all the same, he did not neglect his opportunities. he followed swiftly and silently until he came to the main corridor on the first landing. here, to his surprise, the woman turned into one of the bed-rooms, the room used by the head of the house. she closed the door behind her. what to do next? but geoffrey was not long in doubt. ralph was standing by his side, a dark lantern in his hand. "where did she go?" he whispered. "you heard her, then?" asked geoffrey. "of course, i heard everything. i see with my ears. naturally you guessed who she was. but what room did she go into?" "my grandfather's." "so i expected. but she means to visit all the rooms in turn. you need not be afraid, she will be there for some minutes. what do you see outside?" geoffrey made a close examination with the lantern. "i see a tangle of small wires on the floor," he said. "they come up from the vaults." "where they are attached to a queer-looking instrument?" "yes, yes. i see you know all about it. one of the wires runs under the door into the room where mrs. may is engaged." "and where she will be engaged for some time," said ralph. "move that book ladder and look over the fanlight." there were books on high shelves in the corridor, and a light librarian's ladder close at hand. geoffrey propped this against the door and looked in through the open fanlight. all the bed-room doors had fanlights at ravenspur. the lantern inside was on the dressing-table and, standing on a chair by a fireplace, was mrs. may. she had pinned the thin wire to the wall cunningly, and had turned the end of it into a plate that stood on the mantel shelf. from a flask she poured a little white powder into the plate. this done she seemed to be satisfied. geoffrey whipped the ladder away and the woman emerged from the room. once more she went along the corridor with firm, resolute step, and the air of one who knows what she is doing and has a definite object in view. from one bed-room to another she went, leaving a wire in each until every room occupied by one of the ravenspur family had been visited. geoffrey's room was the last. when she had finished here she took up a pair of scissors and tapped the wire. outside the door geoffrey and ralph could hear the noise distinctly. ralph's jaws came together with a click. "the key is outside your room door," he whispered. "turn it." geoffrey wondered, but he hastened to comply. the key turned with an ease and silence that testified to the fact of its having been carefully oiled. "what does it all mean?" geoffrey whispered. "she is going to test her machinery," said ralph with a chuckle. "and she is going one step farther to her own destruction. listen." again came the faint tap, and then down from far below the purring jar of electrical apparatus in motion. there was silence inside the room for a moment and then geoffrey saw the handle turn. it was turned softly at first, then more quickly, and finally it was tugged as an angry child snatches at a toy. ralph chuckled. the diabolical mirth seemed to come deep from his throat. "she is trying to get out," geoffrey whispered. "of course she is," ralph replied. "but not quite yet." the lock was rattling loudly by this time; there was a half-angry, half-frightened muttering from within. and then there came a long, piercing, wailing scream, as of a woman in the last agony before death. geoffrey would have started back, but ralph restrained him. "no, no," he whispered violently. "it is all right; everything is turning out splendidly." "but she is a woman and in deadly peril, uncle." "i know it, lad. five minutes more and that fiend will be beyond further mischief. she has been trying the effect of her infernal contrivance and will be hoist with her own petard. she is scared to death. she imagines she has fastened herself in and can't get out." "but this is murder," geoffrey cried. "i dare say some people would call it so," ralph replied coolly. "as a matter of fact, there never could be homicide more justifiable than to let that woman perish there. still, we are not going to do anything of the kind. when those cries cease, and you hear yonder wretch fall to the ground, then open the door and drag her out." the cries were coming wildly from behind the door; there was a hammering on the panels. the cries rang through the house, they reached the asiatics in the vaults and the latter fled in terror into the night. something had happened, but what it was they did not care. they had only themselves to think of. in spite of his strong nerves, geoffrey shuddered. it was horrible to be alone in that grim house of tears, waiting in the darkness, opposed by grim horrors and, above all, to have that note of agony ringing in his ears. would it never stop? would the time to act never come? geoffrey would have interfered in spite of everything but for the fact that ralph was gripping his shoulder in a grasp that at any other time would have been painful. suddenly the noise ceased. there was a moan and the soft, crushing fall of a body. ralph's face blazed up instantly. "now," he cried, "there is no time to be lost." geoffrey darted forward. he had the door opened in an instant. mrs. may lay still and white on the floor. the atmosphere of the room seemed to have vanished. it was intolerable to breathe there; air there was none. as the door fell back the room filled as with a sudden strong draught. geoffrey dragged the unconscious figure into the corridor. "will she die?" he gasped. "no, she will not die," ralph said coolly. "had i intended her to die i should not have allowed you to open the door. pick her up and throw her on one of the beds in a spare room. she will require no attention, but she will not attain consciousness for some hours. and, after that, she will be useless for a day or two. you need not worry; our scheme is working out splendidly. pick her up." ralph indicated the still figure with brutal indifference. he would have shown more consideration to a sick dog. geoffrey complied, and presently made the woman as comfortable as circumstances allowed. geoffrey had hardly done so before there was a light footfall in the corridor, and tchigorsky appeared, still in disguise. "i gather that things are well," he said. "just now i met that she-devil's accomplices fleeing as if the father of lies was behind them. she was trapped, eh?" ralph nodded and chuckled. "in geoffrey's room," he explained. "when she was testing her apparatus i had the key turned on her. and she could not get out. i let her remain there as long as i considered it safe to do so, and her yells must have alarmed her confederates. probably they have fled, leaving things intact." "probably," said tchigorsky. "i will go and see." he was back again presently, a pleased expression on his face. "nothing has been touched," he said. "i have removed the wires, in case of danger. we have the lady more or less under our thumb." "what was she doing?" geoffrey asked. "it is an appliance for exhausting air," tchigorsky explained. "you take a powder and place it on a hot plate. directly it begins to burn it draws up all the air. the thing has been known in the east for thousands of years. mrs. may applied electricity to give her greater scope. a plate of the powder was to be heated in the room of everybody in the castle when asleep. "a few minutes and the thing is done. then the wires are withdrawn and gradually the different rooms fill with air again. the burnt powder leaves no trace. then you are all found dead in your beds and nobody knows how it is done. the wires are easily drawn back to the battery and the whole thing is destroyed." geoffrey shuddered. "what a fiend!" chapter xlvi nearing the end it was some time before any one spoke. geoffrey was turning the whole matter over in his mind. he was still puzzled. "i don't understand it," he said. "of course, i follow all you say, and i see the nature of the plot intended to end us all at one fell swoop. but why do you want to have that woman under the roof?" "because so long as she is under the roof she is comparatively harmless," tchigorsky explained. "the princess is hot and vengeful and passionate, but she has her vein of caution and will take no unnecessary risks. she will be bewildered and will not know whether she had been suspected or not. the more cordial to her you are the more suspicious she will be. of course, she will make up some plausible tale to account for her intrusion, and, of course, you must pretend to believe it. it will be impossible to move her for a day or two, and here i come in." "in what way?" geoffrey asked. "in the way of having a free hand," tchigorsky said, with a smile. "the princess will be cut off from her allies, and i shall be able to ransack her private papers for one thing." geoffrey nodded. he began to see the force of tchigorsky's clever scheme. and then the cold solitude of the house struck him. for a moment he had forgotten all about the family still on the beach and the agony they were suffering on his account. "i suppose you can do no more to-night?" he asked. "i am not so sure of that," tchigorsky said dryly. "meanwhile i can safely rest for an hour or so. i am going to lie hidden in ralph's bedroom for the present and smoke his tobacco. do you want anything?" "i should like to relieve the minds of my friends," said geoffrey. "that of course," tchigorsky responded. "go at once. you were picked up by a passing boat--or yacht--that landed you at manby. you walked back and when you got home to change your clothes you found the place deserted. don't say anything as to mrs. may. your uncle ralph will have that story to tell when you return. you are not to know anything about mrs. may." "all right," geoffrey said cheerfully. "now i'll be off." he made his way down the cliffs unseen. there were lanterns flitting about the shore; he could see the flash of marion's white dress and vera by her side. he came gently alongside them. "vera," he said. "what is all this about?" vera turned and gave a cry. she was acting her part as well as possible, and the cry seemed genuine. but the tears in her eyes were tears of thankfulness that the sufferings of those dear to her were ended. she clung to her lover; her lips pressed his. marion stood there white and still as a statue. the girl seemed to be frozen. geoffrey's touch thawed her into life again. "geoffrey!" she screamed, "geoffrey! thank god, thank god! never again will i----" with another scream that rang high and clear, the girl fell unconscious at his feet. he raised her up tenderly as the others came rushing forward. there was a babel of confused cries, hoarse cheers, and yells of delight. the villagers were running wild along the sands. scores of men pressed eagerly round to shake geoffrey's hand. "i was picked up by a yacht," he said. "of course i know there was foul play. i know all about the broken mast and the sawn oars. you may rest assured i will take more care another time. and i was----" geoffrey was going to say that he had been warned, but he checked himself in time. his progress toward home was more or less a royal one. it touched him to see how glad people were. he had not imagined a popularity like this. vera clung fondly to his arm; rupert ravenspur walked proudly on the other side. not once had the old man showed the slightest sign of breaking down, but he came perilously near to it at the present time. marion held to him trembling. she felt it almost impossible to drag herself along. "you are quaking from head to foot," said ravenspur. "i am," marion admitted. "and at the risk of increasing your displeasure i should say you are very little better, dear grandfather. i fear the shock of seeing geoffrey after all this fearful suspense has been too much for you." ravenspur admitted the fact. he was glad to find himself at home again, glad to be rid of the rocking, cheering crowd outside, and glad to see geoffrey opposite him. marion, pale as death, had dropped into a chair. "i am going to give you all some wine," said geoffrey. "you need it. please do not let us discuss my adventure any more. let us drop the subject." ralph glided in, feeling his way into the room. he congratulated geoffrey as coolly as he would have done in the most trite circumstances. he was acting his part in his own wooden, stupid way. "i also have had my adventures," he croaked. "i hope the castle is all right," ravenspur observed. "the same idea occurred to me," ralph went on. "one so afflicted as myself could not be of much service on the beach, so i came back to the castle. it occurred to me as possible that our enemy would take advantage of the place being deserted. so i passed the time wandering about the corridors. "a little time ago i heard a violent commotion and screaming outside geoffrey's room. i got to the spot as soon as possible, but when i arrived the noise had ceased. then i stumbled over the body of a woman." "woman?" ravenspur cried. "impossible!" "not in the least," ralph said coolly. "i picked her up, she was unconscious. my medical knowledge, picked up in all parts of the world, told me that the woman was suffering from some physical shock. that she was not in any danger her steady pulse showed. i placed her on the bed in the blue room." "and there she is now?" marion exclaimed. "so far as i know," ralph replied. "what she was doing here i haven't the slightest idea." "and you don't know who she is?" mrs. gordon asked. "how should i? i am blind. i should say that the woman was up to no good here; but i dare say it is possible that she has some decent excuse. on the other hand, she might be one of our deadly foes. anyway, there she is, and there she is likely to be for some time to come." marion rose to her feet. "uncle ralph," she said, "i feel that i could shake you. have you no feeling?" "we can't all have your tender heart," ralph said meekly. marion ignored the compliment. she took up the decanter and poured out a glass of wine. "i am going upstairs at once," she said. "enemy or no enemy, the poor creature cannot be neglected. you need not come, vera." vera, too, had risen to her feet. she was not going to be put aside. "but i am coming," she said. "i will not allow you to go up those stairs alone. and geoffrey shall accompany us." marion said no more. she seemed strangely anxious and restless. geoffrey followed with a lamp in his hands. mrs. may lay quietly there, breathing regularly and apparently in a deep sleep. marion bent over the bed. as she did so she gasped and the color left her face. she fell away with a cry like fear. "oh," she shuddered. "oh, it is mrs. may!" vera bent over the bed. she unfastened the dress at the throat. "what does it matter?" she said. "i know you don't like the woman, but she is suffering. marion, where are your tender feelings?" marion said nothing. but she came directly to vera's side. and geoffrey glancing at marion's rigid white face wondered what it all meant. chapter xlvii tchigorsky further explains "i don't quite follow it yet," said geoffrey. "and yet it is simple," tchigorsky replied. "here is a form of electric battery in the vault connected by tiny wires to every sleeping chamber occupied by a ravenspur. in each of these bed-rooms a powder is deposited somewhere and the wire leads to it. at a certain time, when you are all asleep, the current is switched on, the powder destroyed without leaving the slightest trace, and in the morning you are all as dead as if you had been placed in a lethal chamber--as a matter of fact, they would have been lethal chambers. "almost directly, by means of the chimneys, etc., the rooms would begin to draw a fresh supply of air, and by the time you were discovered everything would be normal again. then the battery would be removed and the wires withdrawn without even the trouble of entering the rooms to fetch them. then exit the whole family of ravenspur, leaving behind a greater mystery than ever. now do you understand what it all means?" geoffrey nodded and shuddered. "what do you propose to do?" he asked. "leave the battery where it is, and----" "unless i am mistaken, the battery is removed already," said the russian. he was correct. investigation proved that the whole thing had been spirited away. "as i expected," tchigorsky muttered. "done from the vaults under the sea, doubtless. that woman's servants keep very close to her. it is wonderful how they manage to slip about without being seen. they have ascertained that an accident has happened to their mistress, and they have removed signs of the conspiracy. but for the present they cannot remove their mistress." tchigorsky chuckled as he spoke. "you seem pleased over that," said geoffrey. "of course i am, my boy. it enables one to do a little burglary without the chance of being found out. and you are to assist me. but i am not going to start on my errand before midnight; so till then i shall stay here and smoke. at that hour you will please join me." "i am to accompany you, then?" "yes, you are going to be my confederate in crime." geoffrey joined the others downstairs. delight and thankfulness were written on every face. never had geoffrey found his family so tender and loving. usually, marion had had her feelings under control, but to-night it seemed as if she could not make enough of her cousin. she hung over him, she lingered near him, until vera laughingly proclaimed that jealousy was rendering her desperate. "i cannot help it," marion said half tearfully. "i am so glad. and if you only knew--but that does not matter. i am beside myself with joy." "i suppose that woman upstairs is all right," ravenspur said coldly. he was by no means pleased that mrs. may should have intruded twice in that way. and each time there had been some accident. with so much sorrow weighing him down and with the shadow of further disaster ever haunting him, ravenspur was naturally suspicious. it seemed absurd, no doubt, but that woman might be taking a hand against the family fortunes. the last occasion was bad enough, but this was many times worse. in the circumstances, as he pointed out, nothing could exceed the bad taste of this intrusion into a deserted house. "she may not have known it," mrs. gordon said quietly. "who knows but that she had discovered some plot against us and had come to warn us? perhaps the enemy divined her intentions--hence the accident." "but was it an accident?" geoffrey asked. "something mysterious, like everything that occurs to us," his wife replied. "at any rate, she is breathing regularly and quietly now, and her skin is moist and cool. ralph said he had seen something like it in india before. he is convinced that she will be all right in the morning. don't be angry, father." rupert ravenspur constrained himself to smile. "i will not forget what is due to my position and my hospitality, my dear," he said. "after geoffrey's miraculous escape, after the heavy cloud of sorrow so unexpectedly raised, i cannot feel it in my heart to be angry with anybody. how did you manage to get away, geoffrey?" geoffrey told his tale again. it was not nice to be compelled to invent facts in the face of an admiring family; but then the truth could not have been told without betraying tchigorsky and blowing all his delicate schemes to the winds. he was not sorry when he had finished. marion wiped the tears from her eyes. "it was providence," she said. "nothing more nor less." "little doubt of it," gordon murmured. "geoff, have you any suspicions?" "i know who did it, if that is what you mean," geoffrey said, "and so does marion." the girl started. her nerves were in such a pitiable condition that any little thing set them vibrating like the strings of a rudely handled harp. "if i did i should have spoken," she said. "then you have not guessed?" geoffrey smiled. "the masts and the sculls were sawn by a girl in a blue dress and red tam-o'-shanter cap. the girl who is so like----" he did not complete the sentence; there was something in marion's speaking eyes that asked him not to do so. why he could not tell; but there was nothing to be gained by what was little less than a breach of confidence. "what does it mean, marion?" ravenspur asked. "geoffrey and i saw such a girl not long before geoff set out on his eventful voyage," marion explained quietly. all the fear had gone out of her eyes; she met the gaze of the speaker tranquilly. "she passed me as i was painting; i have been close to her once before. but i don't understand why geoff is so certain that the mysterious visitor tried to drown him." "i've no proof," geoffrey replied. "it is merely an instinct." as a matter of fact, he had plenty of proof. had he not seen the girl hastening away from his boat? had he not seen her return after the boat had been beached and mourn over the wreck like some creature suffering from deep remorse? but of this he could say nothing. to speak of it would be to betray the fact that tchigorsky was still alive and active in pursuit of the foe. "that woman can be found," ravenspur said sternly. "i doubt it," said geoffrey. "she has a way of disappearing that is remarkable. you see her one moment and the next she has vanished. but i am certain that she is at the bottom of the mischief." and geoffrey refused to say more. as a matter of fact, nobody seemed to care to hear anything further. they were worn out with anxiety and exertion. they had had little food that day; the weary hours on the beach had exhausted them. "for the present we can rest and be thankful," ravenspur said as he rose to go. "we can sleep with easy minds to-night." they moved off after him, all but geoffrey and vera. mrs. gordon could still be heard moving about one of the drawing rooms. marion had slipped off unobserved. she hardly felt equal to bidding geoffrey good-night. the tender smile was still on her face as she crept upstairs. then when she reached her room it faded away. she flung herself across the bed and burst into a passionate fit of weeping. and then gradually she sobbed herself into a heavy yet uneasy slumber. "well, i suppose i must go, too?" vera said, tired out, yet reluctant to leave her lover. "tell me what it means, geoff?" "have i not already explained to you, darling?" "yes, but i don't believe one word of it," vera replied. a kiss sufficed to wash the bitterness of the candor away. "i don't believe you were picked up by a yacht. i don't believe that you were in any danger. i don't understand it." "then we are both in the same state of benighted ignorance," geoffrey smiled. "you are right not to believe me, dearest, but i had to tell the story and i had to play a part. it is all in the desperate game we are playing against our secret foe. for the present i am a puppet in the hands of abler men than myself. what i am doing will go far to set us free later." vera sighed gently. she sidled closer to her lover. mrs. gordon was coming out of the drawing room, a sign that vera would have to go. "i feel that i don't want to part with you again," she whispered, her eyes looking into his and her arm about him. "i feel as if i had nearly lost you. and if i did lose you, darling, what would become of me?" geoffrey kissed the quivering lips tenderly. "have no fear, sweetheart," he said; "all is coming right. see how those people have been frustrated over and over again. they have come with schemes worthy of satan himself and yet they have failed. and it has been so arranged that those failures seem to be the result of vexatious accident. but they are not. and they will fail again and again until the net is around them and we shall be free. darling, you are to sleep in peace to-night." with a last fond embrace vera slipped from her lover's side. she smiled at him brightly from the doorway and was gone. geoffrey lighted a cigarette that presently dropped from his fingers and his head fell forward. he started suddenly; the cigarette smelt pungently as it singed the carpet. somebody was whispering his name; somebody was calling him from the stairs. then he recognized ralph's croaking voice. "tchigorsky," he muttered sleepily. "i had forgotten that tchigorsky wanted me." chapter xlviii more from the past tchigorsky was waiting. the room was pregnant with the perfume of turkish cigarettes and coffee. ralph handed a cup to his nephew. "drink that," he said. "you want something to keep you awake." geoffrey accepted the coffee gratefully. it had the desired effect. he felt the clouds lifting from his brain and the drowsy heaviness of limb leaving him. "are you coming with us?" he asked. ralph shook his head. there was a strange gleam on his face. "i stay here," he said. "you are going to be busy, but i also have much to do. don't be concerned for me. blind as i am, i am capable of taking care of myself. i shall have a deal to tell you in the morning." a minute or two later and the two conspirators slipped away. it struck geoffrey as strange that they should not leave the house in the usual way; but tchigorsky grimly explained that he much preferred using the ivy outside ralph's window. "always be on the safe side," tchigorsky muttered. "come along." geoffrey followed. where tchigorsky could go he felt competent to follow. they reached the ground in safety and later were in the road. the moon had gone and it was intensely dark, but geoffrey knew the way perfectly. "straight to jessop's farm?" he asked. "as far as the lawn," tchigorsky replied. "it will be a good hour yet before we can venture to carry out our burglary. i can run no risks until i know that those two asiatics are out of the way. what time is it?" "about ten minutes to twelve." tchigorsky muttered that the time was not quite suitable for him. he drew a watch from his pocket; there was a stifled whirr of machinery, and the repeater's rapid pulse beat twelve with the silvery chime of a quarter after the hour. "you are wrong," he said. "you see it is between a quarter and half-past twelve. we will lie on jessop's lawn till one o'clock and then all will be safe." they lay there waiting for the time to pass. the minutes seemed to be weighted. "tell me some more of your lassa adventures," geoffrey asked. "very well," tchigorsky replied. "where did i leave off? ah, we had just been tortured on that awful grill. and we had been offered our lives on condition that we consented to be hopeless idiots for the rest of our days. "well, we were not going to live in these circumstances, you may be sure. for the next few days we were left to our own resources in a dark dungeon with the huge rats and vermin for company. we were half starved into the bargain, and when we were brought into the light once more they naturally expected submission. "but they didn't get it. they did not realize the stuff we were made of. and they had no idea we were armed. we had our revolvers and concealed in our pockets were some fifty rounds of ammunition. if the worst came to the worst we should not die without a struggle. "well, there was a huge palaver over us before the priests in the big temple, with zara on her throne, and a fine, impressive scene it was, or, at least, it would have been had we not been so interested as to our own immediate future. at any rate, it was a comfort to know that there were no more tortures for the present, for nothing of the kind was to be seen. we were going to die; we could read our sentence in the eyes of the priests long before the elaborate mummery was over. "i tell you it seemed hard to perish like that just at the time when we had penetrated nearly all the secrets we had come in search of. and it was no less hard to know that if the princess had postponed her visit another week she would have been too late. by that time we should have left lassa far behind. "the trial or ceremony, or whatever you like to call it, came to an end at length, and then we were brought up to the throne of the princess. you know the woman, you have looked upon the beauty and fascination of her face; but you have no idea how different she was in the home of her people. she looked a real queen, a queen from head to foot. we stood awed before her. "'you have been offered terms and refused them,' she said. 'it is now too late.' "'we could not trust you,' i replied boldly; we had nothing to gain by politeness. 'better anything than the living death you offered us. and we can only die once.' "the princess smiled in her blood-curdling way. "'you do not know what you are talking about,' she said. 'ah, you will find out when you come to walk the black valley!' "she gave a sign and we were led away unbound. a quaint wailing music filled the air; the priests were singing our funeral song. i never fully appreciated the refined cruelty of reading the burial service to a criminal on his way to the scaffold till then. it makes me shudder to think of it even now. "they led us out into the open air, still crooning that dirge. they brought us at length to the head of a great valley between huge towering mountains, as if the alps had been sliced in two and a narrow passage made between them. at the head of this passage was a door let into the cliff and down through this door they thrust us. it was dark inside. for the first part of the way, till we reached the floor of the valley, we were to be accompanied by four priests, a delicate attention to prevent us from breaking our necks before we reached the bottom. but our guides did not mean us to perish so mercifully. "'listen to me,' zara cried, 'listen for the last time. you are going into the black valley; of its horror and dangers you know nothing as yet. but you will soon learn. take comfort in the fact that there is an exit at the far end if you can find it. when you are out of the exit you are free. thousands have walked this valley, and over their dry bones you will make your way. out of these thousands one man escaped. perhaps you will be as fortunate. farewell!' "the door clanged behind us, and we were alone with the priests. we could not see, we could only feel our way down those awful cliffs, where one false step would have smashed us to pieces. but the priests never hesitated. down, down we went until we reached the bottom. there we could just see dimly. "'you could guide us through?' i asked. "one of the priests nodded. he could save us if he liked. not that i was going to waste my breath by asking him. they were priests of a minor degree; there were thousands of them about the temple, all alike as peas in a pod. if these men failed to return they would never be missed. a desperate resolution came to me. in a few english whispered words i conveyed it to ralph ravenspur. "we still had a priest on either side of us. at a given signal we produced our revolvers, and before the priests had the remotest idea what had happened two of them were dead on the ground, shot through the brain. when the thousand and one echoes died away we each had our man by the throat. what did we care if the plot was discovered or not! we were both desperate. "'listen, dog,' i cried. 'you have seen your companions perish. if you would escape a similar death, you will bear us to safety. you shall walk ten paces in front, and if you try to evade us you die, for our weapons carry farther than you can run in the space of two minutes. well, are you going to convey us to a place of safety, or shall we shoot you like the others?'" tchigorsky paused and pulled at his watch. he drew back the catch and the rapid little pulse beat one. then he rose to his feet. "to be continued in our next," he said. "the time has come to act. follow me and betray no surprise at anything you may see or hear." "you can rely upon me," geoffrey whispered. "lead on." chapter xlix ralph takes charge the troubled house had fallen asleep at last. they were all used to the swooping horrors; they could recall the black times spread out over the weary years; they could vividly recollect how one trouble after another had happened. and it had been an eventful day. for the last few hours they had lived a fresh tragedy. true, the tragedy itself had been averted, but for some time there had been the agony of the real thing. the ravenspurs, exhausted by the flood of emotion, had been glad of rest. they were presumably asleep now, all but ralph. long after deep silence had fallen on the house he sat alone in the darkness. the glow of his pipe just touched his inscrutable features and a faint halo of light played about his grizzled head. a mouse nibbling behind the panels sounded clear as the crack of a pistol shot. the big stable clock boomed two. ralph laid aside his pipe and crept to the door. he opened it silently and passed out into the corridor. a cat would not have made less noise. yet he moved swiftly and confidently, as one who has eyes to see familiar ground. he came at length to the room where mrs. may was lying. she had been made fairly comfortable. her dress had been loosened at the throat, but she still wore the clothes in which she had been dressed at the time of her accident. later she would perhaps find it difficult to account for masquerading in the castle in that strange guise. that she would have some ingenious plea to put forward ralph felt certain. but the dress was another matter. ralph grinned to himself as he thought of it. there was a light in the room. he could tell that by the saffron glow that touched lightly on his sightless eyeballs. he knew the disposition of the room as well as if he could see it. he felt his way across until he came to the bed on which the woman lay. his hand touched her throat--a gentle touch--yet his fingers crooked and a murderous desire blossomed like a rose in his heart. nobody was about and nobody would know. who could connect the poor blind man with the deed? why not end her life now? "far better," ralph muttered. "it would have been no crime to shoot her like a dog. yet fancy hanging for such a creature as that!" the grim humor of the suggestion restored ralph to himself. his relaxed fingers just touched the cold throat and face. he could hear the sound of regular breathing. from a tiny phial he took two or three drops of some dark cordial and brushed them over the woman's rigid lips. she stirred faintly. "just as well to hasten events," he muttered. "one cannot afford to play with the thing." he replaced the bottle in his pocket. he drew himself up listening. other ears could not have heard a sound. ralph could plainly hear footsteps. but how near they were he could not tell. his brows contracted with annoyance. "so soon," he muttered. "i did not expect this." he dropped down between the bed and the wall. then he crawled under the deep valance. he had not long to wait. somebody had crept into the room, somebody light of foot and light of body who crossed to the bed. and this somebody shook the sleeping figure with passionate force. "wake up!" a voice said. "oh, will you never wake up?" the listener smiled. he could hear the figure of his arch-enemy stirring uneasily. she muttered something and once more was passionately shaken. "what is the matter?" she muttered. "where am i?" "here, in the castle. don't you remember?" pause for a moment. ralph was listening intently. "i begin to recollect. there was an accident; the door refused to open; i fought for my life as long as i could before the fumes overcame me, and i gave myself up for lost. oh, it was something to remember, marion," muttered mrs. may. marion, for it was she, made no reply. she was crying quietly. "what is the matter with the girl?" the woman asked irritably. "oh, it is good for you to ask me that question," said marion, "after all the bitter trouble and humiliation you have put upon me. get up and follow me." "i cannot. the thing is impossible. you forget that i have been almost dead. my limbs are paralyzed. i shall not be able to walk for at least two days. i must remain like a dog here. but there is no hurry. what happened?" "i can't tell; i don't know. you were found in the corridor, i am told, insensible. when they came back to the castle they found you lying here. they had all been down on the beach searching for geoffrey." the woman laughed. it was a laugh to chill the blood. "i hope they found him," she said. "oh, yes, they found him," marion said quietly. "drowned, with a placid smile on his face, after the fashion of the novel?" "no, very much alive. you failed. geoffrey ravenspur is here safe and sound. on my knees i have thanked god for it." the woman muttered something that the listener failed to catch. she seemed to be suppressing a tendency to a violent outburst. "i will not fail next time," she said. "and you are a love-sick, soft-hearted, sentimental fool. all this time i have to remain here. but, at any rate, i have you to do my bidding. put your hand in my breast pocket and you will find a key." "well, what am i to do with it?" "you are to go to my rooms at jessop's farm at once. they will be fast asleep, so that you need not be afraid. jessop's people have the slumber that comes of a tired body and an easy conscience. but there are foes about and it is not well to trust to anybody. "if i am to remain here for a day or two i must have certain things. in my sitting room, by the side of the fireplace, is a black iron box. open it with the key i have given you and bring the casket to me. you can get into my sitting room by gently raising the window, which is not fastened. they are so honest in these parts that people don't fasten their windows. now go." "you are sure you cannot get up?" "certain. i have been drugged and it will be some time before i am able to get about. that is why i am anxious to have the box. young ravenspur would never have got away had he had no friends to assist him or a simple fool to give him warning." "the fool you speak of does not regret it." "perhaps not. how did he escape?" "in the simplest possible way. he was picked up by a passing yacht." "well, accidents will happen," the woman muttered. "now do my bidding. the heavy drugged sleep is coming upon me again, and i shall not be able to keep my eyes open much longer. go at once." as marion crept away ralph could catch her heavy indrawn breath and the sobs that seemed to burst from her overcharged heart. then he knew that the woman was asleep again. a minute or two later and he was standing in the hall. he waited in shadow, silent and patient. the stairs creaked slightly and a stealthy footstep came creeping down. chapter l a kind uncle ralph crept toward the door. marion came close to him, her hands fumbling nervously with the bolts and bars. some of the bars were heavy, and marion was fearful lest they should fall with a clang and betray her. ralph stretched out his hand and drew back a bolt. "allow me to assist you," he said. "i am used to this kind of work." a scream rose to marion's lips, but she suppressed it. the effort set her trembling from head to foot. yet it seemed to her that there was no cause to be frightened, for she had never heard ralph's voice so kind before. "uncle," she stammered, "what are you doing here?" by way of reply ralph opened the door. he gave the sign for marion to precede him, and then followed her out into the night. the heavy door closed behind him. "i might with equal justice ask you the same question," he said. "nay, more; because you are merely a young girl and i am a man. and you know i don't sleep like most virtuous people. i suffer from insomnia and never sleep for long anywhere. perhaps i am like the cat who prowls about all night and slumbers in the daytime. but where are you going?" "uncle ralph, i cannot tell you. it is a secret. if you knew everything you would pity me." there was a deepening ring in marion's voice. ralph caressed her hand tenderly. "don't trouble," he said. "i know." "you know where i am going. you--you know!" "certainly i do. i know everything, my dear." "not everything, uncle. not of my connection with that woman, for instance." "indeed i do, marion." "you are aware of our relationship! you know that!" "my dear child, i have known it for years. but your secret is safe with me. i am not going to betray you. could i have the heart to do so after all you have done for my family? angel marion." he repeated the last words over and over again in a low, caressing voice, pressing the girl's hand softly as he did so. even then marion was not sure whether he was in earnest or whether he was grimly ironical. "i never thought of this," marion murmured. "perhaps not," ralph replied. "mrs. may is a bad woman, marion." "the worst in the world," marion replied. "you only know her as mrs. may?" "i only know her as she is, dear. and yet i feel that in some vague kind of way she is mixed up with our family misfortunes. oh, if i could only see, if i could only use my eyes. then i might know that woman still better." marion shuddered at the steely, murderous tones. ralph patted her hand reassuringly. "but you need not be afraid," he said. "you are all right--the brightest angel in the world. you are torn by conflicting emotions; you fancy your duty lies in certain directions, and you are troubled over it. and yet it will come right in the end, marion. we did not lose geoffrey after all." "thank god, no. and yet there is plenty of time." "there is ample time for the right as well as the wrong, marion. but do not let us talk of the past any more, my dear. i am not going to pry into your secrets, and i know how far to trust you. let me walk part of the way with you. i can wait by the barn till you return." marion raised no objection. it was the dead of night now and there was no fear of meeting anybody. yet marion started uneasily as ralph began to whistle. she ventured to suggest that the noise was not prudent. "perhaps you are right," ralph said amicably. "at any rate i will wait here till your return. you have not far to go, of course?" "i have a very little way to go, uncle. i am going to jessop's farm." ralph nodded. the farm loomed up not far off. as marion darted off ralph lighted his pipe and whistled again. something moved in the bushes. * * * * * meanwhile tchigorsky and geoffrey were nearing the window. tchigorsky moved on resolutely and confidently with the air of a man who is sure of his ground. he put up his hand and fumbled for the catch. it gave at once and the pair of burglars slipped quietly into the room. "we shall be safe," he said as he proceeded to strike a match. "it is just as well to take every precaution. what would the estimable jessop say if he could see into his parlor?" geoffrey smiled. "he'd be astonished," he said, "a little dismayed, too. but he would say nothing so long as i am here. jessop would stand on his head for me." the strong rays of the lamp lighted up the room. there were flowers everywhere, dainty china on the table full of blooms, bowls filled with choicest fruits. wines sparkled in the crystal goblets on the sideboard, a silver cigarette box was conspicuous, and on a safe lay an object to which tchigorsky called his companion's attention. "what do you make that out to be?" he asked. geoffrey picked up the drapery. on the top of it lay something red with a feather in it. it appeared to be a costume of some kind. as geoffrey held it aloft a light gradually broke in upon him. "well," tchigorsky asked, "have you solved the problem?" "i have," geoffrey replied. "it is the blue dress and tam-o'-shanter hat which have played so conspicuous a part lately. but what brings them here? has mrs. may a companion hidden somewhere, a companion who might be marion's sister?" "seems like it," tchigorsky said with a dry smile. "but i am not going to enlighten you any further on that question at present. mrs. may and the girl in the blue dress are two separate people, anyway." "you forget that i have seen them together," said geoffrey. "i had forgotten that. well, it won't be long now before the identity of the lady in the smart dress and coquettish hat is established. meanwhile we came here in search of something far more important than a woman's costume. help me to turn out all those drawers, and be careful to replace everything exactly as you find it. we have a good three hours before us and much depends upon the result of our search. keep a keen eye open for papers in any language that is unfamiliar to you." for an hour the search proceeded and yet nothing came to light. there were plenty of bills, most of them emanating from west end establishments--accounts for dresses and flowers, boxes for theaters, and the like, but nothing more. tchigorsky glanced keenly round the room. "i am afraid we shall be compelled to show our hand," he said. "mrs. may is so clever that i half expected to find private papers in some simple place, while an examination of her safe would disclose nothing. she has not anticipated burglary and what i am looking for is in the safe." "dare you open it?" geoffrey asked. "and show my hand, you mean? i fancy so. we are so near success now that it really does not matter. put the safe on the table," replied tchigorsky. the heavy iron box slipped as geoffrey raised it and clanged on the floor. an exclamation of anger and annoyance came from tchigorsky and an apology from the younger man. they both stood upright for a few minutes listening intently. but the people upstairs were sleeping the sleep of the just. there came no answering sound. "blessings upon the pure air and the high conscience that hold these people," tchigorsky muttered more amicably. "it's all right, my young friend. hoist up the box, and let us see if my little steel jimmy will have any effect. i would rather have had the key. it is never well to betray your plans if you can----" the speaker paused. from outside a little way off there arose a long, shrill scream, the cry of a woman in distress. the sound set geoffrey's blood leaping; he pushed for the window, but tchigorsky detained him. "where are you going?" he asked sternly. "outside," geoffrey exclaimed. "a woman is there. she asks for assistance. can you stand there calmly and see----" "see you making an ass of yourself, eh? my dear boy, on my word of honor there is no woman in danger yonder. in a measure i am glad to hear that cry, though it proves to me that our allies have not been so artistic over their work as they might have been. you will not hear that cry again." "perhaps not," geoffrey said, reassured considerably by tchigorsky's placid manner; "but i hear footsteps outside." tchigorsky smiled. he had taken some steel bits from his pocket, but he replaced them again. "if they are, then they are the footsteps of a friend," he said. "this being so, there will be no need for me to give you lessons in the way not to open a safe. are you right? it seems as if the window was opening." the window was indeed opening. it moved half an inch, and then there was a "hist," and something clanged on the floor. tchigorsky took the matter as coolly as if it had all been arranged beforehand. he did not move as the window closed again and stealthy footsteps outside moved away. "it is all right?" geoffrey asked. tchigorsky smiled broadly. "splendid!" he said. "it could not have been better. my boy, this is the night's work which is going to crown our endeavors. yonder we have the proofs, and here we have the means of getting them." he picked the metallic object from the floor. he fitted it to the lock of the safe, and instantly a mass of queer things was discovered. tchigorsky's eyes gleamed as he saw this; they positively flamed as he turned out a lot of papers. at the bottom was a book in metal covers. as tchigorsky fluttered it open a cry broke from him. "found!" he exclaimed, "found! we have them in the hollow of our hands." chapter li "what does this mean?" with less courage than she usually felt, marion went on her way. perhaps there was no more miserable being in england at that moment. it is hard to play a double part, hard to be thrust one way by cruel circumstances when the heart and soul are crying out to go the other. this was marion's position. and whichever way she went she was destined to be equally unhappy and miserable. she had to help her relations; she had to try to shield that infamous woman at the same time. and now the great secret of her life had come to light. that was the bitterest trial of all. vera had discovered that marion loved geoffrey. ralph ravenspur had made the same discovery long ago, but it did not matter so very much about him; vera was different. and here she was in the dead of night carrying out the errand of the deadliest foe the house of ravenspur had ever known. she was half inclined to throw the whole thing to the winds, to disappear and never return again. why should she---- she stopped. something was stirring in the bushes on either side of her. perhaps it was a rabbit or a fox. probably somebody had dogged her footsteps. "who are you?" marion cried. "speak, or i call for help." the threat was futile, considering the time of night. the bushes parted and two men appeared. marion gave one loud scream, but before she could repeat the cry a hand was laid on her lips. whoever they were, they were not unduly rough. the hand that stayed further clamor was hard, but it was not cruel. "you are not to cry out again," a voice whispered. "i will not injure you if you promise not to call out." marion indicated that she would comply with this suggestion. immediately the hand fell from her lips. "this is an outrage," she said. "who are you?" "that is beside the point," was the reply. "it is an outrage, but we are not going to treat you badly. we are unfortunately compelled to keep you for some four-and-twenty hours from the custody of your friends, but you may rest assured that you will be treated with every consideration." "i am your prisoner, then?" "since you like to put it in that way, yes." marion was properly indignant. she pointed out that the course these men were pursuing was a criminal one, and that it was likely to lead them into trouble. but she might have been speaking to the winds. if she could only see these people! she had not the remotest idea what they were like. the man who spoke was evidently a gentleman; his companion seemed like a working man--a sailor by his walk. and yet it was impossible to see the faces of either. "where are you going to take me?" marion asked. "we are going to conduct you to one of the caves," was the reply. "unfortunately no house is available for our purpose, or we should not put you to this inconvenience. but we have made every preparation for your comfort, and you are not likely to suffer for want of food or anything of that kind. and i pledge you my word of honor that you shall not be detained a minute beyond the specified time." he touched marion on the arm to indicate a forward movement. "i suppose it is of no use to ask your name," marion said coldly. "i have no objection," said the other. "the time is coming when it will be necessary to speak very plainly indeed. my name is george abell, and i am secretary to dr. sergius tchigorsky. my friend's name is elphick. he was at one time a servant in the employ of one of your family." "tchigorsky?" marion cried. "but he is dead." "that seems to be the popular impression," abell said gravely. the words appeared to strike a chill in marion. she began to comprehend that all her sacrifices had been made in vain. "tchigorsky not dead?" she said hoarsely. "no," said abell. "i saw him a little time ago. it will perhaps not surprise you to hear that i am acting under his orders." "but he could not know that i----" "dr. tchigorsky seems to divine matters. he seems to know what people will do almost by instinct. he is a wonderful man and does wonderful things. but i cannot tell you any more; i am merely acting under orders." he indicated the way and marion proceeded without further protest. she felt like a condemned criminal when the sentence is pronounced. certain things were coming to an end. a long period of suspense and anxiety was nearly finished. how it was going to end marion neither knew nor cared. but she did know that the woman who was known as mrs. may was doomed. not another word passed until the foot of the cliffs was reached. it was no easy matter to get down in the dark, but it was managed at length. it was near the lonely spot where geoffrey's stranded boat had been found. for days together nobody came here and marion could not console herself with the fact that she would be rescued. not that she much cared; indeed, it was a matter of indifference to her what happened. abell was polite and attentive. he indicated a pile of rugs and wraps; if miss ravenspur wanted anything she had only to call out and it would be supplied immediately. "i wanted nothing but to rest," marion said wearily. "i am tired out. i feel as if i could sleep for a thousand years. i am so exhausted mentally that i have no astonishment to find myself in this strange situation." abell bowed and retired. the night was warm and the cave, being above any, even the high spring tides, was dry. marion flung herself down upon the pile of wraps and almost at once fell fast asleep. when she came to herself again the sun was shining high. outside abell was pacing the sands. marion called to him. "i want some breakfast," she said, "and then i should like to have a talk with you. if only i had a looking glass." "you don't need one," abell said respectfully if admiringly. "still, that has been thought of. there is a looking glass in the corner." marion smiled despite herself. she found the glass and propped it up before her. there was no cause for alarm. she looked as neat and fresh as if she had just made a due and elaborate toilette. geoffrey was fond of saying that after a football match marion would have remained as neat and tidy as ever. she ate her breakfast heartily--good tea, with eggs, and bread-and-butter and strawberries. "do you want anything more?" asked abell, looking in. "nothing, except my liberty," marion replied. "you may come in and smoke if you like. how long are you going to detain me here?" "four-and-twenty hours." "but i shall be missed. they will search for me. by this time, of course, they are hunting all over the place for me. they will come here----" "i think not," abell said politely. "it is too near home. nobody would dream of looking for you in a cave close to the castle. we thought of all that. they will not look for you for other reasons." marion glanced swiftly at the speaker. "how could you prevent them?" she demanded. abell puffed airily at his cigarette. he smiled pleasantly. "there are many ways," he said. "you do not come down to breakfast. they begin to be alarmed at your absence. somebody goes to your room and finds there a note addressed to your grandfather. that note is apparently in your handwriting. it contains a few lines to the effect that you have made a great discovery. you have gone at once to follow it up. the family are not to be alarmed if you do not return till very late. when you come back you hope to have a joyful revelation for everybody." marion smiled in reply. abell seemed to be so sure of his ground. "what you outline means forgery," she said. "so i presume," abell replied coolly. "but forgery is so simple nowadays with the aid of the camera. after what i have told you you will be able to see that our scheme has been thoughtfully worked out." "and when i come back do i bring a joyful confession with me?" abell looked steadily at the speaker. there was something in the expression of his eyes that caused her to drop hers. "that depends entirely upon yourself," he murmured. "one thing you may rely upon--the confession will be made and the clouds rolled away. it is only a matter of hours now. surely, you do not need to be told why you are detained?" for some reason best known to herself marion did not need to be told. it was a long time before she spoke again. she ought to have been angry with this man; she ought to have turned from him with indignation; but she did nothing of the kind. and if she had, her indignation would have been wasted. "you are in dr. tchigorsky's confidence?" she asked. abell shook his head with a smile. "i know a great deal about him," he said. "i help him in his experiments. but as to being in his confidence--no. i don't suppose any man in the world enjoys that, unless it is your uncle ralph." marion started. in that moment many things became clear to her. hitherto she had regarded ralph ravenspur as anything but a man to be dreaded or feared. now she knew better. why had she not thought of this before? "they are great friends?" she said. "oh, yes. they have been all over the world together. and they have been in places which they do not mention to anybody." chapter lii "as proof of holy writ" tchigorsky hung over the papers before him as if inspired. there was not much, apparently, in the book with the metal clasps, but that little seemed to be fascinating to a degree. the russian turned it over till he came to the end. "you appear to be satisfied," geoffrey said. "satisfied is a poor word to express my feelings," tchigorsky replied. he stretched himself; he drew a deep breath like one who has been under water. "i have practically everything here in this diary," he said. "it is written in a language you would fail to understand, but it is all like print to me. everything is traced down from the first of the family catastrophes to the last attempt by means of the bees. there are letters from lassa containing instructions for the preparation of certain drugs and poisons; in fact, here is everything." "so that we are rid of our foes at last?" "not quite. the princess is cunning. we shall have to extract a confession from her; we shall have to get her and her two slaves together. it is all a matter of hours, but we shall have to be circumspect. if the woman finds she is baffled she may be capable of a bitter revenge to finish with." "what are you going to do?" geoffrey asked. "we are going back to the castle the same way we came," tchigorsky explained. "we are going to show your uncle ralph our find. for the present it is not expedient that sergius tchigorsky should come to life again." the box was locked once more and replaced, and then the two burglars crept from the house. they had not disturbed anybody, for the upper windows of the farmhouse were all in darkness. a brisk walk brought them to the castle. upstairs a dim light was still burning in ralph ravenspur's window. the light flared up at the signal, and a few minutes later the three were seated round the lamp, while the window was darkened again. ralph sat stolidly smoking as if he had not moved for hours. he evinced not the slightest curiosity as to the success of his companions. tchigorsky smote him on the back with unwonted hilarity. "so you have been successful?" he croaked. "oh, you have guessed that!" tchigorsky cried. "it was a mere matter of time," ralph replied. "it was bound to come. i knew that from the first day i got here." "all very well," tchigorsky muttered; "but it was only a 'matter of time' till the ravenspurs were wiped out root and branch." "you knew the day you got here?" geoffrey exclaimed. ralph turned his inscrutable face to the speaker. "i did, lad," he said. "i came home to ascertain how the thing was worked. before i slept the first night under the old roof i knew the truth. and i came in time--guided by the hand of providence--to save the first of a fresh series of tragedies. "you wonder why i did not speak; you have asked me before why i did not proclaim my knowledge. and i replied that the whole world would have laughed at me; you would have been the first to deride me, and the assassin would have been warned. i kept my counsel; i worked on like a mole in the dark; and when i had something to go on, tchigorsky came. before you are many hours older the miscreants will stand confessed." tchigorsky nodded approval. he was deftly rolling a cigarette between his long fingers. "ralph is right," he said. "we have only to fire the mine now. by the way, ralph, you were clever to get that key." "easy enough," ralph croaked. "i knew the woman would be uneasy about her papers, so i gave her a touch of the cordial on her lips and brought her to her senses. a certain messenger who shall be nameless was sent off with the key. the messenger was detained, is still detained according to arrangements, and her pocket was picked. elphick dropped back and gave me the key, which i passed on to you." geoffrey followed in some bewilderment. the messenger business was all strange to him. "did you know that diary existed?" he asked. "of course i did," ralph growled. "in a measure, i might say that i had seen it. many a time at night have i lain in a flower-bed under that woman's window and heard her reading from the diary or writing in it. that is why i asked no questions when you came in. i knew you had been successful. and now, princess zara, it is my turn." ralph's voice dropped to a whisper, an intense, burning whisper of hate and vengeance. he rose and paced the room like a caged bird. "what will be her fate?" asked geoffrey. "burn her, slay her, hang her," ralph cried. "no death is too painful, too loathsome for a creature like that. i could forgive her fanatical cruelty; i could forgive the way she fought for her creed. but when it comes to those allied by ties----" the speaker paused and sat down. "who talks too fast says too much," he remarked sententiously. "what is the next move?" geoffrey asked. "bed, i should say," tchigorsky suggested dryly. "as far as one can judge we are likely to have a busy day before us to-morrow. and don't you be surprised at anything you see or hear. it will be all in the day's work, as you english say. i am going to lie up in hiding here, but i shall turn up when the time comes. good-night." it was late when geoffrey rose the following day, and the family had long had breakfast when he came downstairs. most of the family were still in the breakfast room or on the terrace in the sunshine. "how is the visitor?" he asked. "mrs. may seems very queer," mrs. gordon explained. "she complains of a sort of paralysis in her lower limbs. at the same time she refuses to see a doctor, saying that she has had something of the kind before." "does she account for her presence here?" said geoffrey. "oh, yes. of course she had heard you were missing and been informed that everybody from the castle was on the beach. it was getting dark when she saw two strange suspicious-looking men coming this way. she felt sure that they had designs on the house and followed them. she tried to get somebody to assist her, but could not see a soul anywhere. then she put on that queer dress and came on here. "the two men entered the castle and she crept after them. they discovered her and one of them gave her a blow on the head that stunned her. when she came to her senses again she was lying in bed. wasn't it plucky of her?" "very," geoffrey said dryly; "but where is marion?" "marion, like yourself, seems to be lazily inclined to-day. it is so very unlike her; indeed, i fear the poor child is anything but well. those quiet people always feel the most, and poor marion was greatly upset yesterday." vera came in at the same moment. she had a merry word or two for geoffrey as to his late appearance. she had not seen marion as yet. "run up to her room, there is a dear girl," said geoffrey. "this sort of thing is not like marion; i fear something has happened to her." "i wish you would," ravenspur observed. vera disappeared only to come back presently with the information that marion's room was empty, and that her bed had not been occupied. she held a little envelope in her hand. "i can only find this," she said. ravenspur snatched the letter, and tore it open. "extraordinary," he exclaimed. "marion says she has found a clue to the troubles and is following it up at once. if she does not come back till late we are not to worry about her. strange! but i have every confidence in the girl." "may she not come to harm!" vera said fervently. "oh, i hope not," mrs. gordon cried. "but will this mystery and misery never end?" chapter liii a little light mrs. may, princess zara, the brilliant mystery who wielded so great an influence over the destiny of the house of ravenspur, lay on her bed smiling faintly in the face of mrs. gordon ravenspur, who stood regarding her with friendly solicitude. mrs. gordon had no suspicions whatever; she would have trusted any one. all the lessons of all the years had taught her no prudence in that direction. a kind word or an appeal for assistance always disarmed mrs. gordon. "i hope you are comfortable?" she asked. mrs. may smiled faintly. she appeared a trifle embarrassed. she was acting her part beautifully as usual. her audacity and assurance had carried her through great difficulties and she had confidence in the future. "in my body, perfectly," she said. "but i am so uneasy in my mind." "and you will not have a doctor?" "not for worlds. there is nothing the matter with me. i have suffered like this before. i have a weak heart, you know, and excitement troubles me thus. but i don't want a doctor." "then why should you worry?" mrs. gordon asked. "i am ashamed of myself," the woman confessed with a laugh. "i have been wondering what you must think about me. this is the second time you have had to detain me as an involuntary guest under your roof. the first time i was the victim of idle curiosity; the second time i did try to do you a good turn. i hope you will remember that." "it was kind and courageous of you," mrs. gordon said warmly. "how many people would have done as much for strangers! and please do not talk about it any more or i shall be distressed." mrs. may was by no means sorry to change the conversation. a thousand questions trembled on her lips, but she restrained them. she was burning to know certain things, but the mere mention of such matters might have aroused suspicions in a far simpler mind than that of mrs. gordon. "so long as you are all well it doesn't matter," she said. "this afternoon i shall make an effort to get up. meanwhile, i won't keep you from your household duties. could i see one of those charming girls, miss vera or marion? i have taken such a fancy to them." "vera shall come presently; she has gone to the village," mrs. gordon explained. as to marion she could say nothing. "marion has been an enigma to us lately," she explained. "i need not tell you of the dark shadows hanging over this unhappy house, or how near we have been to the solution of the mystery on more than one occasion. and now marion has an idea, queer child. "she went out, presumably last night, leaving a note to say she had really got on the track at last, and that we were not to worry about her even if she did not return to-day. so strange of marion." mrs. may had turned her face away. she was fearful lest the other, prattling on in her innocent way, should see the rage and terror and despair of her features. "queer!" she murmured hoarsely. "did she write to you?" "no, to my husband's father. her note was given to me. even now i don't know what to make of it. would you like to see the letter? you are so clever that you may understand it better than i do." "i should like to see the letter." it was an effort almost beyond the speaker's powers to keep her voice steady. even then the words sounded in her ears as if they came from somebody else. from her pocket mrs. gordon produced the letter. mrs. may appeared to regard it languidly. "if i knew the girl better i could tell you," she said. "it sounds sincere. but my head is beginning to ache again." mrs. gordon was all solicitude. she drew down the blinds, and produced eau de cologne, and fanned the brow of the sufferer after drenching it with the spirit. mrs. may smiled languidly but gratefully. at the same time it was all she could do to keep her hands from clutching the other by the throat and screaming out that unless she was left alone murder would be done. "now i really can leave you," mrs. gordon said. "it would be the greatest kindness," the invalid murmured gratefully. the door softly closed; mrs. may struggled to a sitting position. her eyes were gleaming, yet a hard despair was on her face. she ought to be up and doing, but her lower limbs refused their office. "a forgery," she said between her teeth. "marion never wrote that letter. if they were not blind they could see that for themselves. marion has been decoyed away; and, if so, somebody has that key. if i only knew. tchigorsky is dead and ralph ravenspur is an idiot. who, then, is the prime mover in this business?" the woman did not know, and for the life of her she could not guess. tchigorsky was out of the way--dead and buried. ralph ravenspur and geoffrey were antagonists not worthy of a second thought. but somebody was moving and that somebody a skilled and vigorous foe. for once the arch-conspirator was baffled. the foe had the enormous knowledge of knowing his quarry, while the quarry had not the least notion where or how to look for the hunter. and the fish was fast to the line. unless it got away at once the landing net would be applied; then there would be an end of all things. but she could not move; she could do nothing but lie there gasping in impotent rage. there was only one person in the world who could help her now, and that was marion. and where was marion? only the man on the other side of the chess board knew that. she wished she knew; oh! she wished she knew a score of things. did the people of the castle suspect her? hardly that, or mrs. gordon had not been so friendly. what had become of the coat and glass mask she was wearing at the time things went wrong in geoffrey ravenspur's room? had her subordinates heard her cry? had they fled, or had they been taken? if they had fled, had they removed the instruments with them? mrs. may would have given five years of her life for enlightenment on these vital questions. even she could not read the past and solve the unseen. tears of impotent rage and fury rose to her eyes. while she was lying there wasting the diamond minutes the foe was at work. at any time that foe might come down with the most overwhelming proofs and crush her. marion had been spirited away. why? so that the key of the safe might be stolen and used to advantage. once more the woman tried to raise herself from the bed. it was useless. she slipped the bed-clothes into her mouth to stifle the cries that rose to her lips. she was huddled under them when the door opened and vera stepped in. "did you call out?" she asked. "i was passing your door and fancied i heard a cry. are you still suffering from a headache?" mrs. may's first impulse was to order the girl away. then an idea came to her. "the headache is gone," she said sweetly. "it was just a twinge of neuralgia. i wonder if you would do me a favor." "certainly." "then i wish you would get me some paper and envelopes. i have a note to write. there is a child in the village i am fond of. she comes and sits in the tangle at the bottom of the jessops' garden and talks to me. i am afraid she thinks more of my chocolates than me, but that is a detail." "you want to write the child a note. how sweet of you!" "oh, no," mrs. may said. she was going to embark on a dangerous effort and was not quite certain as yet. but desperate diseases require desperate remedies. "it is nothing. and i don't want anybody to know." "i am sure you can trust to me." "of course i can, my dear child. and i will. please get me the materials." vera brought the paper and essentials. with a smile on her face mrs. may wrote the letter. inside the envelope she placed something she had taken from the bosom of her dress. "a cake of chocolate," she explained smilingly. "see, i do not address the envelope, but place on it this funny sign that looks like an intoxicated problem in euclid. the child will understand. and now i am going to ask you to do me a favor. will you please take the letter without letting anybody know what you are doing, and put it at the foot of the big elder in the tangle? i dare say it sounds very stupid of me, but i don't want the child to be disappointed." vera professed herself ready and also to be charmed with the idea. she would go at once, she said, and mrs. may raised no obstacle. at the end of the corridor vera was confronted with her uncle ralph. he held out his hand. "i was listening," he said. "i knew beyond all doubt that something of the kind would be attempted. i want that letter." "but uncle, i promised----" "it matters nothing what you promised. it is of vital importance that the inside of that letter should be seen. chocolate for a child, indeed. death to us all, rather. you are going to give me that letter and i am going to open it. afterwards it shall be sealed again, and you shall convey it to its destination. the letter!" dazed and bewildered, vera handed it to him. it was not a nice thing to do, but, then, nice methods were not for mrs. may. ralph grasped the letter and made off towards his room. "wait here," he said. "i shall not be a few minutes. i am merely going to steam that envelope open and master the contents. don't go away." vera nodded. she was too astonished for words; not that she felt compunction any longer. presently ralph returned. "there you are, my child," he said. "if i seemed harsh to you, forgive me. it is no time for courtesies. you can take the letter now and deliver it. it has been a good and great discovery for us." chapter liv exit the asiatics tchigorsky, ralph ravenspur, and geoffrey sat smoking in the blind man's room. it was late the same afternoon and from the window could be heard the thunder of the incoming tide. tchigorsky appeared to be in excellent spirits, puffed his cigarette with gusto and came out in the new rôle of a _raconteur_. "we have them all now," he said. "to-day will settle everything. it was a pretty idea of ralph's to hang about the corridor under the impression that the woman would try to send some kind of message to her familiars. real genius, i call it." "not a bit of it," ralph said doggedly. "pshaw, a child would have done the same. the woman was bound to try to send a letter. she lies there helpless, but knows that somebody is moving in her tracks. and, to add to her suspense, she hasn't an idea who is following her up. "don't you see she is in the dark? don't you understand that she suspects she has been trapped? she wants to know all about her infernal apparatus. she wants her information all at one fell swoop. and when she found that marion was missing she felt certain that her time was near." "what is her hold over marion?" geoffrey asked. "and why has marion gone away?" tchigorsky said evasively. "we shall come to a full understanding about that presently. let us begin to unravel the skein from the start. i read that letter which ralph gave to me, the letter which by this time is in the hands of that woman's familiars. they have instructions to come to the castle at dusk and enter it by way of the vaults. when the family are at dinner the orientals will make their way up to their mistress." "but can they?" geoffrey asked. "of course they can. many a night have they been here. but we have already stopped any danger that way by locking the door of the vault, the one below sea level. then we shall go down the cliffs presently and take the chaps like rats in a trap. they will be arrested and handed over to the police because the time has come when we can afford to show our hands. the end is very near." "but the evidence against mrs. may?" geoffrey suggested. tchigorsky tapped his breast pocket significantly. "you have forgotten the diary," he said. "i have evidence enough here to hang that vile wretch over and over again. i have evidence enough to place in the hands of the government which will convince those gentry in the temples beyond lassa that they had better be content to leave us alone in future unless they desire to have their temples blown about their ears. this diary clinches the whole business. the house of ravenspur is free." "god grant that it may be so," geoffrey said fervently. "we have only to wait till dusk. tell me the rest of your adventures in the black valley." tchigorsky nodded as he proceeded to make a fresh cigarette. "there is not much more to tell," he said. "some day, when i have more leisure on my hands, i will give the whole business, chapter and verse. i have only told you enough for you to know the class of foe you have to deal with. "well, as i told you, we shot two of the priests whose business it was to guide our stumbling feet to the bottom and then leave us there. we knew that these men would never be missed, so that we hadn't much anxiety on that score. the others, despite their sacred calling, were just as anxious to live as anybody else. "to prevent any chance of escape, we took off our flowing robes, tore them into strips, and bound our guides to ourselves. it was a good thing we did so, for before long we plunged into darkness so thick that its velvety softness seemed to suffocate us. "you will hardly believe me, but for two whole days and nights we stumbled on in that awful darkness without food or rest, except now and again when we fell exhausted. all that time we could see nothing, but there were awful noises from unseen animals, roars and yells and cries of pain. "loathsome, greasy reptiles were under our feet, the clammy rocks seemed to be alive with them. yet they did us no harm; indeed, their sole object seemed to be to get out of our way. sometimes great eyes gleamed at us, but those eyes were ever filled with a terror greater than our own. "after a bit this sense of fear passed away. had we been alone, had we possessed no hope of ultimate salvation, the unseen horrors of the place would have driven us mad. we should have wandered on until we had dropped hopelessly insane and perished. even a man utterly devoid of imagination could not have fought off the mad terror of it all. as for me, i will never forget it." tchigorsky paused and wiped his forehead. glancing at ralph, geoffrey could see that the latter was trembling like a leaf. "we came to the end of it at length," tchigorsky went on. "we came to light and a long desolate valley whence we proceeded into an arid desert. here we found our latitude and dismissed our guides. we ought to have shot them, but we refrained. it would have saved a deal of trouble. they were not less dangerous than mad dogs. "we got into communication with our guides and servants in a day or two, and there ended the first and most thrilling volume of our adventures. how the princess zara has persecuted us ever since you know. and how we are going to turn the tables on that fiend of a woman you also know." there was a long silence after tchigorsky had finished and dusk began to fall. geoffrey looked out of the window toward the sea. suddenly he started. "blobber rock," he gasped. "covered! not a vestige of it to be seen! it is high spring tide to-day, the highest of the month, and i had forgotten all about it." "what difference does it make?" tchigorsky asked. "it fills the underground caves," geoffrey cried. "we have locked the doors of the lower vault, and in that vault are the two asiatics waiting the orders of their mistress. a spring tide fills that vault with water. if those men got that letter, as they are pretty sure to have done by this time, then they are dead men. once they get into the cave the tide would cut them off, and they would be drowned like rats in a sewer. of course, they would have no idea the vault was closed to them, and----" "quite right," tchigorsky interrupted. "i never thought of that. and i had no knowledge of the state of the tide. and there are other caves where----" he was going to say "where marion is," but paused. ralph seemed to divine what was in his mind. the reply seemed incontinent, but tchigorsky understood. "all the other caves are practically beyond high-water mark," he said. "what geoffrey says is correct and our forgetfulness has saved the hangman a job. but wouldn't it be well to make sure?" tchigorsky was of that opinion. "no need to alarm the household," he said. "geoffrey shall procure a lantern, and i will come and assist in the search. i don't want to be seen just yet; but it really does not much matter, as there is no need for further concealment. if these men are drowned, they are drowned, and there is an end of the matter. in any case, we have the chief culprit by the heels." it was possible, after all, to reach the vaults without being seen. geoffrey procured a lantern and the party set out. when they were at the bottom of the steps they could hear the sea slashing and beating on the walls and sides of the vault. a great wave slipped up as the door opened. geoffrey bent down with the lantern in his hand. for some time he searched the boiling spume without success. "can you see anything?" asked tchigorsky. "nothing whatever," said geoffrey. "it is possible that they might not---- ah!" he shuddered as he raised the light. the spume ceased to boil for a moment, then a stiff, rigid hand crept horribly from the flood. a brown sodden face followed. there lay one of the asiatics past the power of further harm. "you have seen one," tchigorsky shouted, "and there is the other." another face came up like a repulsive picture on a screen. a minute later and the two bodies were dripping on the steps of the vault. chapter lv a shock for the princess it was not a pleasant task, but it had to be done. fortunately it was possible to do everything discreetly and in order, for the vaults were large, and there was not the slightest chance that any of the household would come near. the bodies were laid out there and the key turned upon them. geoffrey looked at his companions and inquired what was to be done next. "inform the head of the house and send for the police", tchigorsky said; "so far as i can see, it will be impossible to keep the matter a secret. nor are we to blame. those men came here for no good purpose, and we took steps to prevent them from entering the house. "unfortunately, we forgot there would be an exceptionally high tide to-day, and consequently they have paid the penalty of their folly. but we can't bury these two fellows as we did the others." "hadn't we better search them?" ralph suggested. "they came in response to the note sent them by their mistress. the note was opened and read. one of them is sure to have the letter on his person." "then let the police find it," tchigorsky said promptly. "it will be the link in the evidence that we require. when you and i come to tell our story, ralph, and the police find that letter, the net around princess zara will be complete. i have only to produce that diary and the case is finished." ralph nodded approval. five minutes later and the head of the house, seated over a book in the library, was exceedingly astonished to see ralph and geoffrey, followed by tchigorsky, enter the room. he swept a keen glance over their faces; he saw at once they had news of grave import for him. "i do not understand," he said. "dr. tchigorsky, i am amazed. i was under the impression that you were dead and buried." "other people shared the same opinion, sir," tchigorsky said coolly. "the great misfortune of another man was my golden opportunity. it was necessary for certain people to regard me as dead--your enemies particularly. but perhaps i had better explain." "it would be as well," ravenspur murmured. tchigorsky proceeded to clear the mystery of voski's death. he had to tell the whole story, beginning at lassa and going on to the end. ravenspur listened with the air of a man who dreams. to a man used all his life to the quiet life of an english shire it seemed impossible to believe that such things could be. and why should these people persecute him; why should they come here? what did those men mean by drowning themselves in the vaults? "they came here at the instigation of mrs. may," tchigorsky said. "but i don't see how that lady comes to be in it at all." "you will in a minute," said tchigorsky grimly. "you will when i tell you that mrs. may and princess zara are one and the same person." ravenspur gasped. the bare idea of having such a woman under his roof filled him with horror. even yet he could not understand his danger. "but why does she come?" he demanded. "for revenge on you two?" "oh, no. my being here was a mere coincidence. of course, the princess would have removed me sooner or later. ralph, strange to say, she does not recognize at all, possibly because he has disguised himself with such simple cleverness. princess zara came here to destroy your family." "in the name of heaven, why?" "partly for revenge, partly for money. i told you all about her husband, who was an english officer. i told you why she had married him. when she discovered the papers she wanted, then she killed him and returned to her own people, giving out that she and her husband had perished up country in a fearful cholera epidemic. she wanted money. why not kill off her husband's family one by one so that finally the estates should come to her? mr. ravenspur, surely you have guessed who was the english officer princess zara married?" ravenspur staggered back as before a heavy blow. the illuminating flash almost stunned him. he fell gasping into a chair. "my son, jasper," he said hoarsely. "that fiend is his widow." "and marion's mother," ralph croaked. geoffrey was almost as much astonished as his grandfather. he wondered why he had not seen all this before. once explained, the problem was ridiculously simple. ravenspur covered his face with his hands. "marion must not know," he said. "it would kill her." "she knows already," tchigorsky said. "that woman has great influence over her child. and the idea was for the child to get everything. the others were to be killed off until she was the only one left. with this large fortune at command zara meant to be another queen of sheba. and she would have succeeded, too." ravenspur shuddered. he was torn by conflicting emotions. perhaps tenderness and sympathy for marion were uppermost. how much did she know? how much had she guessed? was she entirely in the dark as to her mother's machinations, or had she come resolved to protect the relatives as much as possible? ravenspur poured out these questions one after another. tchigorsky could or would say nothing to relieve the other's feelings on these points. "what you ask has nothing to do with the case," he said. "i have proved to you, i am prepared to prove in any court of law, how your family has been destroyed and who is the author of the mischief. "she is under your roof, where she is powerless to move. her two confederates lie dead in the vaults yonder. i have already explained to you how it came about that the princess is here and how her infernal apparatus failed. it now remains to call in the police." "there will be a fearful scandal," ravenspur groaned. tchigorsky glanced at him impatiently. the cosmopolitan knew a great many things that were sealed books to ravenspur--in point of knowledge it was as a child alongside a great master; but tchigorsky knew nothing of family pride. "which will be forgotten in a week," he said emphatically. "and when the thing is over you will be free again. you cannot realize what that means as yet." "no," ravenspur said. "i cannot." "nevertheless, you can see for yourself that what i say is a fact," tchigorsky resumed. "and as a county magistrate and a deputy-lieutenant you would hardly venture to suggest that we should bury those bodies and say nothing to anybody about it?" ravenspur nodded approval. a few minutes later a groom was carrying a note to the police inspector at alton. ravenspur turned to tchigorsky with a manner more genial than he usually assumed. "i have forgotten to thank you," he said. "and you, ralph, have saved the house. if you can forget the past----" he said no more, but his hand went out. ralph seemed to divine it and pressed it closely. there was no word uttered on either side. but they both understood and ralph smiled. geoffrey had never seen his uncle smile before. the expression of his face was genial, almost handsome. his wooden look had utterly disappeared and nobody ever saw it again. the transformation of ralph ravenspur was not the least wonderful incident of the whole mysterious affair. the door opened and vera came lightly into the room. "what does all this mystery mean?" she asked. "geoffrey, you are--dr. tchigorsky!" the last words came with a scream that might have been heard all over the house. tchigorsky closed the door and proceeded rapidly to explain. but it was not the full explanation he had given to the others. there was time enough for that. vera was too bewildered to ask questions. at a sign from geoffrey she slipped from the room. then she recollected that she had come downstairs on an errand of mercy. she promised to get a cup of tea for the woman whom she still knew as mrs. may. she procured the tea from the drawing room and, in a dazed kind of state made her way up the stairs again. mrs. may was sitting up in bed. there was a pink spot on either cheek and her dark eyes were blazing. "i hope nothing is wrong," she said. "it might have been my fancy, but it seemed to me that i heard you call tchigorsky's name at the top of your voice." the suggestion was made with a fervent earnestness that the woman could not repress. but vera did not notice it. "i did," she said. "i walked into the library, hearing voices there, and in a chair dr. tchigorsky was seated. no wonder that i cried out. it was a fearful shock. and when he began to talk i could not believe the evidence of my senses." "then who was it that was buried?" the woman asked the question mechanically. she knew perfectly well what the reply would be; she knew that she had been discovered at last, and that the murder of voski had been turned to good purpose by tchigorsky. and she knew now who her new ally, ben heer, really was. "dr. voski," vera explained. "i have been hearing all about lassa and a certain princess zara, who seems to be a dreadful wretch. but i fear that i am exciting you. and you haven't drunk your tea." the woman gulped down her tea and then fell back on her bed, closing her eyes. she wanted to be alone, to have time to think. danger had threatened her before, but not living, palpitating peril like this. vera crept away and the woman rose again, but she could not get from her bed. passionate, angry tears filled her eyes. "that man has beaten me," she groaned. "it is finished for good and all. but their revenge will not be of long duration." chapter lvi marion comes back the police had more or less taken possession of ravenspur. they were everywhere asking questions that tchigorsky took upon himself to answer. as he had expected, the note carried by vera and deposited in the farmhouse garden had been found on one of the bodies. the inspector of police was an intelligent man, and he fell in with everything that tchigorsky suggested. "of course you can't read this book," said the russian as he handed over the fateful diary for safe custody, "but there are one or two oriental scholars in london who will bear out my testimony. have you any doubt?" "personally not the least," the inspector replied. "you say it is impossible for that woman to get away?" "absolutely impossible. she is safe for days." "then in that case there is no need to arrest her. that will have to come after the inquest on these men, which we shall hold to-morrow. and what a sensation the case will make! if i had read this thing in a book i should have laughed at it. and now we must have a thorough search for those electrical appliances." it was long past dinner-time before the police investigations were finished. aided by tchigorsky a vast amount of mechanical appliances was found, including the apparatus that was to do so much harm to the ravenspurs, and which had ended in wrecking the schemes of their arch-enemy. "inquest at ten to-morrow, sir," the inspector remarked to ravenspur. "i am very sorry, but we shall not trouble you more than we can help." ravenspur shook his head sadly. he was not particularly versed in the ways of the law, but he could see a long case ahead; and he was beginning to worry about marion. it was nearly ten o'clock now and the girl had not returned. it would be a sad home-coming for the girl, but they would all do what they could for her. everybody appeared to be duly sympathetic except ralph, who said nothing. tchigorsky seemed to have obliterated himself entirely. geoffrey had retired to the billiard-room, where vera followed him. they started a game, but their nerves were in no condition to finish it. cues were flung down and the lovers stood before the fireplace. "what are you thinking about?" geoffrey asked. vera looked up dreamingly. she touched geoffrey's cheek caressingly. she looked like one who is happy and yet at the same time ashamed of her own happiness. "of many things, pleasant and otherwise," she said. "i am still utterly in the dark myself, but those who know tell me that the shadow has lifted forever. that in itself is so great a joy that i dare not let my mind dwell upon it as yet. to think that we may part and meet again, to think---- but i dare not let my mind dwell upon that. but what has mrs. may to do with it?" vera was not behind the scenes as yet. still, within a few hours the thing must come out. what the family regarded as a nurse had been procured for the invalid, a nurse who really was a female warder in disguise, and ravenspur had sternly given strict orders that nobody was to go near that room. he vouchsafed no reason why; he gave the order and it was obeyed. then geoffrey told vera everything. he went through the whole story from the very beginning. vera listened as one in a dream. such wickedness was beyond her comprehension. awful as the cloud was that had long hung over the house of ravenspur, vera had not imagined it to be lined with such depravity as this. "and so that inhuman wretch is marion's mother?" said vera. "the child of a creature who deliberately murdered a husband and tried to destroy his family so that she could get everything into her hands! no wonder that marion has been a changed creature since this mrs. may has been about! how i pity her anguish and condition of mind! but had marion a sister?" "not that i ever heard of. why?" "i was thinking of that other girl, the girl so like marion that you were talking about just now. what has become of her?" geoffrey shook his head. he had forgotten that most mysterious personage. it was more than likely, he explained, that tchigorsky would know. not that it much mattered. the two were silent for some little time, then a peal of laughter from the drawing-room caused them to smile. "my mother," said vera. "i have not heard her laugh like that for years. does it not seem funny to realize that before long we shall be laughing and chatting and moving with the world once more, geoff? i should like to leave ravenspur and have a long, long holiday on the continent." geoffrey stooped and kissed her. "so you shall, sweet," he said. "we can be married now. and when we come back to ravenspur it will be the dear old home i recollect in my childhood's days. vera, you and i shall be the happiest couple in the world." they went back to the drawing room again. here the elders were conversing quietly yet happily. there was an air of cheerful gaiety upon them that the house had not know for many a long day. gordon ravenspur was impressing upon his father the necessity of looking more sharply after the shooting. the head of the family had before him some plans of new farm buildings. it was marvelous what a change the last few hours had wrought. and the author of all the sorrow and anguish was upstairs guarded by eyes that never tired. "how bright and cheerful you look," vera said. "it only wants one thing to make the picture complete. you can guess, dear grandfather." "marion," ravenspur said. "marion, of course." "she will come back," ralph murmured. "marion will return. we know now that no harm could come to the girl. i should not wonder if she were not on her way home this very moment." half an hour passed, an hour elapsed, and yet no marion. they were all getting uneasy but ralph, who sat doggedly in his chair. then there was a commotion outside, the door opened, and marion came in. she looked pale and uneasy. she glanced from one to the other with frightened eyes. it was easy to see that she was greatly moved and, moreover, was not sure as to the warmth of her reception. but she might have made her mind easy on that score. all rose to welcome her. "my dear, dear child," vera cried. "where have you been?" vera fluttered forward and took off marion's cloak. all seemed to be delighted. marion dropped into a chair with quivering smile. ralph had felt his way across to her and stood by the side of her chair. "i fancied i had made a discovery," she said. "it occurred to me perhaps----. but don't let us talk about myself. has anything happened here?" "much," ralph cried. "great things. the mystery is solved." "solved?" marion gasped. "you have found the culprit?" "the culprit is in the house. she is mrs. may. i prefer to call her princess zara; and yet again i might call her mrs. ravenspur, wife of the late jasper ravenspur. marion, we have found your mother." marion said nothing. her head had fallen forward and she sat swaying in her chair. there was a hard yet pleading look in her eyes. ralph bent down and drew her none too tenderly to her feet. "the she-wolf is yonder, the cub is here," he cried. "are you going to speak or shall i tell the story? speak, or let me do so." ravenspur sprang forward angrily. "what are you doing?" he cried. "to lay hand on that angel----" "ay," said ralph, "an angel truly, but a fallen one--lucifer in the dust." chapter lvii hand and foot what did it mean? why was there all this commotion in the house? and why did everybody leave her so severely alone? these were the questions that princess zara, otherwise mrs. may, otherwise mrs. jasper ravenspur, asked herself. and why had marion not returned? oh, it was bitter to lie there fettered hand and foot at the very moment when activity and cunning and action were most imperatively needed. and tchigorsky was not dead. how she had been tricked and fooled! fate had played against her. who could have anticipated that voski would have come to ravenspur and met his death there! by this time the sham ben heer had all necessary proofs in his hands. the door opened and a resolute-looking woman came in. her garb was something of the hospital type, yet more severe and plainer. she came in and took her place with the air of one who watches a prisoner. "i do not require your services," the adventuress said coldly. "it is immaterial, madame," was the equally cold reply. "i am sent here to do my duty whether you require my services or not." "indeed! am i to regard myself as a prisoner, then?" the other bowed. the bolt had fallen. there was nothing for it but to submit quietly. by this time tchigorsky's proofs were in possession of the police. the prisoner smiled grimly as she thought how she could escape her foes yet. "what is the confusion in the house?" she asked. "what is your name?" "my name is symonds. i was fetched here by the inspector of police. the bodies of two asiatics have been found drowned in the vaults, and they are getting ready for the inquest to-morrow." once again the defeated murderess smiled. fate was all against her. those men had come to do her bidding and had perished. doubtless the note sent by vera ravenspur would be found on one of them, and this would be no more than another link in the long chain. she tried to rise but she could not. she lay on the bed fully dressed, her brain was as quick and as clear as ever, but the paralysis in the lower limbs fettered her. a blind fury shook her for the moment. if she had only been free to move she would have triumphed even yet. tchigorsky might have been a clever man, but she would have shown him that he was no match for her. and now she had walked into the trap he had laid for her. doubtless she had been watched into the castle; doubtless the enemy had seen her lay those wires, and had arranged to give her a taste of that deadly stuff she had prepared for others. then marion had been spirited away, and the key of the safe taken from her. subsequently tchigorsky had ransacked the box. oh, she saw it all. the family of ravenspur saw it all by this time, too. she was no longer a guest in the house of ravenspur, but a prisoner in charge of a female warder. in a day or two she would be cast into prison. in due course she would undergo her trial and finally be hanged by the neck until she were dead. it was this last thought that caused her to smile. she was too clever a woman not to accept the inevitable. a great many people in her position would have protested and lied and blustered. she saw the folly of it. "i should like to see mr. ravenspur," she said. "will you tell him so? you need not fear. i am helpless. i could not move." mrs. symonds stepped into the corridor and gave the message to a passing servant. after a time a slow step came shuffling along up the stairs. it was ralph, who presently came into the room. "you can leave us for a little time," he said. symonds discreetly disappeared. she passed into the corridor. the woman in the bed opened her mouth to speak, but stopped in astonishment. ralph's glasses were gone, and the smooth unguents had disappeared from his face. those cruel criss-cross lines stood out with startling distinctness. "you wanted to see my father?" he said. "my father declines to see you in any circumstances. perhaps i shall do as well." "you, you are one of the men i saw at lassa." the words came from the woman's lips with a gasp. she had never been so astonished in all her life. "yes, i was the other one," ralph said coolly. "i had to disguise myself when i found out you were in england. there is no longer any need for disguise. i hope you are delighted to see me, my dear sister-in-law." "oh, so you know that also?" "you may take it for granted that i knew everything." there was a long pause before the woman spoke again. "i need not ask what opinion you have formed of me?" "you are perhaps the most depraved wretch who ever drew the breath of life," said ralph, slowly and without emotion. "to your ambition and what you call your religion you are prepared to sacrifice everything. you deliberately murdered the man who loved you." "your brother, jasper. i admit it. perhaps you will find it impossible to believe that i loved him. but i did with my whole heart and soul. i loved him and i killed him. does it not sound strange? but this is the fact. i had to do it--for the sake of my people and my religion i had to do it. when i recovered those papers i slew him as he knew i would. he was the only thing on earth that i had to care for." "oh! had you not a daughter?" the woman made a gesture of contempt. "a poor creature," she said. "but i brought her up in the strong faith i follow, and so she has not been without her uses. not that she knows anything of the holy temple and the ceremonial there. i never told her about the two men who escaped along the black valley. if i had i should have known you to be a worthy antagonist instead of a half-witted fool, and then you would never have brought me to this pass. oh, if i had only told her that!" there was a passionate ring in the woman's voice. it was the first time during the interview that she had displayed any humanity. "you didn't and there is an end of it," ralph said. "go on." "is there any need to go on? i have failed and there is an end of the matter. when my husband died my feelings were turned to rage and hatred of you all." "why should you all live and prosper while he was dead?" said mrs. may. "with your money i could do anything among my own people. i could found a new dynasty. did i not possess the occult knowledge of the east with a thorough knowledge of what you are pleased to call western civilization? i could do it. a little longer and your wealth would have come to my child; in other words, it would have come to me. do you understand what i mean?" "perfectly. i have understood for some time. before i returned to england i had an idea of what was at the bottom of the vendetta. but you would not have succeeded. tchigorsky and myself made up our minds that if we could not bring the crimes home to you we would shoot you." ralph spoke with a grim coldness that was not without its effect upon the listener. hard as she was, the sentiment was after her own heart. "that would have been murder," she said. "perhaps so. in the cold, prosaic eyes of the law we might have been regarded as criminals of the type you mention; but we did not propose to pay any deference to the law. nor would our deed have been discovered. you would simply have disappeared; we should have shot you and thrown your body into the sea. and i don't fancy that the deed would have weighed very heavily on the conscience of either of us." the woman smiled. nothing seemed to disturb her. she was full of passionate fury against the decrees of fate, but she did not show it. "i suppose you planned everything out?" she asked. "everything; tchigorsky and myself between us. it was tchigorsky who rescued my nephew after your familiar in the blue dress and red hat had cut the mast and sculls. we guessed that the search for geoffrey would empty the house, and that you would take advantage of the fact. "geoffrey and i watched you laying those wires. it was i who saw that you had a taste of the poison. i wanted to lay you by the heels here while tchigorsky overhauled your possessions. your messenger was waylaid and robbed of your key. also i opened the letter you sent by my niece so that your confederates might be summoned to your assistance." "marion has come back again?" "within the last hour, yes. you will see her presently." the woman smiled curiously. "not to-night," she said. "not to-night. i am tired and fancy i shall sleep well. i shall be glad of a long, long rest. shall i see your father?" "no," ralph said sternly. "you certainly shall not." "then good-night. do not be surprised if i beat you yet." it was late, and the family were retiring. marion had already gone. in the drawing-room a group had gathered round the fire. they were silent and sad, for they had heard many things that had moved them strangely. there was a knock at the door and symonds looked in. "my prisoner is dead," she said coldly and unmoved. "i supposed she managed to secret some poison and take it. but she is dead." "it is well," ravenspur replied. "it might have been worse. it was the best she could do to lift the shadow of disgrace from this unhappy house." l'envoi marion had bowed her head before the coming storm. she asked no mercy and expected none. yet she looked the same pure, unaffected saint she had ever appeared. ravenspur would have taken her hand, but she drew it away. "it is true," she said, "i am a fallen angel. i have never been anything else. put it down to my mother's training if you like, but i came here as her friend, not yours. my religion is hers, my feelings are hers; i am of her people. with all the wicked knowledge of the east i came here to cut you off root and branch." "why?" ravenspur said brokenly. "in the name of heaven, why?" "because for years i have been taught to hate you; because i am at heart an asiatic. it would be grand to have all your money, so that i might be a great person in my own country some day. then i came and brought the curse with me. it never seemed to strike any of you that the curse and i came together. three deaths followed. in every one of these i played a part; i was responsible for them all. shall i tell you how?" "no, no," said ravenspur. "heavens, this is too horrible. to think of you looking so sweet and so fair and good; to think that you should have crept into our hearts only to betray us like this. we want to hear nothing beyond your confession. have you a heart at all, or are you a beautiful fiend?" "i did not imagine that i had a heart at all until i came here," marion replied. she had not abated a jot of her sweetness of expression or angelic manner. "then gradually i began to love you all. when i met my cousin geoffrey i recognized the fact that i was a woman. "more than once i have been on the point of betraying myself to him. but the more passion for him filled my heart the worse i felt. i was going to kill you all off and keep geoffrey for myself. if vera had died he would have come to care for me in time. i know he would. "then my mother came. i was not getting along fast enough for her. her keen eyes saw into my breast and discovered my secret at once. for that reason she marked geoffrey down for her next victim. i tried to warn him; i wrote him a letter. and i had to do him to death myself. it was i who cut the mast away; it was i who sawed the sculls. i was the girl in the blue dress." "amazing," geoffrey murmured. "to think of it! marion, marion!" there were tears in his eyes; he could not be angry with her. there were tears in the eyes of everybody. vera was crying softly. and all the grief was as so many daggers in the heart of the unhappy girl. "go on," she said. "cry for me. every look of pity and every sign of grief stings me to the quick. perhaps i am mad; perhaps i am not responsible for my actions. but i swear that all the time i have been plotting against your lives i have cared for you. only my training and my religion forced me on. call me insane if you please, as you say of the fakir who sleeps upon a bed of sharp nails. i could explain all the mysteries----" "you need not," ralph said. "i can do that in good time. from the first i knew you, from the first i have dogged you from room to room at night and frustrated your designs. then came tchigorsky, who finished the task for me. need i say more?" marion moved towards the door. the imploring look had gone from her face; her eyes had grown sad and hopeless. and yet in the face of her confession, in face of the knowledge of her crimes, not one of them had the slightest anger for her. "i am going," she said. "in the event of this happening, i had made my plans. it may be that i shall have to take my trial; it may be that i shall be spared. one thing you may be certain of--my mother will never stand in the dock." ralph rose and slipped quietly from the room. "if she dies, if anything happens to her," marion went on, "it may be possible to spare me. nobody knows anything to my dishonor outside the family but dr. tchigorsky, and you can rely upon his silence. if my mother is no more there need be no scandal. farewell, farewell to you all! oh, if heaven had been good to me, and sent me here as a little child, then what a happy life might have been mine!" she passed out of the room and nobody made any attempt to detain her. it was a long, long time before anybody spoke and no voice was raised above a whisper. the shock was stupendous. in none of their past sorrows and troubles had their feelings been more outraged. the cloud lay heavy upon them all; it would be a long while before it passed away. ravenspur rose at length, his face white and worn. "we can do no good here," he said. "perhaps sleep will bring us merciful relief." it was at this moment that symonds looked in with her information. it was no shock, because all were past being shocked. vera cried on geoffrey's shoulder. "i am glad of it," she whispered; "it's an awful thing to say, but i am glad. it saves marion. we shall never see her again; but i am glad she is saved." * * * * * a young couple were looking down on the mediterranean from the terrace of an old garden filled with the choicest flowers. the man looked bronzed and well, the girl radiantly happy. for grief has no abiding place in the eyes of youth. "doesn't it seem wonderful, geoffrey?" the girl said. "positively i cannot realize that we have been married three weeks. i shall wake up presently and find myself back at ravenspur again wondering what dreadful thing is going to happen next." geoffrey touched a letter that lay in vera's lap. "here is the evidence of our freedom," he said. "read it to me, please." vera picked up the letter. there was no heading. then she read: "i am near you and yet far off. i hear little things from the world from time to time, and i know that you are married to geoffrey. i felt that i must write you a few lines. "i am in a convent here, in a convent from whence i can never emerge again. heaven knows how many human tragedies are bound up in these gray old walls. but of all the miserable wretches here there is none more miserable than myself. still, in my new faith i have found consolation. i know that there is hope even for sinners as black as myself. "will it sound strange to you to hear that i long and yearn for you always; that i still love those whom i would have destroyed? i meant to write you a long letter, but my heart is too full. do not reply, because we are not allowed to have letters here. "heaven bless you both and give you the happiness you deserve! "marion." geoffrey took up the letter and tore it into minute fragments. the gentle breeze carried it over the oleanders and lemon trees like snow. down below the blue sea sparkled and the world seemed full of the pure delight of life. "geoffrey," vera said after a long pause, "are we too happy?" "is it possible to be too happy?" geoffrey replied. "well, too selfishly happy i mean. it seems awful to be so blissful when marion is full of misery. i shall never feel anything but affection for her. it seems a strange thing to say, but i mean it. poor marion." geoffrey stooped and kissed the quivering lips. "poor marion, indeed!" he said. "marion was two distinct persons. of all the shocks we ever had, her confession hurt me most of all. a creature so sweet and pure and good, a veritable angel! it is sufficient to utterly destroy one's faith in human nature. it would if i hadn't got you." the end. perlycross by the same author. _in one volume, crown vo., cloth extra, s each._ +lorna doone.+ +clara vaughan.+ +christowell.+ +alice lorraine.+ +cradock nowell.+ +cripps the carrier.+ +mary anerley.+ +erema; or, my father's sin.+ +tommy upmore.+ +springhaven.+ +kit and kitty.+ _the above works may also be had in a popular form, cloth, s. d., boards s. +lorna doone.+ _edition de luxe._ crown to., about pp., with very numerous full-page and other illustrations, cloth extra, gilt edges, s. d. and s.; very handsomely bound in vellum, s. also crown vo., with illustrations, presentation edition, s. d. +springhaven: a tale of the great war.+ with sixty-four illustrations by alfred parsons and f. barnard. square demy vo., cloth extra, gilt edges, s. d. london: sampson low, marston & company, limited, st. dunstan's house, fetter lane, fleet street, e.c. perlycross _a tale of the western hills_ by r. d. blackmore author of "lorna doone," "springhaven," etc. _thirteenth thousand_ london sampson low, marston, & company _limited_ st. dunstan's house fetter lane, fleet street, e.c. . [_all rights reserved._] london: printed by william clowes and sons, limited, stamford street and charing cross. contents. chapter page i.--the lap of peace ii.--fairy faith iii.--the lych-gate iv.--nicie v.--a fair bargain vi.--doctors three vii.--r. i. p. viii.--the potato-field ix.--the narrow path x.--in charge xi.--at the charge xii.--a fool's errand xiii.--the law of the land xiv.--reasoning without reason xv.--friends and foes xvi.--little billy xvii.--camelias xviii.--concussion xix.--percussion xx.--discussion xxi.--blackmarsh xxii.--fireship and galleon xxiii.--a magic letter xxiv.--a wager xxv.--a sermon in stone xxvi.--the old mill xxvii.--panic xxviii.--vagabonds xxix.--two puzzles xxx.--frankly speaking xxxi.--a great prize xxxii.--pleadings xxxiii.--the schoolmaster abroad xxxiv.--loyalty xxxv.--a wrestling bout xxxvi.--a fighting bout xxxvii.--gentle as a lamb xxxviii.--an inland run xxxix.--needful returns xl.--home and foreign xli.--the pride of life xlii.--his last bivouac xliii.--two fine lessons xliv.--and one still finer perlycross. chapter i. the lap of peace. in the year , the rev. philip penniloe was curate-in-charge of perlycross, a village in a valley of the blackdown range. it was true that the rector, the rev. john chevithorne, m.a., came twice every year to attend to his tithes; but otherwise he never thought of interfering, and would rather keep his distance from spiritual things. mr. penniloe had been his college-tutor, and still was his guide upon any points of duty less cardinal than discipline of dogs and horses. the title of "curate-in-charge" as yet was not invented generally; but far more curates held that position than hold it in these stricter times. and the shifting of curates from parish to parish was not so frequent as it is now; theological views having less range and rage, and curates less divinity. moreover it cost much more to move. but the curate of perlycross was not of a lax or careless nature. he would do what his conscience required, at the cost of his last penny; and he thought and acted as if this world were only the way to a better one. in this respect he differed widely from all the people of his parish, as well as from most of his clerical brethren. and it is no little thing to say of him, that he was beloved in spite of his piety. especially was he loved and valued by a man who had known him from early days, and was now the squire, and chief landowner, in the parish of perlycross. sir thomas waldron, of walderscourt, had battled as bravely with the sword of steel, as the churchman had with the spiritual weapon, receiving damages more substantial than the latter can inflict. although by no means invalided, perhaps he had been pleased at first to fall into the easy lap of peace. after eight years of constant hardship, frequent wounds, and famishing, he had struck his last blow at waterloo, and then settled down in the english home, with its comforting cares, and mild delights. now, in his fiftieth year, he seemed more likely to stand on the battlements of life than many a lad of twenty. straight and tall, robust and ruddy, clear of skin, and sound of foot, he was even cited by the doctors of the time, as a proof of the benefit that flows from bleeding freely. few men living had shed more blood (from their own veins at any rate) for the good of their native land, and none had made less fuss about it; so that his country, with any sense of gratitude, must now put substance into him. yet he was by no means over fat; simply in good case, and form. in a word, you might search the whole county, and find no finer specimen of a man, and a gentleman too, than colonel sir thomas waldron. all this mr. penniloe knew well; and having been a small boy, when the colonel was a big one, at the best school in the west of england, he owed him many a good turn for the times when the body rules the roost, and the mind is a little chick, that can't say--"cockadoodle." in those fine days, education was a truly rational process; creating a void in the juvenile system by hunger, and filling it up with thumps. scientific research has now satisfied itself that the mind and the body are the selfsame thing; but this was not understood as yet, and the one ministered to the other. for example, the big tom waldron supplied the little phil penniloe with dumps and penny-puddings, and with fists ever ready for his defence; while the quicker mind sat upon the broad arch of chest sprawling along the old oak bench, and construed the lessons for it, or supplied the sad hexameter. when such a pair meet again in later life, sweet memories arise, and fine goodwill. this veteran friendship even now was enduring a test too severe, in general, for even the most sterling affection. but a conscientious man must strive, when bound by holy orders, to make every member of his parish discharge his duty to the best advantage. and if there be a duty which our beloved church--even in her snoring period--has endeavoured to impress, the candid layman must confess that it is the duty of alms-giving. here mr. penniloe was strong--far in advance of the times he lived in, though still behind those we have the privilege to pay for. for as yet it was the faith of the general parishioner, that he had a strong parochial right to come to church for nothing; and if he chose to exercise it, thereby added largely to the welfare of the parson, and earned a handsome reference. and as yet he could scarcely reconcile it with his abstract views of religion, to find a plate poked into his waistcoat pocket, not for increase, but depletion thereof. acknowledging the soundness of these views, we may well infer that perlycross was a parish in which a well-ordered parson could do anything reasonable. more than one substantial farmer was good enough to be pleased at first, and try to make his wife take it so, at these opportunities of grace. what that expression meant was more than he could for the life of him make out; but he always connected it with something black, and people who stretched out their hands under cocoa-nuts bigger than their heads, while "come over and help us," issued from their mouths. if a shilling was any good to them, bless their woolly heads, it only cost a quarter of a pound of wool! happy farmer, able still to find a shilling in his sunday small-clothes, and think of the guineas in a nest beneath the thatch! for wheat was golden still in england, and the good ox owned his silver side. the fair outlook over hill and valley, rustling field and quiet meadow, was not yet a forlorn view, a sight that is cut short in sigh, a prospect narrowing into a lane that plods downhill to workhouse. for as yet it was no mockery to cast the fat grain among the clods, or trickle it into the glistening drill, to clear the sleek blade from the noisome weed, to watch the soft waves of silky tassels dimple and darken to the breeze of june, and then the lush heads with their own weight bowing to the stillness of the august sun, thrilling the eyes with innumerable throng, glowing with impenetrable depth of gold. alas, that this beauty should be of the past, and ground into gritty foreign flour! but in the current year of grace, these good sons of our native land had no dream of the treason, which should sell our homes and landscapes to the sneering foreigner. their trouble, though heavy, was not of british madness, but inflicted from without; and therefore could be met and cured by men of strong purpose and generous act. that grand old church of perlycross (standing forth in gray power of life, as against the black ruins of the abbey) had suddenly been found wanting--wanting foundation, and broad buttress, solid wall, and sound-timbered roof, and even deeper hold on earth for the high soar of the tower. this tower was famous among its friends, not only for substance, and height, and proportion, and piercings, and sweet content of bells; but also for its bold uplifting of the green against the blue. to-wit, for a time much longer than any human memory, a sturdy yew-tree had been standing on the topmost stringing-course, in a sheltering niche of the southern face, with its head over-topping the battlements, and scraping the scroll of the south-east vane. backed as it was by solid stone, no storm had succeeded in tugging its tough roots out of the meshes of mortar; and there it stood and meant to stand, a puzzle to gardeners, a pleasure to jackdaws, and the pride of all perlycrucians. even mr. penniloe, that great improver, could not get a penny towards his grand designs, until he had signed a document with both churchwardens, that happen what might, not a hair of the head of the sacred yew-tree should perish. many a penny would be wanted now, and who was to provide them? the parish, though large and comprising some of the best land in east devon, had few resources of commerce, and not many of manufacture. the bright perle running from east to west clove it in twain; and the northern part, which was by far the larger, belonged to the waldrons; while the southern (including the church and greater part of village) was of divers owners, the chiefest being the dean and chapter of exeter. it is needless to say that this sacred body never came nigh the place, and felt no obligation towards it, at the manhood of this century. "what is to be done?" cried the only man who could enter into the grief of it, when richard horner of pumpington, architect, land-agent, and surveyor, appeared before the clergyman and churchwardens, with the report required by them. "one of two things," answered mr. horner, a man of authority and brevity; "either let it crumble, or make up your minds to spend a thousand pounds upon it." "we should be prepared to spend that sum, if we had only got it;" mr. penniloe said, with that gentle smile which made his people fond of him. "we han't got a thousand, nor a hundred nayther you talk a bit too big, dick. you always did have a big mouth, you know." the architect looked at his cousin, farmer john (the senior churchwarden of perlycross, and chief tenant of the capitular estates), and if his own mouth was large, so was that of his kinsman, as he addressed him thus. "john horner, we know well enough, what you be. it wouldn't make much of a hole in you, to put down your hundred pounds--to begin with." "well," said his colleague, frank farrant, while the elder was in labour of amazement; "if john will put down his hundred pounds, you may trust me to find fifty." "and fifty to you is a good bit more than a thousand to him, i reckon. book it, mr. penniloe, before they run back; and me for another five and twenty." "i never said it; i never said a word of it"--farmer john began to gasp, while cousin and colleague were patting him on the back, crying, "don't go back from your word, john." "now, did i say it, parson penniloe?" he appealed, as soon as they would let him speak; "come now, i'll go by what you say of it." "no, mr. horner; i wish you had. you never said anything of the kind." "parson, you are a gentleman. i do like a man as tells the truth. but as for them fellows, i'll just show them what's what. whether i said it, or no--i'll do it." mr. penniloe smiled, but not with pleasure only. simple and charitable as he was, he could scarcely believe that the glory of god was the motive power in the mind of farmer john. chapter ii. fairy faith. at the beginning of july, work was proceeding steadily, though not quite so merrily perhaps, as some of the workmen might have wished; because mr. penniloe had forbidden the presence of beer-cans in consecrated ground. a large firm of builders at exeter (messrs. peveril, gibbs & co.) had taken the contract according to mr. horner's specifications; and had sent a strong staff of workmen down, under an active junior partner, mr. robson adney. there are very few noises that cannot find some ear to which they are congenial; and the clink of the mason's trowel is a delight to many good people. but that pleasant sound is replaced, too often, by one of sadder harmony--the chink of coin that says adieu, with all the regret behind it. perlycross had started well on this, its greatest enterprise; every man was astonished at his neighbour's generosity, and with still better reason at his own. mr. penniloe's spirit rose above the solid necessity of repairs, and aspired to richer embellishment. that hideous gallery at the western end, which spoiled the tower entrance and obscured a fine window, should go into the fire at last; the noble arch of the chancel (which had been shored with timber braces) should be restored and reopened, and the blocked-up windows should again display their lovely carving. in the handsomest manner, sir thomas waldron had sent him a cheque for five hundred pounds; which after all was only just, because the vaults of the waldron race lay at the bottom of half the lapse. the dean and chapter of exeter had contributed a hundred pounds; and the rector another hundred; and the curate's own father--an ancient clergyman in the north of devon, with a tidy living and a plump estate--had gone as far as twenty pounds, for the honour of the family. with this money in hand, and much more in hope, all present designs might well be compassed. but alas, a new temptation rose, very charming, and very costly. the curate had long suspected that his favourite church had been endowed (like its smaller sister at perlycombe) with a fair rood-screen; perhaps a fine one, worthy of the days, when men could carve. and now, when the heavy wooden gallery of queen anne's time had been removed, it happened that sergeant jakes, the schoolmaster, who had seen a great deal of old work in spain, was minded to enquire into the bearings of the great bressemer at the back. he put his foot into a hole beneath it, where solid brickwork was supposed to be; but down went his foot into a lot of crumbling stuff, and being no more than a one-armed man, mr. jakes had a narrow escape of his neck. luckily he clung with his one hand to a crossbeam still in position, and being of a very wiry frame--as all the school-children knew too well--was enabled to support himself, until a ladder was clapped to. even then it was no easy thing to extricate his foot, wedged between two trefoils of sharply cut stone; and for more than a week it was beyond his power to bring any fugitive boy to justice. the parson was sent for at once, and discovered the finest stone-screen in the diocese, removed from its place by a barbarous age, and plastered up in the great western wall. there was little of that hot contention then, which rages now over every stock and stone appertaining to the church. as the beauty of design, and the skill of execution, grew more and more manifest to his delighted eyes, mr. penniloe was troubled with no misgivings as to "graven images." he might do what he liked with this grand piece of work, if the money were forthcoming. and the parish suspected no popery in it, when after much council with all concerned, and holding the needful faculty, he proposed to set up this magnificent screen as a reredos beneath the great chancel window, and behind the stone communion-table, generally called the altar now. yet brave as he was and of ardent faith, some little dismay was natural, when the builders assured him that this could not be done, with all needful repairs and proper finish, for less than three hundred and fifty pounds, and they would not even bind themselves to that; for the original was of the best beere stone, difficult to match, and hard to work. mr. penniloe went to the quarries, and found that this was no exaggeration; and having some faith in mankind--as all who have much in their maker must have--he empowered the firm to undertake the task, while he cast about zealously for the cash. with filial confidence he made sure that his reverend father must rejoice in another opportunity for glorifying god; and to that effect he addressed him. but when the postman wound his horn at the bottom of the village, and the parson hurried down from the churchyard to meet him, at the expense of eightpence he received the following dry epistle. "son philip,--we are much surprised and pained by your extraordinary letter. you speak very largely of 'duty to god,' which ought to be done, without talking of it; while you think lightly of your duty to your parents, the commandment that carries the blessing. if you had not abandoned your fellowship, by marrying and having a family, it might have been more in your power to think of church-windows, and stone-carving. we did not expect to be treated like this, after our very handsome gift, of not more than three months agone. look for no more money; but for that which a good son values more, and earns by keeping within his income--the love of his affectionate parents, "isaac, and joan penniloe." "ah! ah! well, well, i dare say i was wrong. but i thought that he could afford it;" said the curate in his simple way: "'tis a sad day for me altogether. but i will not be cast down, for the lord knoweth best." for on this very day, a year ago, he had lost the happiness of his life, and the one love of his manhood. his fair wife (a loyal and tender helpmate, the mother of his three children, and the skilful steward of his small means) had been found lying dead at the foot of the "horseshoe pitch," beneath hagdon hill. while her husband was obliged to remain in the village, waiting for a funeral, she had set forth, with none but her younger boy michael, to visit an old woman on the outskirts of the parish, very far advanced in years, but still a very backward christian. the old woman was living at the present moment, but could throw no light upon her visitor's sad fate, and indeed denied that she had seen her on that day. and the poor child who must have beheld what happened, though hitherto a very quick and clever little fellow, could never be brought to say a word about it. having scarcely recovered from a sharp attack of measles, he had lost his wits through terror, and ran all the way home at the top of his speed, shouting "rabbits! rabbits! rabbits!" from the child's sad condition, and a strict search of the "horseshoe," it appeared that he had leaped after his poor mother, but had been saved from death by a ledge of brambles and furze which had broken his fall. even now, though all trace of his bruises was gone, and his blue eyes were as bright as ever, the tender young brain was so dazed and daunted, by the fall, and the fright, and agony, that the children of the village changed his nickname from "merry michael," to "mazed mikey." mr. penniloe had been fighting bravely against the sad memories of this day. to a deeply religious mind like his, despondency was of the nature of doubt, and sorrow long indulged grew into sin. but now a cloud of darkness fell around him; the waves of the flood went over his soul, his heart was afflicted, and in sore trouble; and there was none to deliver him. all men have their times of depression; but few feel such agonies of dejection, as the firm believer and lover of his faith, when harrowing doubts assail him. the rector of perlycross, mr. chevithorne, though by no means a man of vast piety, had a short way of dealing with such attacks, which he always found successful. to his certain knowledge, all debility of faith sprang directly from "lowness of the system;" and his remedy against all such complaints was a glass of hot brandy and water. but his curate's religion was a less robust, because a far more active power; and his keener mind was not content to repel all such sallies, as temptations of the devil. sensitive, diffident, and soft-hearted, he was apt to feel too acutely any wound to his affections; and of all the world now left to him, the dearest one was his mother. or at any rate, he thought so for the present; though a certain little tender claim was creeping closer and closer into the inmost cell of love. "can mother have forgotten what day it would be, when i should receive these cruel words?" he said to himself, as he went sadly up the hill towards his white-washed dwelling-place, having no heart left for the finest of stone-carvings. "if she did, it was not like her; and if she remembered, it seems still worse. surely he would not have dared to sign her name, without her knowledge. but whenever he thinks of that fellowship--well, perhaps it was wrong on my part to attempt so much. it is high time to look more closely into ways and means." that was the proper thing to do beyond a doubt, and he hastened inside to do it. but when he sat in his lonely bookroom, with the evening shadows of the dark ilex slowly creeping over him, his mind went back into the past, and a mighty sadness conquered him. instead of the list of subscriptions for the church he had drawn from the long portfolio (which his wife had given him on the last wedding-day they should ever keep together) a copy of a sad despondent hymn, which he had written in the newness of his grief. as he read the forgotten lines, once more their deep gloom encompassed him; even the twinkle of hope, in which they ended, seemed a mockery. "will it ever be so, or is it all a dream, inspired by our longings, and our self-conceit? whatever is pleasant, or good, or precious, is snatched from our grasp; and we call it a trial, and live on, in the belief that we are punished for our good, and shall be rewarded tenfold. if so, it can be for those alone who are able to believe always; who can dismiss every shadow of doubt, and live with their maker face to face. oh that i could do so. but i cannot; my shallow mind is vexed by every breeze. when i was a young man, i felt pity, and even contempt for gowler's unfaith--a man of far superior powers. he gave up his fellowship, like a conscientious man; while i preach to others, and am myself a castaway. oh, ruth, ruth, if you could only see me!" this man of holy life, and of pure devotion to his sacred office, bent his head low in the agony of the moment, and clasped his hands over his whitening hair. how far he was out of his proper mind was shown by his sitting in the sacred chair,[ ] the old "dropping-chair" of the parish, which had been sent back that morning. of this, and of all around, he took no heed; for the tide of his life was at the lowest ebb, and his feeble heart was fluttering, like a weed in shallow water. but his comfort was not far to seek. after sundry soft taps, and a shuffle of the handle, the door was opened quietly, and a little girl came dancing in, bringing a gleam of summer sunshine in a cloud of golden hair. the gloom of the cold room fled, as if it had no business near her, and a thrush outside (who knew her well) broke forth into a gratitude of song. for this was little faith penniloe, seven years old last tuesday, the prettiest and the liveliest soul in all the parish of perlycross; and faith being too substantial perhaps, everybody called her "fay," or "fairy." nothing ever troubled her, except the letter _r_, and even that only when it wanted to come first. "father, fathery, how much colder is the tea to get?" she cried; "i call it very yude of you, to do what you like, because you happen to be older." as the little girl ran, with her arms stretched forth, and a smile on her lips that was surety for a kiss--a sudden amazement stopped her. the father of her love and trust and worship, was not even looking at her; his face was cold and turned away; his arms were not spread for a jump and a scream. he might as well have no child at all, or none to whom he was all in all. for a moment her simple heart was daunted, her dimpled hands fell on her pinafore, and the sparkle of her blue eyes became a gleam of tears. then she gathered up her courage, which had never known repulse, and came and stood between her father's knees, and looked up at him very tenderly, as if she had grieved him, and yearned to be forgiven. "child, you have taught me the secret of faith," he cried, with a sudden light shed on him; "i will go as a little one to my father, without a word, and look up at him." then, as he lifted her into his lap, and she threw her arms around his neck, he felt that he was not alone in the world, and the warmth of his heart returned to him. footnote: [ ] in country parishes an easy-chair, for the use of the sick and elderly, was provided from the communion offerings, and lent to those most in need of it. when not so required, it was kept under cover, and regarded with some reverence, from its origin and use. chapter iii. the lych-gate. the old church, standing on a bluff above the river, is well placed for looking up and down the fertile valley. flashes of the water on its westward course may be caught from this point of vantage, amidst the tranquillity of ancient trees and sunny breadths of pasture. for there the land has smoothed itself into a smiling plain, casting off the wrinkles of hills and gullies, and the frown of shaggy brows of heather. the rigour of the long flinty range is past, and a flower can stand without a bush to back it, and the wind has ceased from shuddering. but the perle has not come to these pleasures yet, as it flows on the north of the churchyard, and some hundred feet beneath it. the broad shallow channel is strewn with flint, and the little stream cannot fill it, except in times of heavy flood; for the main of its water has been diverted to work the woollen factory, and rejoins the natural course at the bridge two or three hundred yards below. on the further side, the land rises to the barren height of beacon hill, which shelters sir thomas waldron's house, and is by its conical form distinct from other extremities of the black-down chain. for the southern barrier of the valley (which is about three miles wide at its mouth) is formed by the long dark chine of hagdon hill, which ends abruptly in a steep descent; and seeing that all this part of the vale, and the hills which shape it, are comprised in the parish of perlycross, it will become clear that a single parson, if he attempts to go through all his work, must have a very fine pair of legs, and a sound constitution to quicken them. mr. penniloe, now well advanced in the fifth decade, was of very spare habit and active frame, remarkable also for his springy gait, except at those periods of dark depression, with which he was afflicted now and then. but the leading fault of his character was inattention to his victuals, not from any want of common sense, or crude delight in fasting, but rather through self-neglect, and the loss of the one who used to attend to him. to see to that bodily welfare, about which he cared so little, there was no one left, except a careful active and devoted servant, thyatira muggridge. thyatira had been in his employment ever since his marriage, and was now the cook, housekeeper, and general manager at the rectory. but though in the thirty-fifth year of her age, and as steady as a pyramid, she felt herself still too young to urge sound dietary advice upon her master, as she longed to do. the women of the parish blamed her sadly, as they watched his want of fattening; but she could only sigh, and try to tempt him with her simple skill, and zeal. on the morrow of that sad anniversary which had caused him such distress, the curate was blest with his usual vigour of faith and courage and philanthropy. an affectionate letter from his mother, enclosing a bank-order for ten pounds, had proved that she was no willing partner in the father's harshness. the day was very bright, his three pupils had left him for their summer holidays, and there happened to be no urgent call for any parochial visits. there was nothing to stop him from a good turn to-day among trowel and chisel and callipers; he would see that every man was at his work, and that every stroke of work was truthful. having slurred his early dinner with his usual zest, he was hastening down the passage for his hat and stick, when thyatira muggridge came upon him from the pantry, with a jug of toast-and-water in her hand. "do'e give me just a minute, sir," she whispered, with a glance at the door of the dining-room where the children had been left; and he followed her into the narrow back-parlour, the head-quarters of his absent pupils. mr. penniloe thought very highly of his housekeeper's judgment and discretion, and the more so perhaps because she had been converted, by a stroke of his own readiness, from the doctrines of the "antipæedo-baptists"--as they used to call themselves--to those of the church of england. her father, moreover, was one of the chief tenants on the north devon property of mr. penniloe the elder; and simplicity, shrewdness, and honesty were established in that family. so her master was patient with her, though his hat and stick were urgent. "would you please to mind, sir,"--began thyatira, with her thick red arms moving over her apron, like rolling-pins upon pie-crust--"if little master mike was to sleep with me a bit, till his brother master harry cometh back from school?" "i dare say you have some good reason for asking; but what is it, mrs. muggeridge?" the housekeeper was a spinster, but had received brevet-rank from the village. "only that he is so lonesome, sir, in that end hattick, by his little self. you know how he hath been, ever since his great scare; and now some brutes of boys in the village have been telling him a lot of stuff about spring-heel jack. they say he is coming into this part now, with his bloody heart and dark lantern. and the poor little lamb hath a window that looks right away over the churchyard. last night he were sobbing so in his sleep, enough to break his little heart. the sound came all across the lumber-room, till i went and fetched him into my bed, and then he were as happy as an angel." "poor little man! i should have thought of it, since he became so nervous. but i have always tried to make my children feel that the lord is ever near them." "he compasseth the righteous round about," mrs. muggeridge replied with a curtsey, as a pious woman quoting holy writ; "but for all that, you can't call him company, sir; and that's what these little one's lacks of. master harry is as brave as a lion, because he is so much older. but hoping no offence, his own dear mother would never have left that little soul all by himself." "you are right, and i was wrong;" replied the master, concealing the pain her words had caused. "take him to your room; it is very kind of you. but where will you put susanna?" "that will be easy enough, sir. i will make up a bed in the lumber-room, if you have no objection. less time for her at the looking-glass, i reckon." mr. penniloe smiled gravely--for that grievance was a classic--and had once more possessed himself of his hat and stick, when the earnest housekeeper detained him once again. "if you please, sir, you don't believe, do you now, in all that they says about that spring-heeled jack? it scarcely seemeth reasonable to a christian mind. and yet when i questioned mr. jakes about it, he was not for denying that there might be such a thing--and him the very bravest man in all this parish!" "mrs. muggeridge, it is nonsense. mr. jakes knows better. he must have been trying to terrify you. a man who has been through the peninsular campaign! i hope i may remember to reprove him." "oh no, i would beg you, sir, not to do that. it was only said--as one might express it, promiscuous, and in a manner of speaking. i would never have mentioned it, if i had thought----" knowing that her face was very red, her master refrained from looking at it, and went his way at last, after promising to let the gallant jakes escape. it was not much more than a hundred yards, along the chief street of the village, from the rectory to the southern and chief entrance of the churchyard; opposite to which, at a corner of the road and partly in front of the ruined abbey, stood an old-fashioned inn, the _ivy-bush_. this, though a very well conducted house, and quiet enough (except at fair-time), was not in the parson's opinion a pleasing induction to the lych-gate; but there it had stood for generations, and the landlord, walter haddon, held sound church-views, for his wife had been a daughter of channing the clerk, and his premises belonged to the dean and chapter. mr. penniloe glanced at the yellow porch, with his usual regret but no ill-will, when a flash of bright colour caught his eye. in the outer corner he described a long scarlet fishing-rod propped against the wall, with the collar and three flies fluttering. all was so bright and spick and span, that a trout's admiration would be quite safe; and the clergyman (having been a skilful angler, till his strict views of duty deprived him of that joy) indulged in a smile of sagacity, as he opened his double eye-glass, and scrutinised this fine object. "examining my flies, are you, reverend? well, i hope you are satisfied with them." the gentleman who spoke in this short way came out of the porch, with a pipe in his hand and a large fishing-creel swinging under his left arm. "i beg your pardon, dr. gronow, for the liberty i am taking. yes, they are very fine flies indeed. i hope you have had good sport with them." "pretty fair, sir; pretty fair"--the owner answered cheerfully--"one must not expect much in this weather. but i have had at least three rises." "it is much to your credit, so far as i can judge, under the circumstances. and you have not had time to know our water yet. you will find it pretty fishing, when you get accustomed to it." the angler, a tall thin man of sixty, with a keen grave face and wiry gray hair, regarded the parson steadfastly. this was but the second time they had met, although dr. gronow had been for some while an important parishioner of perlycross, having bought a fair estate at priestwell, a hamlet little more than a mile from the village. people, who pretended to know all about him, said that he had retired suddenly, for some unknown reason, from long and large medical practice at bath. there he had been, as they declared, the first authority in all cases of difficulty and danger, but not at all a favourite in the world of fashion, because of his rough and contemptuous manners, and sad want of sympathy with petty ailments. some pious old lady of rank had called him, in a passionate moment, "the godless gronow;" and whether he deserved the description or not, it had cleaved to him like a sand-leech. but the doctor only smiled, and went his way; the good will of the poor was sweeter to him than the good word of the wealthy. "let me say a word to you, mr. penniloe," he began, as the curate was turning away; "i have had it in my mind for some short time. i believe you are much attached to sir thomas waldron." "he is one of my oldest and most valued friends. i have the highest possible regard for him." "he is a valuable man in the parish, i suppose--comes to church regularly--sets a good example?" "if all my parishioners were like him, it would be a comfort to me, and--and a benefit to them." "well said--according to your point of view. i like a straightforward man, sir. but i want you to be a little crooked now. you have an old friend, harrison gowler." "yes,"--mr. penniloe replied with some surprise, "i was very fond of gowler at oxford, and admired him very greatly. but i have not seen him for some years." "he is now the first man in london in his special line. could you get him to visit you for a day or two, and see sir thomas waldron, without letting him know why?" "you astonish me, dr. gronow. there is nothing amiss with sir thomas, except a little trouble now and then, caused by an ancient wound, i believe." "ah, so you think; and so perhaps does he. but i suppose you can keep a thing to yourself. if i tell you something, will you give me your word that it shall go no further?" the two gentlemen were standing in the shadow of the lych-gate, as a shelter from the july sun, while the clergyman gazed with much alarm at the other, and gave the required promise. dr. gronow looked round, and then said in a low voice-- "sir thomas is a strong and temperate man, and has great powers of endurance. i hope most heartily that i may be wrong. but i am convinced that within three months, he will be lying upon this stone; while you with your surplice on are standing in that porch, waiting for the bearers to advance." "good god!" cried the parson, with tears rushing to his eyes; then he lifted his hat, and bowed reverently. "may he forgive me for using his holy name. but the shock is too terrible to think of. it would certainly break poor nicie's heart. what right have you to speak of such a dreadful thing?" "is it such a dreadful thing to go to heaven? that of course you guarantee for your good friends. but the point is--how to put off that catastrophe of bliss." "flippancy is not the way to meet it, dr. gronow. we have every right to try to keep a valuable life, and a life dear to all that have the sense to feel its value. even a scornful man--such as you appear to be, unable to perceive the childish littleness of scorn--must admire valour, sense of duty, and simplicity; though they may not be his own leading qualities. and once more i ask you to explain what you have said." "you know jemmy fox pretty well, i think?" dr. gronow took a seat upon the coffin-stone, and spoke as if he liked the parson's vigour--"jemmy is a very clever fellow in his way, though of course he has no experience yet. we old stagers are always glad to help a young member of our profession, who has a proper love for it, and is modest, and hard-working. but not until he asks us, you must clearly understand. you see we are not so meddlesome as you reverends are. well, from the account young fox gives me, there can, i fear, be little doubt about the nature of the case. it is not at all a common one; and so far as we know yet, there is but one remedy--a very difficult operation." mr. penniloe was liable to a kind of nervous quivering, when anything happened to excite him, and some of his very best sermons had been spoiled by this visitation. "i am troubled more than i can tell you,--i am grieved beyond description,"--he began with an utterance which trembled more and more; "and you think that gowler is the only man, to--to----" "to know the proper course, and to afford him the last chance. gowler is not a surgeon, as i need not tell you. and at present such a case could be dealt with best in paris, although we have young men rising now, who will make it otherwise before very long. sir thomas will listen to nothing, i fear, from a young practitioner like fox. he has been so knocked about himself, and so close to death's door more than once, that he looks upon this as a fuss about nothing. but i know better, mr. penniloe." "you are too likely to be right. fox has told me of several cases of your wonderful penetration. that young man thinks so much of you. oh, dr. gronow, i implore you as a man--whatever your own opinions are--say nothing to unsettle that young fellow's mind. you know not the misery you may cause, and you cannot produce any happiness. i speak--i speak with the strongest feelings. you will think that i should not have spoken at all--and i dare say it is unusual. but you will forgive me, when you remember it is my duty as a clergyman." "surely you are responsible for me as well"--replied the doctor with a kinder tone; "but perhaps you regard me as beyond all cure. well, i will promise what you ask, good sir. your sheep, or your foxes, shall not stray through me. will you do what i suggest about gowler?" "i will try to get him down. but from all that i hear, he is one of the busiest men in london. and i dislike procuring his opinion on the sly. excuse me--i know how well you meant it. but perhaps, through lady waldron, he may be brought down in the regular course, and have the whole case laid before him." "that would be the best thing, if it could be managed. good-bye! i go a-fishing, as your prototypes expressed it." chapter iv. nicie. in the bright summer sunshine the old church looked like a ship that had been shattered by the waves, and was hoisted in a dry dock for repairs. to an ignorant eye it appeared to be in peril of foundering and plunging into the depths below, so frequent and large were the rifts and chasms yawning in the ancient frame-work. especially was there one long gap in the footings of the south chancel wall, where three broad arches were being turned, and a solid buttress rising, to make good the weakness of the waldron vault. sacks of lime, and piles of sand, coils of cord and blocks of stone, scaffold-poles and timber-baulks, wheel-barrows grovelling upside-down, shovels and hods and planks and ladders, hats upon tombstones, and jackets on graves, sacred niches garnished with tobacco-pipes, and pious memories enlivened by "jim crow"--so cheerful was the british workman, before he was educated. "parson coming," was whispered round, while pewter pots jumped under slabs, and jugs had coats thrown over them, for mr. penniloe would have none of their drinking in the churchyard, and was loth to believe that they could do it, with all the sad examples beneath them. but now his mind was filled with deeper troubles; and even the purpose of his visit had faded from his memory. "just in time, sir. i was waiting for you"--said mr. robson adney, standing in front of the shored-up screen, on the southern side of the tower,--"if it bears the strain of this new plinth, the rest is a matter of detail. your idea of the brace was capital, and the dovetail will never show at all. now, charlie, steady there--not too heavy. five minutes will show whether we are men or muffs. but don't stand quite so close, sir, i think we have got it all right; but if there should happen to be a bit of cross-grain stone--bear to the left, you lubber there! beg your pardon, sir--but i never said--'damn.'" "i hope not, i hope not, mr. adney. you remember where you are, too well for that. though i trust that you would say it nowhere. ah, it is a little on the warp, i fear." "no, sir, no. go to the end, and look along. it is only the bevel that makes it look so. could hardly be better if the lord himself had made it. trust peveril, gibbs, & co. for knowing their work. holloa! not so hard--ease her, ease her! stand clear for your lives, men! down she comes." they were none too quick, for the great stone screen, after bulging and sagging and shaking like a cobweb throughout its massive tracery, parted in the middle and fell mightily. "any one hurt? then you haven't got what you ought"--shouted adney, with his foot upon a pinnacle--"old peter made a saint of? get a roller, and fetch him out. none the worse, old chap, are you now? take him to the _ivy-bush_, and get a drop of brandy." sudden as the crash had been, no life was lost, no limb broken, and scarcely a bruise received, except by an elderly workman, and he was little the worse, being safely enshrined in the niche where some good saint had stood. being set upon his feet, he rubbed his elbows, and then swore a little; therefore naturally enough he was known as "st. peter," for the residue of his life among us. but no sooner did mr. adney see that no one was hurt seriously than he began to swear anything but a little, instead of thanking providence. "a pretty job--a fine job, by the holy poker!" he kept on exclaiming, as he danced among the ruins; "why, they'll laugh at us all over devonshire. and that's not the worst of it. by the lord, i wish it was. three or four hundred pounds out of our pockets. a nice set of ---- fellows you are, aren't you? i wish i might go this very moment----" "is this all your gratitude, robson adney, for the goodness of the lord to you?" mr. penniloe had been outside the crash, as he happened to be watching from one end the adjustment of the piece inserted. "what are a few bits of broken stone, compared with the life of a human being--cut off perhaps with an oath upon his lips, close to the very house of god? in truth, this is a merciful deliverance. down upon your knees, my friends, and follow me in a few simple words of acknowledgment to the giver of all good. truly he hath been gracious to us." "don't want much more of that sort of grace. _coup de grace_ i call it"--muttered mr. adney. nevertheless he knelt down, with the dust upon his forehead; and the workmen did the like; for here was another month's good wages. mr. penniloe always spoke well and readily, when his heart was urgent; and now as he knelt between two lowly graves, the men were wondering at him. "never thought a' could have dooed it, without his gown!" "why, a' put up his two hands, as if 'twor money in his pockets!" "blest if i don't send for he, when my time cometh!" "faix, sor, but the almighty must be proud of you to spake for him!" thus they received it; and the senior churchwarden coming in to see the rights of the matter, told every one (when he recovered his wits) that he had never felt so proud of the parish minister before. even the parson felt warmly in his heart that he had gone up in their opinions; which made him more diffident in his own. "don't 'e be cast down, sir," said one fine fellow, whom the heavy architrave had missed by about an inch, saving a young widow and seven little orphans. "we will put it all to rights, in next to no time. you do put up with it, uncommon fine. though the lord may have laboured to tempt 'e, like job. but i han't heard a single curse come out of your lips--not but what it might, without my knowing. but here coom'th a young man in bright clothes with news for 'e." mr. penniloe turned, and behold it was bob cornish, one of his best sunday-school boys last year, patient and humble in a suit of corduroy; but now gay and lordly in the livery of the waldrons, buff with blue edgings, and buttons of bright gold. his father sold rushlights at the bottom of the village, but his mother spent her time in thinking. "from sir thomas?" asked the curate, as the lad with some attempt at a soldier's salute produced a note, folded like a cocked hat, and not easy to undo. "no, sir, from my lady"--answered robert, falling back. mr. penniloe was happy enough to believe that all things are ordered and guided for us by supreme goodness and wisdom. but nature insisted that his hands should tremble at anything of gravity to any one he loved; and now after dr. gronow's warning, his double eyeglass rattled in its tortoiseshell frame, as he turned it upon the following words. "dear sir,--i am in great uncertainty to trouble you with this, and beg you to accept apologies. but my husband is in pain of the most violent again, and none the less of misery that he conceals it from me. in this country i have no one now from whom to seek good counsel, and the young dr. fox is too juvenile to trust in. my husband has so much value for your wise opinion. i therefore take the liberty of imploring you to come, but with discretion not to speak the cause to sir thomas waldron, for he will not permit conversation about it. sincerely yours, "isabel waldron." mr. penniloe read these words again, and then closed his eyeglass with a heavy sigh. trusted and beloved friend as he was of the veteran sir thomas, he had never been regarded with much favour by the lady of the house. by birth and by blood on the father's side, this lady was a spaniard; and although she spoke english fluently--much better indeed than she wrote it--the country and people were not to her liking, and she cared not to make herself popular. hence her fine qualities, and generous nature, were misprised and undervalued, until less and less was seen of them. without deserving it, she thus obtained the repute of a haughty cold-hearted person, without affection, sympathy, or loving-kindness. even mr. penniloe, the most charitable of men, was inclined to hold this opinion of her. therefore he was all the more alarmed by this letter of the stately lady. leaving mr. adney to do his best, he set off at once for walderscourt, by way of the plank-bridge over the perle, at no great distance above the church; and then across the meadows and the sloping cornland, with the round beacon-hill in front of him. this path, saving nearly half a mile of twisting lanes, would lead him to the house almost as soon as the messenger's horse would be there. to any one acquainted with the parson it would prove how much his mind was disturbed that none of the fair sights around him were heeded. the tall wheat reared upon its jointed stalk, with the buff pollen shed, and the triple awns sheltering the infancy of grain, the delicate bells of sky-blue flax quivering on lanced foliage, the glistening cones of teasels pliant yet as tasselled silk, and the burly foxglove in the hedgerow turning back its spotted cuffs--at none of these did he care to glance, nor linger for a moment at the treddled stile, from which the broad valley he had left was shown, studded with brown farm and white cottage, and looped with glittering water. neither did he throw his stick into his left hand, and stretch forth the right--as his custom was in the lonely walks of a saturday--to invigorate a hit he would deliver the next day, at divine service in the schoolroom. "what is to become of them? what can be done to help it? why should such a loving child have such a frightful trial? how shall we let him know his danger, without risk of doubling it? how long will it take, to get gowler down, and can he do any good, if he comes?"--these and other such questions drove from his mind both sermon and scenery, as he hastened to the home of the waldrons. walderscourt was not so grand as to look uncomfortable, not yet on the other hand so lowly as to seem insignificant. but a large old-fashioned house, built of stone, with depth and variety of light and shade, sobered and toned by the lapse of time, yet cheerful on the whole, as is a well-spent life. for by reason of the trees, and the wavering of the air--flowing gently from hill to valley--the sun seemed to linger in various visits, rather than to plant himself for one long stare. the pleasure-grounds, moreover, and the lawns were large, gifted with surprising little ups and downs, and blest with pretty corners where a man might sit and think, and perhaps espy an old-fashioned flower unseen since he was five years old. some of the many philosophers who understand our ways, and can account for everything, declare that we of the human race become of such and such a vein, and turn, and tone of character, according to the flow, and bend, and tinge of early circumstance. if there be any truth in this, it will help to account for a few of the many delightful features and loveable traits in the character of nicie waldron. that young lady, the only daughter of the veteran colonel, had obtained her present christian name by her own merits, as asserted by herself. unlike her mother she had taken kindly to this english air and soil, as behoves a native; and her childish lips finding _inez_ hard had softened it into _nicie_. that name appeared so apt to all who had the pleasure of seeing her toddle, that it quite superseded the grander form, with all except her mother. "_nicie_ indeed!" lady waldron used to say, until she found it useless--"i will feel much obliged to you, if you shall call my daughter inez by her proper name, sir." but her ladyship could no more subdue the universal usage, than master the english _wills_ and _shalls_. and though she was now a full-grown maiden, lively, tall, and self-possessed, nicie had not lost as yet the gentle and confiding manner, with the playful smile, and pleasant glance, which had earned, by offering them, good-will and tender interest. pity moreover had some share in her general popularity, inasmuch as her mother was known to be sometimes harsh, and nearly always cold and distant to her. women, who should know best, declared that this was the result of jealousy, because sir thomas made such an idol of his loving daughter. on the other hand the spanish lady had her idol also--her only son, despatched of late with his regiment towards india; his father always called him _tom_, and his mother _rodrigo_. mr. penniloe had a very soft place in his heart for this young lady; but now, for the first time in his life, he was vexed to see her white chip hat, and pink summer-frock between the trees. she was sitting on a bench, with a book upon her lap, while the sunlight, broken by the gentle play of leafage, wavered and flickered in her rich brown hair. corkscrew ringlets were the fashion of the time; but nicie would have none of them, with the bashful knowledge of the rose, that nature had done enough for her. and here came her father to take her part, with his usual decision; daring even to pronounce, in presence of the noblest fashion, that his pet should do what he chose, and nothing else. at this the pet smiled very sweetly, the words being put into his lips by hers, and dutifully obeyed her own behest; sweeping back the flowing curves into a graceful coronet, in the manner of a laconian maid. now the sly penniloe made endeavour to pass her with a friendly smile and bow; but her little pug _pixie_ would not hear of such a slight. this was a thorough busybody, not always quite right in his mind, according to some good authorities, though not easily outwitted. having scarcely attained much obesity yet, in spite of never-flagging efforts, he could run at a good pace, though not so very far; and sometimes, at sight of any highly valued friend, he would chase himself at full gallop round a giddy circle, with his reasoning powers lost in rapture. even now he indulged in this expression of good-will, for he dearly loved mr. penniloe; and then he ran up, with such antics of delight, that the rudest of mankind could not well have passed unheeding. and behind him came his fair young mistress, smiling pleasantly at his tricks, although her gentle eyes were glistening with a shower scarcely blown away. "uncle penniloe," she began, having thus entitled him in early days, and doing so still at coaxing times; "you will not think me a sly girl, will you? but i found out that mother had sent for you; and as nothing would make her tell me why, i made up my mind to come and ask you myself, if i could only catch you here. i was sure you could never refuse me." "nice assurance indeed, and nice manners, to try to steal a march upon your mother!" the parson did his utmost to look stern; but his eyes meeting hers failed to carry it out. "oh, but you know better, you could never fancy that! and your trying to turn it off like that, only frightens me ten times more. i am sure it is something about my father. you had better tell me all. i must know all. i am too old now, to be treated like a child. who can have half the right i have, to know all about my darling dad? is he very ill? is his precious life in danger? don't look at me like that. i know more than you imagine. is he going to die? i will never believe it. god could never do such a cruel wicked thing." "my dear, what would your dear father say, to hear you talk like that? a man so humble, and brave, and pious----" "as humble and brave as you please, uncle penniloe. but i don't want him to be pious for a long time yet. he swore a little yesterday,--that is one comfort,--when he had no idea i was near him. and he would not have done that, if there had been any--oh, don't go away so! i won't let you go, until you have answered my question. why were you sent for in such haste?" "how can i tell you, my dear child, until i have had time to ask about it? you know there is to be the cricket-match on tuesday, the north against the south side of the valley, and even the sides are not quite settled yet; because mr. jakes will not play against his colonel, though quite ready to play against his parson." "will you give me your word, uncle penniloe, that you really believe you were sent for about that?" the clergyman saw that there was no escape, and as he looked into her beseeching eyes, it was all that he could do to refrain his own from tears. "i will not cry--or at least not if i can help it," she whispered, as he led her to the seat, and sat by her. "my darling nicie," he began in a low voice, and as tenderly as if he were her father; "it has pleased the lord to visit us with a very sad trial; but we may hope that it will yet pass away. your dear father is seriously ill; and the worst of it is that, with his wonderful courage and spirit, he makes light of it, and will not be persuaded. he could scarcely be induced to say a word to dr. fox, although he is so fond of him; and nobody knows what the malady is, except that it is painful and wearing. my object to-day is to do my very utmost to get your dear father to listen to us, and see a medical man of very large experience and very great ability. and much as it has grieved me to tell you this, perhaps it is better upon the whole; for now you will do all you can, to help us." "sometimes father will listen to me," miss waldron answered between her sobs; "when he won't--when he won't let anybody else--because i never argue with him. but i thought dr. fox was exceedingly clever." "so he is, my dear; but he is so young, and this is a case of great perplexity. i have reason to believe that he wishes just as we do. so now with god's help let us all do our best." she tried to look cheerful; but when he was gone, a cold terror fell upon her. little _pixie_ tugged at her frock unheeded, and made himself a whirligig in chase of his own tail. chapter v. a fair bargain. the parson had a little shake in his system; and his faith in higher providence was weaker in his friend's case than in his own, which is contrary perhaps to the general rule. as he passed through the large gloomy hall, his hat was quivering in his hand, like a leaf that has caught the syringe; and when he stood face to face with lady waldron, he would have given up a small subscription, to be as calm as she was. but her self-possession was the style of pride and habit, rather than the gift of nature. no one could look into her very handsome face, or watch her dark eyes as she spoke, without perceiving that her nature was strong, and warm, and generous. pride of birth taught her to control her temper; but education had been insufficient to complete the mastery. and so she remained in a foreign country, vehement, prejudiced, and indifferent to things too large for her to understand, jealous, exacting, and quick to take offence; but at the same time a lover of justice, truthful, free-handed, and loyal to friends, kind to those in trouble, and devoted to her husband. her father had been of spanish, and her mother of irish birth, and her early memories were of tumult, war, distress, and anarchy. all english clergymen were to her as heretics and usurpers; and being intensely patriotic, she disliked the english nation for its services to her country. mr. penniloe had felt himself kept throughout at a very well measured distance; but like a large-hearted, and humble man, had concerned himself little about such trifles; though his wife had been very indignant. and he met the lady now, as he had always done, with a pleasant look, and a gentle smile. but she was a little annoyed at her own confession of his influence. "it is good of you to come so soon," she said, "and to break your very nice engagements. but i have been so anxious, so consumed with great anxiety. and everything grows worse and worse. what can i do? there is none to help me. the only one i could trust entirely, my dear brother, is far away." "there are many who would do their best to help you," the curate answered with a faltering voice, for her strange humility surprised him. "you know without any words of mine----" "is it that you really love sir thomas, or only that you find him useful? pardon me; i put not the question rudely. but all are so selfish in this england." "i hope not. i think not," he answered very gently, having learned to allow for the petulance of grief. "your dear husband is not of that nature, lady waldron; and he does not suppose that his friends are so." "no. it is true he makes the best of everybody. even of that young dr. fox, who is ill-treating him. that is the very thing i come to speak of. if he had a good physician--but he is so resolute." "but you will persuade him. it is a thing he owes to you. and in one little way i can help you perhaps a little. he fancies, i dare say, that to call in a man of larger experience would be unkind to fox, and might even seem a sort of slur upon him. but i think i can get fox himself to propose it, and even to insist upon it for his own sake. i believe that he has been thinking of it." "what is he, that his opinions should be consulted? he cannot see. but i see things that agitate me--oh darker, darker--i cannot discover any consolation anywhere. and my husband will not hear a word! it is so--this reason one day, and then some other, to excuse that he is not better; and his strong hands going, and his shoulders growing round, and his great knees beginning to quiver, and his face--so what you call cheerful, lively, jolly, turning to whiter than mine, and blue with cups, and cords, and channels in it--oh, i will not have my husband long; and where shall i be without him?" as she turned away her face, and waved her hand for the visitor to leave her, mr. penniloe discovered one more reason for doubting his own judgment. "i will go and see him. he is always glad to see me;" he said, as if talking to himself alone. "the hand of the lord is over us, and his mercy is on the righteous." the old soldier was not the man to stay indoors, or dwell upon his ailments. as long as he had leg to move, or foot at all to carry him, no easy-chair or study-lounge held any temptation for him. the open air, and the breezy fields, or sunny breadth of garden full of ever-changing incident, the hill-top, or the river-side, were his delight, while his steps were strong; and even now, whenever bodily pain relaxed. mr. penniloe found him in his kitchen-garden, walking slowly, as behoves a man of large frame and great stature, and leaning on a staff of twisted spanish oak, which had stood him in good stead, some five and twenty years ago. following every uncertain step, with her nose as close as if she had been a spur upon either boot, and yet escaping contact as a dog alone can do, was his favourite little black spaniel _jess_, as loving a creature as ever lived. "what makes you look at me in that way, jumps?" the colonel enquired, while shaking hands. "i hope you are not setting up for a doctor too. one is quite enough for the parish." "talking about doctors," replied the parson, who thought it no scorn when his old schoolmate revived the nickname of early days (conferred perhaps by some young observer, in recognition of his springy step)--"talking about doctors, i think it very likely that my old friend gowler--you have heard me speak of him--will pay me a little visit, perhaps next week." "gowler? was he at peter's, after my time? it scarcely sounds like a west country name. no, i remember now. it was at oxford you fell in with him." "yes. he got his fellowship two years after i got mine. the cleverest man in the college, and one of the best scholars i ever met with. i was nowhere with him, though i read so much harder." "come now, jumps--don't tell me that!" sir thomas exclaimed, looking down with admiration at the laureate of his boyhood; "why, you knew everything as pat as butter, when you were no more than a hop o' my thumb! i remember arguing with gus browne, that it must be because you were small enough to jump into the skulls of those old codgers, homer, and horace, and the rest of them. but how you must have grown since then, my friend! i suppose they gave you more to eat at oxford. but i don't believe in any man alive being a finer scholar than you are." "gowler was, i tell you, tom; and many, many others; as i soon discovered in the larger world. he had a much keener and deeper mind, far more enquiring and penetrating, more subtle and logical, and comprehensive, together with a smaller share perhaps of--of----" "humility--that's the word you mean; although you don't like to say it." "no, that is not what i mean exactly. what i mean is docility, ductility, sequacity--if there is any such word. the acceptance of what has been discovered, or at any rate acknowledged, by the highest human intellect. gowler would be content with nothing, because it had satisfied the highest human intellect. it must satisfy his own, or be rejected." "i am very sorry for him," said sir thomas waldron; "such a man must be drummed out of any useful regiment." "well, and he was drummed out of oxford; or at any rate would follow no drum there. he threw up his fellowship, rather than take orders, and for some years we heard nothing of him. but he was making his way in london, and winning reputation in minute anatomy. he became the first authority in what is called _histology_, a comparatively new branch of medical science----" "don't phil, i beg of you. you make me creep. i think of burke, and hare, and all those wretches. fellows who disturb a man's last rest! i have a deep respect for an honest wholesome surgeon; and wonderful things i have seen them do. but the best of them are gone. it was the war that made them; and, thank god, we have no occasion for such carvers now." "come and sit down, tom. you look--at least, i mean, i have been upon my legs many hours to-day, and there is nothing like the jump in them of thirty years ago. well, you are a kind man, the kindest of the kind, to allow your kitchen-gardeners such a comfortable bench." "you know what i think," replied sir thomas, as he made believe to walk with great steadiness and vigour, "that we don't behave half well enough to those who do all the work for us. and i am quite sure that we tories feel it, ay and try to better it, ten times as much as all those spouting radical reformers do. why, who is at the bottom of all these shocking riots, and rick-burnings? the man who puts iron, and boiling water, to rob a poor fellow of his bread and bacon. you'll see none of that on any land of mine. but if anything happens to me, who knows?" "my dear friend," mr. penniloe began, while the hand which he laid upon his friend's was shaking, "may i say a word to you, as an ancient chum? you know that i would not intrude, i am sure." "i am sure that you would not do anything which a gentleman would not do, phil." "it is simply this--we are most anxious about you. you are not in good health, and you will not confess it. this is not at all fair to those who love you. courage, and carelessness about oneself, are very fine things, but may be carried too far. in a case like yours they are sinful, tom. your life is of very great importance, and you have no right to neglect it. and can you not see that it is downright cruelty to your wife and children, if you allow yourself to get worse and worse, while their anxiety increases, and you do nothing, and won't listen to advice, and fling bottles of medicine into the bonfire? i saw one just now, as we came down the walk--as full as when fox put the cork in. is that even fair to a young practitioner?" "well, i never thought of that. that's a new light altogether. you can see well enough, it seems, when it is not wanted. but don't tell jemmy, about that bottle. mind, you are upon your honour. but oh, phil, if you only knew the taste of that stuff! i give you my word----" "you shall not laugh it off. you may say what you like, but you know in your heart that you are not acting kindly, or even fairly, by us. would you like your wife, or daughter, to feel seriously ill, and hide it as if it was no concern of yours? i put aside higher considerations, tom i speak to you simply as an old and true friend." it was not the power of his words, so much as the trembling of his voice, and the softness of his eyes, that vanquished the tough old soldier. "i don't want to make any fuss about it, phil," sir thomas answered quietly; "and i would rather have kept it to myself, a little longer. but the simple truth is, that i am dying." there was no sign of fear, or of sorrow, in his gaze; and he smiled very cheerfully while offering his hand, as if to be forgiven for the past concealment. mr. penniloe could not speak, but fell back on the bench, and feared to look at him. "my dear friend, i see that i was wrong to tell you," the sick man continued in a feebler tone; "but you must have found it out very shortly; and i know that jemmy fox is well aware of it. but not a word, of course, to my wife or daughter, until--until it can't be helped. poor things--what a blow it will be to them! the thought of that makes me rebel sometimes. but it is in your power to help me greatly, to help me, as no other man on earth can do. it has long been in my thoughts, but i scarcely dared to ask you. perhaps that was partly why i told you this. but you are too good and kind, to call me selfish." "whatever it is, i will do it for you readily, if god gives me power, and ordains it so." "never make rash promises. what was it you used to construe to me in the _delectus_? this is a long and a troublesome job, and will place you in a delicate position. it is no less a trouble than to undertake, for a time at least, the management of my affairs, and see to the interests of my nicie." "but surely your wife--surely lady waldron--so resolute, ready, and capable----" "yes, she is all that, and a great deal more--honourable, upright, warm, and loving. she is not at all valued as she should be here, because she cannot come to like our country, or our people. but that would be no obstacle; the obstacle is this--she has a twin-brother, a certain count de varcas, whom she loves ardently, and i will not speak against him; but he must have no chance of interfering here. my son tom--_rodrigo_ his mother calls him, after her beloved brother--is barely of age, as you know, and sent off with his regiment to india; a very fine fellow in many ways, but as for business--excuse me a moment, phil; i will finish, when this is over." with one broad hand upon the bench, he contrived to rise, and to steady himself upon his staff, and stood for a little while thus, with his head thrown back, and his forehead like a block of stone. no groan from the chest, or contortion of the face, was allowed to show his agony; though every drawn muscle, and wan hollow, told what he was enduring. and the blue scar of some ancient wound grew vivid upon his strong countenance, from the left cheek-bone to the corner of the mouth, with the pallid damp on either side. little _jess_ came and watched him, with wistful eyes, and a soft interrogative tremble of tail; while the clergyman rose to support him; but he would have no assistance. "thank god, it is over. i am all right now, for another three hours, i dare say. what a coward you must think me, phil! i have been through a good deal of pain, in my time. but this beats me, i must confess. the worst of it is, when it comes at night, to keep it from poor isabel. sit down again now, and let me go on with my story." "not now, tom. not just yet, i implore you," cried the parson, himself more overcome than the sufferer of all that anguish. "wait till you find yourself a little stronger." "no. that may never be. if you could only know the relief it will be to me. i have not a great mind. i cannot leave things to the lord, except as concerns my own old self. now that i have broken the matter to you, i must go through with it. i cannot die, until my mind is easy about poor nicie. her mother would be good to her, of course. but--well, tom is her idol; and there is that blessed count. tom is very simple, just as i was, at his age. i have many old friends; but all easy-going fellows, who would leave everything to their lawyers--none at all to trust, like you. and i know how fond you are of nicie." "to be sure i am. how could i help it? but remember that i am not at all a man of business." "what does that matter? you are very clear-headed, and prudent--at any rate for other people. and you will have webber, a careful and clever solicitor, to back you up. and mind, i am not asking you to supersede my wife, or take what should be her position. she is quite unacquainted with english ways, she does not think as an englishwoman would. she must have an englishman to act with her, in the trusts that will arise upon my death; and when we were married in spain, as you know, there was no chance of any marriage-settlement. in fact there was nothing to settle as yet, for i was not even heir to this property, until poor jack was killed at quatrebras. and as for herself, all the family affairs were at sixes and sevens, as you may suppose, during the french occupation. her father had been a very wealthy man and the head of an ancient race, which claimed descent from the old carthaginian barcas, of whom you know more than i do. but he had been too patriotic, and advanced immense sums to the state without security, and in other ways dipped his fine property, so that it would not recover for a generation. at any rate nothing came to her then, though she ought to have had a good sum afterwards. but whatever there may have been, her noble twin-brother took good care that none of it came this way. and i was glad to get her without a _peseta_; and what is more, i have never repented of it; for a nobler and more affectionate woman never trod the earth." as the sick man passed his hand before his eyes, in sad recollection of the bygone bliss, mr. penniloe thought of his own dear wife--a far sweeter woman in his mild opinion; and, if less noble, none the worse for that. "but the point of it is this, tom," the clergyman said firmly, for he began to feel already like a man of business, however sad and mournful the business must become; "does lady waldron consent to receive me, as--as co-trustee, or whatever it is called, if, if--which god forbid--it should ever prove to be necessary?" "my dear friend, i spoke to her about it yesterday, in such a way as not to cause anxiety or alarm: and she made no objection, but left everything to me. so you have only to agree; and all is settled." "in that case, tom," said mr. penniloe arising, and offering both hands to his friend, "i will not shirk my duty to a man i love so much. may the lord be with me, for i am not a man of business--or at least, i have not attained that reputation yet! but i will do my best, and your nicie's interests shall be as sacred to me, as my own child's. is there anything you would like to say about her?" "yes, phil, one thing most important. she is a very loving girl; and i trust that she will marry a good man, who will value her. i have fancied, more than once, that jemmy fox is very fond of her. he is a manly straightforward fellow, and of a very good old family, quite equal to ours, so far as that goes. he has not much of this world's goods at present; and her mother would naturally look higher. but when a man is in my condition, he takes truer views of life. if jemmy loves her, and she comes to love him, i believe that they would have a very happy life. he is very cheerful, and of the sweetest temper--the first of all things in married life--and he is as upright as yourself. in a few years he will be very well off. i could wish no better fortune for her--supposing that she gives her heart to him." "he is a great favourite of mine as well;" the curate replied, though surprised not a little. "but as i have agreed to all that you wish, tom, you must yield a little to my most earnest wish, and at the same time discharge a simple duty. i cannot help hoping that your fears--or i will not call them that, for you fear nothing--but your views of your own case are all wrong. you must promise to take the highest medical opinion. if i bring gowler over, with fox's full approval, will you allow him to examine you?" "you are too bad, phil. but you have caught me there. if you let me put you into the hands of lawyers, it is tit for tat that you should drive me into those of doctors." chapter vi. doctors three. public opinion at perlycross was stirred, as with a many-bladed egg-whisk, by the sudden arrival of dr. gowler. a man, who cared nothing about the crops, and never touched bacon, or clotted cream, nor even replied to the salutation of the largest farmer, but glided along with his eyes on the ground, and a broad hat whelmed down upon his hairless white face; yet seemed to know every lane and footpath, as if he had been born among them--no wonder that in that unsettled time, when frightful tales hung about the eaves of every cottage, and every leathern latch-thong was drawn inside at nightfall, very strange suspicions were in the air about him. even the friendship of the well-beloved parson, and the frank admiration of dr. fox, could not stem the current against him. the children of the village ran away at his shadow, and the mothers in the doorway turned their babies' faces from him. every one who loved sir thomas waldron, and that meant everybody in the parish, shuddered at hearing that this strange man had paid two visits at walderscourt, and had even remained there a great part of one night. and when it was known that the yearly cricket-match, between the north side of the perle and the south, had been quenched by this doctor's stern decree, the wrath of the younger men was rebuked by the sorrow of the elder. jakes the schoolmaster, that veteran sergeant (known as "high jarks," from the lofty flourish of his one remaining arm, and thus distinct from his younger brother, "low jarks," a good but not extraordinary butcher), firm as he was, and inured to fields of death, found himself unable to refuse his iron cheeks the drop, that he was better fitted to produce on others. now that brave descendant of mars, and minerva, feared one thing, and one alone, in all this wicked world; and that was holy wedlock. it was rumoured that something had befallen him in spain, or some other foreign outlands, of a nature to make a good christian doubt whether woman was meant as a helpmate for him, under the new covenant. the sergeant was not given to much talking, but rigid, and resolute, and self-contained; more apt to point, and be, the moral of his vast experience, than to adorn it with long tales. many people said that having heard so much of the roar of cannon and the roll of drums, he could never come to care again for any toast-and-butter; while others believed that he felt it his duty to maintain the stern silence, which he imposed in school. there was however one person in the parish, with whom he indulged in brief colloquy sometimes; and strange to say, that was a woman. mrs. muggridge, the curate's housekeeper, felt more indignation than she could express, if anybody whispered that she was fond of gossip. but according to her own account, she smiled at such a charge, coming as it only could from the lowest quarters, because she was bound for her master's sake, to have some acquaintance with her neighbours' doings; for they found it too easy to impose on him. and too often little fay would run, with the best part of his dinner to some widow, mourning deeply over an empty pot of beer. for that mighty police-force of charity, the district-visitors, were not established then. thyatira, though not perhaps unduly nervous--for the times were sadly out of joint--was lacking to some extent in that very quality, which the sergeant possessed in such remarkable degree. and ever since that shocking day, when her dear mistress had been brought home from the cliff, stone-dead, the housekeeper had realised the perils of this life, even more deeply than its daily blessings. susanna, the maid, was of a very timid nature, and when piously rebuked for her want of faith in providence, had a knack of justifying her distrust by a course of very creepy narratives. mrs. muggridge would sternly command her to leave off, and yet contrive to extract every horror, down to its dying whisper. moreover the rectory, a long and rambling house, was not a cheerful place to sit alone in after dark. although the high, and whitewashed, back abutted on the village street, there was no door there, and no window looking outwards in the basement; and the walls being very thick, you might almost as well be fifty miles from any company. worst of all, and even cruel on the ancient builder's part, the only access to the kitchen and the rooms adjoining it was through a narrow and dark passage, arched with rough flints set in mortar, which ran like a tunnel beneath the first-floor rooms, from one end of the building to the other. the front of the house was on a higher level, facing southwards upon a grass-plat and flower-garden, and as pretty as the back was ugly. even the stoutest heart in perlycross might flutter a little in the groping process, for the tunnel was pitch-dark at night, before emerging into the candlelight twinkling in the paved yard beside the kitchen-door. while the servants themselves would have thought it a crime, if the butcher, or baker, or anyone coming for them (except the postman) had kept the front way up the open gravel walk, and ventured to knock at the front door itself. there was no bell outside to call them, and the green-baize door at the end of the passage, leading to the kitchen stairs, deadened the sound of the knocker so much, that sometimes a visitor might thunder away for a quarter of an hour, with intervals for conscientious study of his own temper, unless little fay's quick ears were reached, and her pink little palms and chest began to struggle with the mighty knob. so it happened, one evening in the first week of august, when mr. penniloe was engaged in a distant part of the parish, somebody or other came and knocked--it was never known how many times or how long,--at the upper-folk door of the rectory. there was not any deafness about thyatira; and as for susanna, she could hear too much; neither was little fay to blame, although the rest were rather fond of leaving things to her. if the pupils had returned, it could not have happened so; for although they made quite enough noise of their own in the little back-parlour allotted to them, they never failed to hear any other person's noise, and to complain of it next morning, when they did not know their lessons. but the present case was, that the whole live force of the rectory, now on the premises, was established quite happily in the kitchen yard; with a high wall between it and the village street, and a higher wall topped with shrubs between it and the garden. master harry, now at home for his holidays (a tiger by day, but a lion at night, for protection of the household), was away with his father, and sleeping soundly through a bible-lecture. and so it came to pass that the tall dark man knocked, and knocked; and at last departed, muttering uncourteous expressions through his beard. even that might never have been known inside, without the good offices of mrs. channing, the wife of the baker, whose premises adjoined the rectory garden, and the drive from the front gate. "'twas nort but them gelany fowls," she explained, before she had her breakfast, because her husband was the son of old channing, the clerk, and sexton; "them gelany birds of ours, as drew my notice to it. they kept up such a screeching in the big linhay just at dusk, instead of sticking their heads inside their wings, that i thought they must be worriting about a dog, or cat. and so out of house i runs; but i couldn't see nort, till i heers a girt knocking at passon's front-door. thinks i--'what's up now?' for i knowed a' wurn't at home, but away to they bible-readings. so i claps the little barn-steps again your big wall, and takes the liberty of peeping over, just between the lalac bush and old holly. you must understand, mrs. muggridge, that the light wurn't very clear; but i could make out a big tall man a-standing, with a long furrin cloak, atwixt the pillars of your porch. "'passon's not at home,' says i; 'can us give any message?' "then a' turns round sudden like, and stands just like a pictur', with the postesses to either side of him, and his beard falling down the same as aaron's. but if a' said ort, 'twaz beyond my comprehension. "'did you please to be looking for the doctor, sir?' i said--'the doctor as is biding now with mr. penniloe? i did hear that he was 'gone to squire waldron's house.' for i thought that he was more the sort to belong to that old gowler. "but he only shook his head, and turned away; and presently, off he walks most majestic, like the image of a man the same as i have seen to exeter. i felt myself in that alarm, that go away i couldn't, until i heard your gate fall to behind him. then i thought to come and tell you, but i hadn't got the nerves to face your black passage, after what had come across me. for to my mind it must have been the evil one himself. may the lord save us from his roarings and devourings!" when mrs. muggridge heard this tale, she thought that it had better go no further, and she saw no occasion to repeat it to her master; because no message had been left, and he might imagine that she had not attended to her duty very well. for it had chanced, that at the very moment when somebody wanted to disturb them, the housekeeper was giving a most pleasant tea-party to the two little dears, master michael, and miss fay. and by accident, of course, sergeant jakes had just dropped in. no black passage could be anything but a joke to a man of his valour; and no rapping at the door could have passed unchallenged, if it reached such ears. but the hospitable thyatira offered such a distraction of good things, far beyond the largest larder-dreams of a dry-tongued lonely bachelor, that the coarser, and seldom desirable, gift of the ears lay in deep abeyance. for the sergeant had felt quite enough of hardship to know a good time, when he tasted it. "now, my precious little dears," thyatira had whispered with a sigh, when the veteran would be helped no more; "there is light enough still for a game of hop-scotch, down at the bottom of the yard. susanna will mark out the bed for you. you will find the chalk under the knife-board." away ran the children; and their merry voices rang sweetly to the dancing of their golden hair. "sergeant schoolmaster," continued the lady, for she knew that he liked this combination of honours, "how pleasant it is, when the shadows are falling, to see the little innocents delighting in their games? it seems to be no more than yesterday, when i was as full of play as any of them." "a good many yesterdays have passed since that," mr. jakes thought as he looked at her; but he was far too gallant and polite to say so. "in your case, ma'am, it is so," he replied: "yesterday, only yesterday! the last time i was here, i was saying to myself that you ladies have the command of time. you make it pass for us so quickly, while it is standing still with you!" "what a fine thing it is to have been abroad! you do learn such things from the gift of tongues. but it do seem a pity you should have to say them so much to yourself, mr. sergeant." "ma'am," replied the veteran, in some fear of becoming too complimentary; "i take it that some of us are meant to live apart, and to work for the good of others. but have you heard how the colonel is to-day? ah, he is a man indeed!" "there are doctors enough to kill him now. and they are going to do it, this very night." mrs. muggridge spoke rather sharply, for she was a little put out with her visitor. "what?" cried the man of sword and ferule. "to operate, ma'am, and i not there--i, who know all about operations!" "no, mr. sergeant; but to hold a council. and in this very house, i believe; the room is to be ready at ten o'clock. dr. fox, dr. gronow, and dr. gowler. it is more than i can understand. but not a word about it to any one. for sir thomas would be very angry. to frighten his people, and make such a fuss--they durst not propose it at his own house. and gronow has never been called in, as you know. but dr. jemmy made a favour of it, for he thinks very highly of that man; and the gentleman from london did not object. only he said that if it must be so, and everything was to be out of proper form, he would like my master to be present with them." "three doctors, and a parson to sit upon him! the lord have mercy on the colonel's soul! there is no hope left for his poor body. i will tell you, ma'am, what i saw once at turry vardoes--but no, it is not fit for you to hear. well, my heart is like a lump of lead. i would sooner have lost my other arm, than heard such a thing of the colonel. good night, ma'am; and thanking you for all your kindness, i'm no fit company for any one, no longer." he was gone in a moment. his many-angled form sank into the darkness of the flinty tunnel, as swiftly as ever a schoolboy vanished, when that form became too conspicuous. thyatira heaved a deep sigh, and sat down in the many-railed beechen chair at the head of her cruelly vacant table. she began to count the empty dishes, and with less than her usual charity mused upon the voracity of man. but her heart was kind, and the tear she wiped away was not wholly of selfish tincture. "the hand of the lord is upon us now. my master will lose the best friend he has got," she was thinking, as the darkness gathered; "faithful as he is, it will try him hard again; for satan has prevailed against us. and this will be a worse snare than any he has laid. to have in parsonage house a man, as chooseth not to come to prayers; or at any rate standeth up at mantel-piece, with his back turned on the kneelers; till my master told him, like the christian he is, that he would not desire him, as his guest, to go contrairy to his principles,--and pretty principles they must be, i reckon,--but would beg him to walk in the garden, rather than set such example to his household! alas the day that such a man came here, to the house of a holy minister! no blessing can ever attend his medicine. ah, the times are not as they was! no wonder that spring-heeled jack is allowed to carry on, when such a heathen is encouraged in the land. it would not go out of my grains, if he was spring-heeled jack himself!" much against her liking, and with a trembling hand, this excellent woman brought in the candles, and prepared the sitting-room, for the consultation of unholy science. but the first to arrive was a favourite of hers, and indeed of all the parish, a young man of very cheerful aspect, and of brisk and ready speech. no man had ever known jemmy fox despair of anything he undertook; and there were few things he would not undertake; only he must tackle them in his own way. a square-built, thickset, resolute young fellow, of no great stature, but good frame and fibre, and as nimble as a pea in a frying-pan. there was nothing very wonderful about his face; and at first sight a woman would have called him plain, for his nose was too short, and his chin too square, and his mouth too wide for elegance. but the more he was looked at, the better he was liked by any honest person; for he was never on the watch for fault in others, as haters of humbug are too apt to be. and yet without intending, or knowing it at all, this son of chiron had given deep offence to many of his brethren around perlycross, and it told upon him sadly afterwards. for he loved his profession, and looked upon it as the highest and noblest in the world, and had worked at it too thoroughly not to have learned how often it is mere profession. by choice he would have dropped all general practice, and become a surgeon only; but this was impossible except in some large place, and cities were not to his liking. as the only son of a wealthy banker he might have led an idle life, if he pleased; but that he could not bear, and resolved to keep himself; for the old man was often too exacting, and the younger had some little income of his own. perlycross suited him well, and he had taken a long and rambling house, which had formerly been a barn, about half a mile from the village. "seen anything of spring-heeled jack, the last night or two, mrs. muggridge?" he enquired too lightly, as he flung down his hat in similar style at a corner. "have you heard the last thing that has come to light about him?" "no, sir, no! but i hope it is no harm," replied the palpitating thyatira. "well, that depends upon how you take it. we have discovered for certain, that he is a medical man from a country parish, not such a very long way from here, who found his practice too small for the slaughter on the wholesale style he delights in. and so he turned his instruments into patent jumpers, tore the heart out of his last patient--he was obliged to choose a poor one, or it would have been too small--then he fitted a bude-light to his biggest dark lantern. and you know better than i do what he shows you at the window, exactly as the church-clock strikes twelve." "oh, dr. jemmy, how you do make one creep! then after all he is not, as everybody says, even a dissolute nobleman?" "no. that is where the disappointment lies. he set that story afoot no doubt, to comfort the relatives of the folk he kills. by the by, what a place this old house would be for him! he likes a broad window-sill, just like yours, and the weather is the very thing for him." "i shall nail up a green baize every night. oh, dr. jemmy, there is a knock at the door! would you mind seeing who it is--that's a dear?" dr. fox, with a pleasant smile, admitted dr. gronow, on his very first visit to the rectory. "others not come yet?" asked the elder gentleman, as the trembling housekeeper offered him a chair; "his reverence would hardly like a pipe here, i suppose. well, jemmy, what is your opinion of all this strange affair?" mrs. muggridge had hurried off, with a shiver and a prayer. "i am mum, before my betters," the young man replied. "the case is gone out of my hands altogether." "and a good thing for you. i am glad of it for your sake. but we must not anticipate gowler. i have no business here, except as what the lawyers call _amicus curiæ_. by the by, i suppose you have never seen the smallest ground for suspicion of foul play?" "never. i should have come to you first, if i had. there could be no possible motive, to begin with; and everybody loves him like a father." "a man is too fatherly sometimes. one never can understand those foreign women. but you know the family, and i do not. excuse me for a horrible suggestion. but i have had some very dark experiences." "and so, no doubt, has gowler. the idea crossed his brain; but was scattered immediately, when he knew the facts. hush, here they come! let us think no more of that." mr. penniloe was tired, and in very low spirits; for he looked upon this meeting as the fatal crisis. after seeing to his visitors, and offering refreshment--which none of them accepted--he took a chair apart, being present as a listener only. thereupon dr. gowler in very few words gave his view of the case, premising only that he spoke with some doubt, and might well be mistaken, for the symptoms were perplexing, and the malady was one which had not as yet been studied at all exhaustively. his conclusion agreed in the main with that of his young and sagacious coadjutor, though he was enabled, by longer experience, to be perhaps a little more definite. he spoke very well, and with a diffidence which particularly impressed the others, on the part of a man whose judgment was of the very highest authority. dr. gronow immediately confirmed his view, so far as the details at second hand could warrant, and gave his own account of a similar case, where the injury was caused by the handle of a barrow, and continued latent for several years. the unanimous decision was that no hope remained; unless the poor patient would submit to a surgical operation of great difficulty and danger, in the then condition of medical science; and for which it was advisable to have recourse to paris. "i know him too well. he will never consent," mr. penniloe came forward, and sought from face to face for some gleam of encouragement; "surely there must be some other course, something at least to alleviate----" "there may be: but we do not know it yet, and i fear that we never shall do so. and for this very sufficient reason"--here dr. gowler took a glove from his pocket, and presented a most simple and convincing explanation of the mischief that had happened, and the consequence that must of necessity ensue, without surgical redress. even that he admitted was of very doubtful issue, in plain english--"either kill, or cure." the parson sighed heavily, and even dr. fox was too much affected to say a word; but the elder physicians seemed to think it right and natural, and a credit to their science, that they knew so much about it. gowler and gronow were becoming mighty friends--so far as two men of the world care to indulge--and the great london doctor accepted with pleasure the offer of a day's fly-fishing. "i have not thrown a fly, since i was quite a boy," he said. "and i never threw a fly, till i was an old man," said the other; and their host knew well which would have the better chance, though he felt a little vexed at their light arrangements. "it is not for the sake of the fishing, my dear fellow," dr. gowler assured him, when the other two were gone; "i was to have left you in the morning, as you know; and i have not had such a holiday for seven years. i positively needed it, and shall be twice the man. but i felt that i ought to stay one day longer, to give you one more chance of persuading poor sir thomas. see how handsomely he has behaved--i mean, according to country notions; though i often make more in one day, in town. he slipped this into my hand, sealed up; and i did not refuse it, for fear of a fuss. but you will return it, when i am in the coach, and explain, with my kind regards, that it is against my rule to take any fee, upon a visit to a friend. i came to renew our old friendship only, and from my great regard for you. we do not think alike, upon the greatest of all matters. perhaps that is better for your happiness than mine. but after all my knowledge of the world, i do believe that the best friends are those, who are like you." mr. penniloe took the cheque for fifty guineas, and placed it in his desk, without a word; for he knew his friend's character too well to argue. then he shook him very warmly by the hand, and said "good night." but as he sank back in his chair to reflect, and examine himself of the bygone day, he hoped that his ears had deceived him that night, in a matter which had shocked him sadly. unless they had erred, dr. gronow had said--"in a case of this kind, for the advance of knowledge, autopsy should be compulsory." and harrison gowler had replied--"exactly so; but in this benighted part, i suppose it is impossible." chapter vii. r. i. p. "oh, mr. sergeant, how you did alarm me!" cried a very pretty damsel one fine october evening, as she almost fell upon the breast of "high jarks," from some narrow stone steps at the corner of a lane. she was coming by the nearest way to the upper village, from the side-entrance to walderscourt, a picturesque way but a rough one. for the lane was overhung, and even overwhelmed, with every kind of hindrance to the proper course of trade. out of the sides, and especially at corners, where the right of way should have been most sacred, jutted forth obstacles most inconsiderate, or even of set purpose, malicious. if a great stool of fern could be treated as nothing, even with its jagged saws quivering, or a flexible ash could be shoved aside lightly, with the cowardly knowledge that it had no thorns; yet in ambush with their spears couched, would be the files of furze, the barbed brigade of holly, or the stiff picket of blackthorn. and any man, engaged with these deliveries of the moment, might thank his stars (when visible through the tangle overhead) if by any chance he missed a blinding thump in both his eyes. alas, it would have been indeed a blessing, as well as a just correction, for the well-seasoned master of the youth of perlycross, if a benevolent switch from the hedgerow had taken him sharply in the eyes, that had so long descried nothing but motes in more tender orbs. as the young maid drew back from the warlike arm, which had been quite obliged to encircle her, one flash of her eyes entered those of mr. jakes; and he never saw again as he had seen before. but his usual composure was not gone yet. a true schoolmaster is well assured, whatever the circumstance may be, that he is in the right, and all others in the wrong. "i beg you will offer no apologies, miss," he began with a very gracious smile, as he rubbed up the nap of his old velvet coat where a wicked boy had tallow-candled it: "i take it that you are a stranger here, and not quite familiar with our kind of road. the roads about here have a manner of showing that they know not in what direction they are going?" "but, mr. sergeant, don't you know me? not so very long ago, i ran up this very lane, over the plank-bridge, and up to this heling, because of the temper you were in. it was my brother watty you wanted to catch: but you flourished your cane so, that the girls ran too. but you would not have beaten poor me, mr. sergeant?" she skipped back a step or two, as if still afraid, and curtsied to show her pretty figure, and managed to let her bright hair fall down over the blush of her soft round cheeks. then she lifted her eyes with the sweetest appeal; for the fair tamar haddon was a born coquette. "why, tamar, my dear, can it possibly be you? i could never have supposed that you would come to this. you were always the prettiest child among the girls. but, as you know, i had nothing to do with them. my business has always been with the boys." "and quite right, mr. sergeant--they are so much better, so much quicker to learn, as well as better-looking, and more interesting!" "that depends upon who it may be," said mr. jakes judicially; "some girls are much better at round-hand, as well as arithmetic. but why have i lost sight of you all these years? and why have you grown such a--well, such a size?" "oh, you _are_ rude! i am not a size at all. i thought that you always learned politeness in the wars. i am only seventeen round the waist--but you shan't see. no, no, stick you to the boys, mr. sergeant. i must be off. i didn't come out for pleasure. good evening, sir; good evening to you!" "don't be in such a hurry, miss haddon. don't you know when i used to give you sugar-plums out of this horn box? and if i may say it without offence, you are much too pretty to be in this dark place, without somebody to take care of you." "ah, now you are more like the army again. there is nothing like a warrior, in my opinion. oh, what a plague these brambles are! would you mind just holding my hat for a moment? i mustn't go into the village, such a fright, or everybody will stare at me. my hair is such a trouble, i have half a mind sometimes to cut off every snip of it. no, no, you can't help me; men are much too clumsy." mr. jakes was lost in deep admiration, and tamar haddon knew it well, and turned away to smile, as she sat upon a bank of moss, drawing her long tresses through the supple play of fingers and the rosy curve of palms; while her cherry lips were pouting and her brown eyes sparkling, in and out the golden shower from her saucy forehead. the schoolmaster held her little hat, and watched every movement of her hands and eyes, and wondered; for the gaiety of girlhood, and the blushes and the glances were as the opening of a new world to him. "i know what you are thinking now, it's no good to deny it," she cried as she jumped up, and snatched her hat away; "you are saying to yourself--'what a poor vain creature! servants' hats are not allowed in well-conducted households.' but you must understand that i am not a common servant. i am a private lady's-maid to her ladyship, the countess; and she has none of your old-fashioned english ways about her. she likes to see me look--well, perhaps you would not call it 'pretty,' for that depends upon the wearer, and i have no pretension to it--but tidy, and decent, and tolerably nice----" "wonderfully nice, and as lovely as a rose." "oh, mr. sergeant, you who must know so much better! but i have no time for such compliments, and they would turn my little head, from such a learned man as you are. how can i think of myself for a moment, when things are so dreadful? poor sir thomas--you know how ill he is; he is longing for something, and i am sent to fetch it on the sly, so that dr. fox should have no idea, but her ladyship says that it can do no harm, now." "what, the poor colonel waiting, miss, and i have kept you all this time? i was just on my way to enquire for him, when--when i happened to meet you. i can scarcely believe in any doctor conquering him." "they are though--they are doing it. he is very low to-day. they seem to have brought him down to a flat knock-under, just as you do with the schoolboys. i can't hardly think of it, without crying." the fair tamar dropped her eyes, and hung her head a little, and then looked softly at the veteran, to plead for his warmest sympathy. "there, i declare to you, i have cried so much that i can't cry no more," she continued with a sigh; "but it is a calf's sweetbread that i be bound to get; and where from, i'd like to know, unless it is to mr. robert's." a pang shot through the heart of mr. jakes, and if his cane had been at hand he would have grasped it. for mr. robert was his own brother, the only butcher in the village, a man of festive nature (as a butcher ought to be), of no habitual dignity--and therefore known as "low jarks"--a favourite with the fair sex, and worst of all, some twenty years the junior of "high jarks." "what, young bobby!" cried the sergeant, striking out, "there is nothing that he knows worth speaking of. and what is more to the purpose, he never will know nothing. i mean to say 'anything.' sometimes i go back from all my instructions all over the world, to the way--to the way you talk, in this part of the world." "but, mr. sergeant, that is only natural; considering that you belong to this part of the world. now, you do--don't you? however learned you may be." "well, i will not deny that it comes up sometimes. a man of my years--i mean, a young man by age, and yet one who has partaken in great motions, feels himself so very much above butchers' shops, and the like of them. and all the women--or as they call themselves now--all the ladies of the neighbourhood, have now been so well educated, that they think a great deal of the difference." "to be sure," said tamar haddon, "i can quite see that. but how could they get their meat, without the butchers' shops? some people are too learned, mr. sergeant." "i know it, miss. but i am very particular, not to let any one say it of me. i could quote latin, if i chose: but who would put a spill to my pipe afterwards? one must never indulge in all one knows." "well, it does seem a pity, after spending years about it. but here we are, come to the river-side at last. you mustn't think of coming across the plank with me. it would never do to have you drownded; and you know what betty cork is. why, all the boys to perlycross would be making mouths to-morrow? and i shall go home along the turnpike-road." the schoolmaster saw the discretion of this. charmed as he was with this gay young maid, he must never forget what was thought of him. for she was the daughter of walter haddon, the landlord of the _ivy-bush_, a highly respectable place, and therefore jealous of the parish reputation. moreover the handrail of the footbridge was now on the side of his empty sleeve; and the plank being very light and tremulous, he feared to recross it without stepping backward, which was better done without spectators. so he stayed where he was, while she tripped across, without even touching the handrail; and the dark gleam of the limpid perle, in the twilight of gray branches, fluttered with her passing shadow. just as she turned on the opposite bank, where cart-ruts ridged the water's brink, and was kissing her hand to the ancient soldier, with a gay "good evening!"--the deep boom of a big bell rang, and quivered throughout the valley. cattle in the meadows ceased from browsing, and looked up as if they were called, birds made wing for the distant wood, and sere leaves in the stillness rustled, as the solemn thrill trembled in the darkening air. "for god's sake, count," the old soldier cried, raising the hat from his grizzled head, and mounting a hillock clear of bushes; "it is the big bell tolling!" but the frolicsome maiden had disappeared, and he was left to count alone. at intervals of a minute, while the fall of night grew heavier, the burden of the passing-bell was laid on mortal ears and hearts. "time is over for one more," was graven on the front of it, and was borne along the valley; while the echo of the hills brought home the lesson of the reverse-- "soon shall thy own life be o'er." keeping throbbing count, the listener spread the fingers of his one hand upon his threadbare waistcoat; and they trembled more and more, as the number grew towards the fatal forty-nine. when the forty-ninth stroke ceased to ring, and the last pulsation died away, he stood as if his own life depended on the number fifty. but the knell was finished; the years it told of were but forty-nine--gone by, like the minutes between the strokes. "old channing perhaps is looking at the tower-clock. hark! in a moment, he will strike another stroke." but old channing knew his arithmetic too well. "now god forgive me for a sinful man--or worse than a man, an ungrateful beast!" cried the sergeant, falling upon his knees, with sorrow embittered by the shameful thought, that while his old chief was at the latest gasp, himself had been flirting merrily with a handmaid of the house, and sniggering like a raw recruit. he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and the lesson of the bell fell on him. it had fallen at the same time upon ears more heedful, and less needful of it. mr. penniloe, on his homeward road, received the mournful message, and met the groom who had ridden so hard to save the angelical hour. and truly, if there be any value in the ancient saying-- "happy is the soul that hath a speedy toll," the flight of sir thomas waldron's spirit was in the right direction. the clergyman turned from his homeward path, and hastened to the house of mourning. he scarcely expected that any one as yet would care to come down, or speak to him; but the least he could do was to offer his help. in the hush of the dusk, he was shown through the hall, and into a little sitting-room favoured by the ladies. believing that he was quite alone, for no one moved, and the light was nearly spent, he took a seat by the curtained window, and sank into a train of sombre thoughts. but presently a lapping sound aroused him, and going to the sofa, there he found his favourite nicie overcome with sorrow, her head drooping back, like a wind-tossed flower; while _pixie_, with a piteous gaze, was nestling to her side, and offering every now and then the silent comfort of his tongue. "what is it, my dear?" the parson asked, as if he did not know too well. but who knows what to say sometimes? then, shocked at himself, he said--"don't, my dear." but she went on sobbing, as if he had not spoken; and he thought of his little fay, when she lost her mother. he was too kind to try any consolations, or press the sense of duty yet; but he put on his glasses, and took little _pixie_, and began to stroke his wrinkled brow. "this dear little thing is crying too," he whispered; and certainly there were tears, his own or another's, on the velvet nose. then nicie rose slowly, and put back her hair, and tried to look bravely at both of them. "if mother could only cry," she said; "but she has not moved once, and she will not come away. there is one thing she ought to do, but she cannot; and i am afraid that i should never do it right. oh, will you do it, uncle penniloe? it would be an excuse to get her out of the room; and then we might make her lie down, and be better. my father is gone; and will mother go too?" speaking as steadily as she could, but breaking down every now and then, she told him, that there was a certain old ring, of no great value, but very curious, which her father had said many years ago he would like to have buried with him. he seemed to have forgotten it, throughout his long illness; but his wife had remembered it suddenly, and had told them where to find it. it was found by a trusty servant now; and she was present, while mr. penniloe placed it on the icy finger, and dropped a tear on the forehead of his friend, holy now in the last repose. on his homeward path that night, the curate saw through the gloom of lonely sorrow many a storm impending. who was there now to hold the parish in the bonds of amity, to reconcile the farmers' feuds, to help the struggling tradesman, to bury the aged cripple, to do any of those countless deeds of good-will and humanity, which are less than the discount of the interest of the debt, due from the wealthy to the poor? and who would cheer him now with bold decision, and kind deference, in all those difficulties which beset the country clergyman, who hates to strain his duty, yet is fearful of relaxing it? such difficulties must arise; and though there certainly was in those days, a great deal more fair give-and-take than can be now expected, there was less of settled rule and guidance for a peaceful parson. moreover, he felt the important charge which he had undertaken, as co-trustee of large estates, as well as a nervous dread of being involved in heavy outlay, with no rich friend to back him now, concerning the repairs, and in some measure the rebuilding, of the large and noble parish church. but all these personal troubles vanished, in the memories of true friendship, and in holy confidence, when he performed that last sad duty in the dismantled church, and then in the eastern nook of the long graveyard. he had dreaded this trial not a little, but knew what his dear friend would have wished; and the needful strength was given him. it has been said, and is true too often (through our present usages) that one funeral makes many. a strong east wind of unwonted bitterness at this time of year--it was now the last day of october--whistled through the crowd of mourners, fluttered scarf, and crape, and veil, and set old channing's last tooth raging, and tossed the minister's whitening locks, and the leaves of the office for the dead. so cold was the air, that people of real pity and good feeling, if they had no friends in the village, hied to the _ivy-bush_, when all was over, and called for hot brandy and water. but among them was not mr. jakes, though he needed a stimulus as much as any. he lingered in the churchyard, till the banking up was done, and every one else had quitted it. when all alone, he scooped a hole at the head of the grave, and filled it with a bunch of white chrysanthemums, imbedded firmly to defy the wind. then he returned to the sombre school-room, at the west end of the churchyard, and with one window looking into it. there, although he had flint and tinder, he did not even light a dip, but sat for hours in his chair of office, with his head laid on the old oak desk. rough, and sad, and tumbled memories passed before his gray-thatched eyes, and stirred the recesses of his rugged heart. suddenly a shadow fell across his desk. he rose from his dream of the past, and turning saw the half-moon quivering aslant, through the diamond panes of the lattice. for a minute he listened, but there was nothing to be heard, except a long low melancholy wail. then he buttoned his coat, his best sunday black, and was ashamed to find the empty cuff wet, as the bib of an infant, but with the tears of motherless old age. after his manner--when no boys were nigh--he condemned himself for an ancient fool, and was about to strike a light, when the sad low sound fell again upon his ears. determined to know what the meaning of it was, he groped for his hat, and stout oak staff, and entered the churchyard by the little iron gate, the private way from the school premises. the silence was as deep as the stillness of the dead; but, by the light of the westering moon, he made his way among the white tombstones, and the rubbish of the builders, to the eastern corner where sir thomas waldron lay. his old chief's grave was fair and smooth, and the crisp earth glistened in the moonlight, for the wind had fallen, and a frost was setting in; but a small black figure lay on the crown, close to the bunch of flowers. a low growl met him; and then a dismal wail of anguish, beyond any power of words or tears, trembled along the wan alleys of the dead, and lingered in the shadowy recesses of the church. "good little _jess_, thou art truer than mankind," said the sergeant, and marched away to his lonely bed. chapter viii. the potato-field. live who may, and die who must, the work of the world shall be carried on. of all these works, the one that can never be long in arrears is eating; and of all british victuals, next to bread, the potato claims perhaps the foremost place. where the soil is light towards hagdon hill, on the property of the dean and chapter, potatoes, meet for any dignitary of the church, could be dug by the ton, in those days. in these democratic and epidemic times, it is hard to find a good potato; and the reason is too near to seek. the finer the quality of fruit or root, the fiercer are they that fall on it; and the nemesis of excellence already was impending. but the fatal blow had not fallen yet; the ripe leaves strewed the earth with vivid gold, instead of reeking weltering smut; and the berries were sound, for boys and girls to pelt one another across the field; while at the lift of the glistening fork across the crumbling ridges, up sprang a cluster of rosy globes, clean as a codlin, and chubby as a cherub. farmer john horner, the senior churchwarden, and the largest ratepayer on the south side of the perle, would never have got on as he did, without some knowledge of the weather. the bitter east wind of the previous night, and the keen frost of the morning, had made up his mind that it was high time to lift his best field of potatoes. he had two large butts to receive the filled sacks--assorted into ware and chats--and every working man on the farm, as well as his wife and children, had been ordered to stick at this job, and clear this four-acre field before nightfall. the field was a good step from the village, as well as from farmer horner's house; and the lower end (where the gate was) abutted on the susscot lane, leading from the ford to perlycross. it was now all-hallows day, accounted generally the farewell of autumn, and arrival of the winter. birds, and beasts, that know their time without recourse to calendar, had made the best use of that knowledge, and followed suit of wisdom. some from the hills were seeking downwards, not to abide in earnest yet, but to see for themselves what men had done for their comfort when the pinch should come; some of more tender kind were gone with a whistle at the storms they left behind; and others had taken their winter apparel, and meant to hold fast to the homes they understood. farmer john, who was getting rather short of breath from the fatness of his bacon, stirred about steadfastly among the rows, exhorting, ordering, now and then upbraiding, when a digger stuck his fork into the finest of the clump. he had put his hunting gaiters on, because the ground would clog as soon as the rime began to melt; and the fog, which still lingered in the hollows of the slopes, made him pull his triple chin out of his comforter to cough, as often as he opened his big mouth to scold. for he was not (like farmers of the present day) too thankful for anything that can be called a crop, to utter a cross word over it. old mr. channing, the clerk, came in by the gate from the lane, when the sun was getting high. not that he meant to do much work--for anything but graves, his digging time was past, and it suited him better to make breeches--but simply that he liked to know how things were going on, and thought it not impossible that if he praised the 'taturs, churchwarden might say--"bob, you shall taste them; we'll drop you a bushel, when the butt comes by your door." so he took up a root or two here and there, and "hefted it," (that is to say, poised it carefully to judge the weight, as one does a letter for the post) and then stroked the sleek skin lovingly, and put it down gingerly for fear of any bruise. farmer john watched him, with a dry little grin; for he knew what the old gentleman was up to. "never see'd such 'taturs in all my life," mr. channing declared with a sigh of admiration. "talk of varmers! there be nobody fit to hold a can'le to our measter john. i reckon them would fry even better than they biled; and that's where to judge of a 'tatur, i contends." "holloa, mr. clerk! how be you then, this fine morning?" the farmer shouted out, as if no muttering would do for him, while he straddled over a two-foot ridge, with the rime thawing down his gaiters. "glad to see 'e here, old veller. what difference do 'e reckon now, betwixt a man and a 'tatur?" farmer john was famous for his riddles. he made them all himself, in conversation with his wife--for he had not married early--and there was no man in the parish yet with brains enough to solve them. and if any one attempted it, the farmer always snubbed him. "there now, ye be too deep for me!" mr. channing made a hole in the ground with his stick, as if mr. horner was at the bottom of it. "it requireth a good deal more than us have got, to get underneath your meaning, sir." "no, bob, no! it be very zimple, and zuitable too for your trade. a 'tatur cometh out of ground, when a' be ripe; but a man the zame way goeth underground. and a good thing for him, if he 'bideth there, according to what hath been done in these here parts, or a little way up country. no call for thee to laugh, bob, at thy time of life, when behooveth thee to think over it. but i'll give thee an order for a pair of corduroys, and thou shalt have a few 'taturs, when the butt comes by. us, as belongs to the church, is bound to keep her agoing, when the hogs won't miss it! but there, lord now, i want a score of nose-rings? have 'e see'd anything of joe crang, this morning? we never heer'd nort of his anvil all the time! reckon joe had a drop too much at the _bush_, last night." "why, here a' coom'th!" exclaimed the clerk. "look, a' be claimbin' of an open gate! whatever can possess the man? a' couldn't look more mazed and weist, if a hunderd ghostesses was after him?" joseph crang, the blacksmith at susscot ford, where the susscot brook passed on its way to the perle, was by nature of a merry turn, and showed it in his face. but he had no red now, nor even any black about him, and the resolute aspect, with which he shod a horse, or swung a big hammer, was changed into a quivering ghastly stare; his lips were of an ashy blue, like a ring of tobacco smoke; and as for his body, and legs, and clothes, they seemed to have nothing to do with one another. "what aileth the man?" cried mr. channing, standing across, as he had the right to do, after bestraddling so many burials; "master joe crang, i call upon thee to collect thy wits, and out with it." "joe, thy biggest customer hath a right to know thy meaning." farmer john had been expecting to have to run away; but was put in courage by the clerk, and brought up his heels in a line with the old man's. "coompany, coompany is all i axes for," the blacksmith gasped weakly, as if talking to himself--"coompany of living volk, as rightly is alive." "us be all alive, old chap. but how can us tell as you be?" the clerk was a seasoned man of fourscore years, and knew all the tricks of mortality. "i wish i wadn't. a'most i wish i wadn't, after all i zee'd last night. but veel of me, veel of me, measter channin', if you plaise to veel of me." "tull 'e what," the churchwarden interposed; "gie 'un a drink of zider, bob. if a' be joe crang, a' won't say no to thiccy. there be my own little zup over by the hedge, joe." without any scruple the blacksmith afforded this proof of vitality. the cider was of the finest strain--"three stang three," as they called it--and joe looked almost like himself, as he put down the little wooden keg, with a deep sigh of comfort. "maketh one veel like a man again," he exclaimed, as he flapped himself on the chest. "master hornder, i owe 'e a good turn for this. lord only knoweth where i maight a' been, after a' visited me zo last night. it was a visit of the wicked one, by kitums." master crang hitched up his trousers, and seemed ready to be off again. but the churchwarden gripped him by the collar. "nay, man. shan't have it thy own way. after what us have doed for thy throat, us have a call upon thy breath. strange ways with strangers; open breast with bellyful." the honest blacksmith stood in doubt, and some of his terror crept back again. "bain't for me to zettle. be a job for passon penniloe. swore upon my knees i did. here be the mark on my small-clothes. passon is the only man can set my soul to liberty." "what odds to us about thy soul? 'tis thy tongue we want, lad?" the senior churchwarden cried impatiently. "thou shalt never see a groat of mine again, unless thou speakest." "passon hath a chill in's bones, and the doctor hath been called to him," mr. channing added, with a look of upper wisdom. "clerk and churchwarden, in council assembled, hath all the godliness of a rubric." the blacksmith was moved, and began to scratch his head. "if a' could only see it so?" he muttered--"howsomever, horder they women vessels out o' zight. a woman hath no need to hear, if her can zee--according as the wise man sayeth. and come where us can see the sun a shinin'; for my words will make 'e shiver, if ye both was tombstones. i feel myself a busting to be rid of them." master crang's tale--with his speech fetched up to the manner of the east of england, and his flinty words broken into our road-metal--may fairly be taken for spoken as follows:-- "no longer agone than last night, i tell you, i went to bed, pretty much as usual, with nothing to dwell upon in my mind; without it was poor squire's funeral, because i had been attending of it. i stayed pretty nearly to the last of that, and saw the ground going in again; and then i just looked in at the _bush_, because my heart was downsome. all the company was lonesome, and the room was like a barn after a bad cold harvest, with a musty nose to it. there was nobody with spirit to stand glasses round, and nobody with heart to call for them. the squire was that friendly-minded, that all of us were thinking--'the lord always taketh the best of us. i may be the one to be called for next.' then an old man in the corner, who could scarcely hold his pipe, began in a low voice about burials, and doctors, and the way they strip the graves up the country; and the others fell in about their experience; and with only two candles and no snuffers but the tongs, any one might take us for a company of sextons. "the night was cruel cold, when i come out, and everything looking weist and unkid, and the big bear was right across the jags of church-tower; and with nothing inside to keep me up to the mark, and no neighbour making company, the sound of my own heels was forced upon my ears, as you might say, by reason of the gloomy road, and a spark of flint sometimes coming up like steel-filings, when i ran to keep heat, for i had not so much as a stick with me. and when i got home i roused up the forge-fire, so as to make sure where i was, and comfort my knuckles; and then i brashed it down, with coals at present figure, for the morning. "as it happened, my wife had been a little put out, about something or other in the morning; you know how the women-folk get into ways, and come out of them again, without no cause. but when she gets into that frame of mind, she never saith much, to justify it, as evil-tempered women do, but keeps herself quiet, and looks away bigly, and leaves me to do things for myself; until such time as she comes round again. so i took a drink of water from the shoot, instead of warming up the teapot, and got into bed like a lamb, without a word; leaving her to begin again, by such time as she should find repentance. and before i went to sleep, there was no sound to be heard in the house, or in the shop below; without it was a rat or two, and the children snoring in the inner room, and the baby breathing very peaceful in the cradle to the other side of the bed, that was strapped on, to come at for nursing of her. "well, i can't say how long it may have been, because i sleep rather heartily, before i was roused up by a thundering noise going through the house, like the roaring of a bull. sally had caught up the baby, and was hugging and talking, as if they would rob her of it; and when i asked what all this hubbub was, 'you had better go and see,' was all she said. something told me it was no right thing; and my heart began beating as loud as a flail, when i crept through the dark to the window in the thatch; for the place was as black almost as the bottom of my dipping-trough, and i undid the window, and called out, 'who is there?' with as much strength as ever i was master of, just then. "'come down, or we'll roast you alive,' says a great gruff voice that i never heard the like of; and there i saw a red-hot clinker in my own tongs, a sputtering within an inch of my own smithy thatch. "'for god's sake, hold hard!' says i, a thinking of the little ones. 'in less than two minutes i'll be with you.' i couldn't spare time to strike a light, and my hands were too shaky for to do it. i huddled on my working clothes anyhow, going by the feel of them; and then i groped my way downstairs, and felt along the wall to the backway into workshop, and there was a little light throwing a kind of shadow from the fire being bellowsed up; but not enough to see things advisedly. the door had been kicked open, and the bar bulged in; and there in the dark stood a terrible great fellow, bigger than dascombe, the wrestler, by a foot; so far as i could make out by the stars, and the glimmer from the water. over his face he had a brown thing fixed, like the front of a fiddle with holes cut through it, and something i could not make out was strapped under one of his arms like a holster. "'just you look here, man, and look at nothing else, or it will be worse for you. bring your hammer and pincers, while i show a light.' "'let me light a lantern, sir,' i said, as well as i could speak for shivering; 'if it is a shoeing job, i must see what i am about.' "'do what i say, blacksmith; or i'll squash you under your anvil.' "he could have done it as soon as looked; and i can't tell you how i put my apron on, and rose the step out of shop after him. he had got a little case of light in one hand, such as i never saw before, all black when he chose, but as light as the sun whenever he chose to flash it, and he flashed it suddenly into my eyes, so that i jumped back, like a pig before the knife. but he caught me by the arm, where you see this big blue mark, and handed me across the road like that. "'blast the horse! put his rotten foot right,' he says. and sure enough there was a fine nag before me, quaking and shaking with pain and fright, and dancing his near fore-foot in the air, like a christian disciple with a bad fit of the gout. "that made me feel a bit like myself again; for there never was no harm in a horse, and you always know what you are speaking to. i took his poor foot gently, as if i had kid gloves on, and he put his frothy lips into my whiskers, as if he had found a friend at last. "the big man threw the light upon the poor thing's foot, and it was oozing with blood and black stuff like tar. 'what a d----d fuss he makes about nothing!' says the man, or the brute i should call him, that stood behind me. but i answered him quite spirity, for the poor thing was trying to lick my hand with thankfulness, 'you'd make a d----der, if it was your foot,' i said; 'he hath got a bit of iron driven right up through his frog. have him out of shafts. he isn't fit to go no further.' for i saw that he had a light spring-cart behind him, with a tarpaulin tucked in along the rails. "'do him where he stands, or i'll knock your brains out;' said the fellow pushing in, so as to keep me from the cart. 'jem, stand by his head. so, steady, steady!' "as i stooped to feel my pincers, i caught just a glimpse under the nag's ribs of a man on his off-side, with black clothes on, a short square man, so far as i could tell: but he never spoke a word, and seemed ever so much more afraid to show himself than the big fellow was, though he was shy enough. then i got a good grip on the splinter of the shoe, which felt to me more like steel than iron, and pulled it out steadily and smoothly as i could, and a little flow of blood came after it. then the naggie put his foot down, very tenderly at first, the same as you put down an over-filled pint. "'gee-wugg's the word now,' says the big man to the other; and sorry i am to my dying bones that i stopped them from doing it. but i felt somehow too curious, through the thicket of my fright, and wise folks say that the lord hath anger with men that sleep too heartily. "'bide a bit,' i told him, 'till i kill the inflammation, or he won't go a quarter of a mile before he drops;' and before he could stop me, i ran back, and blew up a merry little blaze in the shop, as if to make a search for something, and then out i came again with a bottle in my hand, and the light going flickering across the road. the big man stood across, as if to hide the cart; but the man behind the horse skitted back into a bush, very nimble and clever, but not quite smart enough. "the pretty nag--for he was a pretty one and kind, and now i could swear to him anywhere--was twitching his bad foot up and down, as if to ask how it was getting on; and i got it in my hand, and he gave it like a lamb, while i poured in a little of the stuff i always keep ready for their troubles, when they have them so. for the moment i was bold, in the sense of knowing something, and called out to the man i was so mortal frit of--'master, just lend a hand for a second, will you; stand at his head in case it stingeth him a bit.' horse was tossing of his head a little, and the chap came round me, and took him by the nose, the same as he had squeezed me by the arm. "'i must have one hind-foot up, or he will bolt,' says i; though the lord knows that was nonsense; and i slipped along the shaft, and put my hand inside the wheel, and twitched up the tarpaulin that was tucked below the rail. at the risk of my life it was; and i knew that much, although i was out of the big man's sight. and what think you i saw, in the flickering of the light? a flicker it was, like the lick of a tongue; but it's bound to abide as long as i do. as sure as i am a living sinner, what i saw was a dead man's shroud. soft, and delicate, and white it was, like the fine linen that dives wore, and frilled with rare lace, like a wealthy baby's christening; no poor man, even in the world to come, could afford himself such a winding-sheet. tamsin tamlin's work it was; the very same that we saw in her window, and you know what that was bought for. what there was inside of it was left for me to guess. "i had just time to tuck the tarpaulin back, when the big man comes at me with his light turned on. 'what the ---- are you doing with that wheel?' says he, and he caught me by the scruff of the neck, and swung me across the road with one hand, and into my shop, like a sack with the corn shot out of it. 'down on your knees!' he said, with no call to say it, for my legs were gone from under me, and i sprawled against my own dipping-trough, and looked up to be brained with my own big hammer. 'no need for that,' he saith, for he saw me glancing at it; 'my fist would be enough for a slip such as you. but you be a little too peart, master smith. what right have you to call a pair of honest men sheep-stealers?' "i was so astonished that i could not answer, for the thought of that had never come nigh me. but i may have said--_shish_--_shish!_ to soothe the nag; and if i did, it saved my life, i reckon. "'now swear, as you hoped to be saved,' says he, 'that never a word shall pass your lips about this here little job to-night.' i swore it by matthew, mark, luke, and john; but i knew that i never could stick to it. 'you break it,' says he, 'and i'll burn you in your bed, and every soul that belongs to you. here's your dibs, blacksmith! i always pay handsome.' he flung me a crown of king george and the dragon, and before i could get up again, the cart was gone away. "now, i give you my word, farmer hornder, and the very same to you clerk channing, it was no use of me to go to bed again, and there never was a nightcap would stay on my head without double-webbing girths to it. by the mercy of the lord, i found a thimbleful of gin, and then i roused up light enough to try to make it cheerful; and down comes sally, like a faithful wife, to find out whatever i was up to. you may trust me for telling her a cock-and-bull affair; for 'twas no woman's business, and it might have killed the baby." chapter ix. the narrow path. "now, master joe crang," the churchwarden said firmly, but not quite as sternly as he meant to put it, because he met the blacksmith's eyes coming out of head; "how are we to know that you have not told us what you call a cock-and-bull affair? like enough you had a very fearsome dream, after listening to a lot about those resurrection-men, and running home at night with the liquor in your head." "go and see my door ahanging on the hinges, master, and the mark of the big man's feet in the pilm, and the track of wheels under the hedge, and the blood from the poor nag's frog, and the splinter of shoe i pulled out with the pincers. but mercy upon me, i be mazed almost! i forgot i put the iron in my pocket. here it is?" there it was sure enough, with dried blood on the jag of it, and the dint from a stone which had driven it, like a knife through an oyster-shell, into the quick. such is the nature of human faith, that the men, handling this, were convinced of every word. they looked at each other silently, and shook their heads with one accord, and gave the shivering blacksmith another draught of cider. "joe, i beg your pardon for doubting of your word," farmer john answered, as his own terror grew; "you have been through a most awesome night. but tell us a thing or two you have left out. what way do you reckon the cart came from, and what was the colour, and was there any name on it, and by the sound, which way did it drive off?" "ay, ay, he hath hit it," the clerk chimed in; "the finest head-piece in all the county belongeth to the hat of our master john horner." "i'll tell 'e every blessed thing i knows, but one," joe crang was growing braver, after handing horrors on; "can't say which way the cart come from, because i was sound in my bed just then. but her hadn't been through the ford, by the look of wheels, and so it seems her must have come from perlycrass direction. the colour was dark; i should say, a reddish brown, so far as the light supported me. there was no name to see; but i was on her near side, and the name would be t'other side of course, if there wur one. her drove off the way her was standing, i believe; at least according to the sound of it; and i should have heard the splash, if they had driven through the ford. any other questions, master?" "there may be some more, joe, when i come to think. but i don't see clearly how you could have been on the near side of horse, to the other side of lane, in case they were coming from our village way." "you'm right enough there, sir, if so be they hadn't turned. i could see by the marks that they went by my shop, and then turned the poor horse, who was glad enough to stop; and then bided under hedge, in a sort of dark cornder. might a' come down the lane a' purpose like, seeking of me to do the job. seemeth as if they had heard of my shop, but not ezactually where it waz." "when you come to think of it, might be so." farmer john was pretty safe in his conclusions, because they never hurried him. "and if that was the meaning, we should all have reason to be very joyful, joe. you cannot see it yet; nor even master channing. but to my mind it proveth that the chaps in this queer job--mind, i don't say but what they may have been respectable, and driving about because they could afford it--but to my mind it showeth they were none of our own parish. nor next parish either, so far as reason goes. every child in perlycross, with legs to go on, knows afore his alphabet, where susscot forge be." "a' knoweth it too well, afore he gets his breeches. three quarters of a mile makes no odds to they childer, when they take it in their heads to come playing with the sparks. and then their mothers after 'em, and all the blame on me!" "it is the way of human nature, when it is too young. master clerk, a word with you, before we go too far. sit down upon this sack, joe, and try to eat a bit, while the wiser heads be considering." the churchwarden took the ancient clerk aside, and the blacksmith beginning to be in better heart, renewed his faith in human nature upon bread and bacon. before he was sure that he had finished, the elder twain came back to him, fortified by each other's sense of right, and high position in the parish. but channing was to put the questions now, because they were unpleasant, and he was poor. "according to my opinion, master crang, you have told us everything wonderful clear, as clear as if we had been there to see it, considering of the time of night. but still there is one thing you've kept behind, causally perhaps, and without any harm. but churchwarden horner saith, and everybody knows the value of his opinion, that the law is such, that every subject of the king, whatever his own opinion may be, hath to give it the upper course, and do no more harm than grumble." "big or little, old or young, male or female, no distinction, baronet or blacksmith;" said farmer john, impressively. "and therefore, joe, in bounden duty we must put the question, and you must answer. who was the man according to your judgment, that kept so close behind the horse, and jumped away so suddenlike, when the light of your fire shone into the lane? you said that the big man called him 'jem,' and you as good as told us that you certified his identity." "i don't understand 'e, master channing. i never was no hand at big words." the blacksmith began to edge away, till the farmer took the old man's staff, and hooked him by the elbow. "no lies, crang! you know me pretty well. i am not the man to stand nonsense. out of this potato-field you don't budge, till you've told us who the short man was." "a' worn't short, sir; a' worn't short at all--taller than i be, i reckon; but nort to what the other were. do 'e let go of me, farmer hornder. how could i see the man, through the nag?" "that's your own business, crang. see him you did. horse or no horse, you saw the man; and you knew him, and you were astonished. who was he, if you please, master joseph crang?" "i can't tell 'e, sir, if i was to drop down dead this minute. and if i said ort to make 'e vancy that i knowed the gentleman, i must a' been mazed as a drummeldrone." "oh, a gentleman, was it? a queer place for a gentleman! no wonder you cockle yourself to keep it dark. a five-pound note to be made out of that, joe; if the officers of justice was agreeable." "master hornder, you'm a rich man, and i be but a poor one. i wouldn't like to say that you behaved below yourself, by means of what i thought; without knowing more than vancy." "joe, you are right, and i was wrong;" the farmer was a just man, whenever he caught sight of it; "i was going to terrify of 'e, according to the orders of the evil-thinkers, that can't believe good, because it bain't inside theirselves. but i put it to you now, joe, as a bit of dooty; and it must tell up for you, in t'other way as well. for the sake of all good christians, and the peace of this here parish, you be held to bail by your own conscience, the lord having placed you in that position, to tell us the full names of this man, gentleman or ploughboy, gipsy or home-liver." the blacksmith was watching mr. horner's eyes, and saw not a shadow of relenting. then he turned to the old man, for appeal. but the clerk, with the wisdom of fourscore years, said,--"truth goes the furthest. who would go to jail for you, joe?" "mind that you wouldn't give me no peace; and that i says it against my will, under fear of the king and religion"--master crang protested, with a twist, as if a clod-crusher went over him--"likewise that i look to you to bear me harmless, as a man who speaketh doubtful of the sight of his own eyes. but unless they was wrong, and misguided by the devil, who were abroad last night and no mistake, t'other man--in the flesh, or out of it, and a' might very well a' been out of it upon such occasion, and with that there thing behind him, and they say that the devil doth get into a bush, as my own grandmother zee'd he once--'twixt a rosemary tree, which goes far to prove it, being the very last a' would have chosen----" "none of that stuff," cried the churchwarden sternly; and the clerk said, "no beating about the bush, joe! as if us didn't know all the tricks of zatan!" "well then, i tell 'e--it waz doctor jemmy vox." they both stood, and stared at him, as if to ask whether his brain was out of order, or their own ears. but he met their gaze steadily, and grew more positive, on the strength of being doubted. "if ever i zee'd a living man, i tell 'e that man, t'other side of the nag, waz doctor jemmy vox, and no other man." the men of devon have earned their place (and to their own knowledge the foremost one) in the records of this country, by taking their time about what they do, and thinking of a thing before they say it. shallow folk, having none of this gift, are apt to denounce it as slowness of brain, and even to become impatient with the sage deliberators. both horner, and channing, had excellent reasons for thinking very highly of dr. fox. the churchwarden, because the doctor had saved the life of his pet child sally, under providence; and the clerk, inasmuch as he had the privilege of making the gentleman's trousers, for working and for rustic use. "now i tell 'e what it is," said farmer john, looking wrathful, because he saw nothing else to do, and channing shrank back from doing anything; "either thou art a born liar, joe; or the devil hath gotten hold of thee." "that's the very thing i been afeared of. but would un let me spake the truth, without contempt of persons?" "will 'e stand to it, joe, afore a justice of the peace?" the clerk thought it was high time to put in a word. "upon occasion, i mean, and if the law requireth." "there now! look at that! the right thing cometh, soon or late;" cried the persecuted blacksmith. "take me afore squire walders himself--no, no, can't be, considerin' i were at his funeral yesterday--well take me afore squire mockham, if be fitty; and ax of him to putt, i don't care what it be, stocks, or dead water, or shears atop of me; and i'll tell un the very zame words i telled to thee. can't hev no relief from gospel, if the passon's by the heels; shall have some relief by law, if the lord hath left it living. no man can't spake no vairer than that there be." this adjuration was of great effect. "to zeiser shalt thou go?" replied the senior churchwarden; "us have no right to take the matter out of zeiser's hands. i was dwelling in my mind of that all along, and so was you, clerk." mr. channing nodded, with his conscience coming forward; and after some directions at the upper end of field--where the men had been taking it easily, and the women putting heads together--the two authorities set off along the lane, with the witness between them, towards perlycross. but, as if they had not had enough of excitement to last them for a month of thoughts and words, no sooner did they turn the corner at the four-cross roads (where the rectory stands, with the school across the way), than they came full butt upon a wondrous crowd of people hurrying from the churchyard. "never heard the like of it!" "can't believe my eyes a'most." "whatever be us a'coming to?" "the lord in heaven have mercy on the dead!" "the blessed dead, as can't help theirselves!" these, and wilder cries, and shrieks, from weeping women along the cottage-fronts; while in the middle of the street came slowly men with hot faces, and stern eyes. foremost of all was sergeant jakes, with his head thrown back, and his gray locks waving, and his visage as hard as when he scaled the ramparts, and leaped into the smoke and swordflash. behind him was a man upon a foaming horse, and the strength of the village fiercely silent. "where be all agoing to? what's up now? can't any of 'e spake a word of sense?" cried farmer john, as the crowd stopped short, and formed a ring around him. "high jarks, tell un." "us was going to your house." "hold your tongue, will 'e, and let high jarks speak." the sergeant took discipline, and told his tale in a few strong words, which made the farmer's hair stand up. "let me see the proof," was all he said; for his brain was going round, being still unseasoned to any whirl fiercer than rotation of farm-crops. all the others fell behind him, with that sense of order which still swayed the impulse of an english crowd; for he was now the foremost layman in the parish, and everybody knew that the parson was laid up. the gloom of some black deed fell upon them; and they passed along the street like a funeral. "clap the big gate to, and shoot the iron bar across. no tramping inside more than hath been a'ready." master horner gave this order, and it was obeyed, even by those who excluded themselves. at the west end, round the tower, was a group of "foreign" workmen--as the artisans from exeter were called--but under orders from mr. adney they held back, and left the parish matter to the natives thereof. "now come along with me, the men i call for;" commanded the churchwarden, with his hand upon the bars, as he rose to the authority conferred upon him; "and they be sergeant jakes, clerk channing, bob that hath ridden from walderscourt, and constable tapscott, if so be he hath arrived." "i be here, sure enough, and my staff along o' me--hath the pictur' of his majesty upon him. make way, wull 'e, for the officer of the king?" then these men, all in a cold sweat more or less--except sergeant jakes, who was in a hot one--backing up one another, took the narrow path which branched to the right from the churchyard cross, to the corner where brave colonel waldron had been laid. chapter x. in charge. "my young friend, i must get up," mr. penniloe exclaimed, if so feeble a sound could be called an exclamation. "it is useless to talk about my pulse, and look so wise. here have i been perhaps three days. i am not quite certain, but it must be that. and who is there to see to the parish, or even the service of the church, while i lie like this? it was most kind of you--i have sense enough to feel it--to hurry from your long ride, without a bit to eat--mrs. muggridge said as much, and you could not deny it. but up i must get; and more than that, i must get out. it will soon be dark again, by the shadows on the blind, and i am sure that there is something gone amiss, i know not what. but my duty is to know it, and to see what i can do. now go, and have some dinner, while i just put on my clothes." "nothing of that sort, sir, will you do to-day. you are weaker than a cat--as that stupid saying goes. that idiot jackson has bled you to a skeleton, put a seton in your neck, and starved you. and he has plied you with drastics, by day and by night. why, the moment i heard of that perliton booby getting you in his clutches--but thank god i was in time! it is almost enough to make one believe in special providences." "hush, jemmy, hush? you cannot want to vex me now." "neither now, nor ever, sir; as you are well aware. so you must do likewise, and not vex me. i have trouble enough of my own, without rebellion by my patients." "i forgot that, jemmy. it was not kind of me. but i am not quite clear in my head just now. i fear i am neglecting some great duty. but just for the moment, i am not sure what it is. in a minute or two, i shall remember what it is." "no, you won't, my good friend, not for twenty hours yet;" the young doctor whispered to himself. "you have had a narrow shave, and another day of jackson would have sent you to the world you think too much of. there never was a man who dwelt in shadows--or in glory, as you take it--with his whole great heart, as you do. well, i wish there were more of them, and that i could just be one." the peace that had settled on the parson's face was such as no lineaments of man can win, without the large labours of a pure life past, and the surety of recompense full in view. fox kept his eye on him, and found his pulse improve, as hovering slumber deepened into tranquil sleep. "rare stuff that!" he said, referring not to faith, but to a little phial-bottle he had placed upon the drawers; "he shan't go to glory yet, however fit he may be. it is high time,--i take it, for me to have a little peck." the young man was right. he had ridden thirty miles from his father's house that afternoon, and hearing at the "old barn," as he called his present home, of poor mr. penniloe's serious illness, had mounted his weary mare again, and spurred her back to the rectory. of the story with which all the parish was ringing he had not heard a word as yet, being called away by his anxious mother, on the very night after the squire was buried. but one thing had puzzled him, as he passed and repassed the quiet streets of perlycross--the people looked at him, as if he were a stranger, and whispered to one another as he trotted by. could they have known what had happened to his father? with the brown tops still upon his sturdy legs, and spurs thickly clotted with somerset mud (crustier even than that of devon) fox left the bedroom with the door ajar, and found little fay in a beehive chair, kneeling with her palms put together on the back, and striving hard to pray, but disabled by deep sobs. her lovely little cheeks and thick bright curls were dabbled into one another by the flood of tears; as a moss-rose, after a thundershower, has its petals tangled in the broidery of its sheath. "will he die, because i am so wicked? will he die, because i cannot see the face of god?" she was whispering, with streaming eyes intent upon the sky-light, as if she were looking for a healthy father there. "no, my little darling, he will not die at all. not for many years, i mean, when fay is a great tall woman." the child turned round with a flash of sudden joy, and leaped into his arms, and flung her hair upon his shoulders, and kissed him, vehemently, "with a one, two, three! if you want any more, you must kiss me." like a true tiny queen of the nursery. many little girls were very fond of dr. fox; although their pretty loves might end in a sombre potion. "now shall i tell you what to do, my dear?" said the truly starving doctor, with the smell of fine chops coming up the stairs, sweeter than even riper lips; "you want to help your dear daddy, don't you?" little fay nodded, for her heart was full again, and the heel-tap of a sob would have been behind her words. "then go in very quietly, and sit upon that chair, and don't make any noise, even with your hair. keep the door as it is, or a little wider; and never take your eyes from your dear father's face. if he keeps on sleeping, you stay quiet as a mouse; if he opens his eyes, slip out softly, and tell me. now you understand all that, but you must not say a word." the child was gazing at him, with her whole soul in her eyes, and her red lips working up and down across her teeth; as if her father's life hung upon her self-control. dr. fox was hard put to it to look the proper gravity. as if he would have put this little thing in charge, if there had been any real charge in it! "grand is the faith of childhood. what a pity it gets rubbed out so soon!" he said to himself, as he went down the stairs, and the child crept into her father's room, as if the whole world hung upon her pretty little head. mrs. muggridge had lighted two new candles, of a size considered gigantic then--for eight of them weighed a pound almost--and not only that, but also of materials scarcely yet accepted as orthodox. for "composites" was their name, and their nature was neither sound tallow, nor steadfast wax. grocer wood had sent them upon trial gratis; but he was a dissenter, though a godly man; and the housekeeper, being a convert to the church, was not at all sure that they would not blow up. therefore she lit them first for dr. fox, as a hardy young man, with some knowledge of mixtures. "he is going on famously, as well as can be, muggridge;" the doctor replied to her anxious glance. "he will not wake till twelve, or one o'clock, to-morrow; and then i shall be here, if possible. the great point then will be to feed him well. beef-tea, and arrow-root, every two hours, with a little port wine in the arrow-root. no port wine in the house? then i will send some, that came from my father's own cellar. steal all his clothes, and keep a female in the room. the parson is a modest man, and that will keep him down. but here comes my mutton chop. well done, susanna! what a cook! what skill and science, at the early age of ten!" this was one of dr. jemmy's little jokes; for he knew that susanna was at least seventeen, and had not a vestige of cookery. but a doctor, like a sexton, must be jolly, and leave the gravity to the middleman--the parson. but instead of cutting in with her usual protest, and claim to the triumph, whatever it might be, mrs. muggridge to his surprise held back, and considered his countenance, from the neighbourhood of the door. she had always been ready with her tit-for-tat, or lifting of her hand in soft remonstrance at his youthful levity. but now the good woman, from behind the candles, seemed to want snuffing, as they began to do. "anything gone wrong in perlycross, since i went away, mrs. muggridge? i don't mean the great loss the parish has sustained, or this bad attack of mr. penniloe's. that will be over, in a few days' time, now his proper adviser is come back again. by the way, if you let jackson come in at this front door--no, it mustn't lie with you, i will write a little note, polite but firm, as the papers say; it shall go to his house by my boy jack, to save professional amenities: but if he comes before he gets it, meet him at the door with another, which i will leave with you. but what makes you look so glum at me, my good woman? out with it, if i have hurt your feelings. you may be sure that i never meant to do so." "oh sir, is it possible that you don't know what has happened?" thyatira came forward, with her apron to her eyes. she was very kind-hearted, and liked this young man; but she knew how young men may be carried away, especially when puffed up with worldly wisdom. "i have not the least idea what you mean, mrs. muggridge." fox spoke rather sternly, for his nature was strong, and combative enough upon occasion, though his temper was sweet and playful; and he knew that many lies had been spread abroad about him, chiefly by members of his own profession. "my ears are pretty sharp, as suits my name, and i heard you muttering once or twice--'he can't have done it. i won't believe it of him.' now if you please, what is it i am charged with doing?" "oh sir, you frighten me when you look like that. i could never have believed that you had such eyes." "never mind my eyes. look here, my good woman. would you like to have wicked lies told about you? i have been away for three days, called suddenly from home, before daylight on saturday morning. my father was seized with a sudden attack, for the first time in his life. he is getting old; and i suppose a son's duty was to go. very well, i leave him on tuesday morning, because i have urgent cases here; and he has his own excellent doctor. i pass up the village, and everybody looks as if i had cut his throat. i go home, concluding that i must be mazed--as you people call it--from want of food and sleep. but when i get home, my own man, and boy, and old betty, all rush out, and stare at me. 'are you mad?' i call out, and instead of answering, they tell me the parson is dying, and at the mercy of jervis jackson. i know what that means, and without quitting saddle come back here and rout the evil one. then what happens? why, my very first mouthful is poisoned by the black looks of a thoroughly good woman. tell me what it is, or by george and the dragon, i'll ride home, and drag it out of my own people." "can you prove you were away, sir? can you show when you left home?" thyatira began to draw nearer, and forgot to keep a full-sized chair 'twixt the doctor and herself. "to be sure, i can prove that i have been at foxden, by at least a score of witnesses, if needful." "thank the lord in heaven, that he hath not quite forgotten us! susanna, have another plate hot, but be sure you don't meddle with the grid-iron. bad enough for perlycross it must be anyhow; a disgrace the old parish can never get over--but ever so much better than if you, our own doctor----" "good-bye, mrs. muggridge! you'll see me to-morrow." "oh no, sir, no. i will tell you now just. how could i begin, when i thought you had done it? at least i never thought that, i am sure. but how was i to contradict it? and the rudest thing ever done outside of london! the poor squire's grave hath been robbed by somebody, and all perlycross is mad about it." "what!" cried jemmy fox. "do you mean sir thomas waldron? it cannot be. no one would dare to do such a thing." "but some one hath, sir, sure enough. mr. jakes it was, sir, as first found it out, and a more truthfuller man never lived in any parish. my master doth not know a word of it yet. thank the lord almost for this chill upon his lungs; for the blow might have killed him, if he had been there, with such a disorderly thing on his back. we must hide it from him, as long as ever we can. to tell the truth, i was frightened to let you go up to him, with every one so positive about the one who did it. but you wouldn't take no denial, and i am very glad you wouldn't. but do have t'other chop, sir; it's a better one than this was. oh, i beg your pardon. i forgot to draw the blind down." the truth was that she had been afraid till now to sever herself from the outer world, and had kept susanna on the kitchen stairs; but now she felt as certain of the young man's innocence, as she had been of his guilt before. "nothing more, thank you," said fox, sitting back, and clenching his hand upon the long bread-knife; "and so all the parish, and even you, were only too delighted to believe that i, who have worked among you nearly three years now, chiefly for the good of the poor and helpless, and never taken sixpence when it was hard to spare--that i would rob the grave of a man, whom i revered and loved, as if he were my father. this is what you call christianity, is it? and no one can be saved except such christians as yourselves! the only christian in the parish is your parson. excuse me--i have no right to be angry with--with a woman, for any want of charity. come tell me this precious tale, and i'll forgive you. no doubt the evidence is very strong against me." thyatira was not pleased with this way of taking it. she thought that the charity was on her side, for accepting the doctor's own tale so frankly. so she fell back upon her main buttress. "if you please, dr. fox," she said with some precision; "as women be lacking in charity, therefore the foremost of all godly graces, you might think it fairer to see sergeant jakes, a military man and upright. and being the first as he was to discover, i reckon he hath the first right to speak out. susanna seeth light in the schoolroom still though all the boys be gone, and books into the cupboards. ah, he is the true branch for discipline. do 'e good to look in at the window after dusk, and the candles as straight as if the french was coming. 'i am the vine,' saith the lord, 'and ye'--but you know what it is, dr. jemmy, though seldom to be found, whether church it be, or chapel. only if you make a point of seeing the man that knoweth more than all of us put together, the new pupil, master peckover, is a very obliging young gentleman, and one as finds it hard upon him to keep still." "oh, he is come, is he? i have heard some tales of him. it struck me there was more noise than usual in the pupils' room. let me think a moment, if you please. yes, i had better see sergeant jakes. he may be a queer old codger, but he will stick to what he sees and says. tell those noisy fellows, that they must keep quiet. they want high jarks among them with his biggest vine, as you seem to call his cane." chapter xi. at the charge. strenuous vitality, strong pulse, thick skin, tough bone, and steadfast brain, all elements of force and fortitude, were united in this dr. fox; and being thus endowed, and with ready money too, he felt more of anger than of fear, when a quarrel was thrust upon him. while he waited alone for the schoolmaster, he struck mr. penniloe's best dining-table with a heavy fist that made the dishes ring, and the new-fashioned candles throw spots of grease upon the coarse white diaper. then he laughed at himself, and put a calm face on, as he heard the strong steps in the passage. "sit here, mr. jakes," he said, pointing to a chair, as the sergeant offered him a stiff salute. "mrs. muggridge, you had better leave the room. this is not a nice matter for ladies. now sergeant, what is all this rotten stuff about me?" "not about you, sir, i hope with all my heart." mr. jakes met the young man's flashing eyes, with a gaze that replied--"you don't scare me," and drew his chair close enough to study every feature. if the young man was full of wrath, so was the old man--implacable wrath, at the outrage to his colonel. "well, tell your pack of lies"--fox was driven beyond himself, by the other's suspicious scrutiny--"oh, i beg your pardon, you believe them true, of course. but out with your stuff, like a man, sir!" "it is your place to prove it a pack of lies;" said the old man, with his shaggy eyebrows rigid as a line of british bayonets; "and if you can't, by the god who made me, i'll run my old sword through your heart." "rather hard upon me. not got it here, i hope. half an hour for repentance, while you fetch it out of some cheese-toasting rack. a nice man to teach the youth of perlycross! what a fool you are, jakes! but that you can't help. even a fool though may try to be fair. during your long time in the wars, were you ever accused wrongfully, my friend?" "yes, sir, a score of times. and i like your spirit. if you did what they say of you, you would be a cur. every evil name you call me makes me think the better of you." "i will call you no more; for i want no favour. all i want is truth about this cursed outrage. am i to wait all night for it? now just tell your tale, as if your were sitting at the _ivy-bush_. you have been in command of men, no doubt--just command yourself." "that i will," said the veteran with an upward glance--"not like the _ivy-bush_, but as before the lord. sir, i will command myself, as you recommend; and perhaps you would be none the worse, for taking your own medicine." "jakes, you are right. it is enough to turn me savage. but you shall not hear me speak again, until you have finished." "it was just like this, sir," began the sergeant, looking round for a glass, by force of habit, and then ashamed of himself for such a thought just now; "everybody in this parish knows how much i thought of colonel waldron; for a better and a braver man never trod this earth. even parson penniloe will have to stand behind him, when the last muster cometh; because he hath not served his country. but i never was satisfied with any of you doctors. you may be very well in your way, mr. fox, for toothing, or measles, or any young complaint; but where is your experience in times of peace? and as for that hang-dog looking chap from london--well, i won't say what i thought of him; for i always keep my own opinions to myself. but i knew it was all over with our poor colonel, the moment i clapped eyes on that fellow. why, i went myself at once, and begged the colonel to have him drummed out of the parish to the rogue's tattoo. but the good colonel only laughed, and shook my hand--the last time it was, sir, the very last time. "you were at the funeral, and there never was a truer one. i was proud to my heart, though it felt like lead, to see three old officers come from miles away, brave men as ever led a storming column, with tears in their eyes, and not a thought of their own ends. there was no firing-party as should have been, being nothing but peace going on nowadays, and only country bumpkins about here. but i see you are impatient; because you know all that. "as soon as all were gone away, and the ground put tidy, i brought a few of my own white flowers, as they do in spanish land, and put them in very carefully with a bit of moss below them, and fastened them so as not to blow away, although there was a strong east wind up. later on at night, i came again by the little wicket from the schoolroom, just to see that all was right; for my mind was uneasy somehow. "the moon was going low, and it was getting very cold, and not a soul about, that i could see. the flowers showed bright, at the head of the mound; and close by was a little guardian--the colonel's pet dog, that could never bear to leave him--she was lying there all in the cold by herself, sobbing every now and then, or as it were bewailing, with her chin along the ground, as if her heart was broken. it struck me so sad, that i could look at her no more. "in the morning i slept past the usual time, being up so late, and out of spirits. but i saw the white frost on the ground, and i had a few boys to correct before school began, and then lessons to see to till twelve o'clock; and it must have been turned the half hour, when i went to churchyard again, to see how my flowers had stood the frost. i had brought a bit of victuals in my pocket, for the dog; but little _jess_ was gone; and i could not blame her, considering how easily a man forgets his dog; and yet i was vexed with her, for being so like us; for the poor things have no religion, such as we make smooth with. my flowers were there; but not exactly as i thought i had put them; and the bank appeared to me to be made up sharper. "well, mr. fox, i am not one of them that notice little things upon the earth so much, (as if there was never any sky above them,) and make more fuss about a blade of grass, than the nature of men and good metal. i thought that old channing had been at work again, not satisfied with his understrapper's job. then i drew forth my flowers; and they looked almost, as if they had been tossed about the yard--crumpled almost anyhow, as well as scorched with frost. "at this, i was angry, when i thought how kind the poor colonel had been to that old stick of a clerk, and even let him muck up their liveries; and so i set off for the old man's cottage, to have a word or two with him, about it. but he was not at home; and little polly, his grand-daughter, was sure that he had not been near the church that day, but was gone to help dig farmer john's potatoes. "then back i went again, in a terrible quandary, remembering the wicked doings up the country, and the things that had come across my fancy in the night. "the first thing i saw, when i came back by south-gate, was a young man, red in the face, and out of breath, jumping, in and out, over graves and tombstones, from the west end, where the contractor's work is. 'what are you doing, bob?' said i, rebuking of him pretty strongly; for i saw that it was one of my old boys, now become a trusty sort of groom at walderscourt. "'sergeant, what have you been doing here?' says he 'our little _jess_ has just come home, with one leg cut in two.' "all my blood seemed to stand still, and i should have dropped, if i hadn't laid hold of that very tombstone, which the parson can't endure. the whole of it flashed upon me, in a moment; and a fool i must have been not to see it all before. but wicked as our men were, and wicked i myself was--as i will not deny it, in the rough-and-tumble times--such a blackguard dastard crime was out of my conception. considering who the colonel was; considering what he was, sir!" the sergeant turned away his face, and desired to snuff the candles. no snuffers were there, for this new invention was warranted not to want them. so he fumbled with his empty sleeve; but it would not come up to order; and then he turned back, as if brought to bay, and reckless of public opinion; with his best new handkerchief in his hand--a piece of cotton goods imprinted with the union-jack in colours. "my friend, you are a noble fellow," said fox, with his own wrongs out of date, in the movement of large feeling. "would to god, that i had any one as true to me, as you are!" "it is not that," resumed the sergeant, trying to look stern again. "it is the cursed cruelty, that makes me hate mankind, sir. that a man should kill a poor dumb thing, because it loved its master--there, there, the almighty will smite the brute; for all helpless things belong to him. "well, sir, i hardly know what happened next, or what i said to bob cornish. but he went round the wall, to fetch his horse; and the news must have spread, like wildfire. a young man, who had helped to make up the grave, was going to his dinner through the churchyard; and seeing us there, he came and looked, and turned like a ghost, and followed us. presently we were in the street, with half the village after us, going to the chief churchwarden's house; for we knew how ill the parson was. at the cross-roads, we met farmer john, and old clerk channing along of him, looking doiled as bad as we were, and between them the blacksmith from susscot ford; and a terrible tale we had from them. "farmer john, as the head of the parish now, took the lead; and well he did it. we went back by the big iron gate, and there we kept the outsiders back; and mr. adney was as good with his, who were working near the tower. i was ordered to the eastern end, where the stone stile leads into perlycombe lane, by which the villains must have got in; with no house there in view of it, but only the tumble-down abbey. somebody was sent for my old sword, that i knocked away from the french officer, and now hangeth over the commandments; and i swore that i would slash off any hand, that was laid on the edge of the riser; while adney brought a pile of scaffold-cords, and enclosed all the likelihood of footprints. "by this time the other churchwarden was come, and they all put their heads together, and asked what my opinion was; and i said--'make no bones of it.' but they had done a wiser thing than that, with an eye to the law, and the penalties. they had sent bob cornish on the fast young horse, the colonel thought so much of, to fetch the nearest justice of the peace, from his house this side of perliton. squire mockham came, as strong as he could ride, with his mind made up about it; and four digging men were set to work at once. squire mockham was as sharp about it, as if he had just had the lid taken off of him, by death of superior officer; and i, who had seen him on the bench knock under, to half a wink from the colonel's eye, was vexed with the dignity he took over, by reason of being survivor. "clerk channing will tell you more about the condition of things underground, for i never made them my study; though i have helped to bury a many brave men, in the rough, both french and english. my business it was to keep people away; and while i was putting a stern face on, and looking fit to kill any of the bumpkins, the lord knows i could never have touched them, for my blood was as cold as snow-water. and when they sang up--'no colonel here!' just as if it made no difference--i dropped the french sword, and my flesh clave to my bones, the same as it did to king david. and ever since that, i have been fit for bedlam; and the boys may stand and make mouths at me." "i can understand that," said dr. fox, with his medical instincts moving--generously, as they always do with a man worthy of that high calling--"jakes, you are in a depressed condition; and this exertion has made it worse. what you want is a course of carminatives. i will send you a bottle this very night. no more excitement for you at present. lay aside all thought of this sad matter." "as if i could, sir; as if i could!" "no, i am a fool for suggesting that. but think of it, as little as you can. above all things, go in for more physical exertion. cane half-a-dozen boys, before breakfast." "there's a dozen and a half, sir, that have been neglected sadly." "that will be a noble tonic. making mouths at sergeant jakes! you look better already, at the thought of doing duty, and restoring discipline." "talk about duty, sir! where was i? oh, if i had only gone out again; if i had only gone out again, instead of turning into my bed, like a sluggard! i shall never forgive myself for that." "you would just have been killed; as poor _jess_ was. such scoundrels think nothing of adding murder to a crime still worse. but before you go home--which is the best thing you can do, and have a dish of hot kidneys from your brother's shop--one thing i must ask; and you must answer. what lunatic has dared to say, that i had anything to do with this?" "the whole parish is lunatic; if it comes to that, sir." "and all the world, sometimes. but who began it? jakes, you are a just man; or you could not be so loyal. is it fair, to keep me in the dark, about the black things they are saying of me?" "sir, it is not. and i will tell you all i know; whatever enemies i may make. when a thing flares about, you can seldom lay your hand on the man, or the woman, who fired the train. it was crang, the shoeing smith at susscot ford, who first brought your name into it." "crang is an honest, and a simple-minded man. he would never speak against me, of his own will. he has been most grateful for what i did, when his little girl had scarlet fever. how could he have started this cursed tale?" "from the evidence of his own eyes, sir; according at least to his use of them." "tell me what he saw, or thought he saw. he is not the man to tell a lie. whatever he said, he believed in." fox spoke without any anger now; for this could be no scheme of his enemies. "you are wonderful fair, sir;" said sergeant jakes. "you deserve to have all above board; and you shall have it." tired as he was, and beginning to feel poorly at the threat of medicine, the old soldier told the blacksmith's tale, with as few variations as can contrive to keep themselves out of a repetition. fox began to see that the case was not by any means so easy, as he first supposed. here was evidence direct against him, from an impartial witness; a tale coherent, and confirmed by facts independent of it, a motive easily assigned; and the public eager to accept it, after recent horrors. but he was young, and warm of faith in friendship, candour, and good-will; or (if the worst should come to the worst) in absolute pure justice. "it will not take long to put this to rights," he said, when the sergeant had finished his account. "no one can really have believed it, except that blockhead of a blacksmith. he was in a blue funk all the time, and no need to be ashamed of it. there are two people i must see to-night--mr. mockham, and that joe crang himself. i shall borrow a horse from walter haddon; my young mare has had enough of it. i shall see how the parson looks before i go. now go to bed, sergeant, as i told you. to-morrow you will find all the wiseacres saying, what fools they have made of one another." but the veteran shook his head, and said, "if a cat has nine lives, sir; a lie has ninety-nine." chapter xii. a fool's errand. mr. john mockham was a short stout man, about five or six and forty years of age, ruddy, kind-hearted, and jocular. he thought very highly of jemmy fox, both as a man and a doctor; moreover he had been a guest at foxden, several times, and had met with the greatest hospitality. but for all that, he doubted not a little, in his heart--though his tongue was not allowed to know it--concerning the young doctor's innocence of this most atrocious outrage. he bore in mind how the good and gentle mother had bemoaned (while jemmy was in turn-down collars) the very sad perversity of his mind, towards anything bony and splintery. nothing could keep him from cutting up, even when his thumb was done round with oozing rag, anything jointed or cellular; and the smell of the bones he collected was dreadful, even in the drawer where his frilled shirts were laid. the time was not come yet, and happily shall never--in spite of all morbid suisection--when a man shall anatomise his own mind, and trace every film of its histology. squire mockham would have laughed any one to scorn, who had dared to suggest, that in the process of his brain, there was any connexion of the frills in jemmy's drawer with the blacksmith's description of what he had seen; and yet without his knowledge, it may even have been so. but whatever his opinion on the subject was, he did not refuse to see this young friend; although he was entertaining guests, and the evening was now far advanced. fox was shown into the library, by a very pale footman, who glanced at the visitor, as if he feared instant dissection, and evidently longed to lock him in. "is it come to this already?" thought poor fox. "excuse me for not asking you to join us in there," mr. mockham began rather stiffly, as he pointed to the dining-room; "but i thought you might wish to see me privately." "i care not how it is. i have come to you, as a magistrate, and--and--" "an old friend of the family," was what he meant to say, but substituted--"as a gentleman, and a sensible and clear-sighted one, to receive my deposition on oath, concerning the wicked lies spread abroad about me." "of what use will it be? the proper course is for you to wait, till the other side move in the matter; and then prove your innocence, if possible; and then proceed against them." "that is to say, i am to lie, for six months, perhaps twelve months, under this horrible imputation, and be grateful for escaping at last from it! i see that even you are half inclined to think me guilty." "all this to a magistrate is quite improper. it happens that i have resolved not to act, to take no share in any proceedings that may follow; on account of my acquaintance with your family. but that you could not know, until i told you. i am truly sorry for you; but you must even bear it." "you say that so calmly, because you think i deserve it. now as you are not going to act in the matter, and have referred to your friendship with my family, i will tell you a little thing in confidence, which will prove to you at once that i am innocent--that i never could by any possibility have done it." before mr. mockham could draw back, the visitor had whispered a few words in his ear, which entirely changed the whole expression of his face. "well, i am surprised! i had no idea of it. how could that fool crang have made such a mistake? but i saw from first how absurd it was, to listen to such fellows. i refused to give a warrant. i said that no connexion could be shown, between the two occurrences. how strange that i should have hit the mark so well! but i seem to have that luck generally. well, i am pleased, for your dear mother's sake, as well as your own, master jemmy. there may be a lot of trouble; but you must keep your heart up, and the winning card is yours. after all, what a thing it is to be a doctor!" "not so very fine, unless your nature drives you into it. and everybody thinks you make the worst of him, to exalt your blessed self. so they came for a warrant against me, did they? is it lawful to ask who they were?" "to be sure it is, my boy. everybody has a right to that piece of information. tapscott was the man that came to swear--strong reason for believing, etc., with two or three witnesses, all from your parish; crang among the others, hauled in by the neck, and each foremost in his own opinion. but crang wanted to be last, for he kept on shouting, that if he had to swear against doctor jemmy, the lord would know that he never meant it. this of course made it all the worse for your case; and every one was grieved, yet gratified. you are too young to know the noise, which the newspapers begin to call 'public opinion,'--worth about as much as a blue-bottle's buzz, and as eager to pitch upon nastiness. i refused a warrant--as my duty was. even if the blacksmith's tale was true--and there was no doubt that he believed it--what legal connexion could they show betwixt that, and the matter at the churchyard? in a case of urgency, and risk of disappearance of the suspected person, i might have felt bound to grant it. but i knew that you would stand it out; and unless they could show any others implicated, their application was premature." "then, unless you had ventured to stem the i tide, i suppose that i should have been arrested, when i came back to-day from my father's sick-bed. a pretty state of law, in this free country!" "the law is not to blame. it must act promptly, in cases of strong suspicion. probably they will apply to-morrow, to some younger magistrate. but your father is ill? how long have you been with him? they made a great deal out of your disappearance." "my father has had a paralytic stroke. i trust that he will get over it; and i have left him in excellent hands. but to hear of this would kill him. his mind is much weakened, of course; and he loves me. i had no idea that he cared much for me. i thought he only cared for my sister." "excuse me for a moment. i must go to my guests;" mr. mockham perceived that the young man was overcome for the moment, and would rather be alone. "i will make it all right with them, and be back directly." fox was an active, and resolute young fellow, with great powers of endurance, as behoved a man of medicine. honest indignation, and strong sense of injustice, had stirred up his energy for some hours; but since last thursday night he had slept very little, and the whole waking time had been worry and exertion. so that now when he was left alone, and had no foe to fire at, bodily weariness began to tell upon him, and he fell back in an easy chair into a peaceful slumber. when the guests had all departed, and the magistrate came back, he stopped short for a moment, with a broad smile on his face, and felt proud of his own discretion, in refusing to launch any criminal process against this trustful visitor. for the culprit of the outcry looked so placid, gentle, good-natured, and forgiving--with the natural expression restored by deep oblivion--that a woman would have longed to kiss his forehead, if she had known of his terrible mishap. "i have brought you a little drop of cordial, master jemmy. i am sure you must want something good, to keep you up." mr. mockham put a spirit-stand and glass upon the table, as fox arose, and shook himself. "that is very kind of you. but i never take spirits, though i prescribe them sometimes for old folk when much depressed. but a glass of your old port wine, sir, would help me very much--if i am not giving you a lot of trouble." "you shall have a glass, almost as good as your father has given me. there it is! how sorry i am to hear about his illness! but i will do what he would have wished. i will talk to you as a friend, and one who knows the world better than you can. first, however, you must forgive me, for my vile suspicions. they were founded partly on your good mother's account of your early doings. and i have known certain instances of the zeal of your profession, how in the name of science and the benefits to humanity--but i won't go on about that just now. the question is, how shall we clear you to the world? the fact that i doubted you, is enough to show what others are likely to conclude. unluckily the story has had three days' start, and has fallen upon fruitful ground. your brother doctors about here are doing their best to clench the nail"--mr. mockham, like almost everybody else, was apt to mix metaphors in talking--"by making lame excuses for you, instead of attempting to deny it." "such fellows as jervis jackson, i suppose. several of them hate me, because i am not a humbug. perhaps they will get up a testimonial to me, for fear there should be any doubt of my guilt." "that is the very thing they talk of doing. how well you understand them, my young friend! now, what have you to show, against this general conclusion? for of course you cannot mention what you confessed to me." "i can just do this--i can prove an alibi. you forget that i can show where i have been, and prove the receipt of the letter, which compelled me to leave home. surely that will convince everybody, who has a fair mind. and for the rest, what do i care?" "i don't see exactly what to say to that." mr. mockham was beginning to feel tired also, after going through all his best stories to his guests. "but what says cicero, or some other fellow that old dr. richards used to drive into my skin? 'to neglect what everyone thinks of oneself, is the proof not only of an arrogant, but even of a dissolute man.' you are neither of these. you must contend with it, and confound your foes; or else run away. and upon the whole, as you don't belong here, but up the country--as we call it--and your father wants your attention, the wisest thing you can do is, to bolt." "would you do that, if it were your own case?" fox had not much knowledge of squire mockham, except as a visitor at his father's house; and whether he should respect, or despise him, depended upon the answer. "i would see them all d----d first;" the magistrate replied, looking as if he would be glad to do it; "but that is because i am a devonshire man. you are over the border; and not to be blamed." "well, there are some things one cannot get over," dr. jemmy answered, with a pleasant smile; "and the worst of them all is, to be born outside of devon. if i had been of true devonshire birth, i believe you would never have held me guilty." "others may take that view; but i do not;" said the magistrate very magnanimously. "it would have been better for you, no doubt. but we are not narrow-minded. and your mother was a devonshire woman, connected with our oldest families. no, no, the question is now of evidence; and the law does not recognise the difference. the point is--to prove that you were really away." "outside the holy county, where this outrage was committed? foxden is thirty miles from perlycross, even by the shortest cuts, and nearer thirty-five, to all who are particular about good roads. i was at my father's bed-side, some minutes before ten o'clock, on saturday morning." "that is not enough to show. we all know in common sense, that the ride would have taken at least four hours. probably more, over those bad roads, in the darkness of a november morning. the simplest thing will be for you to tell me the whole of your movements, on the night of this affair." "that i will, as nearly as i can remember; though i had no reason then, for keeping any special record. to begin with--i was at the funeral of course, and saw you there, but did not cross over to speak to you. then i walked home to the old barn where i live, which stands as you know at the foot of hagdon hill. it was nearly dark then, perhaps half-past five; and i felt out of spirits, and sadly cut up, for i was very fond of sir thomas. i sat thinking of him for an hour or so; and then i changed my clothes for riding togs, and had a morsel of cold beef and a pipe, and went to look for the boy that brings my letters; for old walker, the postman, never comes near the barn. there was no sign of the boy, so i saddled _old rock_--for my man was 'keeping funeral' still, as they express it--and i rode to north-end, the furthest corner of the parish, to see to a little girl, who has had a dangerous attack of croup. then i crossed maiden down by the gravel-pits, to see an old stager at old bait, who abuses me every time, and expects a shilling. then homewards through priestwell, and knocked at gronow's door, having a general permission to come in at night. but he was not at home, or did not want to be disturbed; so i lost very little time by that. it must have been now at least nine o'clock, with the moon in the south-west, and getting very cold; but i had managed to leave my watch on the drawers, when i pulled my mourning clothes off. "from priestwell, i came back to perlycross, and was going straight home to see about my letters--for i knew that my father had been slightly out of sorts, when i saw a man waiting at the cross-roads for me, to say that i was wanted at the whetstone-pits; for a man had tumbled down a hole, and broken both his legs. without asking the name, i put spurs to _old rock_, and set off at a spanking pace for the whetstone-pits, expecting to find the foreman there, to show me where it was. it is a long roundabout way from our village, at least, for any one on horseback, though not more than three miles perhaps in a straight line, because you have to go all round the butt of hagdon hill, which no one would think of riding over in the dark. i should say it must be five miles at least, from our cross-roads." "every yard of that distance," says the magistrate, who was following the doctor's tale intently, and making notes in his pocket-book; "five miles at least, and road out of repair. your parish ought to be indicted." "very well. _old rock_ was getting rather tired. a better horse never looked through a bridle; but he can't be less than sixteen years of age. my father had him eight years, and i have had him three; and even for a man with both legs broken, i could not drive a willing horse to death. however, we let no grass grow beneath our feet; and dark as the lanes were, and wonderfully rough, even for this favoured county, i got to the pit at the corner of the hill, as soon as a man could get there, without breaking his neck." "in that case he never would get there at all." "perhaps not. or at least, not in working condition. well, you know what a queer sort of place it is. i had been there before, about a year ago. but then it was daylight; and that makes all the difference. i am not so very fidgetty where i go, when i know that a man is in agony; but how to get along there in the dark, with the white grit up to my horse's knees, and black pines barring out the moonshine, was--i don't mind confessing it--a thing beyond me. and the strangest thing of all was, that nobody came near me. i had the whole place to myself; so far as i could see--and i did not want it. "i sat on _old rock_; and i had to sit close; for the old beauty's spirit was up, in spite of all his weariness. his hunting days came to his memory perhaps; and you should have seen how he jumped about. at the risk of his dear old bones of course; but a horse is much pluckier than we are. what got into his old head, who shall say? but i failed to see the fun of it, as he did. there was all the white stuff, that comes out of the pits, like a great cascade of diamonds, glittering in the level moonlight, with broad bars of black thrown across it by the pines, all trembling, and sparkling, and seeming to move. "those things tell upon a man somehow, and he seems to have no right to disturb them. but i felt that i was not brought here for nothing, and began to get vexed at seeing nobody. so i set up a shout, with a hand to my mouth, and then a shrill whistle between my nails. the echo came back, very punctually; but nothing else, except a little gliding of the shale, and shivering of black branches. then i jumped off my horse, and made him fast to a tree, and scrambled along the rough bottom of the hill. "there are eight pits on the south side, and seven upon the north, besides the three big ones at the west end of the hill, which are pretty well worked out, according to report. their mouths are pretty nearly at a level, about a hundred and fifty feet below the chine of hill. but the tumbledown--i forget what the proper name is--the excavated waste, that comes down, like a great beard, to the foot where the pine-trees stop it--" "_brekkles_ is their name for it;" interrupted mr. mockham; "_brekkles_, or _brokkles_--i am not sure which. you know they are a colony of cornishmen." "yes, and a strange outlandish lot, having nothing to do with the people around, whenever they can help it. it is useless for any man to seek work there. they push him down the brekkles--if that is what they call them. however, they did not push me down, although i made my way up to the top, when i had shouted in vain along the bottom. i could not get up the stuff itself; i knew better than to make the trial. but i circumvented them at the further end; and there i found a sort of terrace, where a cart could get along from one pit-mouth to another. and from mouth to mouth, i passed along this rough and stony gallery, under the furzy crest of hill, without discovering a sign of life, while the low moon across the broad western plains seemed to look up, rather than down at me. into every black pit-mouth, broad or narrow, bratticed with timber or arched with flint, i sent a loud shout, but the only reply was like the dead murmuring of a shell. and yet all the time, i felt somehow, as if i were watched by invisible eyes, as a man upon a cliff is observed from the sea. "this increased my anger, which was rising at the thought that some one had made a great fool of me; and forgetting all the ludicrous side of the thing--as a man out of temper is apt to do--i mounted the most conspicuous pile at the end of the hill, and threw up my arms, and shouted to the moon, 'is this the way to treat a doctor?' "the distant echoes answered--'doctor! doctor!' as if they were conferring a degree upon me; and that made me laugh, and grow rational again, and resolved to have one more try, instead of giving in. so i climbed upon a ridge, where i could see along the chine, through patches of white among the blackness of the furze; and in the distance there seemed to be a low fire smouldering. for a moment i doubted about going on, for i have heard that these people are uncommonly fierce, with any one they take for a spy upon them; and here i was entirely at their mercy. but whenever i have done a cowardly thing, i have always been miserable afterwards; and so i went cautiously forward towards the fire, with a sharp look-out, and my hunting-crop ready. suddenly a man rose in front of me, almost as if he jumped out of the ground, a wild-looking fellow, stretching out both arms. i thought i was in for a nasty sort of fight, and he seemed a very ugly customer. but he only stepped back, and made some enquiry, so far as i could gather from his tone, for his words were beyond my intelligence. "then i told him who i was, and what had brought me there; and he touched his rough hat, and seemed astonished. he had not the least difficulty in making out my meaning; but i could not return the compliment. 'naw hoort along o' yussen'--was his nearest approach to english; which i took to mean--'no accident among us;' and i saw by his gestures that he meant this. in spite of some acquaintance with the mendip miners, and pretty fair mastery of their brogue, this whetstoner went beyond my linguistic powers, and i was naturally put out with him. especially when in reply to my conclusion that i had been made a fool of, he answered 'yaw, yaw,' as if the thing was done with the greatest ease, and must be familiar to me. but, in his rough style, he was particularly civil, as if he valued our profession, and was sorry that any one should play with it. he seemed to have nothing whatever to conceal; and so far as i could interpret, he was anxious to entertain me as his guest, supposing that time permitted it. but i showed him where my horse was, and he led me to him by a better way, and helped me with him, and declined the good shilling which i offered him. this made me consider him a superior sort of fellow; though to refuse a shilling shows neglected education. "when i got back to the ancient barn--as i call my place, because it is in reality nothing else--it was two o'clock in the morning, and all my authorities were locked in slumber. george was on a truss of hay up in the tallat, making more noise than perle-weir in a flood, although with less melody in it; and old betty was under her 'mark, luke, and john'--as they called the four-poster, when one is gone. so i let them 'bide, as you would say; gave _old rock_ a mash myself, because he was coughing; and went in pretty well tired, i can assure you, to get a bit of bread and cheese, and then embrace the downy. "but there on my table was a letter from my mother; which i ought to have received before i started; but the funeral had even thrown the post out, it appears. i don't believe that my boy was at all to blame. but you know what walker the postman is, when anything of interest is moving. he simply stands still, to see the end of it; sounding his horn every now and again, to show his right to look over other folk's heads. every one respects him, because he walks so far. thirty miles a day, by his own account; but it must be eighteen, even when he gets no beer." "a worthy old soul!" said the magistrate. "and he had a lot of troubles, last winter. nobody likes to complain, on that account. he is welcome to get his peck of nuts upon the road, and to sell them next day at pumpington, to eke out his miserable wages. but this is an age of progress; and a strict line must be drawn some where. the post is important sometimes, as you know; though we pay so many eightpences, for nothing. why, my friends were saying, only this very evening, that walker must submit henceforth to a rule to keep him out of the coppices. when he once gets there, all his sense of time is gone. and people are now so impatient." "but the nutting-time is over, and he has not that excuse. he must have been four hours late on friday, and no doubt he was as happy as ever. but to me it would have made all the difference; for i should have started that evening for foxden. my mother's letter begged me to come at once; for she feared that my father would never speak again. there had been some little trifles between us; as i don't mind telling you, who are acquainted with the family. no doubt i was to blame; and you may suppose, how much i was cut up by this sad news. it was folly to start in that tangle of cross-lanes, with the moon gone down, and my horse worn out. i threw myself down upon my bed, and sobbed, as i thought of all the best parts of the governor. "what a fool a man is, when a big blow falls upon him. for two or three hours, i must have lain like that, as if all the world were in league against me, and nothing to be done but feel helpless, and rebel. i knew that there was no horse near the place, to be hired for the ride to foxden, even if the owner could be fetched out of his bed. and all the time, i was forgetting the young mare that i had bought about a month ago--a sweet little thing, but not thoroughly broken, and i did not mean to use her much, until the spring. she was loose in a straw-run at the top of my home-meadow, with a nice bit of aftermath still pretty fresh, and a feed of corn at night, which i generally took to her myself. now she came to the gate, and whinnied for me, because she had been forgotten; and hearing the sound i went downstairs, and lit a lantern to go to the corn-bin. but she had better have gone without her supper, for i said to myself--why not try her? it was a long way for a young thing just off grass; but if only she would take me to the great london road, i might hire on, if she became distressed. "of course i went gently and carefully at first, for i found her a little raw and bridle-shy; but she carried me beautifully, when the daylight came, and would have gone like a bird, if i had let her. she will make a rare trotter, in my opinion, and i only gave fifteen pounds for her. i would not look at fifty now, after the style she brought me back--a mouth like a french kid-glove, and the kindest of the kind." "you deserve a good horse, because you treat them well, jemmy. but what about your good father?" "well, sir, thank god, he is in no danger now; but he must be kept very quiet. if he were to hear of this lying tale, it might be fatal to him. and even my mother must not know it. your exeter paper never goes that way; but the bristol ones might copy it. my only sister, christie, is a wonderful girl, very firm, and quick, and sensible. some say that she has got more sense than i have; though i don't quite see it. i shall write to her to-morrow, just to put her upon guard, with a line for dr. freeborn too--my father's old friend and director, who knows exactly how to treat him. what a rage they will be in, when they hear of this! but they will keep it as close as a limpet. now what do you advise me to do, about myself?" "you must look it in the face, like a man, of course; though it is enough to sour you for life almost, after all your good works among the poor." "no fear of that, sir. it is the way of the world. 'fair before fierce' is my family motto; and i shall try to act up to it. though i daresay my temper will give out sometimes, especially with brother pill-box." "you take it much better than i should, i fear;" mr. mockham spoke the truth in this; "you know that i will do my utmost for you; and if you keep your head, you will tide over this, and be the idol of all who have abused you--i mean, who have abused you honestly. you seem to have solid stuff inside you, as is natural to your father's son. but it will take a lot out of your life; and it seems very hard upon a fine young fellow. especially after what you have told me. things will be very black there; as you must see." "certainly they will. but i am not a boy. i know a noble nature, when i come across it. and if ever there was--but i won't go on with that. if she believes in me, i am content, whatever the low world may say. i have never been romantic." "i am not at all sure of that, my boy. but i felt that sort of wildness, before i was married. now let me put one or two questions to you; just to get up your case, as if i was your counsel. did any of your people at the old barn see you, after your return from the whetstone pits?" "not one, to my knowledge. my household is small, in that ramshackle place. old betty upstairs, and george over the stables, and the boy who goes home to his mother at night. i have only those three in the domestic line, except upon great occasions. old betty was snoring in her bed, george doing the like upon a truss of hay, and the boy of course off the premises. they must have found in the morning that i had been there, but without knowing when, or how long i stayed." "that is most unlucky. did you pass near the church? did you meet any people who would know you, anywhere between midnight and morning?" "neither man, woman, nor child did i see, from the time i left the whetstone hill, until i passed perlycombe next morning. it was either too late, or too early, for our very quiet folk to be stirring." "bad again. very bad. you cannot show your whereabouts, during any part of the critical time. i suppose you would know the man on the whetstone hill; but that was too early to help you much. the man at the cross-roads--would you know him?" "not to be certain. he kept in the shadow, and spoke as if he were short of breath. and the message was so urgent, that i never stopped to examine him." "very little comfort anywhere. is it usual for dr. gronow to be from home at night?" mr. mockham put this question abruptly, and pronounced the doctor's name, as if he did not love him. "not very usual. but i have known it happen. he is wild about fishing, though he cannot fish a bit; and he sometimes goes late to his night-lines." "he would scarcely have night-lines laid in november, however big a poacher he may be. betwixt you and me, jemmy, in the very strictest confidence, i believe he is at the bottom of all this." "i will answer for it, that he is not. in the first place, he is a gentleman, though rough in his manners, and very odd. and again he had no motive--none whatever. he has given up his practice, and cares more for walton and cotton, than for all the hunterian museum. and he knew, as well as i do, the nature of the case. no, sir, you must not suspect him for a moment." "well, then it must be that man--i forget his name--who was staying with mr. penniloe. a very sarcastic, unpleasant fellow, as several people said who spoke to him. he would take good care to leave no trace. he looked as crafty as old nick himself. it will never be found out, if that man did it. no, no, jemmy, don't attempt to argue. it must be one of you three. it is neither you, nor gronow; then it must be that harrison gowler." chapter xiii. the law of the land. one comfort there was among all this trouble, and terror, and perplexity--little _jess_ was not dead, as reported; nor even inclined to die, just at present. it was true that she had been horribly slashed with a spade, or shovel, or whatever it might have been; and had made her way home on three legs by slow stages, and perhaps with many a fainting fit. but when she had brought her evil tidings, and thrown down her staunch little frame to die, at the spot where she was wont to meet her master, it happened that mr. sharland crossed the garden from the stables. this was a veterinary surgeon, full of skill, and large of heart, awake to the many pangs he caused in systems finer than the human, and pitiful to the drooping head, and the legs worn out in man's service. in a moment he had gathered up the story of poor _jess_, and he said, "if any dog deserves to be saved, it is this faithful little dear." then he pulled off his coat, and tucked up his sleeves, and pronounced with a little pomposity--for a good man should make his impression-- "deep cut across the humerus. compound fracture of the ulna. will never do much with that limb again. but if the little thing is only half as sagacious as she is faithful, and pyretic action does not supervene, we shall save her life; and it is worth saving." _jess_ licked his hand, as if she understood it all, and resigned herself to human wisdom. and now she had a sweet bed in a basket, airy and buoyant, yet proof against cold draughts; and there she was delighted to receive old friends, with a soft look of gratitude in large black eyes, and a pretty little quiver of the tail too wise to wag, for fear of arousing their anxiety. _pixie_, the pug, had many qualms of jealousy, as well as some pangs of deep interest--for what dog, however healthy, could feel certain in his heart that he might not be reduced to the same condition? and he was apt to get a human kick, when he pressed his kind enquiries. but upon the loftier level of anthropic interests, less of harmony prevailed, and more of hot contention. the widowed lady of the house had felt her loss intensely; and with the deeper pain, because her generous nature told her of many a time when she had played a part a little over the duty of a loyal wife. her strong will, and rather imperious style, and widely different view-point, had sometimes caused slight disagreements between the spanish lady and the english squire; and now she could not claim the pleasure of having waived herself to please him. but she had the sorrow of recalling how often she had won the victory, and pushed it to the utmost, and how seldom she had owned herself in the wrong, even when she had perceived it. a kinder and a nobler husband no woman was ever blessed with; and having lost him, how could she help disparaging every other man, as a tribute to his memory? even with her daughter inez, she was frequently provoked, when she saw the tears of filial love, or heard the unconsidered sigh. "what is her loss, compared with mine?" "but for this child, he would have loved me more." "shallow young creature, like a tinkling zither--she will start a new tune, in a week or two." such were her thoughts; but she kept them to herself, and was angry with herself for forming them. so it may be supposed, what her fury was, or rather her boundless and everlasting rage, when she heard of the miscreant villainy, which could not long be concealed from her. her favourite maid, tamar haddon, was the one who first let fall an unwary word; and that young woman received a shock, which ought to have disciplined her tongue for life. with a gaze, and a gesture, there was no withstanding, her mistress tore out of her everything she knew, and then with a power of self-control which few men could have equalled, she ordered the terrified damsel away, and sat down alone, to think miserably. how long she stayed thus, was unknown to any; for tamar made off with all speed to her room, and was seized with a fit of hysterics. but the lady's only movement was to press one hand upon her labouring heart. by and by she rose, and unlocked the door of her little oratory--a place not very often favoured with her presence. there she took down a crucifix of ivory--not the indian, but the african, which hardens and whitens with the lapse of years, though green at first, as truth is--and she set it upon a velvet shelf, and looked at it without much reverence. in the stormy times, when spain was writhing under the heel of an infidel, her daughters lost their religious grounding, and gained fierce patriotism. "my country is my god," was a copy set in schools. at first she looked with scorn and pity at such meek abandonment. what had her will and heart to do with mild submission, drooping head, and brow of wan benignity? but the sculptor had told more than that. he had filled the sufferer's face with love, and thrilled the gaze of death with sweet celestial compassion. so well had the human hand conveyed the tender heart of heaven. the sting of mortal injuries began to grow less venomous. the rancorous glare was compelled to soften, and suffused with quivering tears. she had come to have a curse attested, and a black vow sanctified; but earthly wrong and human wrath were quelled before the ruth of heaven, and conquest of the tortured one. she fell upon her knees, and laid her hands upon the spike-torn feet; and her face became that of a stricken woman, devoted to sorrow, but not to hate. how long this higher influence would last is quite another point, especially with a woman. but it proved at least that she was not altogether narrow, and hard, and arrogant. then she went to her bed, and wept for hours; and perhaps her reason was saved thereby. at any rate her household, which had been in wretched panic, was saved from the fearful outburst, and the timid cast-up of their wages. on the following morning, she was calm, at least to all outward semblance, and said not a word to any one of the shock she had suffered yesterday. but as soon as business-time allowed, she sent for mr. webber, the most active member of the steady firm, in which her husband had placed confidence. he was good enough to come at once, although, as he told his nervous wife, he would have preferred an interview with the lioness, who had just escaped from a travelling menagerie. but like all other terrors, when confronted, this proved tolerably docile; and upon his return he described this foreign lady's majestic beauty, and angelic fortitude, in warmer terms than his wife thought needful over his own mahogany. after recounting all he knew, and being heard with patience, he had taken instructions which he thought sagacious and to the purpose, for they were chiefly of his own suggestion. now this mr. webber was a shrewd, as well as a very upright man, but of rather hasty temperament, and in many of his conclusions led astray, without the least suspicion of it, by prejudices and private feelings. one of his favourite proverbs was--"a straw will show how the wind blows;" and the guiding straw for him was prone to float on the breath of his own favour. although he knew little of dr. fox, he was partly prepared to think ill of him, according to the following inclination. waldron webber, the lawyer's eldest son, and godson of the brave sir thomas, had shown no capacity for the law, and little for anything else, except a good thumb for the gallipots. good friends said--"what a doctor he will make!" and his excellent mother perceived the genius, and felt how low it would be to lament that such gifts were seldom lucrative, till half the life is over. so the second son took to the ruler, and the elder to the pestle, instruments of equal honour, but of different value. and waldron, although his kind father had bought him a snug little practice at perlycombe, was nibbling at the bottom of the bag at home, while his brother cast in at the top of it. why was this? simply because young fox, the heir of a wealthy family, had taken it into his wicked head to drop down from the clouds at perlycross. it was true that he had bought a practice there; but his predecessor had been a decent fellow, observing the rules of the profession. if a man could not pay for it, let him not be ill; or at any rate go to the workhouse, and be done for in the lump. but this interloper was addicted to giving tick unlimited, or even remission of all charges, and a cure--when nature would not be denied--without the patient paying for it, if he had no money. one thing was certain--this could not last long. but meanwhile a doctor of common sense was compelled to appeal to his parents. "all cannot be right," mr. webber senior had observed with emphasis, when he heard the same tale from his son's bosom friend, jervis jackson of perliton; "there are certain rules, my dear, essential to the existence of all sound professions; and one of the most fundamental is, to encourage nobody who cannot pay. this fox must be a sadly radical young man, though his family is most respectable. mischief will come of it, in my firm opinion." the mischief was come, and in a darker form than the soundest lawyer could anticipate. mr. webber lamented it; and his wife (who had seen jemmy waltzing at a taunton ball with one of her pretty daughters, and been edified with castles in the air) lifted up her hands, and refused to listen to it; until she thought of her dear son. "if it is the will of god," she said, "we must accept it, theodore." but this resignation is not enough for an attorney with a criminal case in hand. lady waldron had urged despatch; and he knew that she was not to be trifled with. he had taken the blacksmith's deposition, which began as if his head were on the anvil, as well as farmer john's, and channing's, and that of mr. jakes the schoolmaster. and now it was come to monday night; and nothing had been heard of fox. but it was not so easy to know what to do. there was no police-force as yet to be invoked with certainty of some energy, and the bow-street-runners, as they were called--possibly because they never ran--had been of no service in such cases, even when induced to take them up. recourse must be had to the ancient gear of magistrate and constable; for to move any higher authorities would require time and travel. strong suspicion there might be, but no strong chain of evidence; for no connexion could be established (whatever might be the inference) between the occurrence at susscot and the sacrilege at perlycross. moreover, our ancient laws are generally rough, and brisk, and able-bodied to stick out bravely for the purse, but leave the person to defend itself. if it cannot do this after death, let it settle the question with its maker; for it cannot contribute to the realm, and belongs to the resurrection. this larger view of the matter will explain to the live content how it came to pass that the legislature (while providing, for the healthy use of anatomy, the thousands of criminal bodies despatched for the good of their choicer brethren) failed to perceive any duty towards those who departed this life in the fear of god, after paying their rates and taxes, for the term prescribed by heavenly statute. in a word, when the wicked began to fall short--through clemency human or divine--no man of the highest respectability could make sure of what he left behind. only, by the ancient common law, to dig him up again, without a faculty, was indictable as a misdemeanour. mr. webber was familiar with all these truths, and obliged to be careful of their import. if the theft of a sheep could be brought home to fox, the proceeding would have been more simple, and the penalties far heavier. but, for his enemies, the social outrage was the thing to look at. as it stood, there was small chance yet of saddling the culprit with legal guilt; nevertheless if the tide of general opinion set against him, even the noblest medical science must fail to make head against it. and the first step was to give some public form to the heinous accusation, without risk of enormous damages. hence the application to mr. mockham, under the name of tapscott, as before related, and justly refused by that magistrate. mr. webber of course did not appear, nor allow his name to be quoted, knowing how small the prospect was of the issue of a warrant. but his end was gained, for all who were present--including the magistrate himself--left the place with dark and strong suspicion against the absent doctor. the question was certain now to be taken up by county journals; whereupon the accused might well be trusted to do something foolish, even if nothing more were learned from the stealthy watch kept on him. there was much to justify this view; for fox did many foolish things, and even committed blunders, such as none but the sagest of the sage could avoid in his position. he was young, and hot of blood, and raging at the sweet readiness of his friends--as such dastards dared to call themselves--to accept the wicked charge against him, on such worthless evidence. now was the time for any generous nature to assert itself; for any one with a grain of faith, or even of common charity, to look him in the face, and grasp his hand, and exclaim with honest anger--"not a word of those cursed lies do i believe. you are an honest fellow, jemmy, whatever skulks and sneaks may say; and if any one says it in my presence, down he goes like a dabchick." did any one do this, of all who had been so much obliged to him, or even of those who without that had praised him in his prosperous days, and been proud of his acquaintance? it made his young heart cold with bitterness, and his kind eyes flash with scorn, when even young fellows of healthy nature, jovial manners, and careless spirit, spied something of deepest interest across the road, as he came by; or favoured him with a distant nod, and a passing--"how doo, doctor?" perhaps with an emphasis on the title, suggestive of dissection. it was enough to sour any man of even bright intelligence, and fair discrimination; for large indeed is the heart of him, and heavenly his nature, who does not judge of his brethren, by their behaviour to this brother. yet there were some few, who did behave to this poor brother, as if they had heard of the name of christ, or deserved, in a way, to do so. these were the very poor, who feel some gratitude for kindness; because it comes not as a right, but a piece of rare luck to them. "'tis nort to i, what the lad hath dooed, and i'll never belave a' dooed it. if it worn't for he, our little johnny would be in churchyard, instead of 's cot." so spake one or two; and if the reasoning was unsound, why then, so much the worse for reason. but a fine young farmer, of the name of gilham (a man who worked hard for his widowed mother, at the north west end of the parish) came forward like a brave englishman, and left no doubt about his opinion. this young man was no clod-hopper; but had been at a latin school, founded by a great high-priest of the muses in the woollen line, and worthy of the _infula_. gilham had shown some aptness there, and power in the resurrection of languages, called dead by those who would have no life without them. his farm was known as the "white post," because it began with a grand old proof of the wisdom of our ancestors. upon the mighty turnpike road from london even to devonport, no trumpery stick of foreign fir, but a massive column of british oak had been erected in solid times, for the benefit of wayfarers. if a couple of them had been hanged there, as tradition calmly said of them, it was only because they stopped the others, and owed them this enlightenment. frank gilham knew little of doctor fox, and had never swallowed physic; which may have had something to do perhaps with his genial view of the subject. "a man is a man," he said to his mother, as if she were an expert in the matter; "and fox rides as straight as any man i ever saw, when his horse has not done too much parish-work. what should i do, if people went against me like this, and wouldn't even stand up to their own lies? that old john horner is a pompous ass; and crang loses his head with a young horse, by daylight. where would his wits be, pulled out of bed at night, with a resurrection-man standing over him? i am thoroughly ashamed of the parish, mother; and though some of our land is under lady waldron, i shall go and see fox, and stick up for him." so he did; and though he was a younger man than jemmy, and made no pretence of even offering advice, his love of fair play, and fine healthy courage, were more than a houseful of silver and gold, or a legion of soldiers direct from heaven. chapter xiv. reasoning without reason. one of the most unlucky things, that could befall an unlucky man, in the hour of tribulation, had befallen that slandered fox; to wit the helpless condition of the leading spirit, and most active head, in the troubled parish of perlycross. mr. penniloe was mending slowly; but his illness had been serious, and the violent chill in a low state of health had threatened to cause inflammation of the lungs. to that it would have led, there can be little doubt, but for the opportune return of fox, and the speedy expulsion of jackson. now the difficulty was to keep the curate quiet; and his great anxiety to get to work prolonged the disability, even as a broken arm in splinters is not likely to do without them, while the owner works a pump. the doctor caught his patient, on the friday morning, groping his way through the long dark tunnel which underran the rectory, and just emerging, with crafty triumph, into the drive by his own main gate. thyatira was gone to jakes the butcher, after locking the front door and carrying off the key. the parson looked miserably thin and wan, but proud of this successful sortie. he was dressed as if for action in his sunday clothes, though tottering on his black-varnished stick; while his tortoise-shell eyeglass upon its watered ribbon dangled across his shrunken chest. but suddenly all his scheme collapsed. "ah, ah, ah!" he began with his usual exclamation, while his delicate face fell sadly, and his proud simper waned into a nervous smile; "fine morning, fox; i hope you are quite well--pleasant morning for a walk." "it may be pleasant," returned the doctor, trying to look most awful; "but like many other pleasant things it is wrong. will you do me the honour to take my arm?" fox hooked the baffled parson by the elbow, and gently led him towards his own front door, guilty-looking, sadly smiling, striving vainly to walk as if he were fit to contest a hurdle-race. but the cup of his shame was not full yet. "oh sir, oh!" exclaimed mrs. muggridge, rushing in from the street with a dish of lamb's fry reposing among its parsley. "i never would have believed it, sir, if an angel was to speak the words. to think that he have come to this!" "she refers to my moral condition, i fear;" mr. penniloe held his head down, while the key he had thought to elude was used to restore him to safer durance. "well perhaps i was wrong; but i only meant to go a very short way, i assure you; only as far as the spot where my dear old friend is sleeping." "what a blessing as we caught you, sir!" cried the impulsive muggridge; while her master looked up in sharp wonder, and the doctor frowned at her clumsiness. "not to the repairs, sir? oh come, come, come!" jemmy cut in rapidly, with this attractive subject. "no, not even to the repairs, or i might even say--the arrest of ruin. without the generosity of my dear friend, we never should have achieved so much for the glory of--i will not speak proudly--for the doing up of our old church. those who should have been foremost--but no doubt they had good reason for buttoning up their pockets. comparatively, i mean, comparatively; for they really did give something. possibly, all that they could afford." "or all they thought they couldn't help. it was very hard upon them, sir. but you are getting into a rebellious humour. sit down by the fire, and allow me to examine you." "i will carry my rebellion further," said the invalid, after sitting down. "i know how kind you have been to me, kinder by far than i ever could deserve. and i believe it was the goodness of the lord that delivered me from jackson. he meant well; but he can not be positive whether the lungs should be higher up, or deeper down than the liver. i have been examined, and examiner as well, at oxford, and in some public schools; but the question has never arisen; and i felt myself unable to throw any light on it. still it struck me that he ought to know, as a properly qualified medical man." "no, sir, no. that is quite a trifle. that should never have lessened your confidence in him." dr. fox spoke so gravely, that mr. penniloe was angry with his own inside. "well, after all, the mind and soul are the parts that we should study. i see that i have wronged poor jackson, and i will apologise. but what i have to say to you is this--even if i am not to take a walk, i must be allowed some communication with people of the parish. i have no idea what is going on. i am isolated as if i had the plague, or the cholera of three years ago. let me see channing, or jakes, or mr. horner, or even robson adney." "in a day or two, sir. you are getting stronger fast; and we must not throw you back. you must have a little patience. not a service has been missed; and you can do no good." "that may be true," said the parson with a sigh. "unhappily they always tell me that; but it does not absolve me. all my duties are neglected now. three pupils, and not a lesson have i heard them. how can that new boy get on without me? a very odd youth, from all that i am told. he will require much attention. no, no, it will never do, fox. i know how kind everybody has been, in doing with only one sermon; and the lord has provided an uncommonly good man. but i feel as if there was something wrong. i am sure you are hiding something from me. i am not allowed to see anybody; and even fay looks odd sometimes, as if the others were puzzling her. and the pupils too must have heard of something bad; for poor little michael has been forbidden to talk to any of them. what is it? it would hurt me less to know, than to keep on wondering, and probably imagine it worse than it is. and good or bad for my bodily health, my first duty is not to myself, but to those entrusted to me." mr. penniloe had spoken with more excitement than he often showed when in his usual health, and the doctor had observed it with some alarm. but he had long foreseen that this must come; and it might come in a more abrupt and dangerous manner, when he was out of reach. so he made up his mind at once, and spoke without further hesitation. "yes, sir, a most disgraceful thing has happened in this parish; and it is better perhaps that you should know it, than be kept in the dark any longer. but you must not be angry with me, though i have given all the orders which puzzled you. it was not for my own sake, you may be sure; for god only knows how much i have longed for your advice in this miserable affair. and yet, before i tell you, you must promise to do nothing whatever about it, for at least three days. by that time you will be yourself again, if we can keep you quiet, and if you take this sad blow with your usual strength of mind--and piety." the parson began to tremble, and the blue lines on his delicate forehead shone, like little clues of silk. he fingered his open glasses, and began to raise them, until it struck him that he might seem rude, if he thus inspected fox throughout his narrative. a rude act was impossible to him; so he leaned back in his ancient chair, and simply said--"be quick, my friend, if you can thus oblige me." the young man watched him very narrowly, while he told his dreadful tale; and thyatira in the passage sobbed, and opened her smelling-bottle, for she had been making urgent signs and piteous appeals from the background to the doctor to postpone this trial. but her master only clasped his hands, and closed his quivering eyelids. without a word he heard the whole; though little starts, and twitching lips, and jerkings of his gaiter'd foot, made manifest that self-control was working at high pressure. "and who has done this inhuman thing?" asked mr. penniloe at last; after hoping that he need not speak, until he felt that he could speak. "such things have been done about bristol; but never in our county. and my dear friend, my best friend tom! we dare not limit the mercy of god; for what are we? ah, what are we? but speaking as a frail man should, if there is any crime on earth----" he threw his handkerchief over his head; for what can the holiest man pronounce? and there was nothing that moved him more to shame, than even to be called a "holy man." "the worst of it is," said dr. fox, with tears in his eyes, for he loved this man, although so unlike him in his ways of thought; "the worst of it is--or at least from a wretchedly selfish point of view, the worst--that all the neighbourhood has pitched upon the guilty person." "who is supposed to have done this horribly wicked thing? not gowler?" "no sir; but somebody nearer home. somebody well-known in the village." "tell me who it is, my dear fellow. i am sure there is no one here who would have done it." "everybody else is sure there is. and the name of the scoundrel is--james fox." "fox, it is not a time for jokes. if you knew how i feel, you would not joke." "i am not joking, sir," said fox, and his trembling voice confirmed his words. "the universal conclusion is, that i am the villain that did it." "my dear friend, my noble fellow!" the parson sprang up on his feeble legs, and took both of jemmy's strong thick hands in his quivering palms, and looked at him; "i am ashamed of my parish; and of myself, as a worthless labourer. and with this crushing lie upon you, you have been tending me, day and night, and shown not a sign of your bitter disdain!" "i knew that you would acquit me, sir. and what did i care for the rest of them? except one of course--well you know what i mean; and i must now give up all hope of that. now take a little of this strengthening stuff, and rest for a couple of hours." "i will take the stuff; but i will not rest, until you have told me, upon what grounds this foul accusation has been brought. that i should be in this helpless state, when i ought to go from house to house--truly the ways of providence are beyond our poor understanding." the young man told him in a few hot words, upon what a flimsy tale his foes had built this damning charge, and how lightly those who called themselves his friends had been ready to receive it. he had had a long interview with crang, and had shaken the simple blacksmith's faith in his own eyes; and that was all. owing to the sharp frost of the night, there was no possibility of following the track of the spring-cart up the road, though its course had first been eastward, and in the direction of the old barn. for the same reason, all attempts had failed in the immediate scene of the outrage; and the crisp white frost had settled on bruised herbage and heavy footmark. "there is nothing more to be done in that way;" the doctor finished with a bitter smile; "their luck was in the right scale, and mine in the wrong one, according to the usual rule. now what do you advise me to do, dear sir?" "i am never very quick, as some men are;" mr. penniloe replied, without even the reproof which he generally administered to those who spoke of "luck." "i am slow in perceiving the right course, when it is a question of human sagacity. but the lord will guide this for our good. allow me to think it over, and to make it a subject of earnest prayer." fox was well content with this, though his faith in prayer was limited. but he knew that the clergyman was not of those, who plead so well that the answer tallies with their inclinations. for such devoted labourers, when a nice preferment comes in view, lay it before the "throne of grace;" and the heavenly order always is--"go thou into the fatter vineyard." mr. penniloe had not found it thus, when a college living was offered to him as a former fellow, at a time when he and his wife could scarce succeed in making both ends meet. the benefice being in a part of wales where the native tongue alone prevailed, his ministry could be blest to none but the occupants of the rectory. therefore he did not pray for guidance, but for grace to himself and wife--especially the latter--to resist this temptation without a murmur. therein he succeeded, to the huge delight of the gentleman next upon the roll, and equally ignorant of welsh, whose only prayer upon the occasion was--"thank the lord, oh my soul!" in the afternoon, when fox returned according to arrangement, he found his much respected patient looking pale and sad, but tranquil. he had prayed as only those who are in practice can accomplish it; and his countenance showed that mind and heart, as well as soul, were fortified. his counsel to fox was to withstand, and not to be daunted by the most insidious stratagem of the evil one--whose existence was more personal in those days than it now appears, and therefore met more gallantly--to pay no heed to furtive looks, sly whispers, cold avoidance, or even spiteful insults, but to carry himself as usual, and show an example to the world of a gentleman and a christian. fox smiled in his sleeve, for his fist was sore with knocking down three low cads that day; but he knew that the advice was sound, and agreed with that of squire mockham, only it was more pacific, and grounded on larger principles. "and now, my dear young friend," the parson continued very earnestly; "there are two things i have yet to speak of, if you will not think me intrusive. you ought to have some one in the old barn to comfort and to cheer you. the evenings are very long and dark, and now i suppose you will have to spend the greater part of them at home. even without such trouble as yours, a lonely man is apt to become depressed and sometimes bitter. i have heard you speak of your sister, i think--your only sister, i believe--and if your father could spare her----" "my father is much stronger, sir. but i could not think of bringing christie here. why, it would be wretched for her. and if anybody insulted her----" "who could insult her, in your own house? she would stay at home mostly in that very quiet place, and have her own amusements. she would come across no one, but old betty and yourself. it would feel lonely at first, no doubt; but a loving sister would not mind that. you would take care not to vex her by speaking of any of the slights you suffered, or even referring to the subject at all, whenever it could be avoided. if it were only for one week, till you get used to this sad state of things, what a difference it would make to you! especially if she is of a lively nature. what is her character--at all like yours?" "not a bit. she has ten times the pluck that i have. i should like to hear any one dare to say a word against me, before christie. but it is not to be thought of, my dear sir. a pretty coward i should be to bring a girl here to protect me!" "what is her name? christine, i suppose. a very good name indeed; and i dare say she deserves it." the curate looked at fox, to have his inference confirmed; and the young man burst into a hearty laugh--his first for a most unaccustomed length of time. "forgive me, sir. i couldn't help it. i was struck with the contrast between your idea of a christian, and christie's. though if any one called her anything else, he would have a specimen of zeal. for she is of the militant christian order, girt with the sword of the spirit. a great deal of st. peter, but not an atom of st. john. thoroughly religious, according to her lights; and always in a flame of generosity. her contempt for any littleness is something splendid; except when it is found in any one she loves. she is always endeavouring to 'see herself from the outside,' as she expresses it; and yet she is inside all the time. without any motive that a man can see, she flares up sometimes like a rocket, and then she lies rolling in self-abasement. she is as full as she can be of reasoning; and yet there is not a bit of reason in her. yet somehow or other, everybody is wonderfully fond of christie." "what a valuable addition to this parish! and the very one to keep you up, in this mysterious trial. she would come at once, of course; if she is as you describe her." "come, sir? she would fly--or at least post with four horses. what a sensation in perlycross! but she is not the one to live in a cupboard, and keep silence. she would get up in your pulpit, sir, and flash away at your churchwardens. no, i could not think of bringing her into this turmoil. if i did, it would serve me right enough, never to get out of it." "very well. we shall see," mr. penniloe said quietly, having made up his mind, after fox's description, to write for this doughty champion, whatever offence might come of it. "now one other matter, and a delicate one. have you seen lady waldron, since this terrible occurrence?" "no; i have feared to go near the house. it must be so awful for them. it is horrible enough for me, god knows. but i am ashamed to think of my own trouble, in comparison with theirs. i shall never have the courage to go near them." "it would be a frightful visit; and yet i think that you should go there. but it is most difficult to say. in all the dark puzzles and trials of this world, few men have been placed, i should say, in such a strange dilemma. if you go, you may shock them beyond expression. if you don't go, you must confirm their worst ideas. but there is one who holds you guiltless." "i am afraid that you only mean--the lord," jemmy fox said, with his eyes cast down. "it is out of my luck to hope for more. he is very good, of course--but then he never comes and does it. i wish that you meant some one nearer." "my dear young friend, my dear young friend! who can be nearer to us?" the parson thought of his own dark times, and spoke with reproach, but not rebuke. "i ought to have meant the lord, no doubt. but in plain truth, i didn't. i meant a mere mortal, like yourself. oh, how we all come down to ground! i should have referred to providence. what a sad relapse from duty!" "relapse more, sir. relapse more!" cried the young man, insisting on the human vein. "you have gone so far, that you must speak out, as--as a messenger of good tidings." "really, jemmy, you do mix things up"--the parson's eyes twinkled at this turn upon him--"in a very extraordinary manner. you know what i mean, without any words of mine." "but how can you tell, sir? oh, how can you tell? if i could only be sure of that, what should i care for anything?" "young man, you are sure," said mr. penniloe, placing his hand upon jemmy's shoulder. "or if you are not, you are not worthy to have faith in anything. next to the word of god, i place my confidence in a woman's heart." fox said not another word. his heart was as full as the older man's. one with the faithful memory, and the other with the hopeful faith of love. but he kept out of sight, and made a stir, with a box of powders, and some bottles. when he got home, in a better state of mind than he had been able to afford for a long time, out rushed somebody, and pulled him off his horse, and took the whole command of him with kisses. "i will never forgive you, never, never!" cried a voice of clear music, out of proper pitch with tears. "to think that you have never told me, jemmy, of all the wicked things they are doing to you!" "why, christie, what on earth has brought you here? look out! you are going all to tatters with my spurs! was there ever such a headlong girl? what's up now?" "it won't do, jemmy. your poor mind is all abroad. i saw the whole thing in the _exeter gazette_. you deserve to be called--even worse than they have called you, for behaving so to me." chapter xv. friends and foes. in for a penny, in for a pound. throw the helve after the hatchet. as well to be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. he that hath the name may as well enjoy the game.--these and other reckless maxims of our worthy grandsires (which they may have exemplified in their own lives, but took care for their own comfort to chastise out of their children) were cited by miss christie fox, with very bright ferocity, for her poor brother's guidance. it was on the morning after her arrival, when she had heard everything there was to hear, and had taken the mastery of old barn, as if it were her pony-carriage. fox stood and looked at her in this queer old dwelling-place, which had once been the tithe-barn of the parish, but proving too far from the chief growth of corn had been converted by the dean and chapter into a rough and rambling, but commodious and roomy house; for the tithes of perlycross were fat, worthy of a good roof and stout walls. she sat by the window in the full light of the sun,--for she never thought much about her complexion, and no sun could disparage it--a lovely girl, with a sweet expression, though manifest knowledge of her own mind. her face was not set off by much variety of light and shade, like that of inez waldron, dark lashes, or rich damask tint, or contrasts of repose and warmth; but pure straightforward english beauty (such as lasts a lifetime) left but little to be desired--except the good luck to please it. "there was not too much of her," as her father said--indeed he never could have enough--and she often felt it a grievance that she could not impress the majesty of her sentiments, through lack of size; but all that there was of her was good stuff; and there very well may be, as a tall admirer of hers remarked, "a great deal of love in five feet two." however this specimen of that stature had not discovered that fact yet, as regards any other than her own kin; and now with the sun from over hagdon hill throwing wintry light into her spring-bright eyes, she was making herself quite at home, as an english girl always tries to do, with her own belongings about her, while she was railing at this strange neighbourhood. not that she meant even half of what she said, but her spirit was up, and being always high it required no great leap to get far above the clouds. and her brother kept saying--"now you don't mean that," in a tone that made her do her very best to mean it. as for avoiding the subject, and the rest of the cautious policy suggested by the peaceful parson, the young lady met that wise proposal with a puff of breath, and nothing more. in gestures, and what on a plainer place would have been called "grimaces," she was so strong, that those who had not that short-cut of nature to the meaning of the moment, were inclined to scoff and mimic; which they could not do at all, because it was not in them. jemmy being some years older, and her only brother, felt himself responsible for the worst part of her character. he was conscious, when he thought about it, that he had spoiled her thoroughly, from the date of her first crawl on the floor, until her path in life was settled. and upon the whole, the result was not so bad as to crush him with much self-reproach. "all i want is, just to have the names of your chief enemies." this valiant sister, as she spoke, spread forth an ivory _deltis_, as that arrangement then was called, a baby-fan with leaves of no more substance than a wafer. "have no fear, jemmy, i will not kill them, unless my temper rises. you are so abominally forgiving, that i daresay you don't know their names." "not i," said the doctor, beginning to fill his after-breakfast pipe, for now he had no round to make among his patients of the paying class; "chris, they are all alike; they have no ill-will at all against me, unless it is jackson, and young webber, and half a dozen other muffs perhaps, with a grudge because i have saved poor fellows they were killing. i have never interfered in any rich man's case; so they have no right to be so savage." "they are dummies," answered christie, just waving her hand, and then stopping it, as if they were not worth the trouble. "i don't mean them. they could never lead opinion. i mean people of intelligence, or at any rate of influence." "well really i don't know any of that sort, who have gone against me openly. such people generally wait to hear both sides, unless their duty drags them into it. both the churchwardens are against me, i believe. but that must be chiefly, because they saw with their own wise eyes what had been done. you know, or perhaps you don't, but i do, what an effect is produced on the average mind by the sight of anything. reason seems to fly, and the judgment is lost. but horner is a very decent fellow, and i have been of some service to his family. farrant is a man of great honesty and sense; but carried away perhaps for the moment. i hear that he is coming round to my side." "then i won't put down either of them. but come, there must be some one at the head of it." "upon my word, i don't think there is. or if there is, he keeps quite in the background. it seems to be rather a general conclusion, than any conspiracy against me. that makes it so much harder to contend with. one proof of what i say is, that there has been no further application for a warrant, since mr. mockham's refusal. if there were any bitter enemy, he would never have been content with that." "i am not so sure of that," replied sage christie, longing for a foe more definite; "i am not of course a lawyer, though papa was a magistrate before i was born, and ever since; and that gives me a great deal of insight. and i have come to the conclusion that there is some one, besides those poor little pill-grinders--you see what comes of taking to the pill-box, jemmy--some one of a hateful nature, and low cunning, who is working in the dark against you. the mischief has been done, and they know that; and they don't want to give you any chance of putting your own case clearly, and confounding them. you see that reel of silk now, don't you?" "i see about fifty. what a child you are! are you going to decorate a doll's house?" "i never lose my temper with you, dear jemmy, because you are so stupid. but if you can't see the force of it, i can. that reel of silk is an honest reel, a reel you know how to deal with. the end is tucked into a nick at the side, and you set to at once and thread your needle. but the one next to it is a rogue--same colour, same size, same everything, except that the maker has hidden the end, to hide his own short measure, so that you may hunt for it for half an hour. even a man can see that, can't he? very well, apply that to this frightful affair. if your enemies would only come forward, they would give you a chance to clear yourself. you would get hold of the end and unwind it, just as i bite off this knot. there! what can be easier than that, i'd like to know?" "you are very clever, christie, but you don't see the real difficulty. who would believe my denial on oath, any more than they would without it? i can offer no witness except myself. the man at the pits would avail me nothing, even if i could get hold of him. there was plenty of time after i left him, for me to have been in the thick of it. i can prove no _alibi_. i have only my word, to show that i was in this house while the miscreants were at work. it is the blackest piece of luck, that poor george was so tipsy, and old betty was so buried in slumber. it is no good to deceive ourselves, my dear. i shall never be cleared of this foul charge, till the fellows who did the thing are found out." this was what jemmy had felt all along; and no one knew better than himself, how nearly impossible it is to bring such criminals to justice. but his sister was not to be discouraged. "oh, as for that, i shall just do this. i have money of my own, or at least i shall have plenty of it, when i come of age next year. i'll find out the cleverest lawyer about here, a man who is able to enter into rogues, and i'll make him advertise a great reward, and promise him the same for himself, if he succeeds. that is the only way to make them look sharp. a thousand pounds will be sure to tempt the poor dirty villains who must have been employed; and a thousand pounds will tempt a good lawyer to sell his own wife and family. free pardon to every one, except the instigator. i wonder that you never even thought of that." "i did think of it long ago. it is the first thing that occurs to an englishman, in any case of wrong-doing. but it would be useless here. i heard much of these cases when i was a student. they are far more frequent than the outer world supposes. but i won't talk about it. it would only make you nervous. it is not a thing for girls to dwell upon." "i know that very well. i don't want to dwell upon it. only tell me, why even a large reward would not be of any service." "because there is only a very small gang; and a traitor would never live to get his money. rewards have been tried, but vainly, except in one case, and then the end was dreadful. for the most part, the villains manage so well that no one ever dreams of what has happened. in the present case, though a most daring one, the villainy would scarcely have been discovered, except for the poor little faithful dog. if she had been killed and thrown into the river, perhaps nothing would ever have been heard of it." "oh, jemmy, what a dreadful thing to say! but surely you forget the blacksmith?" "not at all. his story would have come to nothing, without this to give it special meaning. even as it is, no connexion has been proved, though of course there is a strong presumption, between the affair at susscot, and the crime at perlycross. there was nothing to show where the cart came from. those fellows travel miles with them, these long nights. there is an old chapelyard at monkswell, more than a mile from any house, and i firmly believe--but i will not talk about it." "then you know who did this! oh, jemmy, jemmy, is it some horrible secret of your trade?" christie leaped up, and away from her brother. "i know nothing, except that it happened. i have not the least idea who the scoundrel is. now no more of this--or you won't sleep to-night." "i am not a coward--for a girl at least. but this is a dark and lonely house. i shall have my bed put against the partition of your room, before ever i go into it this night. then you can hear me knock, if i get frightened." miss fox sat down, and leaned her head upon her hands for a moment, as in deep meditation upon the wrongs of humanity; and then she announced the result of her thoughts. "one thing is certain. even you cannot deny it. if the government of this country allows such frightful things to be done, it is bound to provide every woman in the land with a husband to protect her, or at any rate to keep her courage up. if i had seen that cart at susscot, i should have died with terror." "not you. but i must make one rule, i see; and you know there are times when i will be obeyed. you have come here, my dear child, with the greatest kindness, and no small courage as well, just to keep up my spirits, and console me in this trouble. i would never have let you come, if i had known it; and now i will not have your health endangered. back you go, this very day, sad as i shall be without you, unless you promise me two things. one is that you will avoid these subjects, although you may talk of my position. and the other is, that you will not stir from this house, except in my company; and when you are with me, you will be totally unconscious of anything anybody says, or looks,--uncivil, unpleasant, or even uncordial. you understand now, that i am in earnest." fox struck his solid legs into a stiff position, and crested up his whiskers with his finger-tips; which action makes a very fine impression on a young man's younger sister. "very well, i agree to all of that;" said christie, a little too airily for one who is impressed with an engagement. "but one thing i must have, before we begin the new code. here are my tablets. as you won't tell the names of your enemies, jemmy, i must have the names of your friends to set down. it won't require many lines, i fear, you gentle jemmy." "won't it? why all the good people about here are on my side, every one of them. first, and best of them all, philip penniloe. and then, mr. mockham the magistrate, and then sergeant jakes, the schoolmaster. and after him, thyatira muggridge, a person of considerable influence, because she takes hot meat, or pudding, in a basin, to half the old women in the village, whenever her master can afford it, and can't get through all of it. that is how they put it, in their grateful way. but it strengthens their tongues against his enemies, and they seem to know them--though he doesn't. well, then there is farrant, the junior churchwarden, coming round fast to my side. and baker, the cooper, who made me a tub for salting my last pig; and channing--not the clerk, he is neutral still, but will rally to my side when i pay him twelve shillings, as i shall do to-morrow, for a pair of corduroys--but channing the baker, a notable man, with a wife who knows everything about it, because she saw a dark man over the wall last summer, and he would not give his name. she has caused a reaction already, and is confident of being right, because she got upon a pair of steps. oh you must not imagine that i am forlorn. and then there is frank gilham, last not least, a fine young fellow, and a thorough englishman." "i like that description. i hate foreigners--as a rule i mean of course," said christie fox, with a look of large candour, that proved what a woman of the world she was; "there may be good individuals among them, when they have come to know what home-life means; but take them altogether, they are really very queer. but surely we ought to know a little more, as to what it was mrs. baker channing saw; and over the churchyard wall, you say." "waste of time, christie. why it was back in august, when harrison gowler was staying here. and it was not the churchyard wall at all, but the wall of the rectory garden, that she peeped over in the dark. it can have had nothing to do with it." "i am not so sure of that. things come out so oddly. you remember when my poor _flo_ was poisoned, how i found it out at last. i never left off. i wouldn't leave off. prying, listening, tip-toeing, even spying, without any sense of shame. and i found it out at last--at last; and didn't i have my revenge? oh, i would have hanged that woman, if the law had been worth a farthing, and stuck her all over with needles and pins." "you spiteful, and meanly vindictive little creature! but you never found it out by yourself, after all. it came out quite by accident." "well, and so will this. you take my word. i dare say i am stupid, but i always prove right. yet we are bound to use the means of grace, as they tell us in every blessed sermon. oh come, i may go and see your pet parson. i'll be bound, i shall not care for him, an atom of an atom. i hate those perfect people; they are such a slur upon one. i like a good minister, who rides to hounds in pink, and apologises to the ladies, every time he swears. but, come, brother jemmy, are there no more friends? i have put down all you mentioned, and the list looks very short. there must be a few more, for the sake of christianity." "to be sure, there is one more, and a frightfully zealous one--certain to do more harm than good. a mere boy, though he flies into a fury at the word. mr. penniloe's new pupil--preparing for the church, by tearing all across the country. he breaks down all the hedges, and he drives the sheep-dogs mad. he is mad as a march-hare himself, by all accounts; but everybody likes him. his name is horatio peckover, but everybody calls him 'hopper,' by _syncope_, as we used to say at school. one of his fellow-pupils, young pike, who is a very steady-going young fellow, and a fine rising fisherman, told me that hopper is double-jointed; and they believe it devoutly. they tied him on a chair at his own request, the other day, in order that he might learn his lessons. but that only made him worse than ever; for he capered round the room, chair and all, until mr. penniloe sent to ask who was churning butter." "what a blessing that boy must be in a sick house! but what has made him take up our case, jemmy?" "the demand of his nature for violent motion. every day of his life, except sunday, he scours the country for miles around. on foot, mind--not on horseback, which one could understand. moreover, he is hot in my favour, because he comes from somewhere near wincaunton, and is a red hot 'zon ov' zummerzet,' and contemptuous of devon. but it is not for me to enquire into motives. i shall want every single friend i can scrape together, if what i heard, this morning is anything like true. you asked me last night, what lady waldron thought." "to be sure, i did. it seemed most important. but now," continued christie, as she watched her brother's face, "there are reasons why i should scarcely attach so much weight to her opinion." "the chief reason being that you see it is against me. well, truly, you are a brave reasoner, my dear. but i fear that it is so. i am told that my name must never again be heard in the house, where once i was so welcome." "oh, i am rather glad of that. that will go a long way in our favour. i cannot tell how many times i have heard not from one, but from all who have met her, that she is a most unpleasant haughty person, even for a foreigner. it must lie very heavy on the poor woman's conscience, that everybody says she helped, by her nasty nature to shorten her poor husband's days. possibly now--well, that throws a new light. what has happened may very well have been done at the order of some of his relatives, who knowing her character suspect foul play. and of course she would like to hear no more about it. you know all those foreigners, how pat they are with poison." "what a grand thing it is to have a sister!" fox exclaimed, looking with astonishment at christie, who was quite excited with her new idea. "better almost to have a sister than--than--i mean than any one else. i almost feared to tell you my last piece of news, because i thought that it must upset you so. and behold, it has greatly encouraged you! but remember, on no account must you drop a hint, even to our best friends, of your last brilliant idea. what frightful things flow into the sweetest little head!" "well, i don't see at all, why i should try to conceal it. i think it is a case for very grave suspicions. and if she spreads shameful reports about you, i'll soon let her know that two can play at that." "nonsense, my dear child. there is evidence against me. none, nor even a shadow of suspicion, against her. she loved sir thomas devotedly; and i always thought that jealousy was the cause of her coldness to his english friends. but to come to common sense again--what i heard to-day settles my doubts as to what i should do. penniloe thought that i should call at walderscourt; though he saw what a difficult thing it was to do, and rather referred it to my own decision. i shrank from it, more than i can describe. in fact, i could not bring myself to go; not for my own sake but for theirs. but this behaviour on her part puts a new aspect upon it. i feel myself bound, as an innocent man, to face her; however unpleasant it may be. it will only be the worse, for putting off. i shall go, this afternoon." "i love to bring anything to a point. you are quite right;" replied christie, with her bright colour rising, at the prospect of a brush; "jemmy dear, let me come with you." "not quite, you gallant chris! no such luck for me. not that i want you to back me up. but still it would have been a comfort. but you know it is out of the question, for a stranger to call, at such a time. "well, i fear it is. though i shouldn't mind that. but it would look very odd for you. never mind; i won't be far away. you can leave me outside, and i will wait for you, somewhere in the shrubbery, if there is one. not that i would dream of keeping out of sight. only that they might be afraid to see me." "they might reasonably fear it, if you looked as you do now. ferocity does not improve the quality of your smile, dear. what will mother say, when you go home? and somebody else perhaps? now, you need not blush. i have a very high opinion of him." "jemmy, i won't have it. not another word! get it out of your silly mind for ever. men never understand such things. there's no romance in me, as goodness knows. but you'll never catch me marrying a man with none of it in him." "you are too young to think of such things yet. though sometimes even younger girls--but come along, let us have a breath of fresh air, after all this melancholy talk. that footpath will take us up to hagdon in ten minutes. you are eager to try our old-barn style of victualling, and it suits the system better than your long late dinners. we dine at two o'clock. come and get an appetite." a short sharp climb, and with their lungs expanded, they stood upon the breezy hill, and looked back at the valley. before them rolled the sweep of upland, black in some places with bights of fired furze; but streaked with long alleys of tender green, where the flames had not fed, or the rains had wept them off. the soft western air, though the winter had held speech with it, kept enough of good will yet, to be a pleasant change for those who found their fellow-creatures easterly. and more than that, the solemn distance, and expanse of trackless grey, hovering with slow wings of sleepy vapour touched with sunshine, if there was no comfort in them, yet spread some enlargement. these things breathed a softer breath, as nature must (though it be unfelt) on young imaginations fluttering, like a wisp of brambled wool, in the bridle-paths, and stray sheep-walks of human trouble. chapter xvi. little billy. when he has refreshed his memory with the map of england, let any man point out upon it, if he can deliberately, any two parishes he knows well, which he can also certify to be exactly like each other, in the character of their inhabitants. do they ever take alike a startling piece of news, about their most important people? do they weigh in the same balance the discourses of the parson, the merits of those in authority, or the endeavours of the rich to help them? if a stranger rides along the street, he is pretty sure to be stared at; but not with quite the same expression, as in the last village he came through. each place has its own style, and tone, vein of sentiment, and lines of attitude, deepened perhaps by the lore and store of many generations. for instance, perlycombe, perlycross, and perliton, are but as three pearls on one string, all in a line, and contiguous. the string is the stream; which arising at the eastern extremity of perlycombe parish, passes through the village, then westward through perlycross, and westward still through the much larger village of perliton. at perlycombe it is a noisy little brook, at perlycross a genial trout-stream--anon of glassy wanderings, anon of flickered hurry--; while perliton, by the time it gets there, entitles it "the river perle," and keeps two boats upon it, which are not always more aground than landsmen should desire. now any one would fancy, that these three adjoining parishes would, in all their ways and manners, be as like each other as three peas vertebrated in one pod. but the fancy would prove that he was only fit for fiction, not for the clearer heights of history such as this. for these three parishes are quite as distinct, one from another, as all three taken together admit that they are, and deserve to be, from the rest of england. all three are simple, all old-fashioned, highly respectable, and wonderfully quiet--except when lashed up by some outrage--slightly contemptuous of one another, and decidedly so of the world outside the valley. from it they differ widely, and from one another visibly, in their facial expression, and figure, and walk; perceptibly also, in tone of feeling, habits of thought (when they think at all), voices, pet words, and proclivities of slouch. so that in these liberal times of free disintegration, each of them has nature's right to be a separate nation. and in proof of this, they beat their bounds, and often break each other's heads, upon saint clement's day. "what an extraordinary sound i hear!" said christie to her brother, as they turned to quit the hill. "just listen a moment. i can't make it out. it sounds like a frightful lot of people in the distance." "well, i declare, i had forgotten all about it! how very stupid i am getting now!" cried jemmy. "why this is st. clement's day, and no mistake!" "who is he? i never heard of him. and, what right has he got to make such a dreadful noise? he couldn't do it all by himself, jemmy, even if he was on a gridiron." "but he has got half of perlycross to help him. come here, chris. here is a nice dry hollow, away from the damp and the mist; and the noise below follows the curve of it." fox led his sister into a little scarp of flint, with brows of grey heather, and russet fern, quivering to the swell of funneled uproar. "don't be afraid," he said, "it is only our own parish. there ought to be three of them; but this is only ours." "well, if your parish can make all that noise, what would all three of them do together? why ten packs of hounds couldn't equal it!" "you have hit the very point; you have a knack of doing that;" answered jemmy, as he landed her upon a grey ledge. "we don't let the other two in, any more. the business had always been triennial. but the fighting grew more and more serious, till the stock of sticking-plaster could not stand it. then a man of peaceful genius suggested that each parish should keep its own st. clement's day, at intervals of three years as before; but in succession, instead of all three at once; so that no two could meet upon the frontier in force. a sad falling off in the spirit of the thing, and threatening to be better for the lawyers, than for us. perlycombe had their time last year; and now perlycross has to redress it. our eastern boundary is down in that hollow; and perlycombe stole forty feet from us last year. we are naturally making a little stir about it." "if that is a little stir, what would be a big one? but i want to see them; and the fogginess of the trees in that direction stops me. i should say there must be at least five hundred people there. i can't stop up here, like a dummy." "very well. if you love a row so much. but there are no five hundred there, because it is more than thirty miles round this parish, and the beaters start in two companies from perle-weir, one lot to the north and the other to the south, and they go round till they meet each other; somewhere at the back of beaconhill. one churchwarden with each party, and the overseers divided, and the constables, and so on. the parson should be in the thickest of the fray; but i strictly forbade mr. penniloe, and told him to send jakes as his deputy. still i should not be surprised, if he turns up. he is hot upon the rights of his parish. come round this way; there is no fear of missing them, any more than a pack of hounds in full cry." christie was quite up for it. she loved a bit of skirmish, and thought it might fetch her brother's spirits up again. so they turned the steep declivity, and after many scratches, crept along a tangled path, leading down to a wooded gully. here they found themselves, rather short of breath, but in a position to command fair view of the crowd, full of action in the dingle and the bramble-land. how it could matter to any sane humanity, whether the parish-bound ran even half a league, on this side or on that of such a desert wild, only those who dwell on human nature can explain. however so it was; and even mr. penniloe had flouted the doctors, and was here, clad in full academicals according to the ancient rule, flourishing his black-varnished stick, and full of unfeigned wrath at some gross crime. "thou shalt not move thy neighbour's land-mark"--he was shouting, instead of swallowing pills; and as many of his flock as heard his text, smote right and left in accordance with it. "what on earth is it all about?" asked christie, peeping through a holly bush, and flushing with excitement. "all about that stone down in the hollow, where the water spurts so. don't be afraid. they can't see us." the girl looked again, and wondered. some fifty yards before them was a sparkling little watercourse, elbowing its way in hurried zig-zag down the steep; but where it landed in the fern-bed with a toss of tresses, some ungodly power of men had heaved across its silver foot a hugeous boulder of the hill, rugged, bulky, beetle-browed--the "shameless stone" of homer. and with such effect, that the rushing water, like a scared horse, leaped aside, and swerving far at the wrongful impulse, cut a felonious cantel out of the sacred parish of perlycross! even this was not enough. to add insult to injury, some heartless wag had chiselled, on the lichened slab of boulder, a human profile in broad grin, out of whose wicked mouth came a scroll, inscribed in deep letters--"p. combe parish." the perlycrucians stood before this incredible sight, dumb-foundered. thus far they had footed it in a light and merry mood, laughing, chaffing, blowing horns, and rattling bladders, thumping trees and gates and cowsheds, bumping schoolboys against big posts, and daubing every corner of contention, from kettles of tar or sheep-wash, with a big p. +. but now as this outrage burst upon them, through a tall sheaf of yellow flags, their indignation knew no bounds, parochial or human. as soon as they could believe their eyes, they lifted their hands, and closed their lips; while the boys, who were present in great force--for jakes could not help the holiday--put their fingers in their mouths, and winked at one another. five or six otter-hounds, from the kennels of a sporting yeoman, had joined the procession with much goodwill; but now they recognised the check, and sat upon their haunches, and set up a yell with one accord, in the dismay of human silence. not an oath was uttered, nor a ribald laugh; but presently all eyes were turned upon the pale mr. penniloe, who stood at the side of mr. farrant, the junior churchwarden, who had brought him in his four-wheeled chaise, as far as wheels might venture. few were more pained by this crime than the parson; he nodded under his college cap, and said-- "my friends, abate this nuisance." but this was easier said than done, as they very soon discovered. some called for crowbars, and some for gunpowder, and some for a team of horses; but nothing of the sort was near at hand. then sergeant jakes, as an old campaigner, came to the rescue, and borrowing a hatchet (of which there were plenty among them), cut down a sapling oak, hard and tough and gnarled from want of nourishment; therewith at the obnoxious rock they rushed, butting, ramming, tugging, levering, with the big pole below, and a lot of smaller staves above, and men of every size and shape trampling, and kicking out, and exhorting one another. but the boulder had been fanged into its socket so exactly, probably more by luck than skill, that there it stuck, like a gigantic molar, and perlycross laboured in vain at it. "what muffs! as if they could do it, like that! penniloe ought to know better; why the pressure is all the wrong way. but of course he is an oxford man. chris, you stay here, till i come back. cambridge v. oxford, any day, when it comes to a question of engineering." speaking too lightly, he leaped in like manner into the yellow-rib'd breast of the steep; while christie communed with herself, like this. "oh, what a pity he left st. john's! he must have been senior-wrangler, if he had stayed on, instead of those horrible hospitals. and people would have thought so much more of him. but perhaps he would not have looked so bright; and he does more good in this line. though nobody seems to thank him much. it would be ever so much better for him, and he would be valued more, if he did ever so much less good. but i like the look of mr. penniloe." the man who should have been senior-wrangler--as every man ever yet sent to cambridge should have been, if justice had been done him--went in a style of the purest mathematics along the conic sections of the very noble hagdon. the people in the gully shouted to him, for a single slip would have brought him down upon their hats; but he kept his breath for the benefit of his legs, and his nerves were as sound as an oyster's, before its pearly tears begin. christie watched him without fear; she had known the construction of his legs, from the days of balusters and rocking-horses. "give me up a good pole--not too heavy--you see how i have got to throw my weight; but a bit of good stuff with an elbow to it." thus spake jemmy, and the others did their best. he stuck his heel and footside into a soft place he had found, and let the ledge of harder stuff overlap his boot-vamps, then he took the springy spar of ash which some one had handed up to him, for he stood about twelve feet above them, and getting good purchase against a scrag of flint, brought the convexity of his pole to bear on the topmost jag of boulder. "slew away as high as you can reach," he cried; "but don't touch it anywhere near the bottom." as they all put their weights to it, the rock began to sway, and with a heavy groan lurched sideways. "stand clear!" cried jemmy, as the whole bunk swang, with the pillar of water helping it, and then settled grandly back into the other niche, with the volume of the fall leaping generously into the parish of perlycombe. "hurrah!" shouted everybody young enough to shout; while the elder men leant upon their staves, and thanked the lord. not less than forty feet was recovered, and another forty added from the substance of big rogues. "'tis the finest thing done ever since i were a boy," said the oldest man present, as he wiped his dripping face. "measter vox, come down, and shake hands round. us will never believe any harm of thee no more." this reasoning was rather of the heart than head; but it held good all round, as it generally does. and now as the sound of the water went away into its proper course, with the joy of the just pursuing it, miss fox, who had watched all proceedings from the ridge, could hear how the current of public opinion was diverted and rushing in her brother's favour. so she pinned up a torn skirt, and smoothed out another, and putting back her bright hair, tripped down the wooded slope, and stood with a charming blush before them. the labourers touched their hats, and the farmers lifted theirs, and every one tried to look his best; for perlycross being a poetical parish is always very wide awake to beauty. "my sister!" explained dr. fox with just pride. "my sister, mr. penniloe! my sister, mr. farrant! sergeant jakes, my sister! miss christie fox will be glad to know you all." "and i am sure that everybody will be glad to know miss fox," said the parson, coming forward with his soft sweet smile. "at any time she would be welcome; but now she is come at the time of all times. behold what your brother has done, miss fox! that stream is the parish boundary." "he maketh the river to run in dry places;" cried channing the clerk, who had been pulling at his keg, "and lo, he hath taken away the reproach of his people, israel!" "mr. channing! fie, mr. channing!" began the representative of the upper desk, and then suddenly checked himself, lest he should put the old man to shame, before the children of the parish. "by the by," said mr. farrant, coming in to fill the pause; "dr. fox is the likeliest person to tell us what this curious implement is. it looks like a surgical instrument of some sort. we found it, doctor, in this same watercourse, about a furlong further down, where the blackmarsh lane goes through it. we were putting our parish-mark on the old tree that overhangs a deep hole, when this young gent who is uncommon spry--i wish you luck of him, i'm sure, mr. penniloe--there he spies it, and in he goes, like an otter, and out with it, before he could get wet, almost." "not likely i was going to leave it there," young peckover interrupted; "i thought it was a clot of eels, or a pair of gloves, or something. though of course a glove would float, when you come to think of it. perhaps the young lady knows--she looks so clever." "hopper, no cheek!" dr. fox spoke sharply, for the youth was staring at his sister. "mr. farrant, i can't tell you what it is; for i never saw a surgical instrument like it. i should say it was more like a blacksmith's, or perhaps a turner's tool; though not at all a common one, in either business. is crang here, or one of his apprentices?" "no, sir. joe is at home to-day--got a heavy job," answered someone in the crowd; "and the two prentices be gone with t'other lot of us." "i'll tell you what i'll do;" volunteered the hopper, who was fuming at the slowness of parochial demarcation, for he would have been at the back of beacon hill by this time; "i'll go straight with it to susscot, and be back again before these old codgers have done a brace of meadows. it is frightful cold work to stand about like this. i found it, and i'll find out what it is too." the tool was handed to him, and he set off, like a chamois, in a straight line westward; while two or three farmers, who had suffered already from his steeplechase tracks, would have sent a brief word after him, but for the parson's presence. fox, who was amused with this specimen of his county, ran part way up the hill to watch his course, and then beckoned to his sister, to return to the old barn by the footpath along the foot of hagdon. they had scarcely finished dinner, which they had to take in haste, by reason of the shortness of the days, and their intended visit to walderscourt, when joe crang the blacksmith appeared in the yard, pulling his hat off, and putting it on again, and wiping his face with a tongs-swab. fox saw that the man was in a state of much excitement, and made him come in, while miss christie went upstairs, to prepare for their drive to walderscourt. "what's the matter, crang? take a chair there. you needn't be nervous," said the doctor kindly; "i have no grudge against you for saying what you believe. it has done me a world of harm, no doubt; but it's no fault of yours. it's only my bad luck, that some fellow very like me, and also a jemmy, should have been in that black job that night. but i wish you had just shown a little more pluck, as i told you the other day. if you had just gone round the horse and looked; or even sung out--'is that you, doctor?' why you might have saved me from--from knowing so much about my friends." "oh sir, 'twaz an awesome night! but what i be come for to say, sir, is just this. i absolve 'e, sir; i absolve 'e, measter vox. if that be the right word,--and a' cometh from the baible, i absolve 'e, measter vox." "absolve me from what, crang? i have done nothing. you mean, i suppose, that you acquit me?" "well now, you would never believe--but that's the very word of discoorse that have been sticking in my throat all the way from the ford. you never done it, sir,--not you. you never done it, sir! you may put me on my oath." "but you have been very much upon your oath, ever since it happened, that i was the man, and no other man, that did the whole of it, joseph crang. and the ale you have had on the strength of it!" "the ale, sir, is neither here nor there"--the blacksmith looked hurt by this imputation--"it cometh to-day, and it goeth to-morrow, the same as the flowers of the field. but the truth is the thing as abideth, measter jemmy. not but what the ale might come, upon the other view of it. likewise, likewise--if the lord in heaven ordereth it, the same as the quails from the sky, sir." "the miracle would be if it failed to come, wherever you are, joseph. but what has converted you from glasses against me, to glasses in my favour?" "nothing more than this, sir. seemeth to a loose mind neither here nor there. but to them that knoweth it, beyond when human mind began, perhaps afore the flood waz, there's nought that speaks like little billy." "why this," exclaimed fox, as he unrolled the last new leathern apron of the firm of crang and wife, "this is the thing they found to-day in beating the bounds of the parish. nobody could make out what it was. what can it have to do with me, or the sad affair at perlycross?" "little billy, sir," replied the blacksmith, dandling the tool with honest love, as he promptly recovered it from fox, "have been in our family from father to son, since time runneth not to the contrary. half her can do is unbeknown to me, not having the brains as used to be. ah, we was clever people then, afore the times of the new covenant. it runneth in our race that there was a joe crang did the crafty work for the tabernacle as was set up in the wilderness. and it might a' been him as made little billy." "very hard indeed to prove. harder still to disprove. but giving you the benefit of the doubt, master crang, how have you used this magic tool yourself?" "that's where the very pint of the whole thing lies; that's what shows them up so ungrateful, sir. not a soul in the parish to remember what little billy hath been to them! mind, i don't say as i understand this tool, though i does a'most anything with her. but for them not to know! for them to send to ax the name of 'un, when there bain't one in ten of 'em as hathn't roared over 'un, when her was screwed to a big back tooth." "the ungrateful villains! it is really too bad. so after all, it proves to be what mr. farrant thought it was--a genuine surgical instrument. but go on, crang; will you never tell me how this amounts to any proof, either of my guilt or innocence?" "why according of this here, sir, and no way out of it. little billy were took off my shelf, where her always bideth from father to son, by the big man as come along of the lame horse and the cart, that night. when i was a kneeling down, i zeed 'un put his hand to it, though i dussn't say a word for the life of me. and he slipped 'un into his pocket, same as he would a penny dolly." "come now, that does seem more important," said the doctor cogitating. "but what could the fellow have wanted it for?" "can't tell 'e, sir," replied the blacksmith. "for some of his unchristian work, maybe. or he might have thought it would came in handy, if aught should go amiss with the poor nag again. many's the shoe i've punched off with little billy." "a billy of all trades it seems to be. but how does the recovery of this tool show that you made a mistake about me, crang?" "by reason of the place where her was cast away. you can't get from old barn to blackmarsh lane with wheels, sir, any way, can you? you know how that is, doctor jemmy." "certainly i do. but that proves nothing to my mind at all conclusive." "to my mind it do prove everything conclusive. and here be the sign and seal of it. as long as i spoke again' you, dr. vox, i was forced to go without my little billy. not a day's work hath prospered all that time, and two bad shillings from chaps as rode away. but now i be took to the right side again, here comes my little billy, and an order for three harries!" "but it was the little billy that has made you change sides. it came before, and not in consequence of that." "and glad i be to see 'un, sir, and glad to find you clear of it. tell 'e what i'll do, doctor jemmy. you draw a table up as big as ten commandments, and three horse shoes on the top for luck, in the name of the lord, and king william the fourth, and we'll have it on church-door by next sunday, with my mark on it, and both 'prentices. you put it up, sir, like nebuchadnezzar; beginning--'i, joseph crang, do hereby confess, confirm, and convince all honest folk of this here parish----'" "no, no; nothing of that, joe. i am quite satisfied. let people come round, or not; just as they like. i am having a holiday, and i find it very pleasant." "meaning to say, as it have spoiled your trade? never would i forgive a man as did the like to me. but i see you be going for a trip somewhere, sir, with a pretty lady. only you mind one thing. joe crang will shoe your horses, as long as you bide in perlycrass, for the wholesale price of the iron, doctor jemmy; time, and labour, and nails thrown in, free gratis and for nothing." chapter xvii. camelias. while at the old barn, and rectory also, matters were thus improving, there was no lifting of the clouds, but even deeper gloom at walderscourt. the house, that had been so gay and happy, warm and hospitable, brisk with pleasant indoor amusement; or eager to sally forth upon some lively sport, whenever the weather looked tempting; the house that had been the home of many joyful dogs--true optimists, and therefore the best friends of man--and had daily looked out of its windows, and admired (with noddings of pretty heads, and glances of bright eyes) the manner a good horse has of saying--"by your leave, i want to see a little bit of the world. two days looking at my own breath, and your nasty whitewash! it would grieve me very much to pitch you off. but remember you have seventy years, and i about seventeen, for seeing god's light, and the glories of the earth." none of these high-mettled things happened now. if a horse had an airing, it was with a cloth on, and heels of no perception sticking under him, like nippers; instead of the kind and intelligent approach of a foot that felt every step, and went with it--though thankful for being above the mud--or better still, that stroking of his goodness with the grain, which every gentlemanly horse throws up his head to answer, when a lady of right feeling floats upon the breeze to please him. neither was there any dog about. volumes of description close with a bang, the moment such a thing is said. any lawn, where dogs have played, and any gravel-walk,--whereon they have sauntered, with keener observation than even shakespeare can have felt, or rushed with headlong interest into the life-history of some visitor--lawn, and walk, and even flower-beds (touchy at times about sepulture of bones) wear a desolate aspect, and look as if they are longing to cry, too late--"oh bark again, as thou wast wont to bark!" the premises may not have felt it thus; or if they did, were too mute to tell it. but an air of desolation broods over its own breath; and silence is a ghost that grows bigger at each stalk. there were no leaves left, to make a little hush by dropping, as a dead man does from the human tree; for the nip of early frost had sent them down, on the night of their master's funeral, to a grave more peaceful and secure than his. neither had men worked over hard, to improve the state of things around them. with true philosophy, they had accepted the sere and yellow leaf; because nobody came to make them sweep it up. the less a man labours, the longer will he last, according to general theory; and these men though plentiful, desired to last long. so that a visitor of thoughtful vein might form a fair table of the course of "earth-currents," during the last three weeks, from the state of the big lawn at walderscourt; where sir thomas used to lean upon his stick, and say--"that man is working almost too hard. he looks as if he ought to have a glass of beer." but the gentleman, now coming up the drive, was not in the proper frame of mind for groundling observation. not that he failed to look about him, as if to expand or improve his mind; but the only result upon his nervous system was to make it work harder upon his own affairs. he was visited with a depressing sense of something hanging over him--of something that must direct, and shape, the whole course of his future life; and whether it might be for good or evil, he was hurrying to go through with it. "i don't care; i don't care," he kept saying to himself; but that self was well aware that he did care very much; as much as for all the rest of the world put together. "i've a great mind to toss up about it," he said, as he felt a lucky sixpence in his pocket; but his sense of the fitness of things prevailed; so he put on a fine turn of speed, and rang the bell. the old house looked so different, and everything around so changed, that our friend fox had a weak impression, and perhaps a strong hope, that the bell would prove to be out of its duty, and refuse to wag. but alas, far otherwise; the bell replied with a clang that made him jump, and seek reassurance in the flavour of his black kid glove. he had plenty of time to dwell fully upon that, and even write a report upon the subject, ere ever door showed any loyalty to bell; and even then, there was stiffness about it. for one of the stiffest of mankind stood there, instead of the genial john, or bob--mr. binstock himself, a tall man of three score, major of the cellar, and commander of the household. he, in a new suit of black, and bearing a gold chain on his portly front, looked down upon the vainly upstanding jemmy, as if in need of an introduction. but dr. fox was not the man to cave in thus. the door was a large one, with broad aperture; and this allowed the visitor to march in, as if he had failed to see the great binstock. taking his stand upon a leopard's skin, in the centre of the entrance hall, he gazed around calmly, as if he were the stranger contemplated by the serving-man. "you will have the goodness to take this card up. no thank you, my man, i will stay where i am." the butler's face deepened from the tint of a radish to that of the richest beet-root; but he feared to reply, and took the card without a word. "my turn will come very soon," was in his eyes. acquainted as he was with the domestic signs and seasons, fox had not a shadow of a doubt about his fate, so far as the lady of the house could pronounce it. but for all that he saw no reason to submit to rudeness; and all his tremors vanished now at this man's servile arrogance. how many a time had that fat palm borne the impress of a five-shilling piece, slipped into it by the sympathetic jemmy! and now, to think that this humbug did not know him, and looked at him as a young man aiming at the maids, but come to the wrong door! if anything is wormwood to an englishman,--that a low, supercilious, ungrateful lacquey--well, here he comes again! now for it. binstock descended the old oak staircase, in a very majestic manner, with the light from a long quarled window playing soft hop-scotch, upon his large countenance. the young doctor, as in absent mood, felt interest in the history, value, and probable future, of the beings on the panels,--stags, otters, foxes, martens, polecats, white hares, badgers, and other noble members of west county suffrage; some entire, and too fat to live, some represented by a very little bit. binstock descended, in deep silence still. he felt that the crown had passed away. no other five-shilling piece would ever flutter--as a tip on the sly should have the wings to do--from the gentleman of phials, to the man of bottles. the salver in his hand was three times as large as the one upon which he had received the card; but the little card was on it, very truly in the centre, squaring the circle of a coat of many arms. the butler came down, and brought his heels together; then made a low bow, and without a word, conveyed to the owner of that piece of pasteboard, how frankly and cordially it lay at his disposal. fox had been expecting at least some message, some shade, however cold it might be, of courtesy and acknowledgment. but this was a queer sort of reception. and binstock did not even grin. the turn of his lips suggested only, that others might do so--not he, at such a trifle. fox should have taken all, with equal silence. the foxes were quite as old a race as any waldrons; foxden was a bigger place than walderscourt; and stouter men than binstock were in service there. but the young man was in love; and he forgot those spiteful things. "no message, binstock?" he asked with timid glance, while he fumbled very clumsily with his nails (now bitten short, during many sad hours of dark brooding) to get his poor card out of graven heraldry--"not a word of any sort, from--from anybody?" "had there been a message, sir, i should have delivered it." "i beg your pardon, binstock. to be sure--of course, you would. very well. good afternoon. there is nothing more to say. i will put this in my pocket, for--for a last remembrance." he put the rejected card in his waistcoat-pocket, and glanced round, as if to say "good bye," to the old haunt of many a pleasant hour. then binstock, that grave and majestic butler, surprised him by giving a most unmajestic wink. whether he was touched with reminiscence of his youth--for he had been a faithful man, in love, as well as wine--or whether sweeter memory of crown-pieces moved him; from sympathy, or gratitude, or both combined, beyond any question, binstock winked. fox felt very thankful, and received a lasting lesson, that he had not given utterance to the small contempt within him. "there was a little pipe, sir," said the butler, glancing round, and speaking in a low voice rather fast, "that our poor sir thomas gived to you, from the spanish, now called the provincial war. john hutchings made the observation, that he had heard you pronounce opinion that it was very valuable; and never would you part with it, high or low. and john says that to his certain knowledge now, it is lying in our camelia house." "oh never mind about it now. it is kind of you to think of it. perhaps you will put it by for me." "moreover john was a-saying, sir," continued mr. binstock, with a still more solemn wink, "that you ought almost to have a look at our poor little dog, that all the parish is so full of, including our miss nicie, sir. vets may be all very well in their way; but a human doctor more immortal. and that makes the young lady so particular no doubt, to keep her in the camelia house, because of being cool and warm, sir." "oh to be sure! that poor dear little _jess_! what a fine heart you have, binstock! i suppose i may go out that way?" "the same to you, sir;" said binstock, as he proved the truth of the proverb--"a fine heart is a vein of gold." "the shortest way out, sir, john always says, when her ladyship's nerves have locked her up. and the quietest way, with no one about, unless it should happen to be miss nicie, certainly is through the west quarry door." the butler closed the front door with a bang, as if he had thrust the intruder forth; while jemmy, with his heart in his mouth, hurried down the west corridor to the greenhouse. colonel waldron, while in portugal, five and twenty years ago, had been greatly impressed with the glorious sight of noble camelia-trees in full bloom, a sight perhaps unequalled in the world of flowers. he had vowed that if ever he returned alive, and could afford the outlay, camelias he would have in england; not so magnificent of course, but worthy to remind him of parque da pena. he had studied the likings of the race, and built a house on purpose for them; and here they were in this dark month, beginning to offer bright suggestion of the spring. fine trees of twenty years' sturdy growth, flourishing in the prime flush of health, with the dark leaves glancing like bulls'-eyed glass, and the younger ones gleaming like gauffered satin. and these but a cushion, and a contrast, for the stately luxuriance of blossom; some in the perfect rosette already, of clean-cut, snow-white ivory; some just presenting the pure deep chalice; others in the green bud, tipped with snow, or soft maiden blush, or lips of coral. for the trees were planted in a border of good sod, cut from healthy pasture; instead of being crammed and jammed in pots, with the roots like a ganglion, or burr-knot wen. hence the fibres spread, and sucked up strength, and poured the lush juices into elastic cells, ready to flow into grace of form and colour, and offer fair delight, and pride, to the eyes and heart of watchful men. but fox was not a watchful man at all of any of the charming feats of vegetation now. flowers were all very well in their way; but they were not in his way just at present, or--worse again--some of them were, and stopped him from clear view of something worth all the flowers, all the fruit, and all the fortunes of the wide wide world. for lo, not far away, betwixt a pink tree and a white one, sat miss inez waldron, in a square-backed garden chair. at her feet was a cushioned basket, with an invalid dog asleep in it; while a sound dog, of pug race, was nudging in between, fain to push it out of sight, if his body had been big enough. jealousy lurked in every wrinkle of his face, and governed every quiver of his half-cocked tail. the girl looked very pale and sad, and could not even raise a smile, at all the sharp manoeuvres and small-minded whines of _pixie_. heartily as she loved the dogs, their sorrows, views, and interests now were not the first she had to dwell on. with the colour gone from her cheeks, and her large deep-gray eyes dulled with weeping, her face was not so lovely as in gayer times, but even yet more lovable and tender. following _pixie's_ rush, without much expectation in her gaze--for she thought it was her mother coming--her eyes met those of the young man, parted by such a dark cloud from her. for an instant her pale cheeks flushed, and then the colour vanished from them, and she trembled so that she could not rise. her head fell back on the rail of the chair; while trees, and flowers, and lines of glass began to quiver, and lose their shape, and fade away from her languid eyes. "you are faint--she has fainted!" cried fox in dismay, as he caught up the handkerchief she had dropped, and plunged it into a watering pot, then wrung and laid it gently on her smooth white forehead. then he took both her hands in his, and chafed them, kneeling at her side in a state of agitation, unlikely to add to his medical repute. and from time to time, he whispered words, of more than sympathy or comfort, words that had never passed between them yet. for a while she knew not what he said, until as she slowly revived, one word attracted her vague attention. "happy!" she said, only conscious yet of speaking to some kind person; "no, i must never think of such a thing again." the sadness of her own voice told upon her, reacting on the sad heart from which it came. she looked, as if for somebody to comfort her; perhaps the dear father who had always loved to do it. he was not to be found--oh, piteous grief! if he could come, would he ever leave her thus? then the whole of her misery broke upon her. she knew too well where she was, and what. turn away the face there is none to kiss, and toss back the curls there is nobody to stroke. from a woman, she fell back into a petted child, spoiled by sweet love, and now despoiled by bitter fate. she could look at nothing more. why did consciousness come back? the only thing for her was to sob, and weep--tears that rolled more big and heavy, because they must ever roll in vain. fox had never been in such a state of mind before. hundreds of times he had been driven to the end of his wits, and the bottom of his heart, to know what to do with wailing women, stricken down at last by inexorable death, from the hope that laughs at doctors. but the difference was this--he was the doctor then; and now he was the lover. the lover, without acknowledged right to love; but the shadow of death, and worse than that, betwixt him and the right to love. while he was feebly holding on, knowing that he could not leave her thus--for there was a large tank near her--yet feeling that no man--save husband, or father--should be admitted to this deep distress, he heard the light steps of a woman in the corridor, and he muttered--"thank god! there is some kind person coming." but his joy was premature. the branches of a fine camelia-tree were swept aside like cobwebs, and there stood lady waldron, drawing the heavy black folds around her, and bearing him down with her cold dark eyes. her gaze of contemptuous loathing passed from him--as if he were not worth it--to the helpless embodiment of anguish in the chair; and even then there was no pity. inez turned and faced her, and the meeting of their eyes was not of the gentle sweetness due betwixt a mother and her daughter. without another glance at fox, lady waldron swept by, as if he were not present; and standing before her daughter, spoke a few spanish words very slowly, pronouncing every syllable. then with a smile far worse to see than any frown, she turned away, and her stately figure disappeared in the shadows of the corridor. the maiden watched her without a word, and the sense of wrong renewed her strength. her eyes met the light, as if they had never known a tear, and she threw up her head, and swept her long hair back. for her proud spirit rose through the storm of her trouble, as a young palm stands forth from the cloud it has defied. she cast a glance at fox, and to her great relief saw nothing in his face but anxiety about herself. but she must have his ignorance confirmed. "what trouble i have given you!" she said, with her usual clear soft tones, and gentle look. "i am quite ashamed of myself, for having so very little strength of mind. i cannot thank you as i ought to do. my mother would have done it, i--i suppose at least, if she had been at all like herself. but she has not been well, not at all as she used to be, ever since--i need not tell you what. we are doing our best to bear things; but we find it very, very hard. as the spanish proverb is--but i beg your pardon, you don't know spanish?" "i am nothing of a linguist. i am no exception to the general rule of englishmen, that their own tongue is enough for them." "please to tell me plainly. my memory seems confused. but i think you have shown some knowledge of it. and i think, i have heard my father say that you could read don quixote very fairly from his copy." "no; but just a little, very badly, and with the help of a dictionary, and my own recollection of latin." "then you know what my mother said just now? i hope not. oh i should grieve so!" "well, miss waldron, if you insist upon the truth, i cannot deny that i understood her." nicie's eyes flashed as he spoke: then she rose, and went to him hastily; for he was going, and had taken up his hat to leave her, inasmuch as she now could take care of herself. "put down your hat," she said in her own pretty style of issuing orders, in the days of yore; "now give me both your hands, as you held mine just now, and look at me honestly, and without reserve." "all that i am doing," answered jemmy fox, happy to have her so, and throwing the dawn of a smile into the depth of her dear eyes. "miss waldron, i am doing it." "then go on like this--'miss waldron,' or you may even for once say, 'nicie--i have never been base enough, for a moment, to imagine that you had any doubt of me.' say all that from the bottom of your heart." "nicie, i say from the bottom of my heart, that i knew you were too noble to have any doubt of me, in that way." "i should hope so;" she said, as she dropped her eyes, for fear of showing all that was in them. "you have done me justice, and it will be done to you. i was only afraid, though i knew better, that you might--for men are not like us----" "no, they are not. and more shame for them. oh nicie, what do i care now, if the whole world goes against me?" she gave him one steadfast look, as if that recklessness had no shock for her, and in fact had been duly expected. then knowing by the eyes what had been nursing in her heart for months, she smiled the smile that is deeper almost in the human kind than tears, and happily more lasting. the young man proved himself worthy of her, by cherishing it, without a word. "i may never see you again," said nicie, coming back to proper form, though they both knew that was humbug; "never again, or not for years. it will be impossible for you now to come--to come, as you used to do. but remember, if it is any comfort to you, and i think it will be a little, that no one is more miserable about this wicked, wicked charge, than the one who has more right than any--yes much more than she has"--and she waved her hand after her mother's steps. "yes. or at any rate quite as much. darling, darling nicie dear. don't get excited again, for my sake." "i am not excited. and i don't mean to be. but you are welcome to tell everybody, everybody, jemmy, exactly what i think of you. and my dear father thought the same." "you are an angel, and nothing less. something considerably more, i think," said jemmy, confining himself to moderation. "hush!" she replied, though not in anger; for ladies like that comparison. and then, as he could not better it, he whispered, "god bless you, dear, as you have blessed me!" before she could answer, he was gone. chapter xviii. concussion. all the time these things were going on, the patient christie had been waiting, or rather driving to and fro, on the outskirts of the private grounds. these were large, and well adorned with trees of ancient growth, and clumps of shrubs, and ferny dingles. southward stretched the rich perle valley, green with meadows beloved by cows, who expressed their fine emotions in the noblest cream; on the north-east side was the beacon hill, sheltering from the bitter winds, and forming a goodly landmark; while to the north and west extended heathery downs with sweet short grass, knolls of scotch fir here and there, and gorse for ever blooming. across these downs, and well above the valley-margin ran one of the two great western roads, broad and smooth as a ball-room floor, and ringing some forty times a day, with the neigh, and the tramp, and the harness-rattle of four steeds tossing their heads up, and the musical blast of long brass horn, or merry notes of key-bugle. christie fox in her own opinion was an exceedingly fine whip. tandem-driving was then much in vogue; and truly to be a good tandem-whip was one of the loftiest aspirations of the rational being who could afford it. christie was scarcely up to that mark yet, although she had been known to "tool a team," when her father had the gout, and there was some one at her side. so it may be supposed, with what sweet contempt her sparkling eyes regarded churchwarden tarrant's rattle-trap, and his old cob punch anteceding it. "now don't you go capering about, miss chris;" her brother had said when he left her. "i should have brought george, or at any rate the boy. these lanes are so narrow, and the ditches such a depth." "well, jemmy, it shows how little you have been at home! why i can drive sparkler, and wild-oats, and hurricane. to think of my coming to grief with this old screw!" "you are a wonder, no doubt. but at any rate, be careful. he is a quiet old buffer, but he has got a temper of his own. why he upset the reverend, last summer." "he won't spill me, i can tell him that. the reverend is a muff--he should have let him say his prayers." for a long time the young lady proved that she was right. _punch_ went up and down, and even on the common, as grave as a judge, and as steady as a church. "poor old chap!" said christie to him; "why you haven't got the pluck to call your soul your own." _punch_ only replied with a whisk of his tail, as if to say--"well, i can call this my own," and pursued his reflections, with a pensive head. but suddenly the scene changed. a five-barred gate was flung mightily open, half across the lane, with a fierce creak of iron, and a shivering of wood; and out poured a motley crowd of all sorts and sizes, rattling tea-kettles, and beating frying-pans, blowing old cow's horns, and flourishing a blown dozen of bob jake's bladders, with nuts inside them. _punch_ was coming past, in a moody state of mind, down upon his luck in some degree, and wondering what the world was made for, if a piece of iron in a horse's mouth was allowed to deny him the almighty's gift of grass. however he resigned himself about all that. but when this tremendous uproar broke upon him--for it happened to be the northern party of the parish, beating bounds towards the back of beacon hill, and eager to win a bet about where they met the other lot--and when a gate was flung almost into his shaky knees, which had begun for some time to "come over," up rose the spirit of his hunting days, for he had loved the hounds, when he was young. there was no room to rise the gate; or perhaps he would have tried it, for the mettle of springier times sprang up, and he had never heard a louder noise, in the most exciting burst. surely his duty was at least to jump a hedge. he forgot altogether that he stood between two shafts, and that a young lady was entrusted to his care. swerving to the off-side, he saw a comely gap, prepared no doubt by providence, for the benefit of a horse not quite so young as he used to be. and without hesitation he went at it, meaning no harm, and taking even less heed of the big ditch on this side of it. both shafts snapped, though of fine lance-wood, the four-wheeler became two vehicles, each with a pair of wheels to it, and over the back flew christie, like a sail blown out of the bolt-ropes. luckily she wore large bell-sleeves, as every girl with self-respect was then compelled to do; and these, like parachutes expanding, broke the full speed of her headlong flight. even so it must have fared very badly with her--for her hat being stringless had flown far away--had she been allowed to strike the earth; but quicker than thought a very active figure sprang round the head of the gate, and received the impact of her head upon a broad staunch breast. the blow was severe, and would have knocked the owner down, had he not been an english yeoman. upon a double-breasted waistcoat, made of otter skin, soft and elastic, he received the full brunt of the young lady's head, as the goal-keeper stops a football. throwing forward his arms, he was just in time to catch more of her, as it descended; and thus was this lovely maiden saved from permanent disfigurement, if not from death. but for the time, she knew nothing of this. frank gilham held her very firmly in his arms, and wondered, as well he might do, at her good fortune and his own. others came crowding round the gate, but none had the least idea who she was, and gilham would not permit one of them to touch her, though many would gladly have shared his load. throughout all history, it has been the nature of the british yeoman to bear his own burden, be it good or be it evil. "her be crule doiled," "a' vear her neck be bracken," "look e' zee what purty hair her hath!" "vetch a drap watter," "carr' un up to big 'ouze," "her be scrunched like a trummot"--in this way they went on, all gaping and staring, eager to help, but not sure of the way. "lift the gate from its hinges, and lay it down here;" said gilham, for she still remained senseless; "run to yon rick--they've been hay-binding there; bring a couple of trusses, and spread them on the gate." in two minutes christie was lying on the gate--for devonshire men can be quick when they like--bedded and pillowed among sweet hay, with frank gilham's coat spread across her pretty dress, and his hand supporting her fair head, and easing the jerks as they bore her up the road. but before they had gone more than ten or twenty yards towards walderscourt, whom should they come upon but dr. jemmy fox, looking very joyful, until he met them? "my sister! my own dear chris!" he exclaimed; and they fell away, while he examined her. "concussion. only slight, i hope. thank god!" he said, with his eyes full of tears; "keep her head like that, i will take this end; now, who the other? but not to the court--anywhere but that. never mind why. i can't stop to explain. what is the nearest house, this other way?" "mother's is not more than half a mile away, and good level road," answered gilham. "she'd be well-treated there. you may trust us for that." "you are a brick. take the other end, frank. some fellow with good legs run in front, and tell mrs. gilham what her son has said. no crowding round there; we want all the air. one or two of you run and catch mr. farrant's horse before he tumbles through that harrow. the rest of you go on with your beating work." for _punch_ was careering across a ploughed field, like a wrecker with his plunder at his heels. by the time they arrived at white post farm, mrs. gilham was ready to receive them, a kind old lady as ever lived, sensible, quiet, and ready-witted. a bed on the ground-floor was ready, and poor christie, who still lay as if in a heavy sleep, was carried in very gently; and placed as well as might be upon it. sometimes she was breathing with long gasps, and at other times showing no life at all, and her eyes were closed as in a soft deep sleep. "the pretty dear! the poor young thing!" cried mrs. gilham, and a real cry it was. "i shall not leave her till she comes to herself--that is if you will let me stop," said her brother, who was much more anxious than he cared to let them see. "but if you could send a note to my old barn, george would come over, with a little chest i want." "in twenty minutes, i will be there," answered gilham, "and back in another fifteen with it, if it will come on horseback." he had saddled a horse, and was off in two minutes, while fox called after him down the lane, to see on his road through priestwell whether dr. gronow was at home, and beg him to come up if possible. gronow came at once, when called; for if anything is remarkable among the professors of the healing art (beyond their inability to heal) it is the good-will with which they always try their best, and the largeness of their ministrations to each other's families. parsons appeal to one another for a leg-up very freely; but both reading-desk and pulpit feel that the strange foot is not up to much, unless it has its footing paid. but dr. gronow (besides the kindness of his kind profession, always at the service of its members) had an especial regard for fox, as a young man much of his own type, one who dared to think for himself, and being thoroughly well-grounded, often felt impatient at the vast uncertainty above. whatever faith a young man may feel in his own powers of perception, it is a happy moment, when a veteran confirms him. "she will be all right," said the man of long practice, after careful examination; "only she must have her time, which you know as well as i do. never mind if she lies like this, for twelve or even for twenty-four hours; though i do not think that it will last so long. she ought to have a face she knows and loves, to meet her own, when her consciousness returns. then you know how to treat her. _verbum sat._ but i want to have a long talk with you, when this anxiety is over. why have you kept so long out of my way? come down to my house, when your sister can spare you." fox would have found it hard to say, or at any rate to tell gronow, what were his reasons for avoiding priestwell, while the present black cloud hung over him. in fact to himself his own motives had not been very clear or well considered; but pride was perhaps the foremost. if gronow intended to take his part, the first thing to do was to call at old barn, and let everybody know it. and the young man failed to recollect, that the elder might have good reasons of his own, for keeping his distance just at first. nothing but kind consideration had prevented gronow from calling upon fox straightway, for he knew what significance people would attach to such a visit. suspicion had fallen upon him as well; and many of the baser sort declared, that old and young doctor had arranged that piece of work between them. liberal as he was, and kind, whenever a case of real want or trouble was brought before him, the retired physician was not beloved yet by his neighbours, and he knew it, and was well content to have it so. "a queer old chap"--was the usual summary of his character in the parish; and the charitable added, "no call to blame him; a little bit touched in the upper storey." to the vast relief of her brother, and the delight of her kind hostess, christie fox that very night contrived to come to herself, almost as suddenly as she had left it. "what is all this about?" she asked, opening her clear eyes strongly. "why, jemmy, you have got no hat on! and where is mine? oh dear! oh dear! thirty shillings, without the trimming." "there it is, dear, as large as life, and not a speck upon it. now drink this cup of tea; and then i'll finish what i was saying." "no, you always talk so fast, and you never let me say a word. i might just as well have no tongue at all." the young lady spoke in such fine ignorance of the self she had come back to, that there could be no doubt of her being all there. and presently the "cup of tea" had such a tranquillising power that she fell into a sweet deep sleep, and did not awake until the sun was as high as he meant to go at that time of the year. at first she had a slow dull headache, and felt stiff all over. but mrs. gilham appearing with a napkin'd tray, thin toast and butter, a couple of pullet's eggs just laid, and one or two other brisk challenges at the hands of her youngest daughter, nature arose with an open mouth to have the last word about it, and christie made a famous breakfast. very soon dr. gronow looked in again, and smiled in his dry way at her, for he was not a man of many words. she gave her round wrist to be felt, and the slim pink tongue to be glanced at, and the bright little head to be certified cool and sound under the curls; and passing this examination with high honours, she thought him a "very nice old man;" though his face was not at first sight perhaps of the sweet and benevolent order. then the old doctor took the young doctor aside--for jemmy had not been out of hail all night--and said, "she will do. i congratulate you. no serious lesion, no feverish symptoms--just a bump on her head from a mother-of-pearl button. but she has been severely shaken. i would not move her for a day or two." "may she get up?" asked jemmy in that spirit of pure submission, with which a doctor resigns his own family to the care of another, who knows perhaps less than he himself does. but the plan is wise for the most part, inasmuch as love is apt to cloud the clearest eyes. "to be sure she may. it will do her good. but not to walk about yet. these people are the kindest of the kind. you may safely leave all that to the ladies. meanwhile you are better out of the way. come down for an hour or two, and share my early dinner. you want looking to yourself. you have not had a bit for some twenty-four hours." it was little more than ten minutes' walk to gronow's house at priestwell, and fox accepted the invitation gladly. neither in the course of their walk, nor during their meal, did his entertainer refer to the mysterious subject, which was always in the mind of one, and often in that of the other. but gronow enlarged upon his favourite topic--the keen sagacity, and almost too accurate judgment possessed by trout, and the very great difficulty he experienced in catching them, unless the stream was muddy. "but you can't fish at this time of year," observed fox; "at least so people say. i know nothing about it. hunting and shooting are more to my taste." "you can fish every day in the year," replied gronow; "at any rate in this river. there is nothing against it, but prejudice. the little ones are as bright as a new shilling now, and the old ones as a guinea." "but surely they should be allowed time to breed." "that is their business, and none of mine. if they choose to neglect what they should be doing, and come to my hook, why i pull them out--that is to say, if they don't slip off." "but your hook has no right to be there just then." "is it for a fish to dictate to me, how i should employ my time? i bought this property for the fishing. the interest of my money runs all the year round, and so must what i spent it on." fox saw that he would only irritate this concise logician, by further contention on behalf of the fish; and he was quite disarmed, when the candid doctor added-- "i don't mean to say, that such a fellow as young pike, penniloe's senior pupil, should be allowed to fish all the year round; for he never goes out without catching something. but my case is different; the winter owes me all the blank days i had in the summer; and as they were nine out of every ten, i shall not have caught up the record, by the time the may-fly comes back again." "then you can't do much harm now," thought fox; "and the trout will soon have their revenge, my friend--a fine attack of rheumatism, well in season." "and now," said dr. gronow, when dinner was over, and "red and white wine," as they were always called then, had been placed upon the table, not upon a cloth, but on the dark red sheen; "now you can smoke if you like. i don't, just at present. let us talk of all this botheration. what an idiot world it is! you are young, and will have to wag your tail to it. i go along, with my tail straight; like a dog who does not care to fight, but is ready, if it comes to that." "i know pretty well how you look at things. and it is the best way, for those who can afford it. of course, i am bound to pretend not to care; and i keep up pretty well, perhaps. but for all that, it is not very jolly. if my sister had not turned up, i am not sure how i should have got on at all. though penniloe was very good, and so were several others, especially mockham. i must have a pipe, if you don't mind. it makes me feel so grateful." "that is something in its favour, and shows how young you still remain. i would cultivate the pipe more than i do; if so it would bring back my youth; not for the youth--blind puppyhood--but for thinking better of my race, and of myself as one of them." "it is not for me to reason with you," fox answered humbly, as he blew a gentle cloud; "you are far above me, in every way. i am stupid enough; but i always know, when i come across a stronger mind." "not a stronger, but a harder one. we will not go into that question now. reams have been written about it, and they leave us none the wiser. the present point is--how are you to get out of this very nasty scrape?" "i don't care to get out. i will face it out. when a man knows his own innocence----" "that is all very fine; but it won't work. your prospects do not depend, i know, at all upon your profession. but for the sake of all your friends, your sweet high-spirited sister, your good mother, and all your family, you must not rest upon that manly view. your innocence may be a coat of mail to yourself. but it will not shelter them." "i have thought of all that. i am not so selfish. but who can prove a negative?" "the man who can prove the positive. you will never be quit, until you show who was the real perpetrator. a big word to use; for, after all, the horror at such things is rather childish. the law regards it so, and in its strong perception of mortal rights, has made it a felony to steal the shroud, to steal the body an indictable offence, to be punished with fine, or (if a poor man did it) with imprisonment." "is that the law? i could scarcely have believed it. and they talk of the absurdities of our profession!" "yes, that is the law. and perhaps you see now, why your enemies have not gone further. they see that it damns you ten times more, to lie under the imputation, than it would to be brought to trial, and be acquitted, as you must be. you have not to thank them for any mercy, only for knowing their own game." "it is enough to make one a misanthrope for life," said fox, looking really fierce once more. "i hoped that they had found their mistake about me, and were sorry for accusing an innocent man." "alas for the credulity of youth! no jemmy, the philistines are upon thee. you have to reckon with a wily lot, and an implacable woman behind them. they will take every advantage of the rank cowardice of the clodhopper, and the terror of all those pitch-plaster tales. you know how these things have increased, ever since that idiotic act of two or three years back. that a murderer should be prevented even from affording some posthumous expiation! and yet people call it a religious age--to rob a poor wretch of his last hope of heaven!" "your idea is a grim one;" answered fox with a smile; "i never saw it in that light before. but now tell me one thing--and it is a main point. you know that you can trust me with your opinion. i confess that i am at my wits' ends. the thing must have been done, to solve some doubt. there is no one about here who would dare the risk, even if there were any one zealous enough; and so far as i know, short of exeter, there are none but hum-drums, and jog-trots." "you have expressed your opinion already a little too freely to that effect, master jemmy." "perhaps i have. but i never meant it to go round. it was young and silly of me. but what i want to ask you is this--do you think it possible that, you know who----" "harrison gowler?" said dr. gronow calmly. "it is possible, but most improbable. gowler knew what it was, even better than you did, or i from your account of it. introsusception is not so very rare, even without a strain, or the tendency to it from an ancient wound. putting aside all the risk and expense--and i know that friend gowler sticks close to his money--and dropping all the feelings of a gentleman--what sufficient motive could gowler have? an enthusiastic tiro might have longed to verify, etc., but not a man of his experience. he knew it all, as well as if he had seen it. no, you may at once dismiss that idea, if you ever formed it." "i never did form it. it was suggested; and all that you have said occurred to me. well, i know not what to think. the mystery is hopeless. all we can be certain of is, that the thing was done." "even of that i am not quite so certain. i am never sure of anything, unless i see it. i have come across such instances of things established beyond doubt--and yet they never occurred at all. and you know what a set of fools these fat-chopped yokels are, when scared. why they actually believe in spring-heeled jack, lord somebody, and the ten thousand guinea bet! and they quake in their beds, if the windows rattle. look at that idiot of a blacksmith, swearing that he saw you with the horse! a horse? a night-mare, or a mare's nest, i should say. why it would not surprise me a bit, if it proved that the worthy baronet is reposing in his grave, as calmly as his brave and warlike spirit could desire. if not, it is no fault of our profession, but the result of some dark history, to which as yet we have no clue." dr. gronow had a manner of saying things, in itself so distinct and impressive, and seconded so ably by a lowering of his eyebrows, and wrinkling of his large steep forehead, that when he finished up with his mouth set close, and keen eyes fixed intently, it was hard to believe that he could be wrong--supposing at least that he meant to be right. "well, sir," said the young man, strongly feeling this effect; "you have often surprised me by the things you have said. and strange as they seemed, they have generally proved correct in the end. but as to your first suggestion, it is impossible, i fear, to think of it; after what at least a dozen people saw, without hurry, and in broad daylight. the other matter may be as you say. if so, it only makes it worse for me. what hope can i have of ever getting at the bottom of it?" "time, my dear fellow, time will show. and the suspicion against you will be weakening every day, if you meet it with calm disdain. you already have the blacksmith's recantation--a blow in the teeth for your enemies. i am not exactly like your good parson, who exhorts you devoutly to trust in the lord. 'the lord helps those who help themselves,' is my view of that question. though i begin to think highly of penniloe. he was inclined to be rude about the flies i use, once or twice last summer. but i shall look over that, as he has been so ill. i shall call and enquire for him to-morrow." "but what am i to do, to help myself? it is so easy to say, 'take it easily.' what is the first step for me to take? i could offer rewards, and all that sort of thing. i could send for experienced men from london. i have written to a friend of mine there already, but have had no answer. i could put myself in a clever lawyer's hands. i could do a lot of things, no doubt, and spread the matter far and wide. but the first result would be to kill my dear father. i told you in what a condition he lies." "yes. you are terribly 'handicapped' as the racing people call it. penniloe's illness was much against you. so was your own absence. so were several other things. but the worst of all is your father's sad state. and the better he gets, the worse the danger. but for all that, i can give you one comfort. i have never yet known things combine against a man, persistently and relentlessly, if he went straight ahead at them. they jangle among themselves, by and by, even as his enemies are sure to do; and instead of being hunted down, he slips out between them. one thing i can undertake perhaps. but i won't talk of it until i know more, and have consulted penniloe. what, have you never had a glass of wine? well, that is too bad of me! these are the times, when even a young man wants it, and an old one should sympathise with him thus. oh, you want to get back to the fair miss christie? very well, take her half a dozen of my pears. these people about here don't know what a pear is, according to my interpretation of the word." chapter xix. percussion. this was not the right time of year for spring of hope, and bounding growth; the first bloom-bud of the young heart growing milky, and yet defiant; and the leaf-bud pricking up, hard and reckless, because it can never have a family. not the right time yet for whispered openings, and shy blush of petals, still uncertain of the air, and creeping back into each other's clasp lest they should be tempted to come out too soon. neither was there in the air itself that coy, delusive, tricksome way, which it cannot help itself for having, somewhere about the month of april, when the sun is apt to challenge and then shirks the brunt. in a word (though no man can prove a negative, as jemmy fox had well remarked) it was the very time when no young man, acquainted with the calendar of his church, should dream of falling into love, even though he had a waistcoat of otterskin, and fourteen pearl-buttons upon it. in spite of all that, it was the positive which prevailed in this case. frank gilham had received such a blow upon his heart, that the season and the weather were nothing to it. the fall of the leaf, and retirement of the sap--though the saps now tell us that it never does retire--had less than no effect upon his circulation. he went in vainly for a good day's ploughing, for he could hold as well as drive; but there was his waistcoat, and his heart inside it; and even when he hung the one upon an oak-tree, the other kept going on, upon its private business; and "whoa! stand still, hossy!" had no effect upon it. he sneaked into the house, as if he had no right there--though his mother had only a life-interest--and he made a serious matter of the shortness of his nails, and felt a conscientious longing, when he saw his whiskers, to kick the barber at pumpington, who had shorn them with a pair of tailor's scissors, so abominably on the last market-day. but last market-day, this young man's heart had been inditing of pigs and peas, whereof he had made a tidy penny, because he was a sharp fellow then. "how is she now?" he asked his young sister rose, when he came down at last, discontented with himself, though appearing unusually smart to her. "well, thank you, frank, mother is not quite the thing to-night. she did not get quite her proper rest, you know, on account of the strange young lady. and she never took her hore-hound lozenges. she thinks too much of others, and too little of herself----" "as if i did not know all that! will you never tell me anything i want to know? but i suppose the young lady won't keep her up to-night?" "she? oh she is all right enough. you should just see her eat. my goodness! talk of farmhouse appetites!" "rose, who are you to understand such things? you have seen so very little of the world; and you judge it entirely by yourself. i suppose the door is not open?" "oh yes. anybody can look in, if that's what you want to do. she has been sitting up ever so long, with mother's dressing-gown and sunday shawl on. such a guy you never see in all your life!" "a pity you can't be a guy then. why rose, if you only had a hundredth part----" "yes, i dare say. but i don't want, don't you see? i am quite contented as i am; and better judges than you will ever be--why that coloured hair is quite out of fashion now. everybody goes in for this sort of tint, and a leaden comb to make it darker. corkscrews are all the rage, and they can't be too black. why minnie farrant told me, last sunday, that she read on the best authority----" "her bible, or her prayer-book?" "don't be so absurd. the very best authority, that queen adelaide herself told his majesty as much, and he said he was a tar, and the best pitch wasn't black. that was to please her, you know. wasn't it clever of him? oh frank, why don't you fall in love with minnie farrant--your own godfather's favourite child, and they say she'll have four thousand pounds?" "minnie farrant! why, i'd rather have a broomstick. though she is all very well in her way, of course." "she is the prettiest girl in this parish, by long chalks, except of course nicie waldron. and i suppose you wouldn't quite stick up to her." "stick up indeed! is that the way you learn to express yourself at a finishing school? but do look sharp with the frying-pan, if your corkscrews are not too precious. i don't want minnie farrant, nor even miss waldron--i want my little bit of supper, and you know it well enough. i am sorry for the ninny that ever falls in love with you." "so am i. because i won't have him. but what fun it will be! i shall starve him out. all you men think about is eating; and i shall say----" "rose again, as usual! her long tongue running away with her." mrs. gilham looked very serious, for every day she found stronger proof that girls were not as they used to be. "you have had your tea, child, and you want nothing more. i am sure you should be the very last to talk as if eating were a sin. go and help mary with your dear brother's supper. he has been hard at work all day." "sticks to his work, wants no diverting-- a model young man in the farming line! never goes hunting, dancing, flirting, doesn't know the flavour of a glass of wine." away danced rosie to the tune of her own song, with her light figure frisking from side to side of the long stone passage. "ah me! i fear we shall have trouble yet with that very thoughtless girl. she can only see the light side of everything. it is high time for her now; why before i was seventeen--but frank, you don't look like yourself to-night!" the old lady went up to him, and pushed aside his hair, as crisp and curly as a double hyacinth. "i am almost sure, there is something on your mind. your dear father had exactly that expression upon his face, at periods of his married life. but then it was always the times when he had rheumatics in his left shoulder blade; and i used to iron them out with brown paper, the darkest brown that you can get, and a sprinkle of vinegar underneath, as hot as ever you can bear it; in fact, until it begins to singe, and then----" "well, nobody will ever do that to me, thank god!" frank spoke in a very reckless tone, and strictly avoided his mother's eyes. "i will, my son, if i live long enough. old mrs. horner used to say--not the present mrs. john, you know, but her husband's mother----" "excuse me, dear mother, but i thought i heard a call. shall i go, and knock at the young lady's door?" "frank, how can you ask such a question? not that she is not in very pretty order, and fit for any one to look at her; with my dressing-gown on, as good as new, and the big picture-bible on one side of her, and 'the fashionable lady's vade mecum' on the other." "how queer she must look in your dressing-gown, mother! quite an old frump, i suppose?" "i am very much obliged to you, my son. but as it happens, miss christie fox does not look at all like an old frump; though your poor mother would of course, and must expect it--though not perhaps quite to be told of it. on the contrary, miss fox looks very bright and blooming, with her eyes like the sky itself, and her lovely hair flowing all down her shoulders." "i had better go and see whether she has knocked for something. i need not go in of course. in fact i should not think of it, only just to pop my head inside the door, and then----" "no, you won't pop it, sir, in any place of the kind. remember that it is a bedroom; and you are a gentleman--or ought to be." "oh, come, mother! that's a little too hard on me. i never meant anything, except to save you trouble, by just asking--well, i didn't think you would speak to me in that way." "well my boy, perhaps i spoke too hastily. words turn so different, outside the lips! but i should not like a visitor of ours to think she had fallen among savages. but here comes your supper at last; and small thanks to rosie. why at her time of life, i should have been too proud to serve my only brother, hand and foot. but i must just run back, and get my young lady tucked up. high time for her to be in bed again. her brother has sent her box full of things, and so we shall be able to get her out a bit to-morrow, if the weather permits, and dr. gronow." dr. gronow permitted, and so did the weather. can any man remember when he was stopped from making a fool of himself by the weather, or encouraged in any wisdom by it? how many a youth under vast umbrella, warranted to shelter two, if their shoulders came nice and close together, with the storm beating on them, and suggesting--but such umbrellas are not made now, fine canopies of whalebone--who would buy them? who thinks of more than his own top-hat? unless he sees a chance of a gold-band round it. and that, to tell the truth, has been very charming always. but here was frank gilham, without any thought of that. he knew that jemmy fox was a fine young fellow, perhaps a little bit above him in the social scale, and likely to be a wealthy man, some day. but of sweet christie he knew nothing, except that he wanted to know a great deal. therefore he found that the young mare was puffing, and wanted wet bandages, and a day in stable--excess of synovial oil is a serious study. while on the other hand old _tommy_, as hard and as dry as a brick-bat, was not altogether free from signs of rheumatism, and had scraped up his litter, in a manner that meant something. he put it to his mother, whether they should plough to-day. it might be all right, and the horses were hers. if she thought wise to venture it---- "it is no use trying to persuade me, frank," mrs. gilham answered; "i won't risk it. your dear father lost a good horse once, although i advised him to the contrary. under providence, our first duty is to the faithful and long-suffering creatures, provided by him for the benefit of mankind. you may try to persuade me, as much as you like. but you don't seem to have got your ploughing trousers on!" "that is not a question of ten minutes. when i looked out of window, the first thing this morning----" "yes to be sure. you were considering the weather. your dear father did the same; though always wrong about it. but it is useless to argue with me, frank. i must have my own way, sometimes." "very well. very well, then i won't go. i have got a lot of little things to see to here. why the rack in the kitchen would soon be rack and ruin." "frank, you do say the very cleverest things. and i feel in myself that it never comes from me. thank god that i have such a dutiful son, though his mind is so superior." the young man exerted his superior mind upon a very solid breakfast, topped up with honey, gushing limpid from the comb, sweeter than the softest beeswing of the meed of love. then he sauntered in the mow-yard with his ginger terrier jack; whom no wedded love could equal, in aptitude to smell a rat. but hay was sweet, and clover sweeter, and the rich deep ricks of wheat--golden piles on silver straddles--showed the glossy stalk, and savoured of the glowing grain within. a man might thrust his arm into the yellow thicket here and there, and fetch the chined and plump ear out, and taste the concrete milkiness. "rose told me that i should just see her eat," frank gilham meditated; "what a greedy thing to say! was it because eggs are now so scarce, and rose wanted all of them for herself? but if she likes good things, i could have this rick of brown wheat threshed to-morrow. the bread is ten times as sweet and toothsome--oh by the by, what teeth she has, like wind-flower buds among roses. two or three times, her lips just showed them, while she was lying upon that hay. but what are her teeth to compare with her lips? and did anybody ever see such cheeks, even with the pink flown out of them? there's nothing that you could find a flaw in; forehead, hair, and eyes, and nose--though i can't pretend quite that i have seen her eyes yet--merely a sort of a flash in the air, while she was flying over the backrail of the trap. only there is no denying that they must be like heaven itself, full of angels. mother says the sky, but that sounds so common. so far as that goes, everybody is allowed to look at the sky; but who would care ever to see it again, after a glimpse--jack, what are you about there? got into a gin? well, serves you right for mooning." "frank! frank! frank!" a loud call rang among the ricks. "got away smoking again, i'll be bound. i never can understand how it is, he doesn't set every blessed rick on fire." "not smoking at all, as it happens. but how frightfully shrill your voice is, rosie!" "what a swell we are, to be sure, to-day! and getting quite nervous. wants cotton wool in his ears, poor dear! but the precious young lady is just coming out. and mother says you should be somewhere handy, in case of her being taken faint. about as likely to faint as i am, i should say. now mind your p's and q's, in spite of all your greek and latin. you may make your bow, about ten miles off; but not to speak, until spoken to. that's right, flourish your hair up. but you needn't run twenty miles an hour." on the gravel walk bordered by hollyhocks--now a row of gaunt sceptres without any crowns--the kind mrs. gilham was leading her guest, who did not require to be led at all, but was too well-bred to reject the friendly hand. christie was looking a little delicate, and not quite up to the mark of her usual high spirits; but the man must have been very hard to please, who could find much fault on that score. "oh what a beautiful view you have!" she exclaimed, as the sun broke through the mist, spreading perle valley with a veil of purest pearl. "i had no idea it was such a lovely place. and the house, and the garden, and the glen that slopes away. why that must be perlycross tower in the distance, and that tall white house the rectory. why, there's the bridge with seven lofty arches, and the light shining through them! more light than water, i should say. what on earth induced them to put such a mighty bridge across such a petty river? i dare say they knew best--but just look at the meadows, almost as green as they would be in may! no wonder you get such lovely butter. and the trees down the valley, just in the right places to make the most of themselves, and their neighbourhood. why half of them have got their leaves on still, here nearly at the end of november--and such leaves too, gold, red, and amber, straw-colour, cinnamon, and russet!" "and if you come up to that bench, my dear," replied mrs. gilham, as proud as punch, at the praises of her native vale, "that bench at the top of our little orchard--my poor dear husband had such taste, he could find the proper place for everything--gravel-walk all the way, and nothing but a little spring to cross; why, there you can hear the key-bugle of the _defiance_! punctual every day at half-past ten. we always set our kitchen clock by it. the guard, as soon as he sees our middle chimney, strikes up as loud as ever he can blow, 'oh the roast-beef of old england,' or 'to glory we steer,' for the horses to be ready. so some people say; but i happen to know, that it is done entirely to please us. because we sent cider out every day, when that hot week was, last summer." "what a grateful man! oh i must go and hear him. i do think there's nothing like gratitude. by the by, i am not acting up to that. i have never even seen your son, to thank him." "oh miss fox, it is not fair to him, for any young lady to try to do that. he has no opinion of anything he does; and the last time he saved a young lady's life, he ran away, because--because it wouldn't do to stay. you see, she had been at the very point of drowning, and the people on the bank declared that she came up three times. my son frank never pulled his coat off--he would have despised himself, if he had stopped to do it--he jumped in, they said it was forty feet high, but there is no bank on the river (except the cliff the church stands on) much over five and twenty. however, in he went, and saved her; and everybody said that she was worth £ , , but carried away by the current. and from that day to this, we heard nothing more about it; and my son, who has a very beautiful complexion, blushes--oh he blushes so, if he only hears of it!" "oh, he is too good, mrs. gilham! it is a very great mistake, with the world becoming all so selfish. but i am not the young lady that went with the current. i go against the current, whenever i find any. and your son has had the courage to do the same, in the question of my dear brother. i say what i mean, you must understand, mrs. gilham. i am not at all fond of shilly-shally." "neither is my son, miss fox. only he thinks so very little of himself. why there he is! hard at work as usual. don't say a syllable of thanks, my dear; if he comes up to pull his hat off. he can stand a cannon-ball; but not to be made much of." "won't i though say 'thank you' to him? i am bound to consider myself, and not only his peculiar tendencies. mr. frank gilham, do please to come here, if--i mean supposing you can spare just half-a-minute." frank had a fair supply of hard, as well as soft, in his composition. he was five and twenty years old, or close upon it, and able to get a dog out of a trap, in the deepest of his own condition. he quitted his spade--which he had found, by the by, left out all night, though the same is high treason--as if he could scarcely get away from it, and could see nothing so fine as a fat spit of sod. and he kept his eyes full upon christie's, as if he had seen her before, but was wondering where. this was the proper thing to do. though he knew himself to be in no small fright, throughout all this bravery. but there is no monopoly of humbug; though we all do our utmost to establish one. "miss fox, i believe you have seen my son before." the old lady took to the spirit of the moment, with the quickness, in which ladies always take the front. "and my son frank has had the honour of seeing you." "and feeling me too--pretty sharp against his chest"--christie thought within herself, but she only said--"yes; and it was a happy thing for me." "not at all, miss fox--a mere casual accident, as the people about here express it. i explained to you, that frank cannot help himself. be kind enough not to speak of it." "that won't do," replied christie, looking stedfast. "it may do for him, but not for me. allow me one moment, mrs. gilham." without more ado, she ran up to frank gilham, who was turning away again towards his work, and gave him both hands, and looked full at him, with the glitter of tears in her deep blue eyes. "my senses have not quite forsaken me," she said: "and i know whom i have to thank for that: and in all probability for my life as well. it is useless to talk about thanking you, because it is impossible to do it. and even before that i was deeply in your debt, for the very noble way in which you took my brother's part, when everybody else was against him. it was so brave and generous of you." it was more than she could do, with all her spirit, to prevent two large and liberal tears from obeying the laws of nature; in fact they were not far from obtaining the downright encouragement of a sob, when she thought of her poor brother. "well, you are a sweet simple dear!" exclaimed the fine old lady, following suit in the feminine line, and feeling for her pocket-handkerchief. "frankie should be proud to his dying day, of doing any trifle for such a precious dear. why don't you say so, frankie, my son?" "simply because my mother has said it so much better for me." he turned away his eyes, in fear of looking thus at christie, lest they should tell her there was no one else in the world henceforth for them to see. "here comes the _defiance_! hurrah, hurrah!" shouted rose, rushing in, for once just at the right moment. "i can hear the horses' hoofs springing up the rise. if you want to know anything about roast beef, you must put on a spurt up the periwinkle walk. here goes number one. slow coaches come behind." "i am not a slow coach. at least i never used to be," cried christie, setting off in chase. "miss fox, miss fox, don't attempt to cross the brook, without my son's hand," mrs. gilham called after them; for she could not live the pace. "oh rose is wrong as usual--it's 'to glory we steer,' this time." the obliging guard gave it three times over, as if he had this team also in full view; then he gave the "roast beef," as the substance of the glory; and really it was finer than a locomotive screech. presently rose heard the cackle of a pullet which had laid, and off she ran to make sure of the result, because there was an old cock sadly addicted to the part that is least golden in the policy of saturn. so the three who remained sat upon the bench and talked, with the cider apples piled in pink and yellow cones before them, and the mossy branches sparkling (like a weeping smile) above, and the sun glancing shyly, under eaves and along hedgerows, like the man denied the privilege of looking at the horse. by this light however frank gilham contrived to get many a peep round his mother's bonnet--which being of the latest fashion was bigger than a well-kept hedgerow--at a very lovely object on the other side thereof, which had no fear as yet of being stolen. miss fox had fully made up her mind, that (happen what might) she would not say a single word, to sadden her good hostess with the trouble her brother had fallen into, or the difficulties now surrounding him. but ladies are allowed to unmake their minds, especially if it enlarges them; and finding in the recesses of that long bonnet a most sympathetic pair of ears, all the softer for being "rather hard of hearing," and enriched with wise echoes of threescore years, she also discovered how wrong and unkind it would be, to withhold any heart-matter from them. "and one of the most dreadful things of all," christie concluded with a long-drawn sigh, "is that my dear father, who has only this son jemmy, is now in such a very sad state of health, that if he heard of this it would most likely take him from us. or if he got over it, one thing is certain, he would never even look at my brother again. not that he would believe such a wicked thing of him; but because he would declare that he brought it on himself, by going (against his father's wishes) into this medical business. my father detests it; i scarcely know why, but have heard that he has good reason. we must keep this from him, whatever it costs us; even if it keeps poor jemmy under this cloud for months to come. luckily father cannot read now very well, and his doctor has ordered him not to read at all; and mother never looks at a newspaper: and the place being five and thirty miles away, and in another county, there is no great risk, unless some spiteful friend should rush in, to condole with him. that is what i dread to hear of sometimes; though good dr. freeborn, who attends him, will prevent any chance of it, if possible. but you see, mrs. gilham, how it cripples us. we cannot move boldly and freely, as we ought, and make the thing the topic of the county; as we should by an action of libel for instance, or any strong mode of vindication. i assure you, sometimes i am ready to go wild, and fly out, and do anything. and then i recollect poor father." "it is a cruel cruel thing, my dear. i never heard of anything resembling it before. that's the very thing that frank says. from the very first he saw what a shameful thing it was to speak so of dr. fox. i believe he has knocked down a big man or two; though i am sure i should be the last to encourage him in that." "come, mother, come! miss fox, you must not listen to a quarter of what mother says about me. i dare say, you have found that out, long ago." "if so, it is only natural, and you deserve it;" this hibernian verdict was delivered with a smile too bright to be eclipsed by a score of hedgerow bonnets; "but there is one thing i should like to ask mr. frank gilham, with his mother's leave; and it is this--how was it that you mr. frank, almost alone of all the parish of perlycross, and without knowing much of my brother at the time, were so certain of his innocence?" "because i had looked in his face;" replied frank, looking likewise into the sister's face, with a gaze of equal certainty. "that is very noble," christie said, with a little toss meaning something. "but most people want more to go upon than that." chapter xx. discussion. now mrs. fox, doctor jemmy's mother, was an enthusiastic woman. she was twenty years younger than her husband, and felt herself fifty years his senior (when genuine wisdom was needed) and yet in enterprise fifty years junior. the velocity of her brain had been too much for the roots of her hair, as she herself maintained, and her best friends could not deny it. except that the top of her head was snow-white, and she utterly scorned to disguise it, she looked little older than her daughter christie, in some ways; though happily tougher. she was not too fat, and she was not too thin; which is more than most people can tell themselves, at the age of eight and forty. into this ancient county race, which had strengthened its roots by banking, she had brought a fine vein of devonian blood, very clearing for their complexions. she had shown some disdain for mercantile views; until she began to know better, when her father, and others of her landed lineage slipped down the hilltop into bankruptcy, without any free-trade, or even tenants' superior rights, to excuse them. then she perceived that mercantile views are the only ones left to ensure a quiet man a fair prospect from his own front windows. she encouraged her husband to cherish the bank, which at one time she had derided; and she quite agreed with him, that no advances could save her own relations in their march downhill. the elder james fox, who like his father had refused a title--for although they were not quakers now, they held to their old simplicity--mr. james fox of foxden was a fine sample of the unmixed englishman. he had never owed a penny of his large fortune to any unworthy trick of trade, or even to lucky gambling in stocks, or bitter mortgages. many people called him stubborn, and they were welcome to take that view of it. in business that opinion served him well, and saved a lot of useless trouble. but he himself knew well, and his wife knew even better, that though he would never budge an inch, for claim, or threat, or lawsuit, there was no man who gave a longer ell, when drawn out by mercy, or even gentle equity. but in the full vigour of his faculties, mental if not bodily--and the latter had not yet failed him much--that mysterious blow descended, which no human science can avert, relieve, or even to its own content explain. one moment he was robust and active, quick with the pulse of busy life, strong with the powers of insight, foresight, discrimination, promptitude--another moment, and all was gone. only a numb lump remained, livid, pallid, deaf and dumb, sightless, breathless (beyond a wheezy snore) incapable even of a dream or moan. and knowing all these things, men are proud! his strong heart, and firm brain, bore him through; or rather they gradually shored him up; a fabric still upon the sands of time, but waiting only for the next tidal wave. now the greatest physician, or metaphysician, that ever came into the world, can tell us no more than an embryo could, what the relics of the mind will be in such a case, or how far in keeping with its former self. thoroughly pious men have turned blasphemers; very hard swearers have taken to sweet hymns; tempers have been changed from diabolical to angelic; but the change more often has been the other way. happily for himself, and all about him, this fine old man was weakened only, and not perverted from his former healthful self. his memory was deranged, in veins and fibres, like an ostrich-plume draggled in a gale of wind and rain; but he knew his old friends, and the favoured of his heart, and before and above all, his faithful wife. he had fallen from his pride, with the lapse of other powers; and to those who had known him in his stronger days, his present gentleness was touching, and his gratitude for trifles affecting; but notwithstanding that, he was sometimes more obstinate than ever. "i wonder why chris stays away so long;" he said as he sat one fine day upon the terrace, for he was ordered to stay out of doors as much as possible, and his wife as usual sat beside him. "she is gone to nurse jemmy through a very heavy cold, as i understood you to say, my dear. but my memory is not always quite clear now. but it must be some days since i heard that; and i miss little chrissy with her cheerful face. you are enough of course, my dear mary, and i very seldom think much of anybody else. still i long sometimes to see my little chrissy." "to be sure; and so do i. the house seems very sad without her;" replied mrs. fox, as if it could be merry now. "we won't give her more than another day or two. but we must remember, dear, how differently poor jemmy is placed from what we are in this comfortable house. only one old rough devonshire servant; and everybody knows what they are--a woman who would warm his bed, as likely as not, with a frying-pan, and make his tea out of the rain water boiler." "he has no one to thank for it but himself." after this delivery, the father of the family shut his mouth, which he still could do as well as ever, though one of his arms hung helpless. "and i did hear that there was some disturbance there, something i think about the clergyman, who is a great friend of jemmy's;" mrs. fox spoke this in all good faith, for dr. freeborn had put this turn upon a story, which had found its way into the house; "and you know what our chris is, when she thinks any one attacks the church--you may trust her for flying to the rescue. at any rate so far as money goes." "and money goes a long way, in matters eccles--you know what i mean--i can't pronounce those long words now. christie is too generous with her good aunt's money. the trustees let her have it much too freely. i should not be much surprised if they get a hundred pounds out of chris, at--let me see, what is the place called--something like a brooch or trinket. ah there, it's gone again!" "you must not talk so much, my dear; and above all you must not try your memory. it is wonderfully good, i am sure, thank god! i only wish mine was half as good." now mrs. fox was quite aware that she had an exceedingly fine memory. "well, never mind;" resumed the invalid, after roving among all the jewels he could think of. "but i should be very glad before i die, to see chrissy married to sir henry haggerstone, a man of the highest character, as well as a very fine estate. has he said anything to you about it lately?" "no, father;" mrs. fox always called him "father," when a family council was toward; "how could he while you--i mean why should he be in such a hurry? christie is a girl who would only turn against him, if he were to worry her. she is a very odd child; she is not like her mother. a little spice of somebody else, i think, who has always contrived to have his own way. and she hates the idea of being a stepmother; though there are only two little girls after all, and chrissy's son would be the heir of course. she says it is so frightfully unromantic, to marry a wealthy widower. but talk of the--i am sure i beg his pardon--but here comes sir henry himself, with dr. freeborn. you had better see the doctor first, my dear, while i take a turn with sir henry." this gentleman was, as mr. fox had pronounced, of the very highest character, wealthy moreover, and of pleasant aspect, and temper mild and equable. neither was his age yet gone fatally amiss; though a few years off would have improved it, as concerning christie; for he was not more than thirty-three, or thirty-four, and scarcely looked that, for he led a healthful life. but his great fault was, that he had no great fault; nothing extreme in any way about him, not even contempt for "extreme people." he had been at oxford, and had learned, by reading for a first class in classics (which he got) that virtue is a "habit of fore-choice, being in the mean that concerns ourselves, defined by reason, and according as the man of perception would define it." sir henry was a man of very clear perception, and his nature was well-fitted to come into definitions. he never did much thinking of his own; for deeper minds had saved him all that trouble, and he was quite content to accept the results. there was nobody who could lead him much, and no one who could not lead him a little, when he saw a clear path to go along. this was not altogether the man to enchant romantic maidenhood. christie cared for him about as much as she would for a habit, that was in a mean. not that he was in any way a prig, or laid down the law to any one. he had not kept up his classics, for he had no real love for them; and in those days, a man might get a first at oxford, who could scarcely scan a latin hexameter, if he were exceptionally strong in "science"--then meaning philosophy, before the age of "stinks." to none of these subjects did christie pay heed--she did not care for the man; and that was all about it. "you are quite right, mrs. fox. i think exactly as you do;" this gentleman was replying to the lady of the house, as they walked upon the gentle slope towards the flower-garden; "there are no real whigs, in the present headlong days. men, like your husband, and myself, who have fancied ourselves in the happy mean, are either swept aside, or carried down the deluge. for the moment there seems to be a slight reaction; but it will not last. the rush will only be more headlong. and in private life it is just the same. individual rights are to be no more respected. everything belongs to everybody. i will tell you a little thing that happened to myself, just as a specimen of the spirit of the age. a year or two ago, i bought some old manorial rights, in a thinly peopled part of devonshire; in fact at the western end of the great blackdown range, a barren, furzy, flinty sort of place. by the by, not many miles away from the place where your son has gone to live--perlycross. i only bought the manor to oblige a friend, who wanted a little ready money, and to go there now and then perhaps for a little rough shooting, for the country is beautiful, and the air very fine. well, the manorial rights included some quarries, or pits, or excavations of some sort, where those rough scythe-stones are dug, such as you see lying on that lawn. the land itself was actually part of the manor, from a time beyond memory or record; but it seems as if strangers had been allowed to settle on the hillside, and work these ancient quarries, and sell the produce on their own account, only paying a small royalty to the manor, every martinmas, or about that time; not so much for the value of the money, (though it would perhaps be considerable under a proper computation) but as an acknowledgment of the ownership of the manor. but i fear i am tiring you." "not at all, sir henry; i like any story of that sort. our laws are so very very queer." "sometimes they are. well, my friend had not deceived me. he said that this whetstone money was very hard to get, and was so trifling that he had let it go sometimes, when the people objected to paying it, as they did after any bad season. last martinmas, the matter slipped my memory, through domestic trouble. but this year, as the day approached, i sent orders to a man, (a rough sort of game-keeper, who lives near there, and looks after the shooting and gravel and peat,) to give notice at the pits that i meant to have my money. a very close corporation they seem to have established, and have made their encroachments uncommonly secure, being quite distinct in race, and character, dialect, and even dress, i believe, from the settled people round them. now what message do you think they sent me?" "something very insolent, i have no doubt." mrs. fox did not call herself even a whig, but a downright determined tory. "this was it--my man got the schoolmaster to put it into writing, and i happen to have it in my pocket. 'not a penny will we pay this year. but if you like to come yourself, and take a turn at the flemmer'--something they use for getting out the stone--'we won't charge you anything for your footing.'" "your footing on your own land! well, that is very fine. what do you mean to do, sir henry?" "grin, and bear it, i suppose, mrs. fox. you know what the tendency of the time is, even in the law-courts. and of course, all the press would be down upon me, as a monster of oppression, if i ventured to assert my rights. and though i am out of the house ever since the 'broom of reform' (as the papers call it) swept my two little seats away, i might like to stand again some day; and what a whetstone this would be for my adversaries! and i hear that these people are not a bad lot, rough, and uncivilized, and wonderfully jealous over the 'rights' they have robbed me of; but among themselves faithful, and honest, and quiet, and sober, which is the strangest thing of all in england. as for their message, why they speak out plainly, and look upon their offer as a great concession to me. and we in this more enlightened part must allow for the manners of that neighbourhood. in fact this is such a perfect trifle, after what they have been doing at perlycross. if i were a magistrate about there----" "at perlycross! what do you mean? some little matter about the clergyman? i want to know all about that, sir henry. it seems so strange, that christie never mentioned it." sir henry perceived that he had "put his foot in it." dr. freeborn had warned him that the "sacrilege in devon"--as the somerset papers had begun to call it--must be kept most carefully from the knowledge of his patient, and from that of the lady also; for there was no saying how she might take it. and now mrs. fox could not fail to find out everything. he was ready to bite off his tongue, as ladies put it. "oh, ah--i was thinking of something--which had better not be referred to perhaps. not quite fit to be discussed, when one has the honour of being with ladies. but about those very extraordinary people. i have heard some things that are highly interesting, things that i am certain you would like to hear----" "not half so much as i want to hear the story about the parish, where my son lives, and my daughter is staying, and will not come back--for some reason which we cannot make out. i must insist, sir henry, upon hearing all that you know. i am not a young woman, and know the world pretty well by this time. you will not offend me, by anything you say; but you will, by anything you hide." sir henry haggerstone looked about, and saw that he was in for it. the elderly lady--as some might call her--looked at him, with that pretty doubt, which ladies so thoroughly understand how to show, and intend to be understood without expression. the gentleman glanced at her; he had no moustache to stroke--for only cavalry officers, and cads of the most pretentious upturn, as yet wore ginger hackles--a relief still to come in a downier age. "my dear mrs. fox, there is nothing improper, from a lady's point of view, i mean, in the very sad occurrence at perlycross. it is a question for the local authorities. and not one for me to meddle with." "then why did you speak of it? either tell me all; or say that you won't, and leave me to find out." the lady had the gentleman, the tory had the temporizer, on the nail. "we are nothing in your hands;" he murmured, and with perfect truth; for when the question comes to the pulling out of truth, what chance has a man against a clever woman, ten times as quick as he is, and piercing every glance? "i am truly sorry that it has come to this;" mrs. fox did not sympathise with his regret, but nodded, as if to say--"no cure now for that; for my part, i am rather glad." "it was simply through terror of distressing you, that all your best friends have combined, as i may say, at least have thought it wiser----" "then they made a great mistake. and i am not at all thankful to any of them. let me sit down here. and now for all this frightful wonder! is jemmy dead? let me have the worst at once." this was a sudden relief to sir henry, enabling him to offer immediate comfort, and to whisper--"how could you imagine such a thing?" "no my dear madam," he continued, having now the upper hand, and hers beneath it, "i have the pleasure of assuring you that your noble son is in the very best of health, and improving by his admirable knowledge of medicine the health of all around him. it is acknowledged that he has advanced the highest interests of the profession." "that he was sure to do, sir henry. and he has a copy of my dear grandmother's recipe for the pounded cherry-stone elixir." "with all the resources of modern science added, and his own trained insight in their application. but the worst of it is, that these leading intellects, as you must have experienced long ago, can never escape a sad amount of narrow professional jealousy. your son must have fallen among those heavy-witted devonshire doctors, like a thunderbolt--or worse, a phenomenon come to heal their patients _gratis_." "that would drive them to do anything--to poison him, if they had the courage. for every one knows how they run up their bills." having brought the lady thus to the practical vein, sir henry (as gently as possible, and as it were by the quarter drachm) administered the sombre draught he was now bound to exhibit. jemmy's dear mother took it with a closeness of attention, and critical appreciation, seldom found in the physical recipients in such cases. but to the administrator's great surprise, her indignation was by no means vivid, in the direction anticipated. "i am heartily glad that i know this at last. i ought to have been told of it long ago;" said mrs. fox, looking resolutely at sir henry haggerstone. "a very great mistake, and want of judgment on the part of dr. freeborn. what a frightful risk to run--supposing my husband had been told suddenly of this!" "all has been done for the best, my dear madam. the great anxiety was to keep it from him." "and who was the proper one, to see to that? i should have thought, his wife and constant nurse. was it thought impossible that i should show discretion? clever men always make one great mistake. they believe that no woman can command her tongue. if they had their own only half as well controlled, there would not be a tenth part of the mischief in the world." "you are quite right there. that is a very great truth, and exceedingly well expressed;" replied sir henry, not that he was impressed with it so deeply, but that he wanted to appease the lady. "however, as regards dr. freeborn's ideas, i really know very little; no doubt he thought it was for your own good too, not to be burdened at such a time with another great anxiety." "he has taken too much upon himself. it would have been no great anxiety to me. my son is quite capable of fighting his own battles. and the same orders issued to my son and daughter! at last i can understand poor christie's letters--why she has been so brief, for fear of losing all self-control, like her mother. stupid, stupid, clever men! why there is infinitely less chance now of mr. fox ever knowing it. you may tell our sapient doctor that. perhaps i shall astonish him a little. i'll prove to him that i can control my tongue, by never mentioning the subject to him." "excuse me, mrs. fox, if i make one or two remarks. may i speak without reserve, as an old friend of the family, and one who has had a great deal to do with criminal--at least i mean to say with public proceedings in this county?" "to be sure, sir henry. i shall be much obliged by any suggestions you may make." "in the first place then, it is quite impossible to leave your son under this imputation. i can quite understand how he has been impeded in taking any steps for his own vindication, by his sense of duty towards his father and yourself. in that respect, his behaviour has been most admirable. he has absolutely done nothing; not even protested publicly, and challenged any evidence against him, but been quite content to lie at the mercy of any wicked slanderers. and for this there can be no reason but one--that public proceedings would increase the stir, and make it certain that the whole must come to his father's knowledge." "to be sure, sir henry. there can be no other reason." the old friend of the family was surprised at the tone in which mrs. fox uttered this opinion. "of course not. and so it is all the more incumbent upon his family to clear him. let me tell you what i should do, if i were his father, in sound health, and able to attend to business. of course i am too young to speak so"--he had suddenly remembered christie--"but that you understand; and you also admit that i am not likely to offer advice, unless asked for." "i beg you particularly to give it. you are a magistrate of large, if not long, experience. and i know that you are our true friend." "that you may rely upon, mrs. fox. and you know how much i admire your son; for enthusiasm is a rare gift now, and becoming rarer every year, in these days of liberal sentiment. if the case were my own, i should just do this. i should make application at once to the court of king's bench, to have the matter sifted. it is no use shilly-shallying with any county authorities. a special commission has been granted in cases less important. but without pressing for that, it is possible to get the whole question investigated by skilled officers from head-quarters. those who bring the charge should have done it, and probably would have done it, if they had faith in their own case. but they are playing a deeper game; according at least to my view of the matter. they have laid themselves open to no action. your son lies helpless, and must 'live it down;' as people say glibly, who have never had to do it. is this a thing you mean to allow?" "you need scarcely ask me that, sir henry. but remember that i know nothing of the particulars, which have been kept so--so amiably from my knowledge." "yes. but i know them all--at least so far as they can be gathered from the devonshire journals, and these are very careful what they say. in spite of all the enemies who want to keep it going, the whole thing may be brought to a point at once, by applying for a warrant in the court of king's bench, with the proper information sworn. they would grant it at once. your son would appear, and be released of course on bail; for the case is only one of misdemeanour. then the proper officers would be sent down, and the real criminals detected." "a warrant against my jemmy! oh, sir henry, you can never mean that." "simply as a matter of form, mrs. fox. ask your solicitors. they are the proper people. and they should have been consulted long ago, and would have been, but for this terrible disadvantage. i only suggest the quickest way to bring the matter to an issue. otherwise the doubt will hang over your son, with his friends and his conscience to support him. and what are these among so many?" this was not altogether a counsel of perfection, or even of a very lofty view; but unhappily we have to contend with a world neither perfect nor very lofty. there was no other hole to be found in the plan, or even to be picked by the ingenuity of a lady. but who that is worthy of that name cannot slip round the corner gracefully, whatever is presented? "i thank you so deeply, sir henry, for your very kind interest in this strange matter," said mrs. fox, looking all gratitude, with a smile that shone through tears; "and for your perfectly invaluable advice. you see everything so distinctly, and your experience is so precious. to think of my poor boy in such a position! oh dear, oh dear! i really have not the courage to discuss it any more. but a kind heart like yours will make every allowance for the feelings of a mother." thus was sir henry neatly driven from the hall of council to the carpeted chamber of comfort. but he knew as well as if the lady had put it into so many words, that she meant to accept none of his advice. her reason, however, for so resolving was far beyond his perception, simple as it was and natural. mrs. fox had known little of the young doctor's doings, since he had settled at perlycross, having never even paid him a visit there, for her husband was sore upon that subject. so that she was not acquainted with the depth of jemmy's regard for sir thomas, and had never dreamed of his love for inez; whereas she was strongly and bitterly impressed with his lifelong ardour for medical research. the mother felt no indignant yearning for prompt and skilled inquiry; because she suspected, in the bottom of her heart, that it would prove her son the criminal. chapter xxi. blackmarsh. a long way back among the blackdown hills, and in nobody knows what parish, the land breaks off into a barren stretch, uncouth, dark, and desolate. being neither hill nor valley, slope nor plain, morass nor woodland, it has no lesson for the wanderer, except that the sooner he gets out of it the better. for there is nothing to gratify him if he be an artist, nothing to interest him if his tastes are antiquarian, nothing to arouse his ardour, even though he were that happy and most ardent creature, a naturalist free from rheumatism. and as for any honest fellow mainly concerned with bread and butter, his head will at once go round with fear and with looking over his shoulders. for it is a lonesome and gruesome place, where the weather makes no difference; where nature has not put her hand, on this part or on that, to leave a mark or show a preference, but slurred the whole with one black frown of desolate monotony. that being so, the few and simple dwellers on the moorland around, or in the lowland homesteads, might well be trusted to keep their distance from this dreary solitude. there were tales enough of hapless travellers last seen going in this direction, and never in any other; as well as of spectral forms, low groans, and nightly processions through the air. not more than a hundred years ago, there had been a wicked baronet, profane, rapacious, arrogant, blackhearted, foul, and impious. a blessed curate prayed him not to hunt on holy friday. he gave the blessed curate taste of whip-thong from his saddle; then blew seven blasts of his horn, to proclaim that he would hunt seven days in every week, put spurs to his black horse, and away. the fox, disturbed on holy friday, made for this "forbidden land;" which no fox had ever done before. for his life he plunged into it, feeling for the moment that nothing could be worse than to be torn in pieces. the hounds stopped, as if they were turned to stone in the fury of their onslaught. the huntsman had been left far behind, having wife and family. but the wicked baronet cracked his whip, blew three blasts on his horn, leaned forward on his horse and gave him the rowel. the hounds in a frenzy threw up their sterns, and all plunged headlong into it. and ever since that, they may be seen (an hour after sun-down, on every sunday of the season, and any holy friday) in full cry scouring through the air, with the wicked baronet after them, lashing his black horse, and blowing his horn, but with no fox in front to excuse them. these facts have made the forbidden land, or the blackmarsh, as some call it, even less desirable than its own complexion shows it. and it is so far from perlycross, that any man on foot is tired by the time he gets there, and feels that he has travelled far enough, and in common sense must go home again. but there was one perlycrucian now--by domicile, not nativity--of tireless feet, and reckless spirit, too young for family ties, and too impetuous for legends. by this time he was admitted to the freedom of every hedge and ditch in the parish, because he was too quick to be caught, and too young to be prosecuted. "horatio peckover" was his name, by usage cut short into "hopper"; a lad in advance of his period, and the precursor of all "paper-chases." like many of those who are great in this line, he was not equally strong in the sedentary uses of that article. mr. penniloe found him so far behind, when pen and ink had to be dealt with, that he put him under the fine roman hand of sergeant jakes, the schoolmaster. jakes was not too richly endowed by a grateful country, for years of heroism; neither was his stipend very gorgeous, for swinging cane in lieu of gun. sixpence an hour was his figure, for pen-drill of private pupils, and he gladly added hopper to the meagre awkward-squad. soon an alliance of the closest kind was formed; the veteran taking warm interest in the spirited sallies of youth, and the youth with eager thirst imbibing the fine old peninsular vintage of the brightest ruby, poured forth in the radiance of a yellow tallow candle. for the long school-room was cleared at night of coats, and hats, and green-baize bags, cracked slates, bead-slides, and spelling-books, and all the other accoutrements, and even toys of the youthful muse; and at seven o'clock horatio stepped across the road from the rectory, sat down at the master's high black desk, and shouldered arms for the copy-drill. the sergeant was famed for his flourishes, chiefly of his own invention, and had promised to impart that higher finish, when the fancy capitals were mastered. "what a whack of time it does take, sergeant!" cried hopper, as he dipped his pen, one friday night. "not half so bad as latin though, and there is something to look at afterwards. capitals almost captured now. ah, you have taken the capitals of many a country, sergeant. halloa! 'xerxes was conqueror at marathon,' to-night! sergeant, are you quite sure of that? i thought it was another fellow, with a longer name--milly, tilly, something." "no, master hopper; if it had been, we must have passed him long ago, among the big m's." "to be sure. what a muff i was, not to think of that! i beg your pardon, sergeant. there's scarcely anything you don't know." "i had that on the highest authority--right elbow more in to your side, sir, if you please--that xerxes copy was always set by commanding officer at turry vardoes--could not tell what to do with the men at night--so many ordered to play at nine-pins, and so many told off to learn roundhand. if it had not been for that, sir, i should never have been equal to my present situation." "then it must have been xerxes, sergeant. and after all, how can it matter, when it happened so long ago? a blot again? d--n it." "master hopper, i am very sorry, but it is my duty to reprimand you, for the use of profane language. never permitted, sir, in school-hours. would you do it, before mr. penniloe?" "i should rather hope not. wouldn't old pen stare? and then he'd be down upon me, like the very--capital d. sergeant, pray excuse me; i only thought of him, without any name. i suppose we may call him 'old nick' though, without having to go to him, for doing it. i never could see what the difference was. but, my eye, sergeant, i expected to see the old chap yesterday, cloven hoof, tail, eyes of fire, and everything!" "what do you mean, sir? where was he? not in perlycross, i hope." sergeant jakes glanced down the long dark room, and then at the pegs where his french sword was hanging. "no, not here. he daren't come so near the church. but in the place where he lives all day, according to the best authorities. you have heard of blackmarsh, haven't you? no marsh at all--that's the joke of it--but the queerest place i ever saw in all my life. criky jimminy, but it is a rum un!" "you don't mean to say you were there, sir!" the sergeant took his hand from hopper's shoulder, and went round to see whether he was joking. "to be sure i was, as large as life, and twice as natural! had a holiday, as you know, and got leave off from dinner. mother muggridge gave me grub enough to go to halifax. i had been meaning to go there ever so long, because everybody seems to funk it so. why there's nothing there to be afraid of: though it makes you look about a bit. and you aren't sorry to come out of it." "did you tell mr. penniloe, you had been there, master hopper?" "sergeant, do you see any green in my eye?" horatio dropped his pen, and enlarged the aperture of one eye, in a style very fashionable just then, but never very elegant. "no sir, i can't answer fairly that i do. and i don't believe there ever was much, even when you was a babby." "mum's the word, you see then--even to old muggridge, or she might be fool enough to let out. but i say, sergeant, i've got a little job for you to do. easy enough. i know you won't refuse me." "no sir, that i won't. anything whatever that lays in my power, master hopper." "well, it's only this--just to come with me to-morrow--half-holiday, you know, and i can get off, plum-duffs--always plum-duffs on a saturday, and you should just see pike pitching into them--and we'll give the afternoon to it, and examine blackmarsh pretty thoroughly." "blackmarsh, master hopper! the forbidden land--where sir robert upon his black horse, and forty hounds in full cry before him, may be seen and heard, sweeping through the air, like fiends!" "oh, that's all my eye, and betty martin! nobody believes that, i should hope. why sergeant, a man who knows all about xerxes, and has taken half the capitals in europe--oh, i say, sergeant, come, you are not afraid now, and a fellow of sixteen, like me, to go there all by myself, and stop--well, nearly half-an-hour!" "afraid! not i. no certainly not, after mountains, and forests, and caverns, and deserts. but the distance, master hopper, for a man of my age, and troubled with rheumatism in the knee-joint." "oh, that's all right! i have planned out all that. of course i don't expect you to go ten miles an hour. but baker channing's light cart goes, every other saturday, to crooked-post quarry, at the further end of hagdon, to fetch back furze enough to keep his oven going, from a stack he bought there last summer. to-morrow is his day; and you have no school, you know, after half-past ten or eleven. you ride with old tucker to the crooked-post, and come back with him, when he is loaded up. it shan't cost you a farthing. i have got a shilling left, and he shall have it. it is only two miles, or so, from crooked-post to this end of blackmarsh; and there you will find me waiting. come, you can't get out of that." "but what do you want me there for, sir? of course, i'd go anywhere you would venture, if i could see any good in it." "sergeant, i'll tell you what. you thought a great deal of sir thomas waldron, didn't you?" "more than of any man that ever lived, or ever will see the light of this wicked world." "and you didn't like what was done to him, did you?" "master hopper, i tell you what. i'd give ten years off my poor life, if i could find out who did it." "then i fancy i have found out something about it. not much, mind; but still something, and may come to more if we follow it up. and if you come to-morrow, i'll show you what it is. you know that my eyes are pretty sharp, and that i wasn't born yesterday. you know who it was that found 'little billy.' and you know who wants to get fox out of this scrape, because he is a somerset man, and all that, and doesn't deserve this trouble. and still more, because----" "well, master hopper, still more, because of what?" "i don't mind telling you something, sergeant--you have seen a lot of the world, you know. because jemmy fox has got a deuced pretty sister." "oh come, master hopper, at your time of life! and not even got into the flourishes!" "it doesn't matter, jakes. i may seem rather young to people who don't understand the question. but that is my own business, i should hope. well, i shall look out for you to-morrow. two o'clock at the latest." "but why shouldn't we tell dr. fox himself, and get him to come with us? that seems the simplest thing." "no. there are very good reasons against that. i have found this out; and i mean to stick to it. no one would have dreamed of it, except for me. and i won't have it spoiled, by every nincompoop poking his nose into it. only if we find anything more, and you agree with me about it, we will tell old pen, and go by his opinion." "very well, sir. it all belongs to you; as it did to me, when i was first after soult's arrival to discover the advance of the french outposts. you shall have the credit, though i didn't. anything more, sir? the candle is almost out." "sergeant, no more. unless you could manage--i mean, unless you should think it wise to bring your fine old sword with you. you say there is no such piece of steel----" "master hopper, there is no such piece, unless it was lord wellington's. they say he had one that he could lean on--not a dress-sword, not flummery, but a real workman--and although he was never a heavy man, a stone and a half less than i was then, it would make any figure of the multiplication-table that he chose to call for, under him. but i mustn't carry arms in these days, master hopper. i shall bring a bit of spanish oak, and trust in the lord." on the following day, the sun was shining pretty well for the decrepitude of the year. there had been no frost to speak of, since that first sharp touch about three weeks back. the air was mild, and a westerly breeze played with the half ripe pods of gorse, and the brown welting of the heather. hopper had brought a long wand of withy, from the bank of the last brook he had leaped, and he peeled it with his pocket-knife, and sat (which he seldom did when he could help it) on a tuft of rush, waiting for the sergeant. he stretched his long wiry legs, and counted the brass buttons on his yellow leathern gaiters, which came nearly to his fork, and were made fast by narrow straps to his brace-buttons. this young man--as he delighted to be called--had not many grievances, because he ran them off so fast; but the two he chiefly dwelt upon, in his few still moments, were the insufficiency of cash and calf. for the former he was chiefly indebted to himself, having never cultivated powers of retention; for the deficiency of calves, however, nature was to blame, although she might plead not unfairly that they were allowed no time to grow. he regarded them now with unmerited contempt, and slapped them in some indignation, with the supple willow wand. it might well be confessed that they were not very large, as is often the case with long-distance runners; but for all that they were as hard as nails, and endowed with knobs of muscle, tough and tense as coiled mainspring. in fact there was not a bit of flabby stuff about him; and his high clear colour, bright eyes, and ready aspect made him very pleasant to behold, though his nose was rather snubby, and his cheekbones high, and his mouth of too liberal aperture. "come along, sergeant, what a precious time you have taken!" hopper shouted, as the angular outline of the veteran appeared at last in a gap between two ridges. "why, we shall scarcely have two hours of good daylight left. and how do you know that tucker won't go home without you?" "he knows a bit better than that," replied jakes, smiling with dark significance. "master hopper, i've got three of tucker's boys in horseshoe. tucker is bound to be uncommon civil." now the "horseshoe" was a form in the school at perlycross especially adapted for corporal applications, snug as a cockpit, and affording no possibility of escape. and what was still better, the boys of that class were in the very prime of age for attracting, as well as appreciating, healthy and vigorous chastisement; all of them big enough to stand it, none of them big enough to kick, and for the most part newly trouser'd into tempting chubbiness. truly it might be said, that the parents of playful boys in the "horseshoe" had given hostages to education. "but bless my heart--what--what?" continued the ancient soldier, as he followed the rapid steps of hopper, "why, i don't like the look of this place at all. it looks so weist--as we say about here, so unwholesome, and strange, and ungodly, and--and so timoursome." "it is ever so much worse further on; and you can't tell where you are at all. but to make sure of our coming back, if--if there should be nothing to prevent us, i have got this white stick ready, and i am going to fix it on the top of that clump. there now, we shall be able to see that for miles." "but we are not going miles i hope, master hopper. i'm a little too stiff for such a walk as that. you don't know what it is to have a pain in your knee." "oh don't i? i come down on it often enough. but i don't know exactly how far we are going. there is nothing to measure distance by. come along, sergeant! we'll be just like two flies going into one of your big ink-pots." "don't let me lose sight of you, master hopper. i mean, don't you lose sight of me. you might want somebody to stand by you. it is the darkest bit of god's earth i ever did see. and yet nothing overhead to darken it. seems almost to make its own shadow. good lord! what was that came by me?" "oh, a bat, or an owl, or a big dor-beetle; or it might be a thunder-bolt--just the sort of place for them. but--what a bad place it is for finding things!" there could scarcely have been a worse one, at least upon dry and unforested land. there was no marsh whatever, so far as they had come, but a dry uneven shingly surface, black as if fire had passed over it. there was no trace however of fire, neither any substance sufficient to hold it, beyond the mere passage of a shallow flame. the blackness that covered the face of the earth, and seemed to stain the air itself, and heavily dim the daylight, was of something unknown upon the breezy hills, or in the clear draught of a valley. it reflected no light, and received no shadow, but lay like the strewing of some approach to quarters undesirable. probably from this (while unexamined by such men as we have now), the evil repute of the place had arisen, going down generations of mankind, while the stuff at the bottom renewed itself. this stuff appeared to be the growth of some lanky trailing weed, perhaps some kind of _persicaria_, but unusually dense and formless, resembling what may be seen sometimes, at the bottom of a dark watercourse, where the river slides without a wrinkle, and trees of thick foliage overhang it. and the same spread of life, that is more like death, may be seen where leagues of laver strew the foreshore of an atlantic coast, when the spring-tides are out, and the winds gone low. "by george, here we are at last. thought i should never have made it out, in the thick of this blessed cobobbery," shouted hopper, stopping short and beckoning; "now, sergeant, what do you say to that? queer thing, just here, isn't it?" the veteran's eyes, confused and weary with the long monotony, were dazzled by sudden contrast. hitherto the dreary surface, uniform and trackless, had offered only heavy plodding, jarred by the jerk of a hidden stone sometimes, but never elastic. all the boundary-beaters of the parish, or even a regiment of cavalry, might have passed throughout, and left no trace upon the padded cumber. but here a glaring stripe of silver sand broke through the blackness, intensely white by contrast, though not to be seen a few yards off, because sunk below the level. like a crack of the ground from earthquake, it ran across from right to left, and beyond it all was black again. the ancient soldier glanced around, to be sure that no surprise was meant; and then with his big stick tried the substance of the white material. with one long stride he could have reached the other side, but the caution of perilous days awoke. "oh there's nothing in that, and it is firm enough. but look here;" said his young companion, "this is what floors me altogether." he pointed to a place where two deep tracks, as of narrow wheels, crossed the white opening; and between them were three little pits about the size and depth of a gallon saucepan. the wheel-tracks swerved to the left, as if with a jerk to get out of the sandy hollow, and one of the three footprints was deeper and larger than the other two. "truly this is the doing of the arch-enemy of mankind himself." sergeant jakes spoke solemnly, and yet not very slowly; for he longed to make off with promptitude. "the doing, more likely, of those big thieves who couldn't let your colonel rest in his grave. do you mean to turn tail upon them, sergeant jakes?" "may the lord turn his back upon me, if i do!" the veteran's colour returned to his face, and all thoughts of flight departed. "i would go to the ends of the world, master hopper, after any living man; but not after satan." "the devil was in them. no doubt about that. but he made them do it for him. does old nick carry whipcord? you see how that was, don't you?" the youth leaped across, and brought back the lash of a whip which he had concealed there. "plain as a pikestaff, sergeant. when the wheels plunged into this soft stuff, the driver must have lashed like fury, to make him spring the cart out again. off came the old lash, and here it is. but wait a minute. i've got something more to show you, that spots the villains pretty plain." "well, sir," said jakes, regarding hopper with no small admiration, "you deserve your stripes for this. such a bright young gent shouldn't be thrown away in the church. i was just going to say--'how can we tell they did it?' though none but thundering rogues would come here. nothing can be clearer than that, i take it." "then you, and i, are thundering rogues. got you there, sergeant; by gum, i did! now come on a few steps further." they stepped out boldly, having far less fear of human than of superhuman agency; though better had they met apollyon perhaps, than the wild men they were tracing. within less than a furlong, they reached an opening where the smother of the black weeds fell away, and an open track was left once more. here the cart-wheels could be traced distinctly, and at one spot something far more convincing. in the middle of the track a patch of firm blue clay arose above the surface, for a distance of perhaps some fifty yards; and on it were frequent impressions of the hoofs of a large horse, moving slowly. and of these impressions one (repeated four or five times, very clearly) was that of the near fore-foot, distinctly showing a broken shoe, and the very slope and jag of the fracture. "what do you think of that now, sergeant?" asked hopper, as he danced in triumph, but took good care not to dance upon the clay. "they call me a hedger and ditcher, don't they? well, i think i am a tracker too." "master hopper, to my mind, you are an uncommonly remarkable young gent. the multiplication-table may not be strongly in your line, sir. but you can put two and two together, and no fear to jump on top of them." "oh, but the bad luck of it, sergeant! the good luck for them, and the shocking luck for me. i never came to old pen's shop, you see, till a day or two after that wicked job was over. and then it took me a fortnight, or more, to get up the lay of the country, and all that. and i was out of condition for three days, with a blessed example in the eton grammar. _percontatorem fugito_, that frightened me no end, and threw me off the hooks. but i fancy, i am on the right hook now." "that you are, sir, and no mistake. and a braver young man never came into a regiment, even in sir arthur's time. sir, you must pitch away copy-books. education is all very fine for those who can't do no better. but it spoils a young man, with higher gifts." "don't say a good word of me, till you know all," replied the candid hopper. "i thought that i was a pretty plucky fellow, because i was all by myself, you understand, and i knew that no fellow could catch me, in a run across the open. but i'll show you where i was stodged off; and it has been on my conscience ever since. just come to that place, where the ground breaks off." he led the way along a gentle slope, while the light began to fail behind them, until they stood upon the brink of a steep descent, with a sharp rise upon the other side. it was like the back-way to the bottom of a lime-kiln, but there was no lime for many leagues around. the track of cart-wheels was very manifest, and the bottom was dark with the approach of night. "my turn, master hopper, to go first now. no wife, or family, and nought to leave behind." with these words spoken in a whisper, the sergeant (who had felt much self-reproach, at the superior courage of a peaceful generation) began to go stiffly down the dark incline, waving his hand for the other to wait there. "in for a penny, in for a pound. i can kick like winkin', though i can't fight much." with these words, the gallant hopper followed, slowing his quick steps to the heavier march in front. when they came to the bottom, they found a level space, with room enough to turn a horse and cart. it was getting very dusky where they stood, with the grim sides gathering round them, and not a tree or bush to give any sign of life, but the fringe of the dominant black weed, like heavy brows, shagging the outlook. but on the left hand, where the steep fell back, was the mouth as of a cave scooped roughly. within it, all was black with gloom, and the low narrow entrance showed little hospitality. "i don't care a d--n," said sergeant jakes, forgetful of school discipline; "if there's any scoundrel there, i'll drag him out. if it's old colonel's bones--well i'm not afraid of them." there remained just light enough to show that the cart had been backed up to the entrance. "where you go, i go;" replied the dauntless hopper; and into it they plunged, with their hearts beating high, but their spirit on fire for anything. the sound of their steps, as they passed into the darkness, echoed the emptiness of the place. there was nothing to be felt, except rugged flinty sides, and the damp chill which gathered in their hair; and in the middle, a slab of broken stone, over which they stumbled into one another's arms. they had no means of striking a light; but as their eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, they assured themselves that there was nothing more to learn, unless it might be from some small object on the floor. there seemed to be no shelves, no sort of fixture, no recesses; only the bare and unoccupied cave. "i tell you what," said sergeant jakes, as they stood in the open air again; "this has been a smuggler's store in the war-time; a natural cave, improved no doubt. what we thought to find is gone further on, i fear. too late, master hopper, to do any more to-day, and perhaps too late to do any more at all. but we must come again with a light, if possible on monday." "well, one thing we have proved--that the villains, whoever they were, must have come from up the country; perhaps as far off as the mendip hills. but keep it to yourself, till we have settled what to do. not a word to tucker, or the news will be all over perlycross to-night. come back to the hoof-marks, and i'll take a copy. if we could only find the impressions of the men's feet too! you see after all, that joe crang spoke the truth. and it was the discovery of his 'little billy' that led me on in this direction." there was light enough still, when they came back to the clay-patch, to make a rough tracing of the broken shoe, on the paper in which the youth had brought his bread and bacon; and even that great steeple-chaser was glad to go home in company, and upon a truss of furze, with a flour-sack to shield him from the stubs and prickles. chapter xxii. fireship and galleon. meanwhile, the fair christie was recovering nerve so fast, and established in such bouncing health again, by the red-wheat bread of white post farm, that nothing less would satisfy her than to beard--if the metaphor applies to ladies--the lion in the den, the arch-accuser, in the very court of judgment. in a word, she would not rest until she stood face to face with lady waldron. she had thought of it often, and became quite eager in that determination, when her brother related to her what had passed, in his interview with miss waldron. truly it was an enterprise of great pith, for a fair young english girl, to confront the dark majestic foreign lady, stately, arrogant, imperious, and above all, embittered with a cruel wrong, fierce, malignant, rancorous. but for all that, christie was resolved to do it; though perfectly aware that the spanish lady would never be "at home" to her, if she could help it. for this reason, and this alone, as she positively assured herself, did miss fox make so long a stay with mrs. gilham, the while she was quite well enough to go back to old barn, and the path of duty led her to her brother's side. but let her once return to that side, and all hope would be lost of arranging an encounter with the slanderer; inasmuch as dr. jemmy would most sternly interdict it. her good hostess, all the while, was only too glad to keep her; and so was another important member of the quiet household; and even the flippant rosie was delighted to have such patterns. for miss fox had sent for a large supply of dresses, all the way to foxden, by the key-bugleman of the _defiance_; because it would save such a vast amount in carriage, while one was so near the great western road. "i can't understand it," protested doctor jemmy. "as if men ever could!" replied the young lady. however, the sweetest slice of sugar-cane must have empty pores too soon, and the last drop of honey drains out of the comb, and the silver voice of the flute expires, and the petals of the fairest rose must flag. all these ideas (which have been repeated, or repeated themselves, for some thousands of years) were present for the first time in all existence--according to his conviction--in the mind of an exalted, yet depressed, young farmer, one fine monday morning. miss fox had received her very last despatch, to the tune of "roast beef," that morning, and sad to say she had not cut the string, though her pretty fingers flirted with it. "my dear," said mrs. gilham, longing much to see within, inasmuch as she still had a tender heart for dainty tint, and true elegance of tone, "if you wish to save the string--fine whipcord every inch of it--frank has a picker in the six-bladed knife his godfather farrant gave him, that will undo any knot that was ever tied by samson." upon him, she meant perhaps; however the result is quite the same. "no, thank you," answered christie, with a melancholy glance; "it had better be put in my trunk, as it is. what induced them to send it, when i'm just going away?" "going away! next week, my dear, you may begin to think about it." "to-morrow, i must go. i am as well as ever. better a great deal, i ought to say. what did dr. gronow say on saturday? and i came down here; not to enjoy myself, but to keep up the spirits of my poor dear brother." "why his spirits are fine, miss fox. i only wish my poor dear frank had a quarter of them. last night i am sure--and a sunday too, when you and my son were gone to church----" "to the little church close by, you mean, with mrs. coombes and mary; because the sermon in the morning had felt so--so edifying." "yes to be sure. but when your brother came in, and was surprised not to find you with us, you know; his conversation--oh dear, oh dear, rather worldly-minded i must confess, bearing in mind what day it was--but he and rose they kept it up together, for the tip of her tongue is fit for anybody's ear-ring, as the ancient saying goes,--laughing, miss fox, and carrying on, till, although i was rather put out about it, and would have stopped any one but a visitor, i was absolutely compelled, i assure you, to pull out my pocket-handkerchief. oh, i don't think, there need be much fear about doctor jemmy's spirits!" "but don't you think, mrs. gilham, it is chiefly his pride that supports him? we do the same sort of thing sometimes. we go into the opposite extreme, and talk and laugh, as if we were in the highest spirits,--when we--when we don't want to let somebody know that we care what he thinks." "oh, you have learned that, have you, my dear?" the old lady looked at her, with some surprise. "well, well! happy will be the man that you do it for." christie felt that she was blushing, and yet could not help giving one sharp glance at her simple hostess. and it would have gone hard with frank gilham's chances, if the maiden had spied any special meaning in the eyes of his dear mother. but the elderly lady gazed benignant, reflecting softly upon the time when she had been put to those disguises of the early maidenhood; which are but the face, with its first bloom upon it. for the plain truth was, that she did not wish her son to fall in love, for some ten years yet, at the age that had suited his father. and as for miss fox, half a glimpse at her parcels would show her entire unfitness. "i shall never do it for any man," said christie, in scorn of her own suggestion; "if i am anything, i am straightforward. and if ever i care for any man, i shall give him my hand, and tell him so. not, of course, till i know that he is gone upon me. but now i want to do a crafty thing. and money can do almost anything--except in love, mrs. gilham. i would not do it without your knowledge; for that would be a very mean return for all your kindness to me. i have made up my mind to see lady waldron, and tell her just what i think of her." "my dear, lady waldron is nothing to me. the gilhams have held their own land, from the time of crossbows and battle-axes. besides our own, we rent about fifty acres of the outside of the waldron property. but if they can get more for it, let them do so. everybody loved poor sir thomas; and it was a pleasure to have to deal with him. but there is no such feeling about her ladyship; noble enough to look at, but best to deal with at a distance." "well, i mean to see her at close quarters. she has behaved shamefully to my brother. and who is she to frighten me? she is at the bottom of all these wicked, wretched falsehoods, that go about. and she would not even see him, to let him speak up for truth and justice. i call that mean, and low, and nasty. of course the subject is horrible to her; and perhaps,--well, perhaps i should have done the same. but for all that, i mean to see her; for i love fair play; and this is foul play." "what a spirit you have, my dear! i should never have thought it was in your gentle face. but you are in the right. and if i can help you--that is, if you are equal to it----" "i am more than equal to it, my dear friend. what is there to fear, with the truth against black falsehoods?" mrs. gilham turned her wedding-ring upon her "marriage-finger"--a thing she never failed to do, when her heart was busy with the bygone days. then she looked earnestly at her guest, and saw that the point to be considered was--not shall we attempt it, but how shall it be done? "your mind is entirely set upon it. and therefore we will do our best;" she promised. "but it cannot be managed in a moment. will you allow me to consult my son? it seems like attacking a house almost. but i suppose it is fair, in a case like this." "perfectly fair. indoors it must be, as there is no other chance. a thief must be caught inside a house, when he will not come out of it. and a person is no better than a thief, who locks her doors against justice." when frank was consulted, he was much against the scheme; but his opposition was met more briefly than his mother's had been. "done it shall be; and if you will not help, it shall be done without you"--was the attitude taken, not quite in words; but so that there was no mistaking it. then he changed sides suddenly, confuted his own reasoning, and entered into the plan quite warmly; especially when it was conceded that he might be near the house, if he thought proper, in case of anything too violent, or carried beyond what english ladies could be expected to endure. for as all agreed, there was hardly any saying what an arrogant foreigner might not attempt. "i am quite aware that it will cost a large amount of bribery," said christie, with a smile which proved her faith in her own powers in that line; "will ten pounds do it, mr. frank, should you suppose?" though far gone in that brilliant and gloomy, nadir and zenith, tropical and arctic, condition of the human mind, called love, frank gilham was of english nature; which, though torn up by the roots, ceases not to stick fast to the main chance. and so much the nobler on his part was this, because the money was not his, nor ever likely so to be. "i think that three pounds ought to do it, or even fifty shillings," he replied, with an estimate perhaps too low of the worth of the british domestic. "if we could choose a day when old binstock is off duty, it would save the biggest tip of all. and it would not matter what he thought afterwards, though doubtless he would be in a fury." "oh, i won't do it. i don't think i can do it. it does seem so nasty, and underhanded." coming now to the practical part, miss fox was suddenly struck with the objections. "my dear, i am very glad that you have come to see it in such a proper light;" cried mrs. gilham a little prematurely, while her son nodded very sagely, ready to say "amen" to either side, according to the final jump of the vacillating reasoner. "no, but i won't then. i won't see it so. when people behave most improperly to you, are you bound to stand upon propriety with them? just answer me that, if you can, mrs. gilham. my mind is quite settled by that consideration. i'll go in for it wholesale, binstock and all, if he means a five-pound note for every stripe in his waistcoat." "mr. binstock is much too grand to wear a striped waistcoat;" said frank with the gravity of one who understands his subject. "but he goes to see his parents every wednesday. and he will not be wronged in reality, for it will be worth all that to him, for the rise he will get by his absence." "binstock's parents! why he must be over sixty!" exclaimed frank's mother in amazement. she had greatly undervalued her son's knowledge. "they are both in the poorhouse at pumpington, the father eighty-five and the mother eighty-two. they married too early in life," said frank, "and each of their fifteen children leaves the duty of supporting them to the other fourteen. our binstock is the most filial of the whole, for he takes his parents two ounces of tobacco every wednesday." "the inhuman old miser!" cried miss fox. "he shall never have two pence out of me. that settles it. mr. frank, try for wednesday." "well, frank, you puzzle me altogether," said mrs. gilham with some annoyance. "to think of your knowing all those things, and never telling your own mother!" "i never talk of my neighbour's affairs, until they become my own business." frank pulled up his collars, and christie said to herself that his mind was very large. "but don't run away with the idea, mother, that i ever pry into such small matters. i know them by the merest accident. you know that the gamekeeper offers me a day or two when the woodcocks come in; and batts detests old binstock. but he is on the very best terms with charles, and bob, and tamar haddon. through them i can manage it perhaps for wednesday, if miss fox thinks fit to entrust me with the matter." it happened that lady waldron held an important council with mr. webber, on the following wednesday. she had long begun to feel the helplessness, and sad disadvantages of her position, as a foreigner who had never even tried to understand the country in which she lived, or to make friends of any of the people round her. and this left her so much the more at the mercy of that dawdling old solicitor. "oh that i could only find my dear brother!" was the constant cry of her sorrow, and her wrath. "i wonder that he does not rush to help me. he would have done so long ago, if he had only known of this." "no reply, no reply yet?" she asked, after listening, with patience that surprised herself, to the lawyer's long details of nothing, and excellent reasons for doing still less. "are you certain that you have had my demand, my challenge, my supplication to my only brother entered in all the spanish journals, the titles of which i supplied to you? and entered in places conspicuous?" "in every one of them, madam, with instructions that all replies should be sent to the office of the paper, and then direct to you. therefore you would receive them, and not our firm. shall we try in any other country?" "yes, oh yes! that is very good indeed. i was thinking of that only yesterday. my brother has much love for paris sometimes, whenever he is in good--in affluence, as your expression is. for i have not concealed from you, mr. webber, that although of the very first families of spain, the count is not always--through caprice of fortune, his resources are disposed to rise and fall. you should therefore try paris, and lyons, and marseilles. it is not in my power to present the names of the principal journals. but they can be discovered, even in this country." mr. webber was often hard put to it, by the lady's calm assumption that barbarism is the leading characteristic of an englishman. for theodore webber was no time-server; only bound by his duty to the firm, and his sense of loyal service to a client of lofty memory. and he knew that he could take the lead of any english lady, because of her knowledge of his character, and the way in which he pronounced it. but with this spanish lady, all his really solid manner, and true english style were thrown away. "even in this country, madam, we know the names of the less enlightened journals of the continent. they are hard to read because of the miserable paper they are printed on; but my younger son has the gift of languages, and nothing is too outlandish for him. that also shall be attended to. and now about this question that arises between yourself and mr. penniloe?" "i will not yield. i will sign nothing. everything shall be as my husband did intend. and who can declare what that was, a stranger, or his own wife, with the most convincing?" "yes, madam, that is true enough. but according to english law, we are bound by the words of the will; and unless those are doubtful, no evidence of intention is admissible, and even then----" "i will not be bound by a--by an adaptation of words that was never intended. what has a heretic minister to do with my family, and with walderscourt?" "but, madam, excuse me. sir thomas waldron asked you, and you consented, to the appointment of the rev. philip penniloe, as your co-executor, and co-trustee for your daughter, miss inez." "if i did, it was only to please my husband, because he was in pain so severe. it should have been my brother, or else my son. i have said to you before, that after all that has been done, i refuse to adhere to that interpretation." the solicitor fixed his eyes on her, not in anger, but in pure astonishment. he had deep grey eyes in a rugged setting, with large wrinkles under, and dark gabled brows above; and he had never met a lady yet--except his own wife--who was not overpowered by their solemn wisdom. lady waldron was not overpowered by them. in her ignorance of english usage, she regarded this gentleman of influence and trust, as no more than a higher form of binstock. "i shall have to throw it up," said mr. webber to himself; "but oh, what gorgeous picking, for that very low-principled bubb and cockshalt!" the eminent firm he thought of thus were always prepared to take anything he missed. "your ladyship is well aware," he said, being moved by that last reflection, "that we cannot have anything perfect in this world, but must take things as we find them. mr. penniloe is a most reasonable man, and acknowledges the value of my experience. he will not act in any way against your wishes, so far as may be in conformity with sound legal practice. that is the great point for us to consider, laying aside all early impressions--which are generally loose when examined--of--of continental codes, and so on. we need not anticipate any trouble from your co-executor, who as a clergyman is to us a layman, if proper confidence is reposed in us. already we are taking the regular steps to obtain probate of a very simple will, prepared very carefully in our office, and by exceedingly skilful hands. we act for mr. penniloe, as well as for your ladyship. all is proceeding very smoothly, and exactly as your dear husband would have wished." "then he would have wished to have his last rest dishonoured, and his daughter estranged from her own mother." "the young lady will probably come round, madam, as soon as you encourage her. your mind is the stronger of the two, in every way. with regard to that sad and shameful outrage, we are doing everything that can be done. we have very little doubt that if matters are left to our judgment, and discreet activity----" "activity, sir! and what have you done? how long is it--a month? i cannot reckon time, because day and night are the same thing to me. will you never detect that abominable crime? will you never destroy those black miscreants? will you never restore--oh, i cannot speak of it--and all the time you know who did it all! there is no word strong enough in your poor tongue, for such an outcast monster. yet he goes about, he attends to his business, they shake him by the hand, they smile at him; instead of spit, they smile at him! and this is called a christian land! my god, what made you make it?" "i implore your ladyship not to be excited. hitherto you have shown such self-command. day and night, we are on the watch, and something must speedily come of it. we have three modes of action, each one of them sure to be successful, with patience. but the point is this--to have no mistake about it, to catch him with evidence sufficient to convict him, and then to punish and disgrace him for ever." "but how much longer before you will begin? i am so tired, so weary, so worn out--can you not see how it is destroying me?" mr. webber looked at her, and could not deny that this was a very different lady waldron from the one who had scarcely deigned to bow to him, only a few months ago. the rich warm colour had left her cheeks, the large dark eyes were wan and sunken, weariness and dejection spread, where pride and strength of will had reigned. the lawyer replied in a bolder tone than he would have employed, last summer. "lady waldron, we can do no more. if we attempted any stronger measures, the only result would be to destroy our chance. if you think that any other firm, or any kind of agency, would conduct matters more to your satisfaction, and more effectually than we have done, we would only ask you to place it in their hands. i assure you, madam, that the business is not to our liking, or even to our benefit. for none but an old and most valued client, would we have undertaken it. if you think proper, we will withdraw, and hand over all information very gladly to our successors." "to whom can i go? who will come to my rescue in this wicked, impious, accursed land? if my brother were here, is it possible to doubt what he would do--how he would proceed? he would tear that young man, arm from arm, and leg from leg, and lay him in the market-place, and shoot any one who came to bury him. listen, mr. webber, i live only for one thing--to find my noble brother, and to see him do that." the lady stood up, with her eyebrows knitted, her dark eyes glowing, and her white hands thrown apart and quivering, evidently tearing an imaginary jemmy. "let us hope for the best, madam, hope for the best, and pray for the blessing of the almighty, upon our weak endeavours." this was anything but a kind view to take of the dispersion of poor jemmy; but the lawyer was terrified for the moment by the lady's vehemence. that she who had hitherto always shown such self-command and dignity--he began to fear that there was too much truth in her account of the effect upon her. suddenly, as if all her passion had been feigned--though none who had seen, or even heard her, could believe that possible--she returned to her tranquil, self-possessed, and even cold and distant style. the fire in her eyes, and the fury of her gestures sank and were gone, as if by magic; and the voice became soft and musical, as the sound of a bell across a summer sea. "you will pardon me," she said, as she fell back into the chair, from which in her passion she had risen; "but sometimes my trouble is more great than i can bear. ladies of this country are so delicate and gentle, they cannot have much hatred, because they have no love. and yet they can have insolence, very strong, and very wonderful. yesterday, or two days ago, i obtained good proof of that. the sister of that man is here--the man who has overwhelmed me thus--and she has written a letter to me, very quiet, very simple, very polite, requesting me to appoint an interview for her in my own house;"--this had been done on monday, at the suggestion of frank gilham, that fair means should be exhausted first--"but after writing thus, she has the insulting to put in under--something like this, i remember very well--'if you refuse to see me, i shall be compelled to come, without permission.' reflect upon that, mr. webber." "madam, it was not the proper thing to say. but ladies are, even when very young, a little--perhaps a little inclined to do, what they are inclined to." "i sent her letter back, without a word, by the insolent person who brought it. just in the same manner as her wicked brother's card. it is quite certain that she will never dare to enter into my presence." "you have made a mistake there, lady waldron. here i am, to thank you for your good manners; and to speak a few truths, which you cannot answer." christie fox walked up the room, with her eyes fixed steadfastly upon the other's, made a very graceful curtsey, and stood, without even a ribbon trembling. she was beautifully dressed, in dove-coloured silk, and looked like a dove, that has never been fluttered. all this lady waldron perceived at a glance; and knew that she had met her equal, in a brave young englishwoman. mr. webber, who longed to be far away, jumped about with some agility, and manoeuvred not to turn his back upon either of the ladies, while he fetched a chair for the visitor. but his trouble was lost, for the younger lady declined with a wave of her hand; while the elder said--"sir, i will thank you to ring the bell." "that also is vain," said miss fox, calmly. "i will not leave this room, lady waldron, until i have told you my opinion of your conduct. the only question is--do you wish to hear it, in the presence of this gentleman; or do you wish me to wait until he is gone?" to all appearances, the lawyer was by far the most nervous of the three; and he made off for the door, but received a sign to stop. "it is just as well, perhaps, that you should not be alone," christie began in a clear firm voice, with her bright eyes flashing, so that the dark spanish orbs were but as dead coals in comparison, "and that you should not be ashamed; because it proves at least that you are honest in your lunatic conclusions. i am not speaking rudely. the greatest kindness that any one can do you, is to believe that you are mad." so great was the force of her quiet conviction that lady waldron raised one hand, and laid it upon her throbbing temples. for weeks she had been sleepless, and low, and feverish, dwelling on her wrongs in solitude, and estranged from her own daughter. "hush, hush, my good young lady!" pleaded the old solicitor; but his client gazed heavily at her accuser, as if she could scarcely apprehend; and christie thought that she did not care. "you have done a most wicked thing;" miss fox continued in a lower tone, "as bad, in its way as the great wrong done to you. you have condemned an innocent man, ruined his life to the utmost of your power, and refused to let him even speak for himself. is that what you call justice?" "he was not innocent. he was the base miscreant. we have the proof of the man who saw him." lady waldron spoke slowly, in a strange dull tone, while her lips scarcely moved, and her hands fell on her lap. "there is no such proof. the man owns his mistake. my brother can prove that he was miles away. he was called to his father's sick bed, that very night. and before daylight he was far upon the road. he never returned till days afterwards. then he finds this black falsehood; and you for its author!" "is there any truth in this?" lady waldron turned slightly towards mr. webber, as if she were glad to remove her eyes from her visitor's contemptuous and overpowering gaze. "there may be some, madam. i believe it is true that the blacksmith has changed his opinion, and that dr. fox was called suddenly away." the old solicitor was beginning to feel uneasy about his own share in the matter. he had watched miss fox intently through his glasses; and long experience in lawcourts told him, that she thoroughly believed every word she uttered. he was glad that he had been so slow and careful; and resolved to be more so, if possible, henceforth. "and now if you are not convinced of the great wrong you have done," said christie coming nearer, and speaking with a soft thrill in her voice, for tears were not far distant; "what have you to say to this? my brother, long before your husband's death, even before the last illness, had given his heart to your daughter inez. her father more than suspected that, and was glad to think it likely. inez also knew it well. all this also i can prove, even to your satisfaction. is it possible, even if he were a villain, and my brother is a gentleman of as good a family as your own, lady waldron--ask yourself, would he offer this dastard outrage to the father of the girl he loved? if you can believe it, you are not a woman. and that would be better for all other women. oh, it is too cruel, too atrocious, too inhuman! and you are the one who has done it all. lay this to heart--and that you may think of it, i will leave you to yourself." brave as she was, she could not quite accomplish this. is it a provision of nature, that her highest production should be above the rules of inferior reason? when this fair young woman ceased to speak, and having discharged her mission should have walked away in silence--strange to say, she could do nothing of the kind. as if words had been her spring and motive power, no sooner were they exhausted than she herself broke down entirely. she fell away upon the rejected chair, covered her face with both hands, reckless of new kid gloves just come from paris, and burst into a storm of tears and sobs. "you have done it now," cried mr. webber; "i thought you would; but you wouldn't be stopped." he began to rush about helplessly, not on account of the poor girl's plight--for he had wife and daughter of his own, and knew that tears are never fatal, but often highly beneficial; "you have done it now; i thought you would." his prophetic powers seemed to console him. christie looked up through her dabbled gloves, and saw a sight that frightened her. lady waldron had been sitting at a large oak table covered with books and papers,--for the room was chiefly used for business, and not a lady's bower--and there she sat still; but with this change, that she had been living, and now was dead. dead to all perception of the life and stir around her, dead to all sense of right or wrong, of daylight or of darkness; but living still to the slow sad work that goes on in the body, when the mind is gone. her head lay back on the stout oak rail; her comely face showed no more life than granite has, or marble; and her widow's hood dropped off, and shed the coils of her long black hair around. "i can't make it out;" cried mr. webber, hurrying to the bell-rope, which he pulled to such purpose that the staple of the crank fell from the ceiling, and knocked him on the head. but christie, recovering at a glance, ran round the end of the table, and with all her strength supported the tottering figure. what she did afterwards, she never knew, except from the accounts of others; for she was too young to have presence of mind, when every one else was distracted. but from all that they said--and they were all against her--she must have shown readiness, and strength, and judgment, and taken mr. webber under her command. one thing she remembered, because it was so bitter, and so frightfully unjust; and if there was anything she valued--next to love and truth and honour, most of which are parts of it--christie valued simple justice, and impartiality. to wit--as mr. webber might have put it--when she ran out to find mr. gilham, who had been left there, only because he did not choose to go away, and she only went to find him that he might run for dr. gronow--there was her brother standing with him, and words less friendly than usual were, as it seemed to her, passing between them. "no time for this sort of thing now," she said, as well as her flurried condition would permit; and then she pulled her brother in, and sent frank, who was wonderfully calm and reasonable, to fetch that other doctor too. her brother was not in a nice frame of mind, according to her recollection; and there was no time to reason with him, if he chose to be so stupid. therefore she sent him where he was wanted; and of course no doctor could refuse to go, under such frightful circumstances. but as for herself, she felt as if it mattered very little what she did; and so she went and sat somewhere in the dark, without even a dog for company, and finished with many pathetic addenda the good cry that had been broken off. chapter xxiii. a magic letter. "oh here you are at last then, are you?" said somebody entering the room with a light, by the time the young lady had wept herself dry, and was beginning to feel hungry; "what made you come here? i thought you were gone. to me it is a surprising thing, that you have the assurance to stay in this house." "oh, jemmy, how can you be so cruel, when every bit of it was for you?" "for me indeed! i am very much obliged. for your own temper, i should say. old webber says that if she dies, there may be a verdict of manslaughter." "i don't care two pins, if there is; when all the world is so unjust to me. but how is she, jemmy? what has happened to her? what on earth is it all about?" "well, i think you ought to know that best. webber says he never heard any one like you, in all his experience of criminal courts." "much i care what he says--the old dodderer! you should have seen him hopping about the room, like a frog with the rheumatism. you should have seen him stare, when the bell-rope fell. when i said the poor thing's hands were cold, he ran and poked the fire with his spectacles. but can't you tell me how she is? surely i have a right to know, if i am to be manslaughtered." "well," replied dr. fox, with that heavy professional nod which he ridiculed in others; "she is in a very peculiar state. no one can tell what may come of it." "not a fit, jemmy? not like dear father's; not a mild form of--no, it seemed quite different." "it is a different thing altogether, though proceeding probably from the brain. an attack of what we call catalepsy. not at all a common thing, and quite out of my own experience, though i know of it from the books a little. gronow knew it, of course, at a glance. fortunately i had sense enough not to try any strong measures till he came. any other young fellow in this part of the world would have tried venesection instantly, and it might have killed her. my treatment happened to be quite right, from my acquaintance with principles. it is nothing less than a case of entirely suspended animation. how long it may last, none can foretell." "but you don't think it will kill her, jemmy? why my animation was suspended ever so long, the other day----" "that was quite a different thing--this proceeds from internal action, overpowering emotion in a very anæmic condition; yours was simply external concussion, operating on a rather highly charged----" "you are very polite. my own fault in fact. who gave me the horse to drive about? but surely if a disordered brain like mine contrives to get right again----" "christie, i wish to do you good. you have brought me into a frightful mess, because you are so headlong. but you meant it for the best, i know; and i must not be too hard upon you." "what else have you been for the last five minutes? oh, jemmy, jemmy, i am so sorry! give me a kiss, and i will forgive you." "you are a very quick, warmhearted girl; and such have never too much reason." the doctor kissed his sister, in a most magnanimous manner; and she believed implicitly (until the next time of argument) that she had done the injury, and her brother sweetly borne it. "now come, while it is hot," said he; "get your courage up, and come. never let a wound grow cold. between you two there must be no ill-will; and she is so noble." "oh, indeed! who is it then? it is so good, and so elevating to be brought into contact with those wonderfully lofty people." "it is exactly what you want. if you can only obtain her friendship, it will be the making of your character." "for goodness' sake, don't lose a moment. i feel myself already growing better, nobler, loftier." "there is nothing in you grave, and stable, none of the stronger elements;" said the doctor, as he led the way along an empty passage. "don't you be too sure of that;" his sister answered, in a tone which he remembered afterwards. lady waldron lay on a broad and solid sofa, well-prepared for her; and there was no sign left of life or movement in her helpless figure. she was not at all like "recumbent marble"--which is the ghost of death itself--neither was she stiff or straight; but simply still, and in such a condition, that however any part of her frame might be placed, so it would remain; submissive only to the laws of gravitation, and to no exercise of will, if will were yet surviving. the face was as pale as death, the eyes half open but without expression; the breathing scarcely perceptible, and the pulse like the flutter of eider down, or gossamer in a sheltered spot. there was nothing ghastly, repulsive, or even greatly distressing at first sight; for the fine, and almost perfect, face had recovered in placid abandonment the beauty impaired by grief and passion. and yet the dim uncertainty, the hovering between life and death, the touching frailty of human power over-tried and vanquished, might move the bitterest foe to tears, and waken the compassion planted in all human hearts by heaven. christie was no bitter foe, but a kind impulsive generous maiden, rushing at all hazards to defend the right, ready to bite the dust when in the wrong, if properly convinced of it. jemmy stepped back, and spread forth his hand more dramatically than was needed, as much as to say--"see what you have done! never forget this, while you live. i leave you to self-abasement." the sensitive and impetuous girl required no such admonishment. she fell on her knees, and took one cold hand, while her face turned as pale as the one she watched. the pity of the sight became more vivid, deep, and overpowering; and she whispered her little bedside prayer, for that was the only one she recalled. then she followed it up with confession. "i know what ought to be done to me. i ought to be taken by the neck--no, that's not right--i ought to be taken to the place of execution, and there hanged by the neck, till i am dead, dead, dead." all this she may have deserved, but what she got was very different. around her bended neck was flung no hangman's noose, but a gentle arm, the softest and loveliest ever felt, while dark eyes glistened into her own, and seeming to be encouraged there, came closer through a clustering bower; and in less time than it takes to tell, two fair young faces touched each other, and two quick but heavy hearts were throbbing very close together. "it is more my fault than yours," said nicie, leading the way to another room, when a few soft words of comfort and good-will had passed; "i am the one who has done all this; and dr. gronow says so--or at least he would, if he said what he thinks. it was the low condition caused by long and lonely thinking, and the want of sufficient food and air, and the sense of having no one, not even me." "but that was her fault. she discouraged you; she showed no affection for you; she was even very angry with you; because you dared to think differently, because you had noble faith and trust." "for that i deserve no credit, because i could not help it. but i might have been kinder to her, christie; i might have shown less pride and temper. i might have said to myself more often--'she is sadly shattered; and she is my mother.' it will teach me how to behave another time. for if she does not get well, and forgive me, i shall never forgive myself. i must have forgotten how much easier it is, to be too hard, than to be too soft." "probably you never thought about it;" said christie, who knew a great deal about what were then called "the mental processes"--now gone into much bigger names, but the same nut in a harder shell. "you acted according to your sense of right; and that meant what you felt was right; and that came round to mean--jemmy." nicie, who never examined her mind--perhaps the best thing to be done with it--was not quite satisfied with this abruptly concrete view of the issue. "perhaps, i did," she said and sighed; because everything felt so cloudy. "whatever you did--you are a darling;" said the more experienced one. "there is a lot of trouble before us both. never mind, if we only stick together. poor jemmy believes that he is a wonder. between us, we will fetch him down." nicie could perceive no call for that, being as yet of less practical turn. she was of that admirable, and too rare, and yearly diminishing, type of women, who see and feel that heaven meant them, not to contend with and outdo, but to comfort, purify, and ennoble that stronger, coarser, and harder half, called men. "i think that he wants fetching up," she said, with very graceful timidity; "but his sister must know best, of course. is it right to talk of such things now?" "decidedly not;" miss fox replied. "in fact it is downright wicked. but somehow or other, i always go astray. whenever i am out of sorts with myself, i take a turn at other people. but how many turns must i have at others before i get my balance now! did you ever see anything so sad? but how very beautiful she is! i never noticed it this afternoon, because i was in such a rage, i suppose. how long is she likely to remain like this?" "dr. gronow cannot say. he has known one case which lasted for a month. but then there was no consciousness at all. he thinks that there is a little now. but we can perceive no sign of it." "well, i think i did. i am almost sure i did;" christie answered eagerly; "when i said 'dead, dead, dead,' in that judicial manner, there came a little gleam of light into her eyes, as if she approved of the sentence. and again when you called me your sister, there seemed to be a sparkle of astonishment, as if she thought you were in too much of a hurry; and perhaps you were, my darling. oh, what a good judge jemmy is! no wonder he is getting so conceited." "if there is any consciousness at all," said nicie, avoiding that other subject, "this trance (if that is the english word for it) will not last long--at least dr. gronow says so; and doctor jemmy--what a name for a gentleman of science!--thoroughly confirms it. but dr. fox is so diffident and modest, that he seems to wait for his friend's opinion; though he must know more, being younger." "certainly he ought," miss fox replied, with a twinkle of dubious import; "i hear a great deal of such things. no medical man is ever at his prime, unless it is at thirty-nine years and a half. under forty, he can have no experience, according to the general public; and over forty he is on the shelf, according to his own profession. for that one year, they ought to treble all their fees." "that would only be fair; for they always charge too little." "you are an innocent duck;" said christie. "there is a spot on your cheek that i must kiss; because it always comes, when you hear the name of jemmy. abstract affection for unknown science. oh do have a try at dr. gronow. he knows fifty times as much as poor jemmy." "but he doesn't know how to please me," replied nicie; "and i suppose that ought to count for something; after all. i must go and tell him what you thought you saw. that is his step in the passage now; and he ordered us to watch for any symptoms of that sort. oh what will he think of me, for leaving nurse alone? good night, dear christie; i shall come away no more. but binstock, our great man, is come back. he will attend to you, and see that you don't go home starving, or by yourself." "positive statements suit young men," dr. gronow declared, as he buttoned up his coat, about an hour afterwards; "and so does sitting up all night. fox, you had better act up to that. but i shall just see your sister safe, as far as the hospitable white post, and then i shall go home to my supper. there is not the slightest danger now, but constant attention is needful, in case of sudden revival. that i do not at all expect; but you know what to do, if it happens. the third day will be the most likely time; and then any pleasing excitement, or attraction--but i shall be here, and see to that." "oh dr. gronow," exclaimed miss fox, as she fastened her cloak to go with him; "how i wish i had been born a little sooner, to see you more positive than you are now!" "miss fox, it is a happy thing for me, that i anticipated all such views. young ladies, i meant of course--and not young men. yet alas, the young ladies are too negative." on the third day from lady waldron's seizure, the postman of the name of walker finding not even a mushroom left to retard the mail-delivery, and having a cold north wind at his back, brought to the house, soon after noon, a very large letter, marked "ship despatch. two shillings and tenpence to pay," and addressed to lady waldron. "it must be from dear tom," pronounced nicie; "we have not heard from him since he sailed for india. there is no other person in the world, capable of such a frightful scrawl." "why, this is the very thing we want," said gronow, who was present according to promise; "large, conspicuous, self-assertive. let somebody fetch me a green flower-stick." slitting one end of the stick, he inserted the lower edge of the letter, and fixed it upright in the scroll-work at the bottom of the couch. then he drew the curtain back, and a slant of cheerful sunshine broke upon the thick bold writing. but the figure on the couch lay still, without a sign of interest, cold, rigid, and insensible. "i'll keep out of sight," the doctor whispered, "and let no one say a word. but presently when i hold my hand up, let miss nicie strike a few notes, not too rapidly, on her guitar--some well-known spanish melody." gliding round the back of the couch, with a very gentle touch he raised the unconscious lady's head, and propped it with a large firm pillow; so that the dim half-open eyes were level with and set point-blank upon the shining letter. securing it so, he withdrew a little, and held up his hand to nicie. she, upon a low chair further off, touched the strings of her mother's own and in younger days much loved guitar; gently at first, like a distant ripple; then with a strong bold swell arising into a grand melodious strain--the march of andalusia. all present held their breath to watch, and saw a strange and moving sight. the spanish lady's eyes began to fill with soft and quivering light, like a lake when the moon is rising; the fringe of their dark lashes rose; a little smile played on her lips, and touched them with a living tint; then all the brilliance of her gaze flashed forth, and fastened on that letter. she lifted both her trembling hands, and the letter was put into them. her face was lit with vivid joy, and her lips pronounced--"my son, my son!" then wanting nothing more, she drew the precious token to her breast, concealed it there, and sank into profound, and tranquil, and sweet sleep. "she will be all right, when she awakes, and then she will want a lot of food;" said dr. gronow with a quiet grin, while nicie and chris wept tears of joy, and dr. fox and the nurse looked queer. "mind she can't live on her son's letter. beef-tea, arrowroot, and port-wine, leg of mutton gravy, and neat's foot jelly--finer than the sweetest sweetheart's letters, let alone a boy who writes with the stump of a cigar. ladies and gentlemen, my job is over; what a blessing penniloe is gone to london! we should have had a prayer meeting every day. miss fox, i think i shall call you 'christie,' because you are so unchristian." "you may call me anything you like--that is so long as it is something you do like. i shall almost begin to have faith in doctors now, in spite of poor jemmy being one." "jemmy, you had better throw up the trade. your sister understands it best. the hardest work, and the hardest paid--however i go a trout-fishing, ere ever the river freezes." the wind was very cold, and everybody there shivered at the shudders he would have to undergo, as they saw him set forth with an eager step. he waved his hand back from a turn of the walk which reminded him of the river, and his shoulders went up, as if he had a trout on hook. "he is happy. let him be," said the percipient christie; "he won't catch anything in fact; but the miraculous draught in fancy." "he ought to be pitched in," replied her brother, who was put out about something, possibly the fingering of the second fiddle; "the least that can be done to him is to pitch him in, for trying to catch trout in december. pike had vowed to do it; but those fellows are gone home, hopper and all, just when the world was most in want of them. christie, you will just come back with me, to the old barn." "why does dr. gronow address nearly all his very excellent remarks to me? and why does he always look at me, when he speaks?" "because you are so pretty, dear. and because you catch his meaning first. they like that sort of thing;" said nicie. "for looks i am nowhere, with nicie present. but he sees advanced intelligence in me. and he comes from where they appreciate it. i shall go back to old barn, just when i think right." "we are coming to something!" cried doctor jemmy, who looked pleasantly, but loftily, at all the female race--save nicie, who was saved perhaps, till two months after marriage--"stay, if you like, where you are appreciated, so highly, so very highly." christie's face became red as a rose, for really this was too bad on his part, and after all she had done for him, as witnessed those present. "they like me," she said in an off-handed manner; "and i like them--which is more than one can do to everybody. but it makes very little difference, i am afraid, for i shall never see them any more, unless they come to foxden. i had made up my mind to go home, the moment lady waldron was out of danger. i did not come here to please myself; and this is all i get for it. good-bye to fair perlycross to-morrow! one must not neglect one's dear father and mother, even for--even for such a dear as nicie." "well, i never knew what it was to be out of temper." there was some truth in this assertion, though it seems a large one; for jemmy fox had a remarkably sweet temper; and a man who takes stock of himself, when short of that article, has already almost replaced it. "but how will you go, my dear little cayenne pepper? will you pack up all your grandeur, and have a coach and four?" "yes that i will," answered christie quick as light, "though it won't cost me quite as much as the one i hired, when i came post-haste to your rescue. the name of my coach is the _defiance_; and the guard shall play 'roast-beef' all the way, in honour of the coming christmas-time. won't we have a fine time at foxden, if father is in good health again?" jemmy wisely left her to her own devices--for she generally "took the change out of him"--and consoled himself with soft contemplation of a lovelier, nicer, and (so far as he knew yet) ten thousand times sweeter-tempered girl, whose name was nicie waldron. now that sweet creature had a worry of her own, though she did not afflict the public with it. she was dying with anxiety, all the time, to know the contents of her brother tom's letter, which had so enlivened her dear mother. it is said that the only thing the all-wise solomon could not explain to the queen of sheba, was the process of her own mind, or rather perhaps the leaps of it, which landed her in conclusions quite correct, yet unsupported even by the shadow of an enthymem. miss waldron was not so clever as the queen of sheba, or even as miss christie fox; yet she had arrived at a firm conviction that the one, who was destined to solve the sad and torturing question about her dear father, was no other than her brother, tom rodrigo. she had observed that his letter bore no token of the family bereavement, neither was that to be expected yet, although six weeks had now elapsed since the date of their sore distress. envelopes was not as yet in common use, and a letter was a cumbrous and clumsy-looking thing, one of the many reasons being that a writer was bound by economy, and very often by courtesy as well, to fill three great pages, before he began to double in. this naturally led to a vast sprawl of words, for the most part containing very little; and "what shall i say next?" was the constant enquiry of even the most loving correspondent. nicie knew well, that her brother was not gifted with the pen of a ready writer, and that all his heart indited of was--"what shall i put, to get done with it?" this increased the value of his letters (by means of their rarity) and also their interest, according to the canon that plenty of range should be allowed for the reader's imagination. but now even too much range was left, for that of the affectionate and poetic maiden, inasmuch as her mother lay asleep for hours with this fine communication to support her heart. there was nothing for nicie to do, except to go to sleep patiently on her own account, and that she did in her own white bed, and saw a fair vision through tears of joy. behold, she was standing at the door, the sacred portal of walderscourt, gazing at trees that were full of singing birds, with her milk-white pony cropping clover honey-sweet, and _pixie_ teetotuming after his own tail. all the air was blossoming with dance of butterflies, and all the earth was laughing at the flatteries of the sun. and behold a very tall form arose, from beyond the weeping willow, leading a form yet taller, and looking back for fear of losing it. then a loud voice shouted, and it was brother tom's--"here he is at last! no mistake about it. i have found the governor--hurrah, hurrah!" the maiden sprang up with a bounding heart, to embrace her darling father. but alas, there was nothing, except the cold moon, and a pure virgin bosom that glistened with tears. when tom's letter came to the reading at last, there was plenty of blots in it, and brown sand, but not a blessed bit of poetry. the youth had been at eton, and exhausted there all the tendency of his mind towards metre. even now people, who ought to know better, ask why poetry will not go down with the tall, and imaginative, and romantic public. it must be from the absence of the spark divine among them. nay rather because ere they could spell, their flint was fixed for life, with the "fire" used up by classic hammer. of these things the present sir thomas rodrigo waldron had neither thought nor heed. for him it was enough to be released; and the less he saw of book and pen, for the rest of his natural life, the better for the book, the pen, and him. so that on the whole he deserved much credit, and obtained even more (from his mother) as the author of the following fine piece of correspondence. though all the best bits were adapted from a book, entitled "the young man's polite letter-writer, to his parents, sisters, sweethearts, friends, and the minister of his native parish, etc., etc.--also when applying for increase of wages." "valetta, in the island of malta, mediterranean sea, etc. november the th, also guy fawkes' day, a.d. . "my beloved and respected mother,--i take up my pen with mingled feelings of affection and regret. the bangs"--oh, he ought to say "pangs," thought nicie, as her mother read it on most gravely--"which i have suffered, and am suffering still, arise from various sources. affection, because of your unceasing and unmerited parental goodness; regret because absence in a foreign land enhances by a hundred fold the value of all those lost endearments. i hope that you will think of me, whenever you sit on the old bench by the door, and behold the sun setting in the east." "it is very beautiful," said lady waldron, animated by a cup of strong beef-tea; "but rodrigo was so hard to kiss. very often, i have knocked my head--but he is competent to feel it in his own head now." "mother, there is no bench by the door. and how can the sun set in the east? oh i see it was 'west,' and he has scratched it out, because of his being in the east himself." "that means the same thing;" replied lady waldron; "inez, if you intend to find fault with your dear brother's letter about such trifles, you deserve to hear no more of it." "mother, as if it made any difference where the sun sets; so long as he can see it!" "he always had large thoughts," reflected his mother; "he is not of this cold geography. hearken how beautifully he proceeds to write-- "'but it is vain to indulge these contemplations. thanks to your careful tuition, and the lofty example set before me, i trust that i shall never be found wanting in my duty to the country that gave me birth. unfortunately in these foreign parts, the price of every article is excessive; and although i am guided, as you are well aware, by the strictest principles of economy, my remembrance of what is due to you, and the position of a highly respected family, have in some degree necessitated an anticipation of resources. feeling assured of your sympathy, and that it will assume a practical form by return of post, i venture to state for your guidance that the house of plumper, wiggins, and golightly in this city have been advised, and have consented to receive on my behalf a remittance of £ , which will, i trust, appear a very reasonable sum.'" "mother, dear mother, let me go on," cried nicie, as the letter dropped from her mother's hand; "the pleasure and excitement have been too much for you, although the style is so excellent." "it is not the style; but my breath has been surprised, by--by the expressions of that last sentence. the sum that i myself placed to his credit, out of my bonds of the city of corduba, was in addition, and without his father's knowledge--but no doubt he will give explanation more further down; though the writing appears now to become of a different kind, shorter and less polished. but why is he in malta, when the ship sailed for bombay? oh i am terrified there will be some war. the english can never stay without fighting very long. and behold his letter seems to go into three pieces! see now, it is quite crooked, inez, and of less correction. nevertheless i approve more of it so. listen again, child. "'i was almost forgeting to say that we were mett before we had got very far on our way by a despatch vessle bringing urgent orders for all of the draught to be sent to this place, which is not half so hot as the other place would be, and much more convenient, and healthy but too white. but it does make the money fly, and they are a jolley sett. i have long been wanting to write home, but waited untill there was some news to tell, and we could tell where we are going next. but we shall have to stay here for some time, because most of our things were sent to west indies, and the other part went on to east india. it will all be for the best because so strong a change of climate will be almost certain to destroy the moths. i have bought three dogs. there is a new sort here, very clever, and can almost speak. i hope all the dogs at home are well. i miss the shooting very much, and there are no horses in the mediterranean big enough to cary me. now i must conclude with best love and duty to the governor and you, and nicie, and old nurse sweetland, and anybody else who inquires for "'remaining your affectionate and dutiful son, "'tom r. waldron. "'p.s.--your kind letter of aug. th just come. they must be very clever to have found us here. i am dredfully cutt up to hear dear governor not at all well when you wrote. shall hope for better news every day. there is a greek gentleman here with a pill waranted to cure everything yet discovered. they are as large as yellow sluggs, and just the same shape. he will let me have for my amathist studds which are no good to me. shall try to send them by the next ship that goes home. do write at once, because i never heard before of anything wrong with dear governor. "'t. r. w.'" "poor darling!" said his mother with tears in her eyes, while nicie was sobbing quietly; "by this time he may be aware of it perhaps, though not of the dreadful thing that happened since. it will not be for his happiness that he should ever know. remember that, inez. he is of so much vigour and high blood of the best andalusian, that he would become insane, and perhaps do himself deep injury. he would cast away his office--what you call the commission,--and come back to this country, and be put in prison for not accepting quietly the sacrilegious laws." "mother, you have promised never to speak of that subject. if it is too much for poor tom, what is it likely to be for us? all we can do is to leave it to god." "there is not the same god in this country as we have. if there was, he would never endure it." chapter xxiv. a wager. it was true enough that mr. penniloe was gone to london, as gronow said. but it was not true that otherwise he would have held a prayer-meeting every day in lady waldron's room, for the benefit of her case. he would have been a great support and strength to inez in her anxiety, and doubtless would have joined his prayers with hers; that would have been enough for him. dr. gronow was a man who meant well upon the whole, but not in every crick and cranny, as a really fine individual does. but the parson was even less likely than the doctor, to lift a latch plugged by a lady against him. "thyatira, do you think that you could manage to see to the children, and the butcher's bill, during the course of next week," he enquired, when the pupils were off for their holiday, with accordions, and pan-pipes and pea-shooters; "i have particular business in london. only betty cork, and old job tapscott, have come to my readings of solomon's song, and both of them are as deaf as milestones. master harry will be home again in three days' time, and when he is in the house you have no fear; though your confidence should be placed much higher. master michael is stronger of late, and if we can keep shocking stories from him, his poor little head may be right again. there really has been no proof at all of the existence of any spring-heeled jack; and he would never come here to earn his money. he may have been mentioned in prophecy, as the wesleyan minister declared, but i have failed to come across the passage. our church does not deal in those exciting views, and does not recognise dark lanterns." "no sir, we are much soberer like; but still there remains the seven vials." the parson was up to snuff--if the matter may be put upon so low a footing. mrs. muggridge had placed her arms akimbo, in challenge theological. he knew that her views were still the lowest of the low, and could not be hoisted by any petard to the high church level. and the worst of it is that such people are pat with awkward points of holy writ, as hard to parry as the stroke of jarnac. in truth he must himself confess that partly thus had thyatira, at an early and impressible age, been induced to join the church, when there chanced to be a vacancy for a housemaid at the parsonage. it was in his father's parish, where her father, stephen muggridge, occupied a farm belonging to the rev. isaac penniloe. philip, as a zealous churchman, urged that the parson's chief tenant should come to church, but the rev. isaac took a larger view, preferring his tangible cornland to his spiritual vineyard. "you had better let stephen alone," he said, "you would very soon get the worst of it, with all your new oxford theology. farmer steve is a wonderfully stout antipædobaptist; and he searches the scriptures every day, which leaves no chance for a churchman, who can only find time on a saturday." this dissuasion only whetted the controversial appetite, and off set philip with his polyglot bible under his arm. when farmer stephen saw him coming, he smiled a grim and gallant smile, being equally hot for the combat. says he, after a few preliminary passes, "now, young sir, look here! i'll show 'e a text as you can't explain away, with all oxford college at the back of thee. just you turn to gospel of john, third chapter and fifth verse, and you read it, after me. 'except a man be born of water and of the spirit, he cannot enter into the kingdom of god.' the same in your copy, bain't it now? then according to my larning, m. a. n. spells _man_, and b. a. b. e. spells _babe_. now till you can put b. a. b. e. in the place of m. a. n. in that there text, what becomes of your church baptism?" the farmer grinned gently at the parson, in the pride of triumph, and looked round for his family to share it. "farmer stephen, that sounds well;" replied the undaunted philip, "but perhaps you will oblige me, by turning over a few leaves, as far as the sixteenth chapter of the same gospel, and verse twenty-one. you see how it begins with reference to the pains of a mother, and then occur these words--'she remembereth no more the anguish, for joy that a _man_ is born into the world.' now was that man born full-grown, farmer stephen?" the farmer knitted his brows, and stared; there was no smile left upon his face; but in lieu of it came a merry laugh from beside his big oaken chair; and the head of her class in the village school was studying his countenance. "her can go to parsonage," quoth the antipædobaptist, "her won't take no harm in a household where they know their bible so." farmer stephen was living still; and like a gentleman had foregone all attempts to re-capture his daughter. with equal forbearance, penniloe never pressed his own opinions concerning smaller matters upon his pious housekeeper, and therefore was fain to decline, as above, her often proffered challenges. "there are many things still very dark before us," he answered with his sweet sad smile; "let us therefore be instant in prayer, while not neglecting our worldly duties. it is a worldly duty now, which takes me from my parish, much against my own desires. i shall not stay an hour more than can be helped, and shall take occasion to forward, if i can, the interests of our restoration fund." mrs. muggridge, when she heard of that, was ready at once to do her best. not that she cared much about the church repairs, but that her faithful heart was troubled by her master's heavy anxieties. as happens (without any one established exception) in such cases, the outlay had proved to be vastly vaster than the most exhaustive estimate. mr. penniloe felt himself liable for the repayment of every farthing; and though the contractors at exeter were most lenient and considerate (being happily a firm of substance), his mind was much tormented--at the lower tides of faith--about it. at least twelve hundred pounds was certain to fall due at christmas, that season of peace and good-will for all christians, who can pay for it. even at that date there were several good and useful corporations, societies, associations, ready to help the church of england, even among white men, when the case was put well before them. the parson had applied by letter vainly; now he hoped to see the people, and get a trifle out of them. the long and expensive journey, and the further expense of the sojourn, were quite beyond his resources--drained so low by the house of the lord--but now the solicitors to the estate of sir thomas waldron bart. deceased required his presence in london for essential formalities, and gladly provided the _viaticum_. therefore he donned his warmest clothes, for the weather was becoming wintry, put the oilskin over his sunday hat--a genuine beaver, which had been his father's, and started in life at two guineas, and even now in its curate stage might stand out for twenty-one shillings--and committing his household solemnly to the care of the almighty, met the first up-coach before daylight on monday, when it changed horses at the _blue ball_ inn, at the north-east corner of his parish. all western coaches had been quickened lately by tidings of steam in the north, which would take a man nearly a score of miles in one hour; and though nobody really believed in this, the mere talk of it made the horses go. there was one coach already, known by the rather profane name of _quicksilver_, which was said to travel at the almost impious pace of twelve miles an hour. but few had much faith in this break-neck tale, and the _quicksilver_ flew upon the southern road, which never comes nigh the perle valley. even so, there were coaches on this upper road which averaged nine miles an hour all the way, foregoing for the sake of empty speed, breakfast, and dinner, and even supper on the road. by one of these called the _tallyho_, mr. penniloe booked his place for london, and arrived there in good health but very tired, early on tuesday morning. the curate of perlycross was not at all of the rustic parson type, such as may still be found in many an out-of-the-way parish of devon. he was not likely to lose himself in the streets of "mighty babylon," as london was generally called in those days--and he showed some perception of the right thing to do, by putting up at the "old hummums." his charges for the week were borne by the lawyers, upon whose business he was come; and therefore the whole of his time was placed at the disposal of their agents, messrs. spindrift, honeysweet, and hoblin, of theobald's road, gray's inn. that highly respected firm led him about from office to office, and pillar to post, sometimes sitting upon the pillar, sometimes leaning against the post, according to the usage immemorial of their learned profession. but one of the things he was resolved to do between doe and roe, and nokes and styles, was to see his old friend harrison gowler, concerning the outrage at perlycross. there happened to be a great run now upon that eminent physician, because he had told a lady of exalted rank, who had a loose tendon somewhere, that she had stepped on a piece of orange-peel five and twenty years ago. historical research proved this to be too true, although it had entirely escaped the august patient's memory. dr. gowler became of course a baronet at once, his practice was doubled, though it had been very large, and so were all his fees, though they had not been small. in a word, he was the rage, and was making golden hay in the full blaze of a royal sun. no wonder then that the simple friend for a long time sought the great man vainly. he could not very well write, to ask for an interview on the following day, because he never knew at what hour he might hope to be delivered from the lawyers; and it never occurred to him to prepay the postage of his card from door to table, through either of the haughty footmen. slow as he was to take offence, he began to fear that it must be meant, for the name of his hotel was on his cards; until as he was turning away once more, debating with himself whether self-respect would allow him to lift that brass knocker again, the great man himself came point-blank upon him. the stately footman had made a rush for his pint of half-and-half round the corner, and sir harrison had to open his own door to show a noble patient forth. "what, you in london, penniloe!" and a kind grasp of the hand made it clear, that the physician was not himself to blame. in a few quick words it was arranged that the parson should call again at six o'clock, and share his old friend's simple meal. "we shall have two good hours for a talk," said gowler, "for all the great people are at dinner then. at eight, i have a consultation on." "i never have what can be called a dinner;" sir harrison said, when they met again; "only a bit of--i forget what the greek expression is. there is an american turn for it." "you must indeed be overdone, if you are forgetting your greek," replied his friend; "you were far in front of me there always; though i think i was not so far behind, in latin." "i think you were better in both. but what matter? we have little time now for such delights. how often i wish i were back again at oxford; ten times poorer, but a thousand times happier. what is the good of my hundred pounds a day? i often get that; and am ashamed of it." the parson refrained from quoting any of the plentiful advice upon that matter, from the very highest authorities. he tried to look cheerfully at his old friend, and did not even shake his head. but a very deep sadness was in his own heart; and yet a confirmation of his own higher faith. then knowing that the time was very short and feeling his duty to his own parish, he told the tale he was come to tell; and sir harrison listened intently to it. "i scarcely know what to think," he said; "even if i were on the spot, and knew every one whom it was possible to suspect, it would be a terrible puzzle to me. one thing may be said, with confidence, amounting almost to certainty, that it is not a medical matter at all. that much i can settle, beyond all doubt, by means which i need not specify. even with you i cannot enter upon questions so professional. we know that irregular things are done, and the folly of the law compels them. but this is quite out of the course they pursue. however i can make quite certain about all that within a week. meanwhile you should look for a more likely clue. you have lost invaluable time by concluding, as of course the stupid public would, especially after all the burke and hare affairs, that 'the doctors must be at the bottom of it.' most unlucky that you were so unwell, or you might have set the enquiry on the right track from the first. surely it must have occurred to you that medical men, as a general rule, are the sharpest fellows of the neighbourhood, except of course--of course excepting the parsons?" "they are sharper than we are," said the parson with a smile; "but perhaps that is the very thing that tells against our faith in them." "very likely. but still it keeps them from utterly mad atrocities. sir thomas waldron, a famous man, a grand old soldier, and above all a wealthy man! why they could have done no more to a poor old wretch from the workhouse!" "the crime in that case would have been as great; perhaps greater, because more cowardly." "you always were a highflyer, my friend. but never mind the criminality. what we want to know is the probability. and to find out that, we have to study not the laws of morality, but the rules of human conduct. what was the name of the man i met about the case, at your house? oh, i remember--gronow; a very shrewd clear-headed fellow. well, what does he say about it?" "as nearly as possible what you have said. some slight suspicion has fallen upon him. but as i told you, jemmy fox has come in for the lion's share of it." "poor young fellow! it must be very hard to bear. it will make him hate a profession in which he would have been sure to distinguish himself, because he really loves it. what a thick-headed monster the english public is! they always exult in a wild-goose chase. are you sure that the body was ever carried off at all?" "the very question doctor gronow asked! unhappily, there can be no doubt whatever upon that point. as i ought to have told you, though i was not there to see it, the search was made in the middle of the day, and with a dozen people round the grave. they went to the bottom, found the brickwork broken down, and no sign of any coffin." "well, that ought to lead us to something clear. that alone is almost certain proof of what i said just now. 'resurrection-men,' as the stupid public calls them--would have taken the body alone. not only because they escape all charge of felony by doing so, but that it is so much easier; and for many other reasons which you may imagine. i begin to see my way more clearly. depend upon it, this is some family matter. some private feud, or some motive of money, or perhaps even some religious scruple lies at the bottom of this strange affair. i begin to think that you will have to go to spain, before you understand it all. how has lady waldron behaved about it?" "she has been most bitter against poor jemmy." mr. penniloe had not heard of what was happening this very week at walderscourt. "she will not see him, will not hear his name, and is bitter against any one who takes his part. she cannot even bring herself to speak to me, because in common fairness i have done my best for him, against the general opinion, and her own firm conclusion. that is one reason why i am in london now. she will not even act with me in taking probate of the will. in fact it has driven her, as i fear, almost to the verge of insanity; for she behaves most unkindly even to her daughter. but she is more to be pitied than blamed, poor thing." "i agree with you; in case of all this being genuine. but is it so? or is it a bit of acting over-acted? i have known women, who could act so as to impose upon their own brains." "it has never once entered my head," replied the simple-minded parson, "to doubt that all she says, and does, is genuine. even you could not doubt, if you beheld her." "i am not so sure of that," observed sir harrison very drily; "the beauty of your character is the grand simplicity. you have not the least idea of any wickedness." "my dear fellow," cried the parson deeply shocked; "it is, alas, my sad duty to find out and strive with the darkest cases of the depravity of our fallen race!" "of course. but you think none the worse of them for that. it is water on a duck's back, to such a man as you. well, have it so; if you like. i see the worst of their bodies, and you the worst of their souls, as you suppose. but i think you put some of your own into them--infusion of sounder blood, as it were." "gowler, you may think as ill, as fallen nature can make you think, of all your fellow-creatures;" mr. penniloe spoke with a sharpness very seldom found in words of his. "but in fair truth, it is beyond the blackest of all black bitterness to doubt poor lady waldron's simple and perfect sincerity." "because of her very magnificent eyes," sir harrison answered, as if to himself, and to meet his own too charitable interjections. "but what has she done, to carry out her wild revenge at an outrage, which she would feel more keenly perhaps than the most sensitive of english women? has she moved high and low, ransacked the earth, set all the neighbourhood on fire, and appealed with tears, and threats, and money, (which is the strongest of all appeals) to the cæsar enthroned in london? if she had done any of these things, i fancy i should have heard of them." for the moment mr. penniloe disliked his friend; as a man may feel annoyance at his own wife even, when her mind for some trivial cause is moving on a lower level than his own. "as yet she has not taken any strong steps," he confessed with some reluctance; "because she has been obliged to act under her lawyer's guidance. remember that she is a foreigner, and knows nothing of our legal machinery." "very likely not. but webber does--webber her solicitor. i suppose webber has been very energetic." "he has not done so much as one might have expected. in fact he has seemed to me rather remiss. he has had his own private hands at work, which as he says is the surest plan; but he has brought no officers from london down. he tells me that in all such cases they have failed; and more than that, they have entirely spoiled the success of all private enquiry." "it looks to me very much as if private enquiry had no great desire to succeed. my conclusion grows more and more irresistible. shall i tell you what it is?" "my dear fellow, by all means do. i shall attach very great importance to it." "it is simply this," sir harrison spoke less rapidly than usual; "all your mystery is solved in this--_lady waldron knows all about it_. how you all have missed that plain truth, puzzles me. she has excellent reasons for restricting the enquiry, and casting suspicion upon poor fox. did i not hear of a brother of hers, a spanish nobleman i think he was?" "yes, her twin-brother, the count de varcas. she has always been warmly attached to him; but sir thomas did not like him much. i think he has been extravagant. lady waldron has been doing her utmost to discover him." "i dare say. to be sure she has! advertised largely of course. oh dear, oh dear! what poor simple creatures we men are, in comparison with women!" mr. penniloe was silent. he had made a good dinner, and taken a glass of old port-wine; and both those proceedings were very rare with him. like all extremely abstemious men, when getting on in years, he found his brain not strengthened, but confused, by the unusual supply. the air of london had upon him that effect which it often has at first upon visitors from the country--quick increase of appetite, and hearty joy in feeding. "another thing you told me, which confirms my view," resumed the relentless doctor--"the last thing discovered before you came away--but not discovered, mark you, by her ladyship's agents--was that the cart supposed to have been employed had been traced to a smuggler's hiding-place, in a desolate and unfrequented spot, probably in the direction of the coast. am i right in supposing that?" "partly so. it would be towards the sea; though certainly not the shortest way." "but the best way probably of getting at the coast, if you wished to avoid towns and villages? that you admit? then all is plain. poor sir thomas was to be exported. probably to spain. that i will not pretend to determine; but i think it most likely. perhaps to be buried in catholic soil, and with catholic ceremonial; which they could not do openly here, because of his own directions. how simple the very deepest mystery becomes, when once you have the key to it! but how strange that it never occurred to you! i should have thought gronow at any rate would have guessed it." "he has more penetration than i have; i am well aware of that," replied the humble parson; "and you of course have more than either of us. but for all that, gowler, and although i admit that your theory is very plausible, and explains many points that seemed inexplicable, i cannot, and i will not accept it for a moment." "where is your difficulty? is it not simple--consistent with all that we know of such people, priest-ridden of course, and double-faced, and crafty? does it not solve every difficulty? what can you urge against it?" "my firm belief in the honesty, affection, and good faith of women." "whew!" the great physician forgot his dignity, in the enjoyment of so fine a joke. he gave a long whistle, and then put his thumb to his nose, and extended his fingers, as schoolboys of that period did. "honesty of women, penniloe! at your age, you surely know better than that. a very frail argument indeed." "because of my age it is perhaps that i do know better. i would rather not discuss the subject. you have your views; and i have mine." "i am pleased with this sort of thing, because it reminds one so much of boyhood;" sir harrison stood by the fire, and began to consult his short gray locks. "let me see, how many years is it, since i cherished such illusions? well, they are pleasant enough while they last. i suppose you never make a bet, penniloe?" "of course not, gowler. you seem to be as ignorant of clergymen, as you are of women." "don't be touchy, my dear fellow. many of the cloth accept the odds, and have privilege of clergy when they lose. well, i'll tell you what i will do. you see that little cupboard in the panelling? it has only one key, and the lock is peculiar. here i deposit--behold my act and deed--these two fifty-pound notes. you take the key. now you shall come, or send either churchwarden, and carry them off for the good of your church-restoration fund, the moment you can prove that my theory is wrong." "i am not sure," said the clergyman, with a little agitation, as the courage of that single glass of port declined, "that this is not too much in the nature of a wager." "no, there is no wager. that requires two parties. it is simply a question of forfeiture. no peril to a good cause--as you would call it--in case of failure. and a solid gain to it, if i prove wrong. take the key, my friend. my time is up." mr. penniloe, the most conscientious of mankind, and therefore the most gentle, had still some qualms about the innocence of this. but his friend's presumptuous manner hushed them. he dropped the key into his deep watch-pocket, specially secured against the many rogues of london; and there it was when he mounted on the _magnet_ coach, at two o'clock on the friday afternoon, prepared for a long and dreary journey to his home. the _magnet_ was one of those calm and considerate coaches which thought a great deal more of the comfort and safety of their passengers and horses, than of the fidgety hands of any clock--be it even a cathedral clock--on the whole road from london to exeter. what are the most important hours of the day? manifestly those of feeding. each of them is worth any other three. therefore, you lose three times the time you save, by omitting your dinner. this coach breakfasted, dined, and supped, and slept on the road, or rather out of it, and started again as fresh as paint, quite early enough in the morning. with his usual faith in human nature, mr. penniloe had not enquired into these points, but concluded that this coach would rush along in the breathless manner of the _tallyho_. this leisurely course began to make him very nervous, and when on the saturday at two o'clock, another deliberate halt was made at a little wayside inn, some fifty miles still from perlycross, and every one descended with a sprightly air, the clergyman marched up to the coachman to remonstrate. "unless we get on a little faster," he said, with a kind but anxious smile; "i shall not be at home for sunday." "can't help that, sir. the coach must dine;" replied the fat driver, as he pulled his muffler down, to give his capacious mouth fair play. "but--but consider, mr. coachman; i must get home. i have my church to serve." "must serve the dinner first, sir, if you please," said the landlord coming forward with a napkin, which he waved as if it were worth a score of sermons: "all the gents are waiting, sir, for you to say the grace--hot soup, knuckle of veal, boiled round, and baked potatoes. gents has to pay, if they dine, or if they don't. knowing this, all gents does dine. preach all the better, sir, to-morrow for it." if this preparation were needful, the curate's sermon would not have been excellent, for anxiety had spoiled his appetite. when at length they lumbered on again, he strove to divert his thoughts by observing his fellow-passengers. and now for the first time he descried, over the luggage piled on the roof, a man with a broad slouched hat and fur cloak, who sat with his back towards him, for mr. penniloe had taken his place on the hinder part of the coach. that man had not joined the dinner party, yet no one remained on the coach or in it during the dinner hour; for the weather was cold and windy, with a few flakes of snow flying idly all day, and just making little ribs of white upon the road. mr. penniloe was not a very observant man, least of all on a saturday, when his mind was dwelling chiefly upon scriptural subjects; but he could not help wondering how this man came there; for the coach had not stopped since they left the little inn. this perhaps drew his attention to the man, who appeared to be "thoroughly a foreigner," as john bull in those days expressed it. for he wore no whiskers, but a long black beard streaked with silver, as even those behind could see, for the whirl of the north wind tossed it now and then upon his left shoulder. he kept his head low behind the coachman's broad figure, and appeared to speak to nobody, but smoked cigars incessantly, lighting each from the stump of its predecessor, and scattering much ash about, to the discomfort of his neighbours' eyes. although mr. penniloe never smoked, he enjoyed the fragrance of a good cigar, perhaps more than the puffer himself does (especially if he puff too vehemently), and he was able to pronounce this man's tobacco very fine. at length they arrived at pumpington, about six miles from perlycross, and here mr. penniloe fully expected another halt for supper, and had made up his mind in that case to leave the coach and trudge home afoot. but to his relief, they merely changed horses, and did that with some show of alacrity; for they were bound to be at exeter that night, and the snow was beginning to thicken. at the turnpike-gate two men got up; one of them a sailor, going probably to plymouth, who mounted the tarpaulin that covered the luggage, and threw himself flat upon it with a jovial air, and made himself quite at home, smoking a short pipe, and waving a black bottle, when he could spare time from sucking it. the other man came and sat beside the parson, who did not recognise him at first; for the coach carried only two lamps, both in front, and their light was thrown over their shoulders now and then, in rough streams, like the beard of the foreigner. all the best coaches still carried a guard, and the royal mail was bound to do so; but the magnet towards the end of its career had none. mr. penniloe meekly allowed the new-comer to edge his feet gradually out of the straw nest, and work his own into the heart of it; for now it was truly a shivering and a shuddering night. the steam of the horses and their breath came back in turbid clouds, and the snow, or soft hail (now known as _graupel_), cut white streaks through them into travellers' eyes, and danced on the roof like lozenges. nobody opened mouth, except the sailor; and his was stopped, as well as opened, by the admirable fit of the neck of his rum-bottle. but this being over-strained became too soon a hollow consolation; and the rim of the glass rattled drily against his chattering teeth, till he cast it away. "never say die, mates. i'll sing you a song. don darkimbo, give us a cigar to chaw. never could smoke them things, gentlemen and ladies. can't 'e speak, or won't 'e then? never mind, here goes!" to his own encouragement this jolly fellow, with his neck and chest thrown open, and his summer duds on, began to pour forth a rough nautical ballad, not only beyond the pale of the most generous orthodoxy, but entirely out of harmony with the tone of all good society. in plainer words, as stupid a bit of ribaldry and blasphemy as the most advanced period could produce. then up rose mr. penniloe, and in a firm voice clear above the piping of the wind, and the roar of wheels, and rattle of loose harness, administered to that mariner a rebuke so grave, and solemn, and yet so full of large kindness and of allowance for his want of teaching, that the poor fellow hung his head, and felt a rising in his throat, and being not advanced beyond the tender stage of intoxication, passed into a liquid state of terror and repentance. with this the clergyman was content, being of longer experience than to indulge in further homily. but the moment he sat down, up rose the gentleman who had cribbed his straw, and addressed the applauding passengers. "my friends, the reverend penniloe has spoken well and eloquently. but i think you will agree with me, that it would be more consistent of him, and more for the service of the lord, if he kept his powers of reproof for the use of his own parishioners. he is the clergyman of perlycross, a place notorious throughout the country for the most infamous of crimes--a place where even the dead are not allowed to sleep in peace." after this settler, the man sat down, and turned his back on the parson, who had now recognised him, with deep sorrow at his low malevolence. for this was no other than solomon pack, watchmaker and jeweller at pumpington, well known among his intimates as "pack of lies," from his affection for malignant gossip. mr. penniloe had offended him by employing the rival tradesman, pack's own brother-in-law, with whom he was at bitter enmity. "mr. pack, you have done much harm, i fear; and this is very unjust of you"--was all that the parson deigned to say. but he had observed with some surprise, that while pack was speaking, the foreigner turned round and gazed intently, without showing much of his swarthy face, at himself--philip penniloe. before silence was broken again, the _magnet_ drew up at the _blue ball_ inn, where the lane turns off towards perlycross, and the clergyman leaving his valise with the landlord, started upon his three-mile trudge. but before he had walked more than a hundred yards he was surprised to see, across the angle of the common, that the coach had stopped again at the top of a slight rise, where a footpath led from the turnpike road towards the northern entrance to walderscourt. the clouds were now dispersing, and the full moon shining brightly, and the ground being covered with newly fallen snow, the light was as good as it is upon many a winter afternoon. mr. penniloe was wearing a pair of long-sight glasses, specially adapted to his use by a skilful optician in london, and he was as proud of them as a child is of his first whistle. without them the coach might have been a haystack, or a whale, so far as he could tell; with them he could see the horses, and the passengers, and the luggage. having seen too much of that coach already, he was watching it merely as a test for his new glasses; and the trial proved most satisfactory. "how proud fay will be," he was thinking to himself, "when i tell her that i can see the big pear-tree from the window, and even the thrushes on the lawn!" but suddenly his interest in the sight increased. the man, who was standing in the road with his figure shown clearly against a snowy bank, was no other than that dark foreigner, who had stared at him so intently. there was the slouched hat, and there was the fur cloak, and even the peculiar bend of the neck. a parcel was thrown to him from the roof, and away he went across the common, quite as if he knew the way, through furze and heather, to the back entrance of walderscourt grounds. he could not see the parson in the darker lane below, and doubtless believed himself unseen. the circumstance aroused some strange ideas in the candid mind of penniloe. that man knowing who he was from pack's tirade, must have been desirous to avoid him, otherwise he would have quitted the coach at the _blue ball_, and taken this better way to walderscourt; for the lane mr. penniloe was following led more directly thither by another entrance. what if there were something, after all, in gowler's too plausible theory? that man looked like a spaniard, probably a messenger from lady waldron's scapegrace brother; for that was his character if plain truth were spoken, without any family gloss upon it. and if he were a messenger, why should he come thus, unless there were something they wanted to conceal? the curate had not traversed all this maze of meditations, which made him feel very miserable--for of all things he hated suspiciousness, and that £ , though needed so sadly, would be obtained at too high a cost, if the cost were his faith in womankind--when, lo, his own church-tower rose grandly before him, its buttresses and stringing courses capped with sparkling snow, and the yew-tree by the battlements feathered with the same, and away to the east the ivy mantle of the abbey, laced and bespangled with the like caprice of beauty, showered from the glittering stores of heaven. he put on a spurt through the twinkling air, and the frozen snow crushed beneath his rapid feet; and presently he had shaken hands with muggridge, and fay in her nightgown made a reckless leap from the height of ten stairs into his gladsome arms. chapter xxv. a sermon in stone. now sergeant jakes was not allowed to chastise any boys on sunday. this made the day hang very heavy on his hands; and as misfortunes never come single, the sacred day robbed him of another fine resource. for mr. penniloe would not permit even muggridge, the pious, the sage, and the prim, to receive any visitors--superciliously called by the front-door people "followers"--upon that blessed day of rest, when surely the sweeter side of human nature is fostered and inspirited, from reading-desk and lectern, from gallery and from pulpit. however even clergymen are inconsistent, as their own wives acknowledge confidentially; and mr. penniloe's lectures upon solomon's song--a treatise then greatly admired, as a noble allegory, by high churchmen--were not enforced at home by any warmth of practice. thus stood the law; and of all offences upon the sergeant's hecatologue, mutiny was the most heinous; therefore he could not mutiny. but surely if mr. penniloe could have received, or conceived, a germ of the faintest suspicion concerning this faithful soldier's alternatives on the afternoon of the sabbath--as churchmen still entitled it--he would have thrown open every door of kitchen, back-kitchen, scullery, and even pantry to him, that his foot might be kept from so offending. ay, and more than his foot, his breast, and arm--the only arm he had, and therefore leaving no other blameless. it is most depressing to record the lapse of such a lofty character, so gallant, faithful, self-denying, true, austere, and simple--though some of these merits may be refused him, when the truth comes out--as, alas, it must. all that can be pleaded in his favour, is that ancient, threadbare, paltry, and (as must even be acknowledged) dastardly palliation--the woman tempted him, and he fell! fell from his brisk and jaunty mien, his noble indifference to the fair, and severity to their little ones, his power of example to the rising age, and his pure-minded loyalty to thyatira, watered by rivers of tea, and fed by acres of bread and butter. and the worst of it was, that he had sternly resolved, with haughty sense of right and hearty scorn of a previous slip towards backsliding, that none of this weakness should ever, even in a vision, come anigh him any more. yet see, how easily this rigid man was wound round the finger of a female "teener"--as the americans beautifully express it! he was sitting very sadly at his big black desk, one mild and melancholy sabbath eve, with the light of the dull day fading out, and failing to make facets from the diamonds of the windows, and the heavy school-clock ticking feebly, as if it wished time was over: while shadows, that would have frightened any other unmarried man in the parish, came in from the silent population of the old churchyard, as if it were the haze of another world. a little cloud of smoke, to serve them up with their own sauce, would have consoled the school-master; but he never allowed any smoking in this temple of the muses, and as the light waned he lit his tallow candle, to finish the work that he had in hand. this was a work of the highest criticism, to revise, correct, and arrange in order of literary merit all the summaries of the morning sermon prepared by the head-class in the school. some of these compositions were of extreme obscurity, and some conveyed very strange doctrinal views. he was inclined to award the palm to the following fine epitome, practical, terse, and unimpeachably orthodox--"the sermon was, sir, that all men ort to be good, and never to do no wikked things whennever they can help it." but while he yet paused, with long quill in hand, the heavy oak door from the inner yard was opened very gently, and a slender form attired in black appeared at the end of the long and gloomy room. firm of nerve as he was, the master quailed a little at this unexpected sight; and therefore it became a very sweet relief, when the vision brightened into a living and a friendly damsel, and more than that a very charming one. all firm resolutions like shadows vanished; instead of a stern and distant air and a very rigid attitude, a smile of delight and a bow of admiration betrayed the condition of his bosom. that fair and artless tamar knew exactly how to place herself to the very best advantage. she stood on the further side of the candle, so that its low uncertain light hovered on the soft curve of her cheeks, and came back in a flow of steady lustre from her large brown eyes. she blushed an unbidden tear away, and timidly allowed those eyes to rest upon the man of learning. no longer was she the gay coquette, coying with frolic challenge, but the gentle, pensive, submissive maiden, appealing to a loftier mind. the sergeant's tender heart was touched, up sprang his inborn chivalry; and he swept away with his strong right hand the efforts of juvenile piety, and the lessons of holy writ. "sergeant schoolmaster, no chair for me;" tamar began in a humble voice, as he offered his own official seat. "i have but a moment to spare, and i fear you will be so angry with me, for intruding upon you like this. but i am so--oh so unhappy!" "what is it, my dear? who has dared to vex you? tell me his name, and although it is sunday--ah just let me come across him!" "nobody, nobody, sergeant schoolmaster;" here she pulled out a handkerchief, which a woman would have pronounced, at a glance, the property of her mistress. "oh how shall i dare to tell you who it is?" "i insist upon knowing," said the sergeant boldly, taking the upper hand, because the maiden looked so humble; "i insist upon knowing who it is, this very moment." "then if i must tell, if you won't let me off," she answered with a sweet glance, and a sweeter smile; "it is nobody else but sergeant jakes himself." "me!" exclaimed the veteran; "whatever have i done? you know that i would be the last in the world to vex you." "oh it is because you are so fierce. and that of course is, because you are so brave." "but my dear, my pretty dear, how could i ever be fierce to you?" "yes, you are going to cane my brother billy, in the morning." this was true beyond all cavil--deeply and beautifully true. the sergeant stared, and frowned a little. justice must allow no dalliance. "and oh, he has got such chilblains, sir! two of them broke only yesterday, and will be at their worst in the morning. and he didn't mean it, sir, oh he never meant it, when he called you an 'old beast'!" "the discipline of the school must be maintained." mr. jakes stroked his beard, which was one of the only pair then grown in the parish, (the other being dr. gronow's) for the growth of a beard in those days argued a radical and cantankerous spirit, unless it were that of a military man. without his beard mr. jakes would not have inspired half the needful awe; and he stroked it now with dignity, though the heart beneath it was inditing of an _infra dig._ idea. "unhappily he did it, miss, in the presence of the other boys. it cannot be looked over." "oh what can i do, sergeant? what can i do? i'll do anything you tell me, if you'll only let him off." the schoolmaster gave a glance at all the windows. they were well above the level of the ground outside. no one could peep in, without standing on a barrel, or getting another boy to give him a leg up. "tamar, do you mean what you say?" he enquired, with a glance of mingled tenderness and ferocity--the tenderness for her, the ferocity for her brother. "if you have any doubt, you have only got to try me. there can't be any harm in that much, can there?" she looked at him, with a sly twinkle in her eyes, as much as to say--"well now, come, don't be so bashful." upon that temptation, this long-tried veteran fell from his loyalty and high position. he approached to the too fascinating damsel, took her pretty hand, and whispered something through her lovely curls. alas, the final word of his conditions of abject surrender was one which rhymed with "this," or "miss," or--that which it should have been requited with--a hiss. oh muggridge, muggridge, where were you? just stirring a cup of unbefriended tea, and meditating on this man's integrity! "oh you are too bad, too bad, sergeant!" exclaimed the young girl starting back, with both hands lifted, and a most becoming blush. "i never did--i never could have thought that you had any mind for such trifles. why, what would all the people say, if i were only to mention it?" "nobody would believe you;" replied mr. jakes, to quench that idea, while he trembled at it; adding thereby to his iniquities. "well perhaps they wouldn't. no i don't believe they would. but everybody likes a bit of fun sometimes. but we won't say another word about it." "won't we though? i have got a new cane, tamar--the finest i ever yet handled for spring. the rarest thing to go round chilblains. bargain, or no bargain, now?" "bargain!" she cried; "but i couldn't do it now. it must be in a more quieter place. besides you might cheat me, and cane him after all. oh it is too bad, too bad to think of. perhaps i might try, next sunday." "but where shall i see you next sunday, my dear? 'never put off; it gives time for to scoff.' give me one now, and i'll stick to it." "no, sergeant jakes. i don't like to tell you, and my father would be so angry. but i don't see what right he has to put me in there. and oh, it is so lonely! and i am looking out for ghosts, and never have a happy mouthful. that old woman will have something to answer for. but it's no good to ask me, sergeant; because--because ever so many would be after me, if they only got a hint of it." this of course was meant to stop him; but somehow it had quite the opposite effect; and at last he got out of the innocent girl the whole tale of her sunday seclusion. the very best handmaid--as everybody knows--will go through the longest and bitterest bout of soaking, shivering, freezing, starving, dragging under wheels, and being blown up to the sky, rather than forego her "sunday out." miss tamar haddon was entitled always to this sabbath travail; and such was her courage that have it she would, though it blew great guns, and rained cats and dogs. now, her father, as may have been said before, was walter haddon of the _ivy-bush_, as respectable a man as ever lived, and very fond of his children. this made him anxious for their welfare; and welfare meaning even then--though not so much as now it does--fair wealth, and farewell poverty, mr. haddon did his best to please his wealthy aunt, a childless widow who lived at perlycombe. for this old lady had promised to leave her money among his children, if they should fail to offend her. in that matter it was a hundredfold easier to succeed, than it was to fail; for her temper was diabolical. poor tamar, being of flippant tongue, had already succeeded fatally; and the first question mrs. pods always asked, before she got out of her pony-carriage, was worded thus--"is that minx tamar in the house?" whatever the weather might be, this lady always drove up with her lame pony to the door of the _ivy-bush_, at half-past one of a sunday, expecting to find a good hot dinner, and hot rum and water afterwards. for all this refreshment she never paid a penny, but presented the children with promises of the fine things they might look forward to. and thus, like too many other rich people, she kept all her capital to herself, and contrived to get posthumous interest upon it, on the faith of contingent remainders. now tamar's mother was dead; and her father knowing well that all the young sparks of the village were but as the spoils of her bows and bonnets, had contrived a very clever plan for keeping her clear of that bitter mrs. pods, without casting her into the way of yokel youths, and spry young bachelors of low degree. at the back of his hostelry stood the old abbey, covered with great festoons of ivy, from which the inn probably took its name; and the only entrance to the ruins was by the arched gateway at the end of his yard, other approaches having been walled up; and the key of the tall iron gate was kept at this inn for the benefit of visitors. the walls of the ancient building could scarcely be seen anywhere for the ivy; and the cloisters and roofless rooms inside were overgrown with grass and briars. but one large chamber, at the end of a passage, still retained its vaulted ceiling, and stone pavement scarred with age. perhaps it had been the refectory, for at one side was a deep fireplace, where many a hearty log had roared; at present its chief business was to refresh miss tamar haddon. a few sticks kindled in the old fireplace, and a bench from the kitchen of the inn, made it a tolerable keeping-room, at least in the hours of daylight; though at night the bold sergeant himself might have lacked the courage for sound slumber there. to this place was the fair tamar banished, for the sake of the moneybags of mrs. pods, from half-past one till three o'clock, on her sunday visits to the _ivy-bush_. hither the fair maid brought her dinner, steaming in a basin hot, and her father's account-book of rough jottings, which it was her business to verify and interpret; for, as is the duty of each newer generation, she had attained to higher standard of ennobling scholarship. in a few words now she gave the loving sergeant a sketch of this time-serving policy, and her exile from the paternal dinner-table, which aroused his gallant wrath; and then she told him how she had discovered entrance unknown to her father, at a spot where a thicket of sycamores, at the back of the ruins, concealed a loop-hole not very difficult to scale. she could make her escape by that way, if she chose, after her father had locked her in, if it were not for spoiling her sunday frock. and if her father went on so, for the sake of pleasing that ugly old frump, she was blest if she would not try that plan, and sit on the river bank far below, as soon as the spring dried up the rubbish. but if the sergeant thought it worth his while, to come and afford her a little good advice, perhaps he might discover her sunday hat waving among the ivy. this enamoured veteran accepted tryst, with a stout heart, but frail conscience. the latter would haply have prevailed, if only the wind had the gift of carrying words which the human being does not utter, but thinks and forms internally. for the sly maid to herself said this, while she hastened to call her big brother watty, to see her safe back to walderscourt. "what a poor old noodle! as if i cared twopence, how much he whacks billy! does he think i would ever let him come anigh me, if it wasn't to turn him inside out? now if it were low jarks, his young brother, that would be quite another pair of shoes." on the following sunday it was remarked, by even the less observant boys, that their venerated master was not wearing his usual pair of black sunday breeches, with purple worsted stockings showing a wiry and muscular pair of legs. strange to say, instead of those, he had his second best small-clothes on, with dark brown gaiters to the knee, and a pair of thick laced shoes, instead of sunday pumps with silk rosettes. so wholly unversed in craft, as yet, was this good hero of a hundred fights. thyatira also marked this change, with some alarm and wonder; but little dreamed she in her simple faith of any rival delilah. mr. penniloe's sermon, that sunday morning, was of a deeply moving kind. he felt that much was expected of him, after his visit to london; where he must have seen the king and queen, and they might even have set eyes on him. he put his long-sight glasses on, so that he could see anybody that required preaching at; and although he was never a cushion-thumper, he smote home to many a too comfortable bosom. then he gave them the soft end of the rod to suck, as a conscientious preacher always does, after smiting hip and thigh, with a weapon too indigenous. in a word, it was an admirable sermon, and one even more to be loved than admired, inasmuch as it tended to spread good-will among men, as a river that has its source in heaven. sergeant jakes, with his stiff stock on, might be preached at for ever, without fetching a blink. he sat bolt upright, and every now and then flapped the stump of his left arm against his sound heart, not with any eagerness to drive the lesson home, but in proof of cordial approbation of hits, that must tell upon his dear friends round about. one cut especially was meant for farmer john; and he was angry with that thick-skinned man, for staring at another man, as if it were for him. and then there was a passage, that was certain to come home to his own brother robert, who began to slaughter largely, and was taking quite money enough to be of interest to the pulpit. but everybody present seemed to jakes to be applying everything to everybody else--a disinterested process of the noblest turn of thought. however those who have much faith--and who can fail to have some?--in the exhortations of good men who practise their own preaching, would have been confirmed in their belief by this man's later conduct. although the body of the church had been reopened for some weeks now, with the tower-arch finished and the south wall rebuilt, yet there were many parts still incomplete, especially the chancel where the fine stone screen was being erected as a reredos; and this still remained in the builder's hands, with a canvas partition hiding it. when the congregation had dispersed, mr. jakes slipped in behind that partition, and stood by a piece of sculpture which he always had admired. in a recess of the northern wall, was a kneeling figure in pure white marble of a beautiful maiden claimed by death on the very eve of her wedding-day. she slept in the waldron vaults below; while here the calm sweet face, portrayed in substance more durable than ours, spoke through everlasting silence of tenderness, purity, and the more exalted love. the sergeant stood with his hard eyes fixed upon that tranquil countenance. it had struck him more than once that tamar's face was something like it; and he had come to see whether that were so. he found that he had been partly right, but in more important matters wrong. in profile, general outline, and the rounding of the cheeks, there was a manifest resemblance. but in the expression and quality of the faces, what a difference! here all was pure, refined and noble, gentle, placid, spiritual. there all was tempting, flashing, tricksome, shallow, earthly, sensuous. he did not think those evil things, for he was not a physiognomist; but still he felt the good ones; and his mind being in the better tone--through commune with the preacher's face, which does more than the words sometimes, when all the heart is in it--the wonted look of firmness, and of defiance of the devil, returned to his own shrewd countenance. the gables of his eyebrows, which had expanded and grown shaky, came back to their proper span and set; he nodded sternly, as if in pursuit of himself with a weapon of chastisement; and his mouth closed as hard as a wrench-hammer does, with the last turn of the screw upon it. then he sneered at himself, and sighed as he passed the empty grave of his colonel--what would that grand old warrior have thought of this desertion to the enemy? but ashamed as he was of his weak surrender and treachery to his colours, his pride and plighted word compelled him to complete his enterprise. the abbey stood near the churchyard wall, but on that side there was no entrance; and to get at the opposite face of the buildings, a roundabout way must be taken; and jakes resolved now that he would not skulk by the lower path from the corner, but walk boldly across the meadow from the lane that led to perlycombe. this was a back way with no house upon it, and according to every one's belief here must have lurked that horse and cart, on the night of that awful outrage. even to a one-handed man there was no great difficulty in entering one of the desolate courts, by the loophole from the thicket; and there he met the fair recluse in a manner rather disappointing to her. not that she cared at all to pursue her light flirtation with him, but that her vanity was shocked, when he failed to demand his sweet reward. and he called her "miss haddon," and treated her with a respect she did not appreciate. but she led him to her lonely bower, and roused up the fire for him, for the weather was becoming more severe, and she rallied him on his clemency, which had almost amounted to weakness, ever since he allowed her brother billy to escape. "fair is fair, miss;" the master answered pensively. "as soon as you begin to let one off, you are bound to miss the rest of them." "who have they got to thank for that? i am afraid they will never know," she said with one of her most bewitching smiles, as she came and sat beside him. "poor little chaps! how can i thank you for giving them such a nice time, sergeant?" the veteran wavered for a moment, as that comely face came nigh, and the glossy hair she had contrived to loosen fell almost on his shoulders. she had dressed herself in a killing manner, while a lover's knot of mauve-coloured ribbon relieved the dulness of her frock, and enhanced the whiteness of her slender neck. but for all that, the sergeant was not to be killed, and his mind was prepared for the crisis. he glanced around first, not for fear of anybody, but as if he desired witnesses; and then he arose from the bench, and looked at this seductive maiden, with eyes that had a steady sparkle, hard to be discomfited by any storm of flashes. "tamar," he said, "let us come to the point. i have been a fool; and you know it. you are very young; but somehow you know it. now have you meant, from first to last, that you would ever think of marrying me?" it never should have been put like that. why you must never say a word, nor use your eyes except for reading, nor even look in your looking-glass, if things are taken in that way. "oh sergeant, how you frighten me! i suppose i am never to smile again. who ever dreamed of marrying?" "well, i did;" he answered with a twinkle of his eyes, and squaring of his shoulders. "i am not too old for everybody; but i am much too old for you. do you think i would have come here else? but it is high time to stop this fun." "i don't call it fun at all;" said tamar, fetching a little sob of fright. "what makes you look so cross at me?" "i did not mean to look cross, my dear." the sergeant's tender heart was touched. "i should be a brute, if i looked cross. it is the way the lord has made my eyes. perhaps they would never do for married life." "that's the way all of them look," said tamar; "unless they get everything they want. but you didn't look like that, last sunday." "no. but i ought. now settle this. would you ever think of marrying me?" "no. not on no account. you may be sure of that. not even if you was dipped in diamonds." the spirit of the girl was up, and her true vulgarity came out. "according to my opinion of you, that would make all the difference;" said the sergeant, also firing up. "and now, miss haddon, let us say 'good-bye.'" "let me come to myself, dear sergeant jakes. i never meant to be rude to you. but they do court me so different. sit down for a minute. it is so lonely, and i have heard such frightful things. father won't be coming for half an hour yet. and after the way you went on, i am so nervous. how my heart goes pit a pat! you brave men cannot understand such things." at this moving appeal, mr. jakes returned, and endeavoured to allay her terrors. "it is all about those dreadful men," she said; "i cannot sleep at night for thinking of them. you know all about them. if you could only tell me what you are doing to catch them. they say that you have found out where they went, and are going to put them in jail next week. is it true? people do tell such stories. but you found it all out by yourself, and you know all the rights of it." with a little more coaxing, and trembling, and gasping, she contrived to get out of him all that he knew, concerning the matter to the present time. crang had identified the impressions as the footmarks of the disabled horse; and a search of the cave by torchlight showed that it must have been occupied lately. a large button with a raised rim, such as are used on sailors' overalls, had been found near the entrance, and inside were prints of an enormous boot, too big for any man in perlycross. also the search had been carried further, and the tracks of a horse and a narrow-wheeled cart could be made out here and there, until a rough flinty lane was come to, leading over the moors to the honiton road. all these things were known to dr. fox, and most of them to mr. penniloe, who had just returned from london, and the matter was now in skilful hands. but everything must be kept very quiet, or the chance of pursuing the clue might be lost. tamar vowed solemnly that she would never tell a word; and away went the sergeant, well pleased with himself, as the bells began to ring for the afternoon service. chapter xxvi. the old mill. combing up on the south like a great tidal wave, hagdon hill for miles looks down on the beautiful valley of the perle, and then at the western end breaks down into steep declivities and wooded slopes. here the susscot brook has its sources on the southern side of the long gaunt range, outside the parish of perlycross; and gathering strength at every stretch from flinty trough, and mossy runnel, is big enough to trundle an old mill-wheel, a long while before it gets to joe crang's forge. this mill is situated very sweetly for those who love to be outside the world. it stands at the head of a winding hollow fringed along the crest with golden gorse, wild roses by the thousand, and the silvery gleam of birch. up this pretty "goyal"--as they call it--there is a fine view of the ancient mill, lonely, decrepit, and melancholy, with the flints dropping out of its scarred wall-face, the tattered thatch rasping against the wind, and the big wheel dribbling idly; for the wooden carrier, that used to keep it splashing and spinning merrily, sprawls away on its trestles, itself a wreck, broken-backed and bulging. and yet in its time this mill has done well, and pounded the corn of a hundred farms; for, strange as it may be, the perle itself is exceedingly shy of mill-work, being broken upon no wheel save those of the staring and white-washed factory which disfigures the village of perlycross. therefore from many miles around came cart, and butt, and van, and wain, to this out-of-the-way and hard to find, but flourishing and useful tremlett mill. that its glory has departed and its threshold is deserted, came to pass through no fault of wheel, or water, or even wanton trade seduced by younger rivals. man alone was to blame, and he could not--seldom incapable as he is of that--even put the fault on woman. the tremletts were of very ancient race, said to be of norman origin, and this mill had been theirs for generations. thrifty, respectable, and hard-working, they had worn out many millstones--one of which had been set up in the churchyard, an honour to itself and owner--and patched up a lot of ages of mill-wheels (the only useful revolution) until there came into the small human sluice a thread of vile weed, that clogged everything up. a vein of bad blood that tainted all, varicose, sluggish, intractable. what man can explain such things, even to his own satisfaction? yet everybody knows that it is so, and too often with the people who have been in front of him. down went the tremletts for a hundred years--quite a trifle to such an old family--and the wheel ceased to turn, and the hearth had nought to burn, and the brook took to running in a low perverted course. but even sad things may be beautiful--like the grandest of all human tragedies,--and here before mr. penniloe's new long-sighted glasses, which already had a fine effect upon his mind, was a prospect, worth all the three sovereigns he had paid, in addition to the three he had lived under. no monarch of the world--let alone this little isle--could have gilded and silvered and pearled and jewelled his most sumptuous palace, and his chambers of delight, with a tithe of the beauty here set forth by nature, whose adornments come and go, at every breath. for there had just been another heavy fall of snow, and the frost having firm hold of the air, the sun had no more power than a great white star, glistening rather than shining, and doubtful of his own domain in the multitude of sparkles. everything that stood across the light was clad with dazzling raiment; branch, and twig, and reed, and ozier, pillowed with lace of snow above, and fringed with chenille of rime below. under and through this arcade of radiance, stood the old mill-wheel--for now it could stand--black, and massive, and leaning on pellucid pillars of glistering ice. mr. penniloe lifted up his heart to god, as he always did at any of his glorious works; and then he proceeded to his own less brilliant, but equally chilling duty. several times he knocked vainly at the ricketty door of the remaining room, until at last a harsh voice cried--"come in, can't 'e? nort for 'e to steal here." then he pulled the leather thong, an old boot-lace, and the grimy wooden latch clicked up, and the big door staggered inwards. everything looked cold and weist and haggard in the long low room he entered, and hunger-stricked, though of solid fabric once, and even now tolerably free from dirt. at the further end, and in a gloomy recess, was a large low bedstead of ancient oak, carved very boldly and with finely flowing lines. upon it lay a very aged woman, of large frame and determined face, wearing a high yellow cap, and propped by three coarse pillows, upon which fell the folds of a french shawl of rich material. she had thick eyebrows, still as black as a coal, and fierce gray eyes with some fire in them still, and a hooked nose that almost overhung a pointed chin; and her long bony arms lay quivering upon a quilt of well-worn patchwork. she looked at mr. penniloe, discerning him clearly without the aid of spectacles, and saluted him with a slight disdainful nod. "oh, passon is it? well, what have 'e got to say to me?" her voice was hard and pitched rather high, and her gaunt jaws worked with a roll of wrinkles, intended for a playful grin. "mrs. tremlett, i was told that you wished to see me, and that it is a solemn moment with you--that soon you will stand in the presence of a merciful but righteous judge." mr. penniloe approached her with a kind and gentle look, and offered to take one of her clenched and withered hands, but she turned the knuckles to him with a sudden twist, and so sharp were they that they almost cut his palm. he drew back a little, and a flash of spiteful triumph told him that she had meant this rasper for him. "bain't a gwain' to die yet," she said; "i be only ninety-one, and my own moother wor ninety-five afore her lost a tooth. i reckon i shall see 'e out yet, master passon; for 'e don't look very brave--no that 'e don't. wants a little drap out o' my bottle, i conzider." the clergyman feared that there was little to be done; but he never let the devil get the best of him, and he betook himself to one of his most trustworthy resources. "mrs. tremlett, i will with your permission offer a few simple words of prayer, not only for you but for myself, my friend. you can repeat the words after me, if you feel disposed." "stop!" she cried, "stop!" and threw out both hands with great vigour, as he prepared to kneel. "why, you ban't gi'en me the zhillin' yet. you always gives betty cork a zhillin', afore 'e begins to pray to her. bain't my soul worth every varden of what betty cork's be?" the parson was distressed at this inverted view of the value of his ministrations. nevertheless he pulled out the shilling, which she clapped with great promptitude under her pillow, and then turned her back upon him. "goo on now, passon, as long as ever 'e wull; but not too much noise like, case i might drop off to sleep." her attitude was not too favourable; but the curate had met with many cases quite as bad, and he never allowed himself to be discouraged. and something perhaps in his simple words, or the powers of his patient humility, gave a better and a softer turn to the old woman's moody mind. "passon, be you a _h_onest man?" she enquired, when he had risen, affording that adjective a special roughness, according to the manner of devon. "b'lieve 'e be a good man. but be 'e _h_onest?" "my goodness, as you call it, would be very small indeed, unless i were honest, mrs. tremlett. without honesty, all is hypocrisy." "and you bain't no hypocrite; though 'e may be a vule. most fine scholards is big vules, and half-scholards always maketh start for rogues. but i'll trust 'e, passon; and the lord will strike 'e dead, being in his white sleeves, every zunday, if 'e goo again the truth. what do 'e say to that, passon penniloe? what do 'e think now of that there? and thee praying for me, as if i hadn't got ne'er a coffin's worth!" the old lady pulled out a canvas bag, and jingled it against mr. penniloe's gray locks. strong vitality was in her face. how could she die, with all that to live for? "vifty-two guineas of jarge the zecond. t'other come to the throne afore i did it; but his head wasn't out much, and they might goo back of his 'en. so i took 'un of the man as come afore, and there they has been ever since--three score years, and ten, and two. the lord knoweth, if he reckon'th up the sparrows, what a fine young woman i were then. there bain't such a one in all the county now. six foot high, twenty inch across the shoulders, and as straight as a hazel wand sucker'd from the root. have mercy on you, passon! your wife, as used to come to see me, was a very purty woman. but in the time of my delight, i could 'a taken her with one hand, and done--well, chucked her over horse-shoe." "what do you mean?" mr. penniloe asked, and his quiet eyes bore down the boastful gaze, and altered the tone of the old virago. "nort, sir, nort. it bain't no use to worrit me. her tumbled off the clift, and her bruk her purty nack. her was spying too much after coney's holes, i reckon. but her always waz that tender-hearted. you bain't fit to hold a can'le to her, with all your precious prayers and litanies. but i'll trust 'e, passon, for her zake. vetch thiccy old book out o' cubbert." in the cupboard near the fireplace he found an ancient bible, bound in black leather, and fortified with silver clasps and corners. "hold that there book in your right hand, and this here bag in t'other;" the old lady still clave to the bag, as if far more precious than the bible--"and then you say slowly after me, same as i was to do the prayers, 'i, passon penniloe, of perlycross, christian minister, do hereby make oath and swear that i will do with this bag of money as zipporah tremlett telleth me, so help me god almighty.'" "stop, if you please. i will make no such promise, until i know all about it;" objected mr. penniloe, while she glared at him with rising anger, and then nodded as something occurred to her. "well, then, i'll tell 'e fust; and no call for prabbles. this money bain't none o' they tremletts; every varden of theirs is gone long ago, although they had ten times so much as this, even while i can mind of 'un. all this, except for a bit of a sto'un in the lower cornder, and that hath been hunderds of years with the tremletts, but all the rest cometh from my own father, and none on 'em knoweth a word of it. wouldn't believe if they did, i reckon. zippy, that's my grand-darter as minds me, her hath orders to burn for her life and vetch you--night or day, mind,--fust moment the breath be gone out of my body. and every varden of it is for she. you be to take it from this here little nestie, wi'out a word to no one, and keep it zealed up under lock and key, till zippy be eighteen year of age, and then, accordin' to your oath, you putt it into her two hands. if 'e do that, passon, i'll die a christian, and you be welcome of me to your churchyard. but if 'e wun't do it, then i'll die a hathen, and never go to no churchyard, same as scores and scores of the tremletts is. now, do 'e care for the soul of an old 'ooman? or would 'e soonder her went to the devil?" by this alternative the curate felt much pressure put upon his conscience. if there were no other way to save her, he must even dispense with legal form, and accept a trust, which might for all he knew defraud the revenue of legacy duty, and even some honest solicitor of a contribution to his livelihood. but first he must be certain that the scheme was just and rational. "no fear of robbing nobody. they tremletts be a shocking lot," she said, with amiable candour. "just slip the wedge on top of latch, for fear one on 'em should come to see if i be dead; though i reckon, this weather, it would be too much for either son or darter. wouldn't 'em burn, if 'em knowed of this? but here i may lie and be worm-eaten. and chillers of my own--my own buys and girls. dree quarters of a score i've had, and not one on 'em come anigh me! never was a harrier-bird could fly so fast as every one on 'em would, to this old bed, if 'em knowed what be in it. no, i be a liar--every one on 'em can't, because the biggest half be gone. twelve buys there was, and dree wenches of no count. dree buys was hanged, back in time of jarge the third, to exeter jail, for ship-staling, and one to gibbet-moor, for what a' did upon the road. vour on 'em was sent over seas, for running a few bits of goods from france. two on 'em be working to whetstone pits, 'cording to their own account, though i reckon they does another sort of job, now and again. and as for t'other two, the lord, or the devil, knoweth what be come to they. not one on 'em comes nigh poor old moother, who might a' died years ago 'cep for little zippy. though little zip's father have a' been here now and then. the biggest and the wildest of the dozen i call him, though a' kapeth wonderful out of jail. 'tis his cheel he comes to see, not his poor old moother. look 'e ere, passon, all the ins and outs of 'un be set down rarely in that there book; same as the game with lines and crosses we used to play with a oyster-shell, fourscore years agone and more." on three or four leaves of the ancient bible, bound in for that purpose, was a pedigree of these tremletts of the mill, descending from the fourteenth century. mr. penniloe looked at it with no small interest. what a pity to find them come to this! the mill itself had been a fall no doubt; but the whetstone pits were a great descent from that. "tremletts has always had one or two fine scholards"--the old woman had a strange theory about this. "'twor all along o' that they come down so. whenever any man taketh much to books, a' stoppeth up his ears to good advice, and a' heedeth of his headpiece, and robbeth of 's own belly. but there, no matter. i can do a bit myself. have 'e made up your mind about my poor soul?" from the toss of her nose, mr. penniloe was afraid that she was not much in earnest about that little matter. and in common sense, he was loth to get entangled with the nettles and briars of such a queer lot. "i think, mrs. tremlett," he said, with a smile containing some light of wavering, "that your wisest plan by far would be to have a short will drawn up, and leave the money----" "gi'e me my bag, and go thy ways," she screamed in a fury, though the bag was in her claws. "no churchyard for me, and my soul at thy door, thou white-livered, black-smocked passon!" her passion struck into her lungs or throat, and she tore at her scraggy chest, to ease the pain and gripe of a violent coughing-fit. mr. penniloe supported her massive head, for if it fell back, it might never rise again. "a drap out o' bottle!" she gasped at last, pointing to the cupboard where the bible had been. he propped up her head with a pillow on end, and took from the cupboard a long-necked bottle of the best french brandy, and a metal pannikin. "no watter! no watter!" the old woman shrieked, as he went towards a pitcher that stood by the chimney. "watter spileth all. no vear. vill up!" he gave her the pannikin full, and she tipped it off, like a mouthful of milk, and then sat up and looked at him steadily. "i be no drunkard," she said, "though a man as knoweth nort might vancy it. never touches that stuff, excep' for physic. i've a' seed too much what comes of that. have a drap, wull 'e? clane glass over yanner." she seemed annoyed again at his refusal, but presently subsided into a milder vein, as if she were soothed by the mighty draught, instead of becoming excited. "naden't have troubled 'e, passon," she said, "but for zending of little zip away. i'll tell 'e why, now just. better cheel never lived than little zip. her tendeth old grannie night and day, though her getteth a tap on the head now and then. but her mustn't know of this here money, or her father'd have it out of her in two zeconds. now 'e see why i won't make no will. now, will 'e do what i axed of 'e?" after some hesitation the parson gave his promise. he had heard from his wife about poor little zip, and how faithful she was to her old grandmother; and he felt that it would be unfair to the child to deprive her of the chance in life this money might procure; while he knew that if he declined the trust, not a penny would she ever see of it. he insisted however upon one precaution--that the owner should sign a memorandum of the gift, and place it with the guineas in the bag, and then hand the whole to him as trustee, completing by delivery the _donatio mortis causâ_. in spite of her sufferings from the ruinous effects of the higher education, zipporah could sign her name very fairly, and a leaf of her grandchild's copybook served very well for the memorial prepared by mr. penniloe. "now rouse up the fire there, 'e must be frore a'most," mrs. tremlett said when that was finished, and she had shown him where she concealed the treasure. "'one good toorn desarves another,' as i've heerd say, though never had much chance of proving it; and i could tell 'e a thing or two, 'e might be glad to know, passon penniloe, wi'out doing harm to nobody. fust place then, you mind hearing of the man as gi'ed that doiled zany of a blacksmith such a turn--how long agone was it? i can't say justly; but the night after squire waldron's vuneral." "to be sure. the big man with the lame horse, at susscot ford." "well, that man was my son harvey, little zip's father. you see the name in big bible. french name it waz then, spelled different, and with a stroke to the tail, as maight be. tremletts had a hankering after foreign languages. see 'un all down the page you can." "what, mrs. tremlett!" exclaimed the parson. "are you aware what you are doing? informing against your own son--and one of the very few remaining!" "zober now, zober! don't 'e be a vule, passon. i knows well enough what i be adoing of. just i wants 'un out of way, till arter i be buried like. i zent his little darter to the pits to-day, to tell 'un as how you knowed of it. that'll mak 'un cut sticks, till i be underground, i reckon." as the old woman grinned and nodded at her own sagacity, a horrible idea crossed the mind of mr. penniloe. could she be afraid that her own son would dig up her body, and dispose of it? before he had condemned himself for such a vile suspicion, mrs. tremlett seemed to have read his thoughts; for she smiled with bitter glory, as if she had caught a pious man yielding to impiety. "no, harvey bain't no body-snatcher--leastways not as i ever heer'd on; though most volk would say a' was bad enough for anything. all that i wants 'un out of way for, is that he mayn't have the chance to rob his darter. he loveth of the little maid, so much as old nick 'loweth him. but he could never kape his hands out of this here bag, if a' zeed 'un. and as for your folk doin' any hurt to 'un, 'twould be more use for 'e to drive nails into a shadow, than to lay hold of harvey when he knoweth you be arter 'un. and even if 'e wor to vind 'un, man alive, it would be a bad job for you, or for zix such men as you be, to come nigh the hands of harvey tremlett. volk about these parts don't know nort of un', else they'd have had un' for the 'rastling long ago. he hath been about a good deal among the gipsies, and sailor-folk, and so on; and the lord knows he musn't look for too very much of good in 'un." "we must make allowances, mrs. tremlett. we never do justice to our fellow-men, in that way." mr. penniloe was saying to himself, while he spoke--"and a great deal must be allowed for such bringing-up as yours, ma'am. but have you anything more to tell me, about that shocking thing, that is such a sad disgrace to perlycross?" the parson buttoned up his spencer, as if he still felt that dirty pack's hits below the belt. "i could tell 'e a saight of things, if i waz so minded, about what they vules to perlycross, and you among t'others be mazed about. i can't make 'un out myself; but i be free to swear you'm a passel of idiots. tremletts was bad enough; no vamley could be worse a'most; and much older they was than any waldrons. but none on 'em never was dug up for generations. won'erful things has come to them--things as would fill books bigger than this bible; because 'em always wor above the lids of the ten commandments. but 'em always had peace, so soon as they was dead, till such time as the devil could come for 'un, and he don't care for no corpses. they waldrons is tame--no french blood in 'em. vitted for big pews in church, and big vunerals. vellers not laikely to be dug up, when that waz never done to tremletts. passon, i could tell 'e such a saight of things, as would make the hair creep round the head of thee. can't talk no more, or my cough will come on. will tell 'e all about your little boy, mike; if 'e come again when this vrost is over. and then i'll show 'e zip. but i can't talk vair, while the houze be so cold. i've a dooed too much to-day, for a 'ooman in her ninety-zecond year. you come again about this day wake. i trust 'e now, passon. you be a good man, because you'm got no good blood in you. a old 'ooman's blessing won't do 'e no harm." vast is the power of a good kind face, and of silence at the proper moment. the curate of perlycross possessed that large and tender nature, at which the weak are apt to scoff, because they are not afraid of it. over them no influence can last, for there is nothing to lay hold of. but a strong-willed person, like that old woman, has substance that can be dealt with, if handled kindly and without pretence. thus mr. penniloe indulged some hope of soothing and softening that fierce and flinty nature, and guiding it towards that peace on earth, which is the surest token of the amnesty above. but while he was at breakfast on the following day, he was told that a little maid was at the front door, crying very bitterly, and refusing to come in. he went out alone, but not a syllable would she utter, until he had closed the door behind him. there she stood, shivering in the snow, and sobbing, very poorly dressed, and with nothing on her head, but mopping her eyes and nose, as she turned away, with a handkerchief of the finest lace. "zip," was all the answer mr. penniloe could get to his gentle enquiry as to who she was; and then she looked at him with large and lustrous eyes, beautifully fringed below as well as above, and announcing very clearly that she was discussing him within. although he guessed what her errand was, the clergyman could not help smiling at her earnest and undisguised probation of his character; and that smile settled the issue in his favour. "you be to coom to wance;" her vowel-sounds were of the purest devonshire air, winged by many a quill, but never summed in pen by any; "wi'out no stapping to think, you be to coom!" "what an imperious little zenobia!" said mr. penniloe, in self-commune. "dunno, whatt thiccy be. grandmoother zayeth, 'e must coom to wance. but her be dead, zince the can'le gooed out." her eyes burst into another flood, and she gave up the job of sopping it. "my dear. i will come with you, in half a minute. come and stand in the warmth, till i am ready." "noo. noo. i bain't to stop. putt on hat, and coom raight awai. vire gooed out, and can'le gooed out, and grannie gooed out, along wi' 'un." mr. penniloe huddled his spencer on, while the staring child danced with impatience in the snow; and quiet little fay came and glanced at her, and wondered how such things could be. but fay would not stare, because she was a little lady. the clergyman was very quick of foot; but the child with her long tremlett legs kept easily in front of him all the way, with the cloud of her black hair blowing out, on the frosty air, to hurry him. "i bain't aveared of her. be you?" said the little maid, as she rose on tip-toe, to pull the thong of the heavy latch. "if her coom back, her would zay--'good cheel, zippy!'" chapter xxvii. panic. christmas day fell on a friday that year, and the funeral of that ancient woman took place on the previous afternoon. the curate had never read the burial-service, before so small an audience. for the weather was bitterly cold, and poor mrs. tremlett had outlived all her friends, if she ever had any; no one expected a farthing from her, and no one cared to come and shudder at her grave. of all her many descendants none, except the child zip, was present; and she would have stood alone upon the frozen bank, unless mrs. muggridge had very kindly offered to come and hold the shivering and streaming little hand. what was to be done with zip? nobody came forward. there were hundreds of kind people in the parish, and dozens to whom the poor waif would have been a scarcely perceptible burden. yet nobody cared to have a tremlett at his hearth, and everybody saw the duty marked out for his neighbour. "then i will take her;" said mr. penniloe with his true benevolence, "but the difficulty is where to place her. she cannot well be among my children yet, until i know more about her. and, although the old family is so reduced, the kitchen is scarcely the place for her." however, that question soon answered itself; and though little zip was at first a sad puzzle (especially to the staid muggridge), her grateful and loving nature soon began to win a warm hold and a tranquil home for her. that winter, although it began rather early, was not of prolonged severity, for the frost broke up on christmas night, at least in the west of england, with a heavy fall of snow which turned to rain. but christmas day itself was very bright and pleasant, with bracing air, hard frozen snow, and firm sunshine throwing long shadows on it, and sparkling on the icicles from thatch and spout and window-frame. as the boys of the sunday school filed out, at the call of the bells in the tower chiming (after long silence while the arch was being cut) and as they formed into grand procession, under the military eye of jakes, joyfully they watched their cloudy breath ascending, or blew it in a column on some other fellow's cap. visions were before them,--a pageantry of joy, a fortnight of holidays, a fortnight of sliding, snow balling, bone-runners, cooper baker's double-hoops, why not even skates? but alas, even now the wind was backing, as the four vanes with rare unanimity proclaimed, a white fog that even a boy could stand out of was stealing up the valley, while the violet tone of the too transparent sky, and the whiteness of the sun (which used to be a dummy fireball), and even the short sharp clack of the bells, were enough to tell any boy with weather eyes and ears, that the nails on his heels would do no cobbler's click again, till the holiday time was over. but blessed are they who have no prophetic gift, be it of the weather, or of things yet more unstable. all went to church in a happy frame of mind; and the parson in a like mood looked upon them. every head was there that he had any right to count, covered or uncovered. of the latter perhaps more than a sunday would produce; of the former not so many, but to a christian mind enough; for how shall a great church-festival be kept without a cook? but the ladies who were there were in very choice attire, happy in having nothing but themselves to dress; all in good smiling condition, and reserving for home use their candid reviews of one another. there was the genial and lively mrs. farrant, whose good word and good sayings everybody valued; close at her side was her daughter minnie, provided by nature with seasonable gifts--lips more bright than the holly-berry, teeth more pearly than mistletoe, cheeks that proved the hardiness of the rose in devon, and eyes that anticipated easter-tide with the soft glance of the forget-me-not. then there was mrs. john horner, _interdum aspera cornu_, but _foenum habens_ for the roast-beef time; and kind mrs. anning (quite quit of this tale, though the perle runs through her orchard), and tall mrs. webber with two pretty girls--all purely distinct from the lawyer--and mrs. james hollyer, and mrs. john hollyer, both great in hospitality; and others of equally worthy order, for whom the kind hearts of bright and cobden would have ached, had they not been blind seers. to return to our own sheep, themselves astray, there was no denying mrs. gilham, looking still a christian, up a fathom of sea-green bonnet; and her daughter rose, now so demure if ever she caught a wandering eye, that it had to come again to beg pardon; and by her side a young man stood, with no eyes at all for the prettiest girl inside the sacred building! but strange as it may seem, he had eyes enough and to spare, for a young man opposite; whose face he perused with perpetual enquiry, which the other understood, but did not want to apprehend. for instance, "how is your very darling sister? have you heard from her by the latest post? did she say anything about me? when is she coming to perlycross again? do you think she is reading the same psalm that we are? have they got any christmas parties on? i hope there is no mistletoe up that way, or at any rate no hateful fellow near her with it?" these, and fifty other points of private worship, not to be discovered in the book of common prayer--even by the cleverest anagram of ritualist--did frank gilham vainly strive to moot with jemmy fox across the aisle, instead of being absorbed and rapt in the joyful tidings of the day. neither was jemmy fox a ha'porth more devout. with the innate selfishness of all young men, he had quite another dish of fish to fry for his own plate. as for frank gilham's, he would upset it joyfully, in spite of all sympathy or gratitude. and, if so low a metaphor can ever be forgiven, jemmy's fish, though not in sight but in a brambly corner, was fairly hooked and might be felt; whereas frank gilham's, if she had ever seen his fly, had (so far as he could be sure) never even opened mouth to take it; but had sailed away upstream, leaving a long furrow, as if--like the celebrated trout in crocker's hole--she scorned any tackle a poor farmer could afford. fox, on the other hand, had reasonable hopes, that patience and discretion and the flowing stream of time, would bring his lovely prize to bank at last. for the chief thing still against him was that black and wicked charge: and even now he looked at all the women in the church, with very little interest in their features, but keen enquiry as to their expression. his eyes put the question to them, one after another,--"my good madam, are you still afraid of me?" and sad to say, the answer from too many of them was--"well, i had rather not shake hands with you, till you have cleared your reputation." so certain is it that if once a woman has believed a thing--be it good, or be it evil--nothing but the evidence of her own eyes will uproot that belief; and sometimes not even that. especially now with lady waldron, fox felt certain that his case stood thus; that in spite of all the arguments of christie and of inez, he was not yet acquitted, though less stubbornly condemned; and as long as that state of things lasted, he could not (with proper self-respect) press his suit upon the daughter. for it should be observed that he had no doubt yet of the genuine strength of her ladyship's suspicions. mr. penniloe had not thought it right or decent, placed as he was towards the family, to impart to young jemmy sir harrison gowler's hateful (because misogynic) conclusions. that excellent preacher, and noble exemplar, the reverend philip penniloe, gave out his text in a fine sonorous voice, echoing through the great pillars of his heart, three words--as many as can ever rouse an echo--and all of them short,--"on earth, peace." he was gazing on his flock with large good will, and that desire to see the best side of them which is creditable to both parties; for take them altogether they were a peaceful flock--when a crack, as of thunder and lightning all in one, rang in every ear, and made a stop in every heart. before any body could start up to ask about it, a cavernous rumble rolled into a quick rattle; and then deep silence followed. nervous folk started up, slower persons stared about, even the coolest and most self-possessed doubted their arrangements for the day of judgment. the sunlight was shining through the south aisle windows, and none could put the blame on any storm outside. then panic arose, as at a trumpet-call. people huddled anyhow, to rush out of their pews, without even sense enough to turn the button-latch. bald heads were plunging into long-ribboned bonnets, fathers forgot their children, young men their sweethearts, but mothers pushed their little ones before them. "fly for dear life"--was the impulse of the men; "save the life dearer than my own"--was of the women. that is the moment to be sure what love is. "sit still boys, or i'll skin you"--sergeant jakes' voice was heard above the uproar; many believed that the roof was falling in; every kind of shriek and scream abounded. "my friends," said mr. penniloe, in a loud clear voice, and lifting up his bible calmly, "remember in whose house, and in whose hands we are. it is but a fall of something in the chancel. it cannot hurt you. perhaps some brave man will go behind the screen, and just tell us what has happened. i would go myself, if i could leave the pulpit." people were ashamed, when they saw little fay run from her seat to the newly-finished steps, and begin groping at the canvas, while she smiled up at her father. in a moment three men drew her back and passed in. they were jemmy fox, frank gilham, and the gallant jakes; and a cloud of dust floated out as they vanished. courage returned and the rush and crush was stayed, while horner and farrant, the two churchwardens, came with long strides to join the explorers. deep silence reigned when doctor fox returned, and at the request of farmer john, addressed the parson so that all could hear. "there is no danger, sir, of any further fall. there has been a sort of settlement of the south-east corner. the stone screen is cracked, and one end of it has dropped, and the small lancet window has tumbled in. all is now quite firm again. there is not the smallest cause for fear." "thank god!" said mr. penniloe, "and thank you my friends, for telling us. and now, as soon as order is quite restored, i shall beg to return to the discussion of my text, which with your permission i will read again." as soon as he had finished a very brief discourse, worthy of more attention than it could well secure, his flock hurried gladly away, with much praise of his courage and presence of mind, but no thought of the heavy loss and sad blow cast upon him. fox alone remained behind, to offer aid and sympathy, when the parson laid his gown aside and came to learn the worst of it. they found that the south-east corner of the chancel-wall, with the external quoin and two buttresses, had parted from the rest, and sunk bodily to the depth of a yard or more, bearing away a small southern window, a portion of the roof and several panels of that equally beautiful and unlucky screen. at a rough guess, at least another hundred pounds would be required to make good the damage. it was not only this, but the sense of mishaps so frequent and unaccountable--few of which have been even mentioned here--that now began to cast heavy weight and shadow, upon the cheerful heart of penniloe. for it seemed as if all things combined against him, both as regarded the work itself, and the means by which alone it could be carried on. and this last disaster was the more depressing, because no cause whatever could be found for it. that wall had not been meddled with in any way externally, because it seemed quite substantial. and even inside there had been but little done to it, simply a shallow excavation made, for the plinth, or footings, of the newly erected screen. "never mind, sir," said fox; "it can soon be put to rights; and your beautiful screen will look ever so much better without that lancet window, which has always appeared to me quite out of place." "perhaps," replied the parson, in a sad low voice, and with a shake of his head which meant--"all very fine; but how on earth am i to get the money?" even now the disaster was not complete. subscriptions had grown slack, and some had even been withdrawn, on the niggardly plea that no church was worth preserving, which could not protect even its own dead. and now the news of this occurrence made that matter worse again, for the blame of course fell upon penniloe. "what use to help a man, who cannot help himself?" "a fellow shouldn't meddle with bricks and mortar, unless he was brought up to them." "i like him too well, to give him another penny. if i did he'd pull the tower down upon his own head." thus and thus spoke they who should have flown to the rescue; some even friendly enough to deal the coward's blow at the unfortunate. moreover, that very night the frost broke up, with a fall of ten inches of watery snow, on the wet back of which came more than half an inch of rain, the total fall being two inches and three quarters. the ground was too hard to suck any of it in; water by the acre lay on streaky fields of ground-ice; every gateway poured its runnel, and every flinty lane its torrent. the perle became a roaring flood, half a mile wide in the marshes; and the susscot brook dashed away the old mill-wheel, and whirled some of it down as far as joe crang's anvil, fulfilling thereby an old prophecy. nobody could get--without swimming horse or self--from perlycombe to perlycross, or from perlycross to perliton; and old mother pods was drowned in her own cottage. the view of the valley, from either beacon hill or hagdon, was really grand for any one tall enough to wade so far up the weltering ways. old channing vowed that he had never seen such a flood, and feared that the big bridge would be washed away; but now was seen the value of the many wide arches, which had puzzled christie fox in the distance. alas for the hopper, that he was so far away at this noble time for a cross-country run! but he told pike afterwards, and mrs. muggridge too, that he had a good time of it, even in the mendips. in this state of things, the condition of the chancel, with the shattered roof yawning to the reek of the snow-slides, and a southern gale hurling floods in at the wall-gaps, may better be imagined than described, as a swimming rat perhaps reported to his sodden family. and people had a fine view of it at the sunday service, for the canvas curtain had failed to resist the swag and the bellying of the blast, and had fallen in a squashy pile, and formed a rough breakwater for the mortary lake behind it. there was nothing to be done for the present except to provide against further mischief. the masons from exeter had left work, by reason of the frost, some time ago; but under the directions of mr. richard horner the quoin was shored up, and the roof and window made waterproof with tarpaulins. so it must remain till easter now; when the time of year, and possibly a better tide of money, might enable beaten christians to put shoulder to the hod again. meanwhile was there any chance of finding any right for the wrong, which put every man who looked forward to his grave out of all conceit with perlycross? "vaither, do 'e care to plaze your luving darter, as 'e used to doo? or be 'e channged, and not the zame to her?" "the vurry za-am. the vurry za-am," mr. penniloe answered, with his eyes glad to rest on her, yet compelled by his conscience to correct her vowel sounds. it had long been understood between them, that fay might forsake upon occasion what we now call 'higher culture,' and try her lissome tongue at the soft ionic sounds, which those who know nothing of the west call _doric_. "then vaither," cried the child, rising to the situation; "whatt vor do 'e putt both han's avore the eyes of 'e? the lard in heaven can zee 'e, arl the zaam." the little girl was kneeling with both elbows on a chair, and her chin set up stedfastly between her dimpled hands, while her clear eyes, gleaming with the tears she was repressing, dwelt upon her father's downcast face. "my darling, my own darling, you are the image of your mother," mr. penniloe exclaimed, as he rose, and caught her up. "what is the mammon of this world to heaven's angels?" after that his proper course would have been to smoke a pipe, if that form of thank-offering had been duly recommended by the rising school of churchmen. his omission however was soon repaired; for, before he could even relapse towards "the blues," the voice of a genuine smoker was heard, and the step of a man of substance, the time being now the afternoon of monday. "halloa, penniloe!" this gentleman exclaimed; "how are you, this frightful weather? very glad to see you. made a virtue of necessity; can't have the hounds out, and so look up my flock. never saw the waters out so much in all my life. _nancy_ had to swim at susscot ford. thought we should have been washed down, but crang threw us a rope. says nobody could cross yesterday. _nancy_ must have a hot wash, please mrs. muggridge. i'll come and see to it, if you'll have the water hot. harry's looking after her till i come back. like to see a boy that takes kindly to a horse. what a job i had to get your back-gate open! never use your stable-yard, it seems. beats me, how any man can live without a horse! well, my dear fellow, i hope the world only deals with you, according to your merits. bless my heart, why, that can never be fay! what a little beauty! got a kiss to spare, my dear? don't be afraid of me. children always love me. got one little girl just your height. won't i make her jealous, when i get home? got something in my vady, that will make your pretty eyes flash. come, come, penniloe, this won't do. you don't look at all the thing. want a thirty mile ride, and a drop of brown mahogany--put a little colour into your learned face. just you should have a look at my son, jack. mean him for this little puss, if ever he grows good enough. not a bad fellow though. and how's your little mike? why there he is, peeping round the corner! i'll have it out with him, when i've had some dinner. done yours, i daresay? anything will do for me. a rasher of bacon, and a couple of poached eggs is a dinner for a lord, i say. you don't eat enough, that's quite certain. saw an awful thing in the papers last week. parsons are going to introduce fasting! protestant parsons, mind you! can't believe it. shall have to join the church of rome, if they do. all jolly fellows there--never saw a lean one. i suppose i am about the last man you expected to turn up. glad to see you though, upon my soul! you don't like that expression--ha, how well i know your face! strictly clerical i call it though; or at any rate, professional. but bless my heart alive--if you like that better--what has all our parish been about? why a dead man belongs to the parson, not the doctor. the doctors have done for him, and they ought to have done with him. but we parsons never back one another up. not enough colour in the cloth, i always say. getting too much of black, and all black." the rev. john chevithorne, rector of the parish, was doing his best at the present moment to relieve "the cloth" of that imputation. for his coat was dark green, and his waistcoat of red shawl-stuff, and his breeches of buff corduroy, while his boots--heavy jack-boots coming halfway up the thigh--might have been of any colour under the sun, without the sun knowing what the colour was, so spattered, and plastered, and cobbed with mud were they. and throughout all his talk, he renewed the hand-shakes, in true pump-handle fashion, at short intervals, for he was strongly attached to his curate. they had been at the same college, and on the same staircase; and although of different standing and very different characters, had taken to one another with a liking which had increased as years went on. mr. penniloe had an englishman's love of field-sports; and though he had repressed it from devotion to his calling, he was too good a christian to condemn those who did otherwise. "chevithorne, i have wanted you most sadly," he said, as soon as his guest was reclad from his vady, and had done ample justice to rashers and eggs; "i am really ashamed of it, but fear greatly that i shall have to be down upon you again. children, you may go, and get a good run before dark. things have been going on--in fact the lord has not seemed to prosper this work at all." "if you are going to pour forth a cloud of sorrows, you won't mind my blowing one of comfort." the rector was a pleasant man to look at, and a pleasant one to deal with, if he liked his customer. but a much sharper man of the world than his curate; prompt, resolute, and penetrating, short in his manner, and when at all excited, apt to indulge himself in the language of the laity. "well," he said, after listening to the whole church history, "i am not a rich man, as you know, my friend. people suppose that a man with three livings must be rolling in money, and all that. they never think twice of the outgoings. and jack goes to oxford in january. that means something, as you and i know well. though he has promised me not to hunt there; and he is a boy who never goes back from his word. but chancel of course is my special business. will you let me off for fifty, at any rate for the present? and don't worry yourself about the debt. we'll make it all right among us. our hunt will come down with another fifty, if i put it before them to the proper tune, when they come back to work, after this infernal muck. only you mustn't look like this. the world gets worse and worse, every day, and can't spare the best man it contains. you should have seen the rick of hay i bought last week, just because i didn't push my knuckles into it. thought i could trust my brother tom's churchwarden. and tom laughs at me; which digs it in too hard. had a rise out of him last summer though, and know how to do him again for easter-offerings. tom is too sharp for a man who has got no family. won't come down with twopence for jack's time at oxford. and he has got all the chevithorne estates, you know. nothing but the copyhold came to me. always the way of the acres, with a man who could put a child to stand on every one of them. however, you never hear me complain. but surely you ought to get more out of those waldrons. an offering to the lord _in memoriam_--a proper view of chastisement; have you tried to work it up?" "i have not been able to take that view of it," mr. penniloe answered, smiling for a moment, though doubtful of the right to do so. "how can i ask them for another farthing, after what has happened? and leaving that aside, i am now in a position in which it would be unbecoming. you may have heard that i am trustee for a part of the waldron estates, to secure a certain sum for the daughter, nicie." "then that puts it out of the question," said the rector; "i know what those trust-plagues are. i call them a tax upon good repute. 'the friendly balm that breaks the head.' i never understood that passage, till in a fool's moment i accepted a trusteeship. however, go on with that waldron affair. they are beginning to chaff me about it shamefully, now that their anger and fright are gone by. poor as i am, i would give a hundred pounds, for the sake of the parish, to have it all cleared up. but the longer it goes on, the darker it gets. you used to be famous for concise abstracts. do you remember our thucydides? wasn't it old short that used to put a year of the war on an oyster-shell, and you beat him by putting it on a thumbnail? give us in ten lines all the theories of the great perlycrucian mystery. ready in a moment. i'll jot them down. what's the greek for perlycross? puzzle even you, i think, that would. number them, one, two, and so on. there must be a dozen by this time." mr. penniloe felt some annoyance at this too jocular view of the subject; but he bore in mind that his rector was not so sadly bound up with it, as his own life was. so he set down, as offering the shortest form, the names of those who had been charged with the crime, either by the public voice, or by private whisper. . fox. . gronow. . gowler. . some other medical man of those parts--conjecture founded very often upon the last half-year's account. . lady waldron herself. . some relative of hers, with or without her knowledge. "now i think that exhausts them," the curate continued, "and i will discuss them in that order. no. is the general opinion still. i mean that of the great majority, outside the parish, and throughout the county. none who knew jemmy could conceive it, and those who know nothing of him will dismiss it, i suppose, when they hear of his long attachment to miss waldron. "nos. , , and , may also be dismissed, being founded in each case on personal dislikes, without a _scintilla_ of evidence to back it. as regards probability, no. would take the lead; for gronow, and gowler, are out of the question. the former has given up practice, and hates it, except for the benefit of his friends. and as for gowler, he could have no earthly motive. he understood the case as well as if he had seen it; and his whole time is occupied with his vast london practice. but no. also is reduced to the very verge of impossibility. there is no one at exeter, who would dream of such things. no country practitioner would dare it, even if the spirit of research could move him. and as for bath, and bristol, i have received a letter from gowler disposing of all possibility there." "who suggested no. ? that seems a strange idea. what on earth should lady waldron do it for?" "gowler suggested it. i tell you in the strictest confidence, chevithorne. of course you will feel that. i have told no one else, and i should not have told you, except that i want your advice about it. you have travelled in spain. you know much of spanish people. i reject the theory altogether; though gowler is most positive, and laughs at my objections. you remember him, of course?" "i should think so," said the rector, "a wonderfully clever fellow, but never much liked. nobody could ever get on with him, but you; and two more totally different men--however, an opinion of his is worth something. what motive could he discover for it?" "religious feelings. narrow, if you like--for we are as catholic as they are--but very strong, as one could well conceive, if only they suited the character. the idea would be, that the wife, unable to set aside the husband's wishes openly, or unwilling to incur the odium of it, was secretly resolved upon his burial elsewhere, and with the rites which she considered needful." "it is a most probable explanation. i wonder that it never occurred to you. gowler has hit the mark. what a clever fellow! and see how it exculpates the parish! i shall go back, with a great weight off my mind. upon my soul, penniloe, i am astonished that you had to go to london, to find out this _a_, _b_, _c_. if i had been over here a little more often, i should have hit upon it, long ago." "chevithorne, i think that very likely," the curate replied, with the mildness of those who let others be rushed off their legs by themselves. "the theory is plausible,--accounts for everything,--fits in with the very last discoveries, proves this parish, and even the english nation, guiltless. nevertheless, it is utterly wrong; according at least to my view of human nature." "your view of human nature was always too benevolent. that was why everybody liked you so. but, my dear fellow, you have lived long enough now, to know that it only does for christmas-day sermons." "i have not lived long enough, and hope to do so never," mr. penniloe answered very quietly; but with a manner, which the other understood, of the larger sight looking over hat-crowns. "will you tell me, chevithorne, upon what points you rely? and then, i will tell you what i think of them." "why, if it comes to argument, what chance have i against you? you can put things, and i can't. but i can sell a horse, and you can buy it--fine self-sacrifice on your side. i go strictly upon common sense. i have heard a lot of that lady waldron. i have had some experience of spanish ladies. good and bad, no doubt, just as english ladies are. it is perfectly obvious to my mind, that lady waldron has done all this." "to my mind," replied mr. penniloe, looking stedfastly at the rector, "it is equally obvious that she has not." "upon what do you go?" asked the rector, rather warmly, for he prided himself on his knowledge of mankind, though admitting very handsomely his ignorance of books. "i go upon my faith in womankind." the curate spoke softly, as if such a thing were new, and truly it was not at all in fashion then. "this woman loved her husband. her grief was deep and genuine. his wishes were sacred to her. she is quite incapable of double-dealing. and indeed, i would say, that if ever there was a straightforward simple-hearted woman----" "if ever, if ever," replied mr. chevithorne, with a fine indulgent smile. "but upon the whole, i think well of them. let us have a game of draughts, my dear fellow, where the queens jump over all the poor men." "kings, we call them here," answered mr. penniloe. chapter xxviii. vagabonds. although mr. penniloe's anxiety about the growth of church-debt was thus relieved a little, another of his troubles was by no means lightened through the visit of the rector. that nasty suspicion, suggested by gowler, and heartily confirmed by chevithorne, was a very great discomfort, and even a torment, inasmuch as he had no one to argue it with. he reasoned with himself that even if the lady were a schemer, so heartless as to ruin a young man (who had done her no harm) that she might screen herself, as well as an actress so heaven-gifted as to impose on every one--both of which qualifications he warmly denied--yet there was no motive, so far as he could see, strong enough to lead her into such a crooked course. to the best of his belief, she was far too indifferent upon religious questions; he had never seen, or heard, of a priest at walderscourt; and although she never came to church with the others of the family, she had allowed her only daughter to be brought up as a protestant. she certainly did not value our great nation, quite as much as it values itself, and in fact was rather an ardent spaniard, though herself of mixed race. but it seemed most unlikely, that either religion or patriotism, or both combined, were strong enough to drive her into action contrary to her dead husband's wishes and to her own character, so far as an unprejudiced man could judge it. there remained the last theory, no. , as given above. to the curate it seemed the more probable one, although surrounded with difficulties. there might be some spanish relative, or even one of other country, resolute to save the soul of sir thomas waldron, without equal respect for his body; and in that case it was just possible, that the whole thing might have been arranged, and done, without lady waldron's knowledge. but if that were so, what meant the visit of the foreigner, who had tried to escape his notice, when he left the coach? before mr. penniloe could think it out--jemmy fox (who might have helped him, by way of nicie, upon that last point) was called away suddenly from perlycross. his mother was obliged, in the course of nature, to look upon him now as everybody's prop and comfort; because her husband could not be regarded in that light any longer. and two or three things were coming to pass, of family import and issue, which could not go aright, except through jemmy's fingers. and of these things the most important was concerning his sister christina. "i assure you, jemmy, that her state of mind is most unsatisfactory," the lady said to her son, upon their very first consultation. "she does not care for any of her usual occupations. she takes no interest in parish matters. she let that wicked old margery daw get no less than three pairs of blankets, and polly church go without any at all--at least she might, so far as christie cared. then you know that admirable huggins' charity--a loaf and three halfpence for every cottage containing more than nine little ones;--well, she let them pass the children from one house to another; and neither loaves nor halfpence held out at all! 'i'll make it good,' she said, 'what's the odds?' or something almost as vulgar. how thankful i was, that sir henry did not hear her! 'oh i wish he had, rayther,' she exclaimed with a toss of her head. you know that extremely low slangish way of saying _rayther_ to everything. it does irritate me so, and she knows it. one would think that instead of desiring to please as excellent a man as ever lived, her one object was to annoy and disgust him. and she does not even confine herself to--to the language of good society. she has come back from perlycross, with a sad quantity of devonshirisms; and she always brings them out before sir henry, who is, as you know, a fastidious man, without any love of jocularity. and it is such a very desirable thing. i did hope it would have been all settled, before your dear father's birthday." "well, mother, and so it may easily be. the only point is this--after all her bad behaviour, will sir henry come to the scratch?" "my dear son! my dear jemmy, what an expression! and with reference to wedded life! but if i understand your meaning, he is only waiting my permission to propose; and i am only waiting for a favourable time. the sweetest tempered girl i ever saw; better even than yours, jemmy, and yours has always been very fine. but now--and she has found out, or made up, some wretched low song, and she sings it down the stairs, or even comes singing it into the room, pretending that she does not see me. all about the miseries of stepmothers. oh, she is most worrying and aggravating! and to me, who have laboured so hard for her good! sometimes i fancy that she must have seen somebody. surely, it never could have been at perlycross?" "i'll put a stop to all that pretty smartly"--the doctor exclaimed, with fine confidence. "but--but perhaps it would be better, mother, for me not to seem to take sir henry's part too strongly. at any rate until things come to a climax. he is coming this afternoon, you said; let him pop the question at once; and if she dares to refuse him, then let me have a turn at her. she has got a rare tongue; but i think i know something--at any rate, you know that i don't stand much nonsense." they had scarcely settled their arrangements for her, when down the stairs came christie, looking wonderfully pretty; but her song was not of equal beauty. "there was an old dog, and his name was 'shep;' says he to his daughter--don't you ever be a step." she nodded to her mother very dutifully, and to her brother with a smile that made him laugh; and then she went out of the front-door, almost as if she felt contempt for it. "won't do. won't do at all;" said jemmy. "she'll say 'no,' this afternoon. girls never know what they are about. but better let him bring it to the point. and then leave it to me, mother. i understand her. and she knows i am not to be trifled with." sir henry haggerstone came in time for luncheon, showed no signs of nervousness, and got on very well with everybody. he knew something of everything that is likely to be talked of anywhere; and yet he had the knack of letting down his knowledge, as a carpet for his friends to walk upon. everybody thought--"well, i have taught him something. he could not be expected to understand that subject. but now, from his own words, i feel that he will. what a fool smith is, to be bothering a man like sir henry with the stuff that is _a_. _b_. _c_. to him! i wonder that he could put up with it." but however great sir henry was in powers of conversation, or even of auscultation, his eloquence--if there was any--fell flat, and his audience was brief, and the answer unmistakable. "it can't be. it mustn't be. it shan't be, at any price." that last expression was a bit of slang, but it happened to fit the circumstances. "but why can it not be? surely, miss fox, i may ask you to give me some reason for that." the gentleman thought--"what a strange girl you are!" while the lady was thinking--"what a difference there is between an artificial man and a natural one!" "what o'clock is it, by that time-piece, if you please, sir henry haggerstone?" "half-past two, within about two minutes." "thank you; can you tell me why it isn't half-past ten? just because it isn't. and so now you understand." "i am sorry to say, that i do not very clearly. probably it is very stupid of me. but can you not give me a little hope, miss fox?" "yes, a great deal; and with my best wishes. there are thousands of nice girls, a thousand times nicer than i ever was, who would say 'yes,' in a minute." "but the only one, whose 'yes' i want, says 'no,' in less than half a minute!" "to be sure, she does--and means it all over; but begs to offer no end of thanks." "perhaps it is all for the best," he thought as he rode homeward slowly; "she is a very sweet girl; but of late she seems to have grown so fond of slang expressions--all very well for a man, but not at all what i like in a woman. i should have been compelled to break her of that trick; and even the sweetest tempered woman hates to be corrected." this gentleman would have been surprised to hear that the phrases he disliked were used, because he so thoroughly disliked them. which, to say the least, was unamiable. "all settled? hurrah! my dear chris, let me congratulate you," cried jemmy rushing in with a jaunty air, though he well knew what the truth was. "amen! it is a happy thing. that golden parallelogram, all tapered and well-rounded, will come to harass me no more." "what a mixture of quotations! a girl alone could achieve it. a tapered parallelogram! but you have never been fool enough to refuse him?" "i have been wise enough to do so." "and soon you will be wise enough to think better of it. i shall take good care to let him know, that no notice is to be taken of your pretty little vagaries." "don't lose your temper, my dear jemmy. as for taking notice of it, sir henry may be nothing very wonderful. but at any rate he is a gentleman." "i am heartily glad that you have found that out. i thought nobody could be a gentleman, unless he lived in a farm-house, and could do a day's ploughing, and shear his own sheep." "yes, oh yes! if he can roll his own pills, and mix his own black draughts, and stick a knife into any one." "now, it is no use trying to insult me, my dear girl. my profession is above all that." "what, above its own business? oh jemmy, jemmy! and yet you know, you were afraid sometimes of leaving it all to that little boy george. however george did the best part of it." "christie, i shall be off, because you don't know what you are talking of. i am sorry for any man, who gets you." "ha! that depends upon whether i like him. if i do, wouldn't i polish his boots? if i don't, wouldn't i have the hair off his head?" "good-bye, my dear child. you will be better, by and by." "stop," exclaimed christie, who perceived that dear jemmy preferred to have it out with her, when she might be less ready; "don't be in such a hurry. there is no child with the measles, which is about the worst human complaint that you can cure. just answer me one question. have i ever interfered, between you and nicie waldron?" "the lord look down upon me! what an idea! as if you could ever be so absurd!" "the lord looks down upon me, also, jemmy;" said christie, passing into a different mood. "and he gives me the right to see to my own happiness, without consulting you; any more than you do me." the doctor made off, without another word; for he was not a quarrelsome fellow; especially when he felt that he would get the worst of it. "let her alone a bit;" he told his mother. "she has been so much used to have her own way, that she expects to have it always. it will require a little judgment, and careful handling, to bring her out of her absurdities. you must not expect her to have the sense a man has. and she has got an idea that she is so clever; which makes her confoundedly obstinate. if you had heard how insolent she was to me, you would have been angry with her. but she cannot vex me with her childish little talk. i shall go for a thirty mile ride, dear mother, to get a little fresh air after all that. don't expect me back to dinner. be distant with her, and let her see that you are grieved; but give her no chance of arguing--if indeed she calls such stuff argument." in a few minutes he was on the back of _perle_--as he called the kindly and free-going little mare, who had brought him again from perlycross--and trotting briskly towards the long curve of highlands, which form the western bulwark of the mendip hills. the weather had been very mild and rather stormy, ever since the christmas frost broke up, and now in the first week of the year, the air was quite gentle and pleasant. but the roads were heavy and very soft, as they always are in a thaw; and a great deal of water was out in the meadows, and even in the ditches alongside of the lanes. in a puzzle of country roads and commons, further from home than his usual track, and very poorly furnished with guide-posts, fox rode on without asking whither; caring only for the exercise and air, and absorbed in thought about the present state of things, both at perlycross and foxden. to his quick perception and medical knowledge it was clear that his father's strength was failing, gradually, but without recall. and one of the very few things that can be done by medical knowledge is that it can tell us (when it likes) that it is helpless. now jemmy was fond of his father, although there had been many breezes between them; and as nature will have it, he loved him a hundredfold, now that he was sure to lose him. moreover the change in his own position, which must ensue upon his father's death, was entirely against his liking. what he liked was simplicity, plain living and plain speaking, with enough of this world's goods to help a friend in trouble, or a poor man in distress; but not enough to put one in a fright about the responsibility, that turns the gold to lead. but now, if he should be compelled to take his father's place at foxden, as a landowner and a wealthy man, he must give up the practice of his beloved art, he must give up the active and changeful life, the free and easy manners, and the game with bill and dick; and assume the slow dignity and stiff importance, the consciousness of being an example and a law, and all the other briars and blackthorns in the paradise of wealth and station. yet even while he sighed at the coming transformation, it never occurred to him that his sister was endowed with tastes no less simple than his own, and was not compelled by duty to forego them. occupied thus, and riding loose-reined without knowing or caring whither, he turned the corner of a high-banked lane, and came upon a sight which astonished him. the deep lane ended with a hunting-gate, leading to an open track across a level pasture, upon which the low sun cast long shadows of the rider's hat, and shoulders, and elbow lifted to unhasp the gate. turning in the saddle he beheld a grand and fiery sunset, such as in mild weather often closes a winter but not wintry day. a long cloud-bank, straight and level at the base, but arched and pulpy in its upper part, embosomed and turned into a deep red glow the yellow flush of the departing sun. below this great volume of vapoury fire, were long thin streaks of carmine, pencilled very delicately on a background of limpid hyaline. it was not the beauty of the sky however, nor the splendour, nor the subtlety, that made the young man stop and gaze. fine sunsets he had seen by the hundred, and looked at them, if there was time to spare; but what he had never seen before was the grandeur of the earth's reply. on the opposite side of the level land, a furlong or so in front of him, arose the great breastwork to leagues of plain; first a steep pitch of shale and shingle, channelled with storm-lines, and studded with gorse; and then, from its crest, a tall crag towering, straight and smooth as a castle-wall. the rugged pediment was dark and dim, and streaked with sombre shadows; but the bastion cliff above it mantled with a deep red glow, as if colour had its echo, in answer to the rich suffusion of that sunset cloud. even the ivy, and other creepers, on its kindled face shone forth, like chaplets thrown upon a shield of ruddy gold. and all the environed air was thrilling with the pulses of red light. fox was smitten with rare delight--for he was an observant fellow--and even _perle's_ bright eyes expanded, as if they had never seen such a noble vision. "i'll be up there before it is gone," cried jemmy, like a boy in full chase of a rainbow; "the view from that crag must be glorious." at the foot of the hill stood a queer little hostel, called the _smoking limekiln_; and there he led his mare into the stable, ordered some bread and cheese for half an hour later, and made off at speed for the steep ascent. active as he was, and sound of foot, he found it a slippery and awkward climb, on account of the sliding shingle; but after a sharp bout of leaping and scrambling he stood at the base of the vertical rock, and looked back over the lowlands. the beauty of colour was vanishing now, and the glory of the clouds grown sombre, for the sun had sunk into a pale gray bed; but the view was vast and striking. the fairest and richest of english land, the broad expanse of the western plains for leagues and leagues rolled before him, deepening beneath the approach of night, and shining with veins of silver, where three flooded rivers wound their way. afar towards the north, a faint gleam showed the hovering of light, above the severn sea; whence slender clues of fog began to steal, like snakes, up the watercourses, and the marshy inlets. before there was time to watch them far, the veil of dusk fell over them, and things unwatched stood forth, and took a prominence unaccountable, according to the laws of twilight, arbitrary and mysterious. fox felt that the view had repaid his toil, and set his face to go down again, with a tendency towards bread and cheese; but his very first step caused such a slide of shingle and loose ballast, that he would have been lucky to escape with a broken bone, had he followed it. thereupon instead of descending there, he thought it wiser to keep along the ledge at the foot of the precipice, and search for a safer track down the hill. none however presented itself, until he had turned the corner of the limestone crag, and reached its southern side, where the descent became less abrupt and stony. here he was stepping sideways down, for the pitch was still sharp and dangerous, and the daylight failing in the blinks of hills, when he heard a loud shout--"jemmy! jemmy!"--which seemed to spring out of the earth at his feet. in the start of surprise he had shaped his lips for the answering halloa, when good luck more than discretion saved him; for both his feet slipped, and his breath was caught. by a quick turn he recovered balance; but the check had given him time to think, and spying a stubby cornel-bush, he came to a halt behind it, and looked through the branches cautiously. some twenty yards further down the hill, he saw a big man come striding forth from the bowels of the earth--as it seemed at first--and then standing with his back turned, and the haze beyond enlarging him. and then again, that mighty shout rang up the steep and down the valley--"jemmy, jemmy, come back, i tell thee, or i'l let thee know what's what!" fox kept close, and crouched in his bush, for he never had seen such a man till now, unless it were in a caravan; and a shudder ran through him, as it came home that his friend down there could with one hand rob, throttle, and throw him down a mining shaft. this made him keep a very sharp look-out, and have one foot ready for the lightest of leg-bail. presently a man of moderate stature, who could have walked under the other's arm, came panting and grumbling back again from a bushy track leading downwards. he flung something on the ground and asked-- "what be up now; to vetch me back up-hill for? harvey, there bain't no sense in 'e. maight every bit as well a' had it out, over a half pint of beer." "sit you there, jem," replied the other, pressing him down on a ledge of stone with the weight of one thumb on his shoulder. then he sat himself down on a higher ridge, and pulled out a pipe, with a sigh as loud as the bellows of a forge could compass; and then slowly spread upon the dome of his knee a patch of german punk, and struck sparks into it. there was just light enough for fox to see that the place where they sat was at the mouth of a mining shaft, or sloping adit; over the rough stone crown of which, standing as he did upon a higher level, he could descry their heads and shoulders, and the big man's fingers as he moved them round his pipe. presently a whiff of coarse brown smoke came floating uphill to the doctor's nostrils; and his blood ran cold, as he began to fear that this great harvey must be the harvey tremlett, of whom he had heard from mr. penniloe. "made up my maind i have. can't stand this no longer;" said the big man, with the heavy drawl, which nature has inflicted upon very heavy men. "can't get no more for a long day's work, than a hop o' my thumb like you does." "and good raison why, mate. do 'e ever do a hard day's work?" fox could have sworn that the smaller throat gave utterance to the larger share of truth. "what be the vally of big arms and legs, when a chap dothn't care to make use of 'un?" but the big man was not controversial. giants are generally above that weakness. he gave a long puff, and confined himself to facts. "got my money: and d--d little it is. and now i means to hook it. you can hang on, if you be vule enough." "what an old turk it is!" jem replied reproachfully. "did ever you know me throw you over, harvey? who is it brings you all the luck? tell 'e what--let's go back to clampits. what a bit o' luck that loudering wor!" "hor, hor, hor!" the big man roared. "a purty lot they be to perlycrass! to take jemmy kettel for a gentleman! and a doctor too! oh lord! oh lord! doctor jemmy vox kettel! licensed to deal in zalts and zenna, powders, pills, and bolusses. oh jemmy, jemmy, my eye, my eye!" "could do it, i'll be bound, as well as he doth. a vaine doctor, to dig up the squire of the parish, and do it wrong way too, they zay of 'un! vaine doctor, wasn't 'un? oh lord! oh lord!" as these two rovers combined in a hearty roar of mirth at his expense, dr. jemmy fox, instead of being grateful for a purely impartial opinion, gave way to ill feeling, and stamped one foot in passionate remonstrance. too late he perceived that this movement of his had started a pebble below the cornel-bush, and sent it rolling down the steep. away went the pebble with increasing skips, and striking the crown of the pit-mouth flew just over the heads of the uncouth jokers. "halloa, jemmy! anybody up there? just you goo, and look, my boy." fox shrunk into himself, as he heard those words in a quicker roar coming up to him. if they should discover him, his only chance would be to bound down the hill, reckless of neck, and desperate of accident. but the light of the sky at the top of the hill was blocked by the rampart of rock, and so there was nothing for him to be marked upon. "nort but a badger, or a coney there, i reckon," jem kettel said, after peering up the steep; and just then a rabbit of fast style of life whisked by; "goo on, harvey. you han't offered me no 'bacco!" "you tak' and vinish 'un;" said the lofty-minded giant, poking his pipe between the other fellow's teeth. "and now you give opinion; if the lord hath gived thee any." "well, i be up for bunkum, every bit so much as you be. but where shall us be off to? that's the p'int of zettlement. clampits, i say. roaring fun there, and the gim'-keepers aveared of 'e." "darsn't goo there yet, i tell 'e. last thing old moother did was to send me word, passon to perlycrass had got the tip on me. don't want no bother with them blessed beaks again." "wonder you didn't goo and twist the passon's neck." the faithful mate looked up at him, as if the captain had failed of his duty, unaccountably. "wouldn't touch a hair of that man's head, if it wor here atwixt my two knees." harvey tremlett brought his fist down on his thigh, with a smack that made the stones ring round him. "tell 'e why, jem kettel. he have took my little zip along of his own chiller, and a' maneth to make a lady on her. and a lady the little wench hath a right to be--just you say the contrairy--if hanncient vam'ley, and all that, have right to count. us tremletts was here, long afore they waldrons." the smaller man appeared afraid to speak. he knew the weak point of the big man perhaps, and that silence oils all such bearings. "tull 'e what, jemmy," said the other coming round, after stripping his friend's mouth of his proper pipe; "us'll go up country--shoulder packs and be off, soon as ever the moon be up. like to see any man stop me, i would." he stood up, with the power of his mighty size upon him; a man who seemed fit to stop an avalanche, and able to give as much trouble about stopping him. "all right, i be your man;" replied the other, speaking as if he were quite as big, and upon the whole more important. "bristol fust; and then lunnon, if so plaise 'e. always a bit of louderin' there. but that remindeth me of perlycrass. us be bound to be back by fair-time, you know. can't afford to miss old timberlegs." "time enow for that;" harvey tremlett answered. "zix or zeven weeks yet to perlycrass fair. what time wor it as old timberlegs app'inted?" "ten o'clock at naight, by churchyard wall. reckon the old man hath another job of louderin' handy. what a spree that wor, and none a rap the wiser! come along, harvey, let's have a pint at the _kiln_, to drink good luck to this here new start." the big man took his hat off, while the other jumped nimbly on a stump and flung over his head the straps of both their bundles; and then with a few more leisurely and peaceful oaths they quitted their stony platform, and began to descend the winding path, from which jem kettel had been recalled. fox was content for a minute or two with peeping warily after them, while his whole frame tingled with excitement, wrath, and horror, succeeded by a burning joy at the knowledge thus vouchsafed to him, by a higher power than fortune. as soon as he felt certain that they could not see him, even if they looked back again, he slipped from his lurking-place, and at some risk of limb set off in a straighter course than theirs for the public house in the valley, where a feeble light was twinkling. from time to time he could hear the two rovers laughing at their leisure, probably with fine enjoyment of very bad jokes at his expense. but he set his teeth, and made more speed, and keeping his distance from them, easily arrived first at the inn, where he found his bread and cheese set forth, in a little private parlour having fair view of the bar. this suited him well, for his object was to obtain so clear a sight of them, that no change of dress or disguise should cast any doubt upon their identity; and he felt sure that they were wending hither to drink good speed to their enterprise. there was not much fear of their recognising him, even if his face were known to them, which he did not think at all likely. but he provided against any such mishap, by paying his bill beforehand, and placing his candle so that his face was in the dark. then he fell to and enjoyed his bread and cheese; for the ride and the peril had produced fine relish, and a genuine cheddar--now sighed for so vainly--did justice to its nativity. he also enjoyed, being now in safety, the sweet sense of turning the tables upon his wanton and hateful deriders. for sure enough, while his mouth was full, and the froth on his ale was winking at him, in came those two scoffing fellows, followed by a dozen other miners. it appeared to be pay-night, and generous men were shedding sixpences on one another; but fox saw enough to convince him that the rest fought shy of his two acquaintances. when he saw this, a wild idea occurred to him for a moment--was it not possible to arrest that pair, with the aid of their brother miners? but a little consideration showed the folly of such a project. he had no warrant, no witness, no ally, and he was wholly unknown in that neighbourhood. and even if the miners should believe his tale, would they combine, to lay hands on brother workmen, and hand them over to the mercies of the law? even if they would, it was doubtful that they could, sturdy fellows though they were. but the young man was so loth to let these two vagabonds get away, that his next idea was to bribe somebody to follow them, and keep them in view until he should come in chase, armed with the needful warrant, and supported by stout _posse comitatus_. he studied the faces of his friends at the bar, to judge whether any were fitted for the job. alas, among all those rough and honest features, there was not a spark of craft, nor a flash of swift intelligence. if one of them were put to watch another, the first thing he would do would be to go and tell him of it. and what justice of the peace would issue warrant upon a stranger's deposition of hearsays? much against his will, jemmy fox perceived that there was nothing for it, but to give these two rogues a wide berth for the present, keep his own counsel most jealously, and be ready to meet them at perlycross fair. and even so, on his long homeward ride, he thought that the prospect was brightening in the west; and that he with his name cleared might come forward, and assert his love for the gentle nicie. chapter xxix. two puzzles. "then if i understand aright, lady waldron, you wish me to drop all further efforts for the detection of those miscreants? and that too at the very moment, when we had some reason to hope that we should at last succeed. and all the outlay, which is no trifle, will have been simply thrown away! this course is so extraordinary, that you will not think me inquisitive, if i beg you to explain it." mr. webber, the lawyer, was knitting his forehead, and speaking in a tone of some annoyance, and much doubt, as to the correctness of his own reluctant inference. meanwhile the spanish lady was glancing at him with some dismay, and then at mr. penniloe, who was also present, for the morning's discussion had been of business matters. "no, i doubt very much if you quite comprehend," she answered, with mr. penniloe's calm eyes fixed upon her. "i did not propose to speak entirely like that. what i was desirous of describing to you is, that to me it is less of eagerness to be going on with so much haste, until the return of my dear son. he for instance will direct things, and with his great--great command of the mind, will make the proceedings to succeed, if it should prove possible for the human mind to do it. and there is no one in this region, that can refuse him anything." mr. penniloe saw that she spoke with some misgivings, and shifted her gaze from himself to the lawyer and back again, with more of enquiry, and less of dictation, than her usual tone conveyed. "the matter is entirely one for your ladyship's own decision," replied mr. webber, beginning to fold up the papers he had submitted. "mr. penniloe has left that to us, as was correct, inasmuch as it does not concern the trust. i will stop all enquiries at once, upon receiving your instructions to that effect." "but--but i think you do not well comprehend. perhaps i could more clearly place it with the use of my own tongue. it is nothing more than this. i wish that my dear son should not give up his appointment as officer, and come back to this country, for altogether nothing. i wish that he should have the delight of thinking that--that it shall be of his own procuration, to unfold this mysterious case. yes, that is it--that is all that i wish--to let things wait a little, until my son comes." if either of her listeners had been very keen, or endowed with the terrier nose of suspicion, he would have observed perhaps that the lady had found some relief from an afterthought, and was now repeating it as a happy hit. but mr. penniloe was too large, and mr. webber too rough of mind--in spite of legal training--to pry into a lady's little turns of thought. "very well, madam," said the lawyer, rising, "that finishes our business for to-day, i think. but i beg to congratulate you on your son's return. i cannot call to mind that i have heard of it before. every one will be delighted to see him. even in his father's time, everybody was full of him. when may we hope to see him, lady waldron?" "before very long, i have reason for good hope," the lady replied, with a smile restoring much of the beauty of her careworn face. "i have not heard the day yet; but i know that he will come. he has to obtain permission from all the proper authorities, of course. and that is like your very long and very costful processes of the great british law, mr. webber. but now i will entreat of you to excuse me any more. i have given very long attention. mr. webber, will you then oblige me by being the host to mr. penniloe? the refreshment is in the approximate room." "devilish fine woman," mr. webber whispered, as her ladyship sailed away. "wonderfully clever too! how she does her w's--i don't know much about them, but i always understood, that there never was any one born out of england, who could make head or tail of his w's. why, she speaks english quite like a native! but i see you are looking at me. shocking manners, i confess, to swear in the presence of a parson, sir; though plenty of them do it--ha, ha, ha!--in their own absence, i suppose." "it is not my presence, mr. webber. that makes it neither better nor worse. but the presence of god is everywhere." "to be sure! so it is. come into the next room. her ladyship said we should find something there. i suppose we shan't see missy though," said the lawyer, as he led the parson to the luncheon-table. "she fights very shy of your humble servant now. girls never forgive that sort of thing. i don't often make such a mistake though, do i? and it was my son waldron's fault altogether. waldron is a sharp fellow, but not like me. can't see very far into a milestone. pity to stop the case, before we cleared fox. i don't understand this new turn though. a straw shows the way the wind blows. something behind the scenes, mr. penniloe. more there than meets the eye. is it true that old fox is dropping off the hooks?" "if you mean to ask me, mr. webber, what i have heard about his state of health, i fear that there is little hope of his recovery. dr. fox returns to-morrow, as you may have heard through--through your especial agents. you know what my opinion is of that proceeding on your part." "yes, you spoke out pretty plainly. and, by george, you were right, sir! as fine a property as any in the county. i had no idea it was half as much. why, bless my heart sir, jemmy fox will be worth his £ a year, they tell me!" "i am glad that his worth," mr. penniloe said quietly, "is sufficient _per annum_ to relieve him from your very dark suspicion." "got me there!" replied webber, with a laugh. "ah, you parsons always beat the lawyers. bury us, don't you? if you find no other way. but we get the last fee after all. probate, sir, probate is an expensive thing. well, i must be off. i see my gig is ready. if you can make my peace with jemmy fox, say a word for me. after all it looked uncommonly black, you know. and young men should be forgiving." scarcely had his loud steps ceased to ring, when a very light pit-a-pat succeeded, and mr. penniloe found himself in far more interesting company. nicie came softly, and put back her hair, and offered her lovely white forehead to be kissed, and sat down with a smile that begged pardon for a sigh. "oh, uncle penniloe, i am so glad! i thought i should never have a talk with you again. my fortune has been so frightful lately. everything against me, the same as it has been with this dear little soul here." she pointed to _jess_, the wounded one, who trotted in cheerfully upon three legs, with the other strapped up in a white silk pouch. the little doggie wagged her tail, and looked up at the clergyman, with her large eyes full of soft gratitude and love; as by that reflex action, which a dog's eyes have without moving, they took in--and told their intense delight in--that vigilant nurse, and sweet comrade, nicie. "oh, she is so proud;" miss waldron said, looking twice as proud herself; "this is the first time that she has had the privilege of going upon three legs, without anybody's hand; and she does think so much of herself! _jess_, go and show uncle penniloe what she can do, now her health is coming back. _jess_, go and cut a little caper--very steadily, you know, for fear of going twisty; and keep her tail up, all the time! now _jess_ come, and have a pretty kiss; because she has earned it splendidly." "she takes my breath away, because she is so good;" continued nicie, leaning over her. "i have studied her character for six weeks now, and there is not a flaw to be found in it, unless it is a noble sort of jealousy. _pixie_"--here _jess_ uttered a sharp small growl, and showed a few teeth as good as ever--"i must not mention his name again, because it won't do to excite her; but he is out in the cold altogether, because he has never shown any heroism. no, no, he shan't come, _jess_. he is locked up, for want of chivalry. oh, uncle penniloe, there is one question i have long been wanting to ask you. do you think it possible for even god to forgive the man--the brute, i mean--who slashed this little dear like that, for being so loving, and so true?" "my dear child," mr. penniloe replied; "i have just been saying to myself, how like your dear father you are growing--in goodness and kindness of face, i mean. but when you look like that, the resemblance is quite lost. i should never have thought you capable of such a ferocious aspect." "ah, that is because you don't know what i can do." but as she spoke, her arched brows were relaxing, and her flashing eyes filled with their usual soft gleam. "you forget that i am half a spaniard still, or at any rate a quarter one, and therefore i can be very terrible sometimes. ah, you should have seen me the other day. i let somebody know who i am. he thought perhaps that butter wouldn't melt in my mouth. did not i astonish him, the impertinent low wretch?" "why, nicie, this is not at all like you! i always quote you as a model of sweet temper. who can have aroused your angry passions thus?" "oh, never mind. i should like to tell you, and i want to tell you very much. but i am not permitted, though i don't know why. my mother has begged me particularly not to speak of that man who came--gentleman, i suppose he would call himself--but there, i am telling you all about him! and mother is so different, and so much more humble now. if she were still as unfair as she was, i should not be so particular. but she seems to be so sad, and so mysterious now, without accusing any one. and so i will not say a word against her orders. you would not wish it, uncle penniloe, i am sure." "certainly not, my dear. i will not ask another question. i have noticed that your mother is quite different myself. i hope she is not falling into really bad health." "no, i don't think that. but into frightfully low spirits. we have enough to account for that, haven't we, uncle penniloe? to think of my dear father, all this time! what can i do? i am so wretchedly helpless. i try to trust in god, and to say to myself--'what does the earthly part matter, after all? when the soul is with the lord, or only waiting for his time, and perhaps rewarded all the better--because--because of wicked treatment here.' but oh, it won't do, uncle penniloe, it won't, when i think how noble and how good he was, and to be treated in that way! and then i fall away, and cry, and sob, and there comes such a pain--such a pain in my heart, that i have no breath left, and can only lie down, and pray that god would take me to my father. is it wicked? i suppose it is. but how am i to help it?" "no, my dear, it is not wicked to give way sometimes." the parson's voice was tremulous, at sight of her distress, and remembrance of his own, not so very long ago. "sorrow is sent to all of us, and doubtless for our good; and if we did not feel it, how could we be at all improved by it? but you have borne it well, my child; and so has your good mother, considering how the first sad blow has been doubled and prolonged so strangely. but now it will be better for you, ever so much better, nicie, with your dear brother home again." "but when will that be? perhaps not for years. we do not even know where he is. they were not likely to stay long in malta. he may be at the cape of good hope by this time, if the ship has had long enough to get there. everything seems to be so much against us." "are you sure that you are right, my dear?" mr. penniloe asked with no little surprise. "from what your mother said just now, i hoped that i should see my old pupil very soon." "i am afraid not, uncle penniloe. my dear mother seems to confuse things a little, or not quite understand them. through her late illness, no doubt it is. we have not had a word from tom, since that letter, which had such a wonderful effect, as i told you, when you were gone to london. and then, if you remember, he had no idea how long they were to be at valetta. and he said nothing about their future movements very clearly. so full of his duties, no doubt, that he had no time to write long particulars. even now he may never have heard of--of what has happened, and our sad condition. they may have been at sea, ever since he wrote. soldiers can never tell where they may have to be." "that has always been so, and is a part of discipline;" the parson was thinking of the centurion and his men. "but even if your letter should have gone astray, they must have seen some english newspapers, i should think." "tom is very clever, as you know, uncle penniloe; but he never reads a word, when he can help it. and besides that, it is only fair to remember that he is under government. and the government never neglects an opportunity of turning right into left, and the rest upside down. if all the baggage intended for their draft, was sent to the west indies, because they were ordered to the east, it ought to follow that their letters would go too. but the worst of it is that one cannot be sure they will stick to a mistake, after making it." "it is most probable that they would; especially if it were pointed out to them. your dear father told me that they never forgive anybody for correcting them. but how then could your mother feel so sure about tom's coming home almost immediately?" "it puzzles me, until i have time to think;" answered nicie, looking down. "she has never said a word to me about it, beyond praying and hoping for tom to come home. oh, i know, or at least i can guess, how! she may have had a dream--she believes firmly in her dreams, and she has not had time to tell me yet." mr. penniloe had no right to seek further, and no inclination so to do. the meanest, mangiest, and most sneaking understrapper of that recent addition to our liberal institutions--the "private enquiry firm"--could never have suspected nicie waldron, after looking at her, of any of those subterfuges, which he (like a slack-skin'd worm) wriggles into. but on the other hand who could suppose that lady waldron would endeavour to mislead her own man of business by a trumpery deceit? and yet who was that strange visitor, of whom her daughter was not allowed to speak? unable to understand these things, the curate shortly took his leave, being resolved, like a wise man, to think as little as he could about them, until time--that mighty locksmith, at whom even love rarely wins the latest laugh--should bring his skeleton key to bear on the wards of this enigma. what else can a busy man do, when puzzled even by his own affairs? and how much more must it be so, in the business of other persons, which he doubts his right to meddle with? perhaps it would have been difficult to find any male member of our race more deeply moved by the haps and mishaps of his fellow-creatures than this parson of perlycross; and yet he could take a rosier view for most of them than they took for themselves. so when he left the grounds of walderscourt, he buttoned up his spencer, and stepped out bravely, swinging his stick vigorously, and trusting in the lord. "what did 'e hat me vor, like that?" cried a voice of complaint from a brambled ditch, outside a thick copse known as puddicombe wood. mr. penniloe had not got his glasses on, and was grieved to feel rather than to see, although he was at the right end of his stick, that he had brought it down (with strong emphasis of a passage in his coming sermon) on the head of a croucher in that tangled ditch. "oh i beg your pardon! i am so sorry. i had not the least idea there was anybody there. i was thinking of the sower, and the cares that choke the seed. but get up, and let me see what i have done. what made you hide yourself down there? i am not the gamekeeper. why, it is sam speccotty! poaching again, i am afraid, sam. but i hope i have not hurt you--so very much." "bruk' my head in two. that's what you have done, passon. oh you can't goo to tell on me, after hatting me on the brains with clubstick! ooh, ooh, ooh! i be gooing to die, i be." "speccotty, no lies, and no shamming!" mr. penniloe put on his spectacles, for he knew his customer well enough,--a notorious poacher, but very seldom punished, because he was considered "a natural." "this is no clubstick, but a light walking-stick; and between it and your head there was a thick briar, as well as this vast mop of hair. let me see what you have got under that tree-root." sam had been vainly endeavouring to lead his minister away from his own little buried napkin, or rather sack of hidden treasure. "turn it out;" commanded the parson, surprised at his own austerity. "a brace of cock-pheasants, a couple of woodcocks, two couple of rabbits, and a leash of hares! oh, sam, sam! what have you done? speccotty, i am ashamed of you." "bain't no oother chap within ten maile," said speccotty, regarding the subject from a different point of view; "as could a' dooed that, since dree o'clock this marnin'; now passon do 'e know of wan?" "i am happy to say that i do not; neither do i wish for his acquaintance. give up your gun, sam. even if i let you off, i insist upon your tools; as well as all your plunder." "han't a got no goon," replied the poacher, looking slyly at the parson, through the rough shock of his hair. "never vired a goon, for none on 'un. knows how to vang 'un, wi'out thiccy." "i can well believe that." mr. penniloe knew not a little of poachers, from his boyish days, and was not without that secret vein of sympathy for them, which every sportsman has, so long as they elude and do not defy the law. "but i must consider what i shall do. send all this to my house to-night, that i may return it to the proper owners. unless you do that, you will be locked up to-morrow." "oh passon, you might let me have the roberts. to make a few broth for my old moother." "not a hair, nor a feather shall you keep. your mother shall have some honest broth--but none of your stolen rabbits, speccotty. you take it so lightly, that i fear you must be punished." "oh don't 'e give me up, sir. oh, my poor head do go round so! don't 'e give me up, for god's sake, passon. two or dree things i can tell 'e, as 'e 'd give the buttons off thy coat to know on. do 'e mind when the devil wor seen on hagdon hill, the day avore the good lady varled all down the harseshoe?" "i do remember hearing some foolish story, sam, and silly people being frightened by some strange appearances, very easily explained, no doubt." "you volk, as don't zee things, can make 'un any colour to your own liking. but i tell 'e old nick gooed into the body of a girt wild cat up there; and to this zide of valley, her be toorned to a black dog. zayeth so in the baible, don't 'un?" "i cannot recall any passage, sam, to that effect; though i am often surprised by the knowledge of those who use holy scripture for argument, much more freely than for guidance. and i fear that is the case with you." "whuther a' dooed it, or whuther a' did not, i be the ekal of 'un, that i be. when her coom to me, a'gapin' and a yawnin', i up wi' bill-hook, and i gie'd 'un zummat. if 'tis gone back to hell a' harth, a' wun't coom out again, i reckon, wi'out sam speccotty's mark on 'un. 'twill zave 'e a lot of sarmons, passon. her 'ont want no more knockin' on the head, this zide of yester, to my reckoning. hor! passon be gone a'ready; a' don't want to hear of that. taketh of his trade away. ah, i could tell 'un zomethin', if a' wadn't such a softie." mr. penniloe had hastened on, and no longer swung his holly-stick; not through fear of knocking any more skulking poachers on the head, but from the sadness which always fell upon him, at thought of the dark and deadly blow the lord had been pleased to inflict on him. chapter xxx. frankly speaking. supposing a man to be engaged--as he often must be even now, when the general boast of all things is, that they have done themselves by machinery--in the useful and interesting work of sinking a well, by his own stroke and scoop; and supposing that, when he is up to his hips, and has not got a dry thread upon him, but reeks and drips, like a sprawling jelly-fish--at such a time there should drop upon him half a teaspoonful of water from the bucket he has been sending up--surely one might expect that man to accept with a smile that little dribble, even if he perceives it. alas, he does nothing of the kind! he swears, and jumps, as if he were in a shower-bath of vitriol, then he shouts for the ladder, drags his drenched legs up, and ascends for the purpose of thrashing his mate, who has dared to let a drop slip down on him. such is the case; and no ratepayer who has had to delve for his own water (after being robbed by sewage-works) will fail to perceive the force of it. even so (if it be lawful to compare small things with great), even so it has been, and must be for ever, with a young man over head and ears in love, and digging in the depths of his own green gault. he throws back his head, and he shovels for his life; he scorns the poor fellows who are looking down upon him; and he sends up bucketfuls of his own spooning, perhaps in the form of gravelly verse. the more he gets waterlogged the deeper is his glow, and the bowels of the earth are as goldbeaters' skin to him. but let anybody cast cold water, though it be but a drop, on his fervid frozen loins, and up he comes with both fists clenched. these are the truths that must be cited, in explanation of the sad affair next to be recorded--the quarrel between two almost equally fine fellows,--dr. jemmy fox to wit, and master frank gilham. these two had naturally good liking for each other. there was nothing very marvellous about either of them; although their respective mothers perceived a heavenful of that quality. but they might be regarded as fair specimens of englishmen--more wonderful perhaps than admirable in the eyes of other races. if it were needful for any one to make choice between them, that choice would be governed more by points of liking, than of merit. both were brave, straightforward, stubborn, sensible, and self-respecting fellows, a little hot-headed sometimes perhaps, but never consciously unjust. it seemed a great pity, that such a pair should fall away from friendship, when there were so many reasons for goodwill and amity; not to mention gratitude--that flower of humanity, now extinct, through the number of its cuttings that have all damped off. jemmy fox indeed had cherished a small slip of that, when gilham stood by him in his first distress; but unhappily the slightest change of human weather is inevitably fatal to our very miffy plant. young as he was, frank gilham had been to market already too many times, to look for offal value in gratitude, and indeed he was too generous to regard it as his due; still his feelings of friendship, and of admiration for the superior powers of the other, were a little aggrieved when he found himself kept at a distance, and avoided, for reasons which he understood too well. so when he heard that young dr. fox had returned from that visit to his father, he rode up to _old barn_, to call upon him, and place things upon a plainer footing. jemmy received him in a friendly manner, but with his mind made up to put a stop to any nonsense concerning his sister christie, if gilham should be fool enough to afford him any opening. and this the young yeoman did without delay, for he saw no good reason why he should be made too little of. "and how did you leave miss fox?" he asked, as they took their chairs opposite the great fireplace, in the bare room, scientific with a skull or two, and artistic with a few of christie's water-colour sketches. "i had no difficulty in leaving her," jemmy answered, with a very poor attempt at wit, which he intended to be exasperating. "how was she, i mean? i dare say you got away, without thinking much of anybody but yourself." frank gilham was irritated, as he deserved to be. "thank you; well, i think upon the whole," jemmy fox drawled out his words, as if his chin were too slack to keep them going, and he stroked it in a manner which is always hateful; "yes, i think i may say upon the whole, that she was quite as well as can be expected. i hope you can say the same of your dear mother." frank gilham knew that he was challenged to the combat; and he came forth, as the duty is, and the habit of an englishman. "this is not the first time you have been rude to me;" he said. "and i won't pretend not to know the reason. you think that i have been guilty of some presumption, in daring to lift my eyes to your sister." "to tell you the truth," replied fox getting up, and meeting his steadfast gaze steadfastly; "you have expressed my opinion, better than i could myself have put it." "it is not the sort of thing one can argue about," said the other, also rising; "i know very well that she is too good for me, and has the right to look ever so much higher. but for all that, i have a perfect right to set my heart upon her; especially considering--considering, that i can't help it. and if i do nothing to annoy her, or even to let her know of my presumption, what right have you to make a grievance of it?" "i have never made a grievance of it. i simply wish you to understand, that i do not approve of it." "you have a perfect right to disapprove; and to let me know that you do so. only it would have been more to your credit, if you had done it in an open manner, and in plain english; instead of cutting me, or at any rate dropping my acquaintance. i don't call that straightforward." "the man is a jackass. what rot he talks! look here, my fine fellow. how could i speak to you about it, before you acknowledged your infatuation? could i come up to you in the street, and say--'hi there! you are in love with my sister, are you? if you want to keep a sound skin, you'll haul off.' is that the straightforward course i should have taken?" "well, there may be something in the way you put it. but i would leave it to anybody, whether you have acted fairly. and why should i haul off, i should like to know. i won't haul off, for fifty of you. because i have got no money, i suppose! how would you like to be ordered to haul off from miss waldron, in case you were to lose your money, or anything went against you? instead of hauling off, i'll hold on--in my own mind, at any rate. i don't want a farthing of the money of your family. i would rather not have it,--dirty stuff, what good is it? but i tell you what--if your dear sister would only give me one good word, i would snap my fingers at you, and everybody. i know i am nothing at all. however, i am quite as good as you are; though not to be spoken of, in the same week with her. i tell you, i don't care twopence for any man, or all the men in the world put together--if only your sister thinks well of me. so now, you know what you may look out for." "all this is very fine; but it won't do, gilham." fox thought he saw his way to settle him. "surely you are old enough to see the folly of getting so excited. my sister will very soon be married to sir henry haggerstone--a man of influence, and large fortune. and you--, well to some lady, who can see your value, through a ball of glass, as you do. that power is not given to all of us; but on no account would i disparage you. and when this little joke is over, you will come, and beg my pardon; and we shall be hearty friends again." "sir henry haggerstone!" gilham replied, in a tone of contempt, which would justly have astonished that exemplary baronet. "not she! why, that's the old codger that has had three wives--fiddles, and fiddlesticks, i'm not afraid of him! but just tell me one thing now, upon your honour. would you object to me, if she liked me, and i had a hundred thousand pounds?" "well, no, i don't know that i should, mr. gilham." "then, dr. fox, you would sell your sister, for a hundred thousand pounds. and if she likes to put a lower price upon herself, what right have you to stop her?" "i tell you, gilham, all this is childish talk. if christie has been fool enough to take a fancy to you, it is your place, as a man of honour, to bear in mind how young she is; and to be very careful that you do nothing to encourage it." "but there is no chance of such luck. has it ever seemed likely to you, my dear jemmy, that she--that she even had any idea----" "a great deal too much, i am afraid. at least, i don't mean to say that exactly--but at any rate--well, enough to place you on your honour." "and upon my honour i will be--not to neglect any shadow of a chance, that turns up in my favour. but i can never believe it, jemmy; she is ever so much too lofty, and too lovely, and too clever--did anybody ever see such fingers, and such eyes, and such a smile, and such a voice? and altogether----" "altogether a pack of rubbish. the sooner you order your horse, the better. i can't have you raving here, and fetching all the parish up the hill." "i am a sensible man, jemmy fox. i know a noble thing, when i see it. you are too small of nature, and too selfish for such perception. but you may abuse me, to your heart's content. you will never get a harsh word in reply; after what you have told me. because there must be good in you, or you would never have such a sister. i shall take my own course now; without the smallest consideration for your crotchets. now don't make any mistake about that. and as for honour--clearly understand, that i shall pitch it to the devil." "well, don't come here with any more of your raving. and don't expect me to encourage you. you have been a good fellow--i don't mind saying that--until you took this infernal craze." "oh, i won't trouble you; never you fear. you are doing what you think right, no doubt; and you are welcome to do your worst. only there is one thing i must say. i know that you are too much of a man, to belie me to your sister, or run me down, behind my back. shake hands, jemmy, before i go; perhaps we shall never shake hands again." "get somebody to leave you that hundred thousand pounds," said fox, as he complied with this request; "and then we'll shake hands all day long, instead of shaking fists at each other." "jem crow said to his first wife's mother, what right have you to be anybody's brother?" gilham responded, being in high spirits, with this quotation from that piece of negro doggerel, with which all england was at that time crazed. and thus they parted, with a neutral smile; and none the less perhaps, for that each of them perceived that the parting would prove a long one. "what will nicie have to say about all this? i shall not be contented until i know;" said fox to himself, when his visitor was gone; "i have a great mind to go and get my riding-gaiters. that blessed mother of hers can scarcely growl at me, if i call to-day; considering how long i have been away. i seem to knock under to everybody now. i can't think what has come over me." when a man begins to think that of himself, it shows that he is getting pugnacious, and has not found his proper outlet. the finest thing for him is a long ride then; or a long walk, if he has only two legs. fox was shaking down upon his merits, but still a little crusty with himself, and therefore very much so with every one outside it, when his pretty mare pulled up, to think about the water she was bound to walk through at priestwell. this is one of the fairest hamlets to be found in england. there are houses enough to make one think of the other people that live in them; but not so many as to make it certain that a great many people will be nasty. you might expect, if you lived there, to know something about everybody in the place; and yet only to lift up your hands, and smile, when they did a thing you were too wise to do. the critical inhabitant in such a place--unless he is very wicked--must be happy. he falls into a habitude of small smiles; "many a mickle makes a muckle"--if that be the right way to quote it, which it isn't--however, the result is all the same, he knows what he is about, and it leads him to smile twenty times, for one smile he would have had in town. all these things were producing a fine effect upon the character of dr. gronow. by head and shoulders, without standing up for himself for a single moment, he was the biggest man at priestwell; in knowledge of the world, in acquaintance with books, in power to give good advice, and to help the people who took it--the largest. and after the many hot contentions of his life, and the trouble in being understood (where the game never pays for the candle) here he was taken at his own appraisement, after liberal prepayment. he was not a bad man, take him all in all; though inclined by nature to be many-angled, rather than many-sided. and now, as he stood on the plank that goes over the brook where the road goes under it, he was about as happy as the best of men can be. the old doctor in truth was as full of delight--though his countenance never expressed it--as the young doctor was of dejection. and why? for the very noble reason, that the wiser man now had his fly-rod in hand, fly-book in pocket, creel on back, and waterproof boots upon stiff but sturdy legs. and, main point of all--he was just setting forth; his return must be effected perhaps in quite another pair of shoes. the priestwell water flows into the perle from the north, some half mile higher up than the influx of susscot brook from the south, and it used to be full of bright stickles and dark hovers, peopled with many a bouncing trout. for a trout of a pound is a bouncer there; and a half-pounder even is held a comely fish; and sooth to say, the angler is not so churlish as to fail of finding joy in one of half that size. not a sign of spring was on the earth as yet, and very little tidings of it in the air; but any amount was in the old man's heart, as he listened to the warbling of the brook, and said to himself that he should catch, perhaps, a fish. he was going to fish downwards, as he always did, for he never liked to contradict the water. at the elbow of the stream was his own willow-tree, at the bottom of his lawn, and there a big fish lived--the dr. gronow of the liquid realm, who defied the dr. gronow of the dry land. ha, why not tackle him this very afternoon, and ennoble the opening day thereby; for the miserable floods, and the long snow-time, and the shackling of the stream is over; no water-colour artist could have brought the stickles to a finer fishing tint; and lo, there is a trout upon the rise down there, tempted by the quiver of a real iron-blue! with these thoughts glowing in his heart, and the smoke of his pipe making rings upon the naked alder-twigs, he was giving his flies the last titivating touch--for he always fished with three, though two were one too many--when he heard a voice not too encouraging. "i say, doctor, if you don't look out, you'll be certain to get bogged, you know." "don't care if i do;" replied the doctor, whisking his flies around his head, and startling _perle_ with the flash of his rod. "you had better go home," continued jemmy, "and let the banks dry up a bit, and some of your fish have time to breed again. why, the floods must have washed them all down into the perle; and the perle must have washed them all down into the sea." "that shows how much you know about it. i have got a most splendid patent dodge, at the bottom of my last meadow. i'll show it to you some fine day, if you are good. it is so constructed that it keeps all my trout from going down into the perle, and yet it lets all the perle trout come up to me; and when they are up, they can't get back again of course. and the same thing reversed, at the top of my grounds. i expect to have more fish than pebbles in my brook. and nobody can see it, that's the beauty of it. but mind, you mustn't say a word about it, jemmy. people are so selfish!" "of course, i won't; you may trust me. but when you have got everybody else's fish in your water, can you get them out of it? i know nothing at all about it. but to make any hand at angling, is it not the case that you must take to it in early life? look at pike, for instance. what a hand he is! never comes home without a basketful. he'll be here again next week, i believe." fox knew well enough that dr. gronow hated the very name of pike. "i am truly sorry to hear it. i am sure it must be high time for that lad to go to college. penniloe ought to be sent to prison, for keeping such a poacher. but as for myself, if i caught too many, i should not enjoy it half so much, because i should think there was no skill in it." "well, now, i never thought of that. and _pari ratione_ if we save too many of our patients, we lay ourselves open to the charge of luck." "no fear for you, jemmy. you are not a lucky fellow. come in and have a talk with me, by and by. i want to hear the last news, if there is any." "yes, there is some. but i must tell you now, or never. for i have to ride round through pumpington. and i came this way on purpose, to get the benefit of your opinion." "but, my dear fellow, it gets dark so soon;" dr. gronow looked wistfully at his flies. "well, if you won't be more than five minutes, i will put an iron-blue on, instead of a half-kingdon. but don't be longer than you can help. you are the only man in the parish i would stop for." omitting all description, except of persons, fox told the elder doctor what he had learned at the mouth of the mendip mine, and at the _smoking limekiln_, as well as what he knew of harvey tremlett from mr. penniloe's account, reminding him also of joe crang's description, and showing how well it tallied. "my advice can be given in a word; and that is 'not a word;'" answered gronow, forgetting his flies for the moment. "not a word to any one, but mockham the magistrate; and not even to him, until needful. shrove-tuesday, you say, is the date of the fair. don't apply for your warrant, until that morning, if you can get it then without delay. only you must make sure that mockham will be at home to issue it, and you must have joe crang there quietly, and gag him somewhere for the rest of the day--perhaps a little opiate in his beer. you see it is of the first importance that not a word should leak out about your intention of nabbing those fellows at the fair, until you are down upon them; for your birds would never come near the trap. it is perfectly amazing how such things spread, faster than any bird can fly; for the whole world seems to be in league against the law. there is plenty of time for us to talk it over, between this and then, if you only keep it close. of course you have not mentioned it to anybody yet." "not to a soul. i had sense enough for that. but i might have done so before long, if i had missed meeting you to-day. shall i not tell even penniloe? he has known everything hitherto." "certainly not yet. he is quite safe of course, so far as mere intention goes; but he might make a slip, and he is a nervous man. for his own sake, he had better not have this upon his mind. and his ideas are so queer. if he were questioned, i feel sure that he would not even tell a white lie; but be frightfully clumsy, and say, 'i refuse to answer.' better tell the whole truth than do that; for suspicion is shrewder than certainty." "but i don't like concealing it from him at all. i fear he will be hurt, when he comes to know it; because we have acted together throughout, and the matter so closely concerns his parish." "have no fear, jemmy. i'll make that all right. we will tell him about it on the day of action, and let him know that for his own sake only, i persuaded you to keep it from him. why, that fellow's daughter is in his house, and a wonderfully clever imp, they say. and i am not at all sure that he would not preach about it. he thinks so much more of people's souls, than of their parts that are rational." "very well then, for his own sake, i won't say a word to him about it. you are right; it would make him miserable to have such a shindy so long in prospect. for it will be a rare fight, i can tell you. the fellow is as big as an elephant almost; and my namesake, jem kettel, is a stuggy young chap, very likely to prove a tough customer. and then there will be timberlegs, whoever he may be." "all right, jemmy, we will give a good account of them. mind _v._ matter always wins the verdict. but let me congratulate you upon your luck. we must get to the bottom of this strange affair now, if we can only nab those fellows." "i should hope so. but how do you think it will prove? who will be detected as the leading villain? for these rogues have only been hired of course." "well, i own myself puzzled, jemmy, worse than ever. until this last news of yours, i was inclined to think that there had been some strange mistake all through, while the good colonel slept still undisturbed. but now it appears that i must have been wrong. and i hardly like to tell you my last idea, because of your peculiar position." "i know what you mean, and i thank you for it;" fox replied with a rapid glance. "but to my mind that seems the very reason why i should know everything." "well, if you take it so, friend jemmy, as my first theory is now proved wrong, my second one is that lady waldron knows more about this matter than anybody else. she has always shown herself hostile to you, so that my idea cannot shock you, as otherwise it might. are you angry with me?" "not in the least; though i cannot believe it, thereby returning good for evil; for she was quick enough to believe it--or feign to do so--about me. there are things that tend towards your conclusion. i am sorry to acknowledge that there are. and yet, until it is positively proved, i will not think it possible. she is no great favourite of mine, you know, any more than i am of hers. also, i am well aware that women do things a man never would believe; and some women don't mind doing anything. but i cannot persuade myself that she is one of that sort. she has too much pride to be a hypocrite." "so i should have thought. but against facts, where are you? shrove tuesday will tell us a thing or two however. that is a very nice mare of yours. i know nothing of horses, but judge them by their eyes; though their legs are the proper study. good-bye, my boy! perhaps i shall amaze you with a dish of trout to-morrow. they are always in very fine condition here." chapter xxxi. a great prize. one of the beauties of this world is, for the many who are not too good for it, that they never can tell what may turn up next, and need not over-exert themselves in the production of novelty, because somebody will be sure to do it for them. and those especially who have the honour and pleasure of dealing with the gentler sex are certain, without any effort of their own, to encounter plenty of vicissitude. such was the fortune of dr. fox, when he called that day at walderscourt. he found his sweet nicie in a sad condition, terribly depressed, and anxious, in consequence of a long interview with her mother, which had been as follows. for the last fortnight, or three weeks, lady waldron had not recovered strength, but fallen away even more, declining into a peculiar and morbid state. sometimes gloomy, downcast, and listless, secluding herself, and taking very little food, and no exercise whatever; at other times bewildered, excited, and restless, beginning a sentence and breaking it off, laughing about nothing, and then morose with every one. pretty tamar haddon had a great deal to put up with, and probably would not have shown the needful patience, except for handsome fees lightly earned by reports collected in the village. but sergeant jakes being accessible no more--for he had cast off the spell in the abbey, that sunday--poor lady waldron's anxiety was fed with tales of very doubtful authority. and the strange point was that she showed no impatience at the tardiness of the enquiry now, but rather a petulant displeasure at its long continuance. now that very morning, while fox was on the road to call upon his beloved, she was sent for suddenly by her mother, and hastened with some anxiety to the room which the widow now left so seldom. inez had long been familiar with the truth that her mother's love for her was not too ardent; and she often tried--but without much success--to believe that the fault was on her part. the mother ascribed it very largely to some defect in her daughter's constitution. "she has not one drop of spanish blood in her. she is all of english, except perhaps her eyes; and the eyes do not care to see things of spain." thus she justified herself, unconscious perhaps that jealousy of the father's love for this pet child had been, beyond doubt, the first cause of her own estrangement. this terribly harassed and lonely woman (with no one but god to comfort her, and very little sense of any consolation thus) was now forsaken by that support of pride and strength of passion, which had enabled her at first to show a resolute front to affliction. leaning back upon a heavy couch, she was gazing without much interest at the noble ivory crucifix, which had once so strongly affected her, but now was merely a work of art, a subject for admiration perhaps, but not for love or enthusiasm. of these there was no trace in her eyes, only apathy, weariness, despondence. "lock the outer door. i want no spies," she said in a low voice which alarmed her daughter; "now come and sit close to me in this chair. i will speak in my own language. none but you and i understand it here now." "it is well, mother mine," replied her daughter, speaking also in spanish; "but i wish it were equally well with you." "it will never be well with me again, and the time will be long before it can be well with you. i have doubted for days about telling you, my child, because i am loth to grieve you. but the silence upon this matter is very bitter to me; moreover it is needful that you should know, in case of my obtaining the blessed release, that you also be not triumphed over. it is of that unholy outrage i must speak. long has it been a black mystery to us. but i understand it now--alas, i cannot help understanding it!" inez trembled exceedingly; but her mother, though deadly pale, was calm. both face and voice were under stern control, and there were no dramatic gestures. "never admit him within these doors, if i am not here to bar them. never take his hand, never listen to his voice, never let your eyes rest upon his face. never give him a crust, though he starve in a ditch; never let him be buried with holy rites. as he has treated my dear husband, so shall god treat him, when he is dead. it is for this reason that i tell you. if you loved your father, remember it." "but who is it, mother? what man is this, who has abandoned his soul to the evil one? make me sure of his name, that i may obey you." "the man who has done it is my own twin-brother, rodrigo, count de varcas: rodrigo, the accursed one." the spanish lady clasped her hands, and fell back against the wall, and dropped her eyes; as if the curse were upon her also, for being akin to the miscreant. her daughter could find no words, and was in doubt of believing her own ears. "yes, i know well what i am saying;" lady waldron began again with some contempt. "i am strong enough. offer me nothing to smell. shall i never die? i ought to have died, before i knew this, if there were any mercy in heaven. that my twin-brother, my own twin-brother, the one i have loved and laboured for, and even insulted my own good husband, because he would not bow down to him--not for any glory, revenge, or religion, but for the sake of grovelling money--oh inez, my child, that he should have done this!" "but how do you know that he has done it? has he made any confession, mother? surely it is possible to hope against it, unless he himself has said so." "he has not himself said so. he never does. to accuse himself is no part of his habits, but rather to blame every other. and such is his manner that every one thinks he must be right and his enemies wrong. but to those who have experience of him, the question is often otherwise. you remember that very--very faithful gentleman, who came to us, about a month ago?" "mother, can you mean that man, arrogant but low, who consumed all my dear father's boxes of cigars, and called himself señor josé quevedo, and expected even me to salute him as of kin?" "hush, my child! he is your uncle's foster-brother, and trusted by him in everything. you know that i have in the journals announced my desire to hear from my beloved brother--beloved alas too much, and vainly. i was long waiting, i was yearning, having my son in the distance, and you who went against me in everything, to embrace and be strengthened by my only brother. what other friend had i on earth? and in answer to my anxiety arrives that man, sedate, mysterious, not to be doubted, but regarded as a lofty cavalier. i take him in, i trust him, i treat him highly, i remember him as with my brother always in the milky days of childhood, although but the son of a well-intentioned peasant. and then i find what? that he has come for money--for money, which has always been the bane of my only and well-born brother, for the very dismal reason that he cannot cling to it, and yet must have both hands filled with it for ever. inez, do you attend to me?" "mother, i am doing so, with all my ears; and with all my heart as well i heed. but these things surprise me much, because i have always heard from you that my uncle rodrigo was so noble, so chivalrous, so far above all englishmen, by reason of the grandeur of his spirit." "and in that style will he comport himself, upon most of life's occasions, wherein money does not act as an impediment. of that character is he always, while having more than he can spend of it. but let him see the necessity, and the compulsion to deny himself, too near to him approaching, and he will not possess that loftiness of spirit, and benevolence universal. departing from his larger condition of mind, he will do things which honour does not authorise. things unworthy of the mighty barcas, from whom he is descended. but the barcas have often been strong and wicked; which is much better than weak and base." her ladyship paused, as in contemplation of the sterling nobility of her race, and apparently derived some comfort from the strong wickedness of the barcas. "mother, i hope that it is not so." nicie's view of excellence was milder. "you are strong but never wicked. i am not strong; but on the other hand, i trust, that i am not weak and base." "you never can tell what you can do. you may be most wicked of the wicked yet. those english girls, that are always good, are braised vegetables without pepper. the only one i ever saw to approve, was the one who was so rude to me. how great her indignation was! she is worthy to be of andalusia." "but why should so wicked a thing be done--so horrible even from a stranger?" the flashing of nicie's dark eyes was not unworthy of andalusia. "how could the meanest greed of money be gratified by such a deed?" "in this manner, if i understand aright. during the time of the french invasion, just before our marriage, the junta of our city had to bear a great part of the burden of supporting and paying our brave troops. they fell into great distress for money, which became scarcer and scarcer, from the terrible war, and the plundering. all lovers of their country came with both hands full of treasure; and among them my father contributed a loan of noble magnitude, which has impaired for years to come the fortunes of our family. for not a _peseta_ will ever be repaid, inasmuch as there was no security. when all they could thus obtain was spent, and the richest men would advance no more, without prospect of regaining it, the junta (of which my father was a member) contrived that the city should combine with them in pledging its revenues, which were large, to raise another series of loans. and to obtain these with more speed, they appealed to the spirit of gambling; which is in the hearts of all men, but in different forms and manners. "one loan that was promulgated thus amounted to , dollars, contributed in twenty shares of , dollars each: and every share was to have a life of not less than fifteen years in age appointed to represent it. no money was to be repaid; but the interest to accumulate, until nineteen out of those twenty lives became extinct, and thereupon the whole was to go to the last survivor, and by that time it would be a very large sum. i believe that the scheme came from the french, who are wonderfully clever in such calculations; whereas finance is not of us. do you seem to yourself to understand it?" "not very much, but to some extent. i have read of a wheel of life; and this appears to me to be a kind of wheel of death." "so it is, my child. you can scarcely be so stupid, as you have been described to me. i am not too strong of the arithmetic science, though in other ways not wanting. you will see, that there was a royal treasure thus, increasing for the one who should deserve it, by having more of life than the nineteen others, and acquiring it thus, for the time he had to come. that kind of lottery, coming from paris, was adopted by other governments, under the title of _tontine_, i think. my dear father, who was a warm patriot, but unable to contribute more without hope of return, accepted two of those five thousand dollar shares, and put into one the name of my brother, and into the other that of my dear husband, then about to be: because those two were young, while himself was growing old. your father has spoken to me of his share, several times, as it became of greater value; and he provided for it in his will, supposing that he should ever become the possessor, although he approved not of any kind of gambling. "if you can represent to yourself that scheme, you will see that each share was enlarged in prospect, as the others failed of theirs by death; and, of the twenty lives appointed, the greater part vanished rapidly; many by war, and some by duels, and others by accident and disease; until it appears--though we knew it not--that your father and your uncle rodrigo were the sole survivors. your father and i kept no watch upon it, being at such a distance; but now i have learned that your uncle has been exceedingly acute and vigilant, having no regard for your dear father, and small affection, i fear, for me; but a most passionate devotion to the huge treasure now accumulated upon heavy interest, and secured by the tolls of the city. "i am grieved by discovering from this man quevedo, that your uncle has been watching very keenly everything that has happened here; he has employed an agent, whose name i could not by any means extort from quevedo, and not contented with his reports, but excited by the tidings of your father's ill-health, he has even been present in these parts himself, to reconnoitre for himself; for he is capable of speaking english, even better than i do. quevedo is very cautious; but by plying him with spanish wine, such as he cannot procure in spain, feigning also to be on his side, i extorted from him more than he wished to part with. no suspicion had i, while he was here, that his master was guilty of the black disgrace thus inflicted upon us: or can you imagine that i would allow that man to remain in the house of the outraged one? and quevedo himself either feigns, or possesses, total ignorance of this vile deed." "but, mother dear, how did this suspicion grow upon you? and for what purpose--if i may inquire--was that man quevedo sent to you?" "he was sent with two objects. to obtain my signature to an attested declaration as to the date of your father's death; and in the second place to borrow money for the support of your uncle's claim. it could not be expected that the city would discharge so vast a sum (more than five hundred thousand crowns they say) without interposing every possible obstacle and delay; and our family, through your uncle's conduct, has lost all the influence it possessed when i was young. i am pleased to think now that he must be disappointed with the very small sum which i advanced, in my deep disgust at discovering, that at the very time when i was sighing and languishing for his support, he was at my very doors, but through his own selfish malignity avoided his twin-sister. quevedo meant not to have told me that. but alas! i extorted it from him, after a slip of his faithful tongue. for you know, i believe, that your father and uncle were never very friendly. my brother liked not that i should wed an englishman; all men of this nation he regarded with contempt, boasting as they did in our country, where we permitted them to come and fight. but you have never been told, my child, that the scar upon your dear father's face was inflicted by your uncle's sword, employed (as i am ashamed to confess) in an unfair combat. upon recovering from the stealthy blow, your father in his great strength could have crushed him to death, for he was then a stripling; but for my sake he forbore. it has been concealed from you. there is no concealment now." "oh, mother, how savage and ignominious also! i wonder that you ever could desire to behold such a man again; and that you could find it in your heart to receive his envoy kindly." "many years have passed since then, my child. and we have a saying, 'to a fellow-countryman forgive much, and to a brother everything.' your father had forgiven him, before the wound was healed. much more slowly did i forgive. and, but for this matter, never would i have spoken." "oh, mother dear, you have had much sorrow! i have never considered it, as i should have done. a child is like an egg, as you say in spain, that demands all the warmth for itself, and yields none. yet am i surprised, that knowing so much of him, you still desired his presence, and listened to the deceits of his messenger. but you have wisdom; and i have none. tell me then what he had to gain, by an outrage hateful to a human being, and impossible to a christian." "it is not clear, my child, to put it to your comprehension. the things that are of great power with us are not in this country so copious. we are loftier. we are more friendly with the great powers that reside above. in every great enterprise, we feel what would be their own sentiments; though not to be explained by heretical logic. your uncle has never been devoted to the church, and has profited little by her teaching; but he is not estranged from her so much, that he need in honour hesitate to have use and advantage from her charitable breast. for she loves every one, even those who mock her, with feeble imitation of her calls." "mother, but hitherto you have cared little or nothing for holy church. you have allowed me to wander from her; and my mind is the stronger for the exercise. why then this new zeal and devotion?" "inez, the reason is very simple; although you may not understand it yet. we love the institutions that make much of us, even when we are dead, and comfort our bodies with ceremonies, and the weepers with reasons for smiling. this heretic corporation, to which mr. penniloe belongs, has many good things imitated from us; but does not understand itself. therefore, it is not a power in the land, to govern the law, or to guide great actions of property and of behaviour, as the holy catholic church can do, in the lands where she has not been deposed. knowing how such things are with us, your uncle (as i am impelled to believe), having plenty of time for preparation, had arranged to make one master-stroke, towards this great object of his life. at once to bring all the ecclesiastics to his side with fervour, and before the multitude to prove his claim in a manner the most dramatic. "behold it thus, as upon a stage! the whole city is agitated with the news, and the immensity of his claim. the young men say that it is just to pay it, if it can be proved, for the honour of the city. but the old men shake their heads, and ask where is the money to come from; what new tolls can be imposed; and who can believe a thing, that must be proved by the oaths of foreign heretics? "lo there appears the commanding figure of the count de varcas before the great cathedral doors; behind him a train of sailors bear the body of the great british warrior, well-known among the elder citizens by his lofty stature and many wounds, renowned among the younger as a mighty hero. the bishop, archbishop, and all powers of the church (being dealt with privately beforehand) are moved to tears by this act of grace, this manifest conversion of a noble briton, claiming the sacred rites of _campo santo_, and not likely to enjoy them without much munificence, when that most righteous claim upon the seculars is paid. dares any one to doubt identity? behold, upon the finger of the departed one, is the very ring with which the city's benefactor sealed his portion of the covenant; and which he presented to his son-in-law, as a holy relic of his ancient family, upon betrothal to his daughter. "thereupon arises the universal cry--'redeem the honour of the city.' a few formalities still remain; one of which is satisfied by the arrival of quevedo with my deposition. the noble count, the descendant of the barcas, rides in a chariot extolled by all, and scatters a few _pesetas_ of his half a million dollars. it was gained by lottery, it goes by gambling; in six months he is penniless again. he has robbed his brother's grave in vain. for another hundred dollars, he would rob his twin-sister's." "oh, mother, it is horrible! too horrible to be true. and yet how it clears up everything! and even so, how much better it is, than what we supposed, and shuddered at! but have you any evidence beyond suspicion? if it is not unbecoming, i would venture to remind you, that you have already in your mind condemned another, whose innocence is now established." "nay, not established, except to minds that are, like mine, full of charity. it is not impossible, that he may have joined my brother--oh that i should call him so!--in this abominable enterprise. i say it not, to vex you in your lofty faith. but it would have made that enterprise far easier to arrange. and if a noble spaniard can stoop thus, why should not a common englishman?" "because he is a gentleman;" cried nicie, rising with a flash of indignation, "which a nobleman sometimes is not. and since you have spoken thus, i doubt the truth of your other accusation. but that can very soon be put to the test, by making enquiry on the spot. if what you suppose has happened at all, it must be of public knowledge there. have you sent any one to enquire about it?" "not yet. i have not long seen things clearly. only since that quevedo left, it has come upon me by reasoning. neither do i know of any trusty person. it must be one faithful to the family, and careful of its reputation; for the disgrace shall never be known in this cold england. remember therefore, i say, that you speak no word, not even to mr. penniloe, or dr. fox, of this conclusion forced upon me. if in justice to others we are compelled to avow that the deed was of the family, we must declare that it was of piety and high religious feeling, and strictly conceal that it was of sordid lucre." "but mother, they may in the course of their own enquiries discover how it was at last. the last things ascertained tend that way. and if they should find any trace of ship----" "i have given orders to drop all further searches. and you must use your influence with--with all you have any sway upon, that nothing more shall be done at present. of course you will not supply the reason; but say that it has been so arranged. now go, my child; i have talked too long. my strength is not as it was, and i dwell most heavily on the better days. but one thing i would enjoin upon you. until i speak again of that which i have seen in my own mind, to its distress and misery, ask me no more about it, neither in any way refer to it. the lord,--who is not of this church, or that, but looks down upon us from the crucifix,--he can pity and protect us. but you will be glad that i have told you this; because it will devour me the less." chapter xxxii. pleadings. "but it will devour me the more. my mother cannot love me;" the poor girl was obliged to think, as she sat in her lonely room again. "she has laid this heavy burden on me; and i am to share it with no one. does she suppose that i feel nothing, and am wholly absorbed in love-proceedings, forgetting all duty to my father? sometimes i doubt almost whether jemmy fox is worthy of my affection. i am not very precious. i know that--the lesson is often impressed upon me--but i know that i am simple, and loving, and true; and he takes me too much for granted. if he were noble, and could love with all his heart, would he be so hard upon his sister, for liking a man, who is her equal in everything but money? the next time i see him, i will try him about that. if a man is noble, as i understand the word, he will be noble for others, as well as for himself. uncle penniloe is the only real nobleman i know; because to him others are equal to himself." this was only a passing mood, and not practical enough to be permanent. however it was the prevailing one, when in came jemmy fox himself. that young doctor plumed himself upon his deep knowledge of the fairer sex; and yet like the rest of mankind who do so, he showed little of that knowledge in his dealings with them. in the midst of so many doubts and fears, and with a miserable sense of loneliness, miss waldron was in "a high-strung condition"--as ladies themselves describe it--though as gentle and affectionate as ever. she was gazing at little pet _pixie_, and wondering in her self-abasement, whether there is any human love so deep, devoted, and everlasting (while his little life endures) as that of an ordinary dog. _pixie_, the pug-dog, sitting at her feet was absorbed in wistful watching, too sure that his mistress was plunged in trouble, beyond the reach of his poor mind, but not perhaps beyond the humble solace of such a yearning heart. in this interchange of tender feelings, a still more tender vein was touched. "squeak!" went _pixie_, with a jump, and then a long eloquence of yelp and howl proved that he partook too deeply of the woe he had prayed to share. a heavy riding-boot had crushed his short but sympathetic tail--the tail he was so fond of chasing as a joyful vision, but now too mournfully and materially his own! dr. fox, with a cheerful smile, as if he had done something meritorious, gazed into nicie's sparkling eyes. perhaps he expected a lovely kiss, after his long absence. "why, you don't seem to care a bit for what you have done!" cried the young girl, almost repelling him. "allow me to go to my wounded little dear. oh you poor little persecuted pet, what did they do to you? was his lovely taily broken? oh the precious little martyr, that he should have come to this! did a monstrous elephant come, and crush his darling life out? give his missy a pretty kiss, with the great tears rolling on his cheek." "well, i wish you'd make half as much fuss about me;" said fox, with all the self-command that could well be expected. "you haven't even asked me how i am!" "oh, i beg your pardon then;" she answered, looking up at him, with the little dog's nose cuddled into her neck, and his short sobs puffing up the golden undergrowth of her darkly-clustering hair. "yes, to be sure, i should have asked that. it was very forgetful of me. but his poor tail seems to be a little easier now; and the vigour of your step shows how well you have come back to us." "well, more than welcome, i am afraid. i can always make allowance for the humours of young ladies; and i know how good and sweet you are. but i think you might have been glad to see me." "not when you tread upon my dear dog's tail, and laugh in my face afterwards, instead of being very sorry. i should have begged pardon, if i had been so clumsy as to tread upon a dog of yours." "dogs are all very well, in their way; but they have no right to get into our way. this poor little puggie's tail is all right now. shake hands, puggie. why, look! he has forgiven me." "that shows how wonderfully kind he is, and how little he deserves to be trodden on. but i will not say another word about that; only you might have been sorrier. their consciences are so much better than ours. he is licking your hand, as if he had done the wrong. your sister agreed with me about their nobility. how is darling christie?" "everybody is a darling, except me to-day! christie is well enough. she always is; except when she goes a cropper out of a trap, and knocks young men's waistcoat-buttons off." "how coarsely you put it, when you ought to be most thankful to the gentleman who rescued her, when you left her at the mercy of a half-wild horse!" "i don't know what to make of you to-day, miss waldron. have i done anything to offend you? you are too just and sensible, and--gentle, i should like to say--not to know that you have put an entirely wrong construction upon that little accident with farrant's old screw. it was christie's own fault, every bit of it. she thought herself a grand whip, and she came to grief; as girls generally do, when they are bumptious." "you seem to have a great contempt for girls, dr. fox. what have the poor things done to offend you so?" "somebody must have been speaking against me. i'd give a trifle to know who it is. i have always been accustomed to reasonable treatment." "there now, his dear little tail is better! little _pixie_ loves me so. little _pixie_ never tells somebody that she is an unreasonable creature. little _pixie_ is too polite for that." "well, i think i had better be off for the day. i have heard of people getting out of bed the wrong side; and you can't make it right all the day, when that has happened. miss waldron, i must not go away without saying that my sister sends you her very best love. i was to be sure to remember that." "oh, thank you, dr. fox! your sister is always so very sweet and considerate. and i hope she has also been allowed to send it where it is due, a thousand times as much as here." "where can that be? at the rectory, i suppose. yes, she has not forgotten mr. penniloe. she is not at all fickle in her likings." "now that is a very fine quality indeed, as well as a very rare one. and another she has, and will not be driven from it; and i own that i quite agree with her. she does not look down upon other people, and think that they belong to another world, because they are not so well off in this one as she is. a gentleman is a gentleman, in her judgment, and is not to be cast by, after many kind acts, merely because he is not made of money." "ah, now i see what all this comes to!" exclaimed fox, smiling pleasantly. "well, i am quite open to a little reasoning there, because the whole thing is so ridiculous. now put it to yourself; how would you like to be a sort of son-in-law to good mother gilham's green coal-scuttle? a coal-scuttle should make one grateful, you will say. hear, hear! not at all a bad pun that; though quite involuntary." "the bonnet may be behind the age, or in front of it, i know not which;" said nicie, very resolute to show no smile; "but a better and sweeter old face never looked----" "a better horse never looked out of a bridle. it is bridle, and blinkers, and saddle, all in one." "it is quite useless trying to make me laugh." her voice however belied her; and _pixie_ watching her face began to wag the wounded tail again. "your sister, who knows what bonnets are, to which you can have no pretension, is well acquainted with the sterling value----" "oh come, i am sure it would not fetch much now, though it may have cost two guineas, or more, in the days before 'my son frank' was born." "really, jemmy, you are too bad, when i want to talk seriously." "so long as i am 'jemmy' once more, i don't care how bad i am." "that was a slip. but you must listen to me. i will not be laughed off from saying what i think. do you suppose that it is a joking matter for poor frank gilham?" "i don't care a copper for his state of mind, if chris is not fool enough to share it. the stupid fellow came to me this morning, and instead of trying to smoothe me down, what does he do but blow me up sky-high! you should have heard him. he never swore at all, but gave utterance to the noblest sentiments--just because they were in his favour." "then i admire him for it. it was very manly of him. why were all large ideas in his favour? just because the small ones are on your side. i suppose, you pretend to care for me?" "no pretence about it. all too true. and this is what i get done to me?" "but how would you like my brother to come and say--'i disapprove of dr. fox. i forbid you to say another word to him'? would you recognize his fraternal right in the matter, and go away quietly?" "hardly that. i should leave it to you. and if you held by me, i should snap my fingers at him." "of course you would. and so would anybody else; frank gilham among the number. and your sister--is she to have no voice, because you are a roaring lion? surely her parents, and not her brother, should bar the way, if it must be barred. just think of yourself, and ask yourself how your own law would fit you." "the cases are very different, and you know it as well as i do. frank gilham is quite a poor man; and, although he is not a bad kind of fellow, his position in the world is not the same as ours." "that may be so. but if christie loves him, and is quite content with his position in the world, and puts up with the coal-scuttle--as you call it--and he is a good man and true, and a gentleman, are they both to be miserable, to please you? and more than that--you don't know christie. if frank gilham shows proper courage, and is not afraid of mean imputations, no one will ask your leave, i think." "well, i shall have done my best; and if i cannot stop it, let them rue the day. her father and mother would never allow it; and as i am responsible for the whole affair, and cannot consult them, as things are now, i am bound to act in their place, i think. but never mind that. one may argue for ever, and a girl in a moment can turn the tables on the cleverest man alive. let us come back to our own affairs. i have some news which ought to please you. by rare good luck i have hit upon the very two men who were employed upon that awful business. i shall have them soon, and then we shall know all about this most mysterious case. by george, it shall go hard indeed with the miscreant who plotted it." "oh don't--oh don't! what good can it be?" cried nicie, trembling, and stammering. "it will kill my mother; i am sure it will. i implore you not to go on with it." "what!" exclaimed fox with amazement. "you to ask me, you his only daughter, to let it be so--to hush up the matter--to submit to this atrocious wrong! and your father--it is the last thing i ever should have thought to hear." in shame and terror she could not speak, but quailed before his indignant gaze, and turned away from him with a deep low sob. "my darling, my innocent dear," he cried in alarm at her bitter anguish; "give me your hand; let me look at your face. i know that no power on earth would make you do a thing that you saw to be shameful. i beg your pardon humbly, if i spoke too harshly. you know that i would not vex you, inez, and beyond any doubt you can explain this strange--this inconceivable thing. you are sure to have some good reason for it." "yes, you would say so if you knew all. but not now--i dare not; it is too dreadful. it is not for myself. if i had my own way--but what use? i dare not even tell you that. for the present, at least for the present, do nothing. if you care about me at all, i beg you not to do what would never be forgiven. and my mother is in such a miserable state, so delicate, so frail, and helpless! do for my sake, do show this once, that you have some affection for me." nicie put her soft hand on his shoulder, and pleaded her cause with no more words, but a gaze of such tenderness and sweet faith, that he could not resist it. especially as he saw his way to reassure her, without departing from the plan he had resolved upon. "i will do anything, my pretty dove," he said with a noble surrender; "to relieve your precious and trustful heart. i will even do this, if it satisfies you--i will take no steps for another month, an entire month from this present time. i cannot promise more than that, now can i, for any bewitchment? and in return, you must pledge yourself to give your mother not even a hint of what i have just told you. it would only make her anxious, which would be very bad for her health, poor thing; and she has not the faith in me, that you have. she must not even dream that i have heard of those two villains." this was a bright afterthought of his; for if lady waldron should know of his discovery, she might contrive to inform them, that he had his eye upon them. "oh, how good you are!" cried nicie. "i can never thank you enough, dear jemmy; and it must appear so cruel of me, to ask you to forego so long the chance of shaming those low people, who have dared to belie you so." "what is a month, compared to you?" jemmy asked, with real greatness. "but if you feel any obligation, you know how to reward me, dear." nicie looked at him, with critical eyes; and then as if reckless of anything small, flung both arms round his neck, and kissed him. "oh it is so kind, so kind of him!" she declared to herself, to excuse herself; while he thought it was very kind of her. and she, being timid of her own affection, loved him all the more for not encroaching on it. jemmy rode away in a happy frame of mind. he loved that beautiful maiden, and he was assured of her love for him. he knew that she was far above him, in the gifts of nature, and the bloom that beautifies them--the bloom that is not of the cheeks alone, but of the gentle dew of kindness, and the pearl of innocence. fox felt a little ashamed of himself, for a trifle of sharp practice; but his reason soon persuaded him, that his conscience was too ticklish. and that is a thing to be stopped at once. while jogging along in this condition, on the road towards pumpington, he fell in with another horseman less inclined to cheerfulness. this was farmer stephen horner, a younger brother of farmer john, a less substantial, and therefore perhaps more captious agriculturist. he was riding a very clever cob, and looked both clever and smart himself, in his bottle-green cutaway coat, red waistcoat, white cord breeches and hard brown hat. striking into the turnpike road from a grass-track skirting the beacon hill, he hailed the doctor, and rode beside him. "heard the news, have 'e?" asked farmer steve, as his fat calves creaked against the saddle-flaps within a few inches of jemmy's, and their horses kept step, like a dealer's pair. "but there--come to think of it, i be a fool for asking, and you always along of passon so?" "only came home yesterday. haven't seen him yet," the doctor answered briskly. "haven't heard anything particular. nothing the matter with him, i hope?" "not him, sir, so much as what he've taken up. hath made up his mind, so people say, to abolish our old fair to perlycross." farmer steve watched the doctor's face. he held his own opinion, but he liked to know the other's first. moreover he owed him a little bill. "but surely he cannot do that;" said fox, who cared not a jot about the fair, but thought of his own concern with it. "why, it was granted by charter, i believe, hundreds of years ago; when perlycross was a much larger place, and the main road to london passed through it, as the pack-saddle teams do still sometimes." "so it were, sir, so it were. many's the time when i were a boy, i have read of magner charter, and the time as they starved the king in the island, afore the old yew-tree come on our old tower. but my brother john, he reckoneth as he knoweth everything; and he saith our market-place belongeth to the dean and chapter, and fair was granted to church, he saith, and so church can abolish it. but i can't see no sense in that. why, it be outside of church railings altogether. now you are a learned man, doctor fox. and if you'll give me your opinion, i can promise 'e, it shan't go no further." "the plain truth is," replied jemmy, knowing well that if his opinion went against the parson, it would be all over the parish by supper-time, "i have never gone into the subject, and i know nothing whatever about it. but we all know the fair has come down to nothing now. there has not been a beast there for the last three years, and nothing but a score of pigs, and one pen of sheep last year. it has come to be nothing but a pleasure-fair, with a little show of wrestling, and some singlestick play, followed by a big bout of drinking. still i should have thought there would be at least a twelvemonth's notice, and a public proclamation." "so say i, sir; and the very same words i used to my brother john, last night. john horner is getting a'most too big, with his churchwarden, and his hundred pounds, he had better a' kept for his family. let 'un find out who have robbed his own churchyard, afore 'a singeth out again' a poor man's glass of ale. i don't hold with john in all things; though a' hath key pianner for's dafters, and addeth field to field, same as rich man in the bible laid up treasure for his soul this night. i tell you what, doctor, and you may tell john horner--i likes old things, for being old; though there may be more bad than good in them. what harm, if a few chaps do get drunk, and the quarrelsome folks has their heads cracked? they'd only go and do it somewhere else, if they was stopped of our place. passon be a good man as ever lived, and wonnerful kind to the poor folk. but a' beginneth to have his way too much; and all along of my brother john. to tell you the truth, doctor, i couldn't bear the job about that old tombstone, to memory of squire jan toms, and a fine piece of poetry it were too. leap-frogged it, hundreds and hundreds of times, when i were a boy, i have; and so has my father and grandfather afore me; and why not my sons, and my grandsons too, when perhaps my own standeth 'longside of 'un? i won't believe a word of it, but what thic old ancient stone were smashed up a' purpose, by order of passon penniloe. tell 'e what, doctor, thic there channging of every mortial thing, just for the sake of channging, bain't the right way for to fetch folks to church; 'cordin' at least to my mind. why do us go to church? why, because can't help it; 'long of wives and children, when they comes, and lookin' out for 'un, when the children was ourselves. turn the bottom up, sir, and what be that but custom, same as one generation requireth from another? and to put new patches on it, and be proud of them, is the same thing as tinker did to wife's ham-boiler--drawed the rivets out, and made 'un leak worse than ever. not another shilling will they patchers get from me." farmer steve sat down in his saddle, and his red waistcoat settled down upon the pommel. his sturdy cob also laid down his ears, and stubborn british sentiment was in every line of both of them. "well, i won't pretend to say about the other matters;" said fox, who as an englishman could allow for obstinacy. "but, farmer, i am sure that you are wrong about the tombstone. parson did not like it, and no wonder. but he is not the man to do things crookedly. he would have moved it openly, or not at all. it was quite as much an accident, as if your horse put his foot upon a nut and cracked it." "well, sir, well, sir, we has our own opinions. oh, you have paid the pike for me! thank 'e, doctor. i'll pay yours, next time we come this way together." the story of the tombstone war simply this. john toms, a rollicking cavalier of ancient devonshire lineage, had lived and died at perlycross, nearly two centuries agone. his grave was towards the great southern porch, and there stood his headstone large and bold, confronting the faithful at a corner where two causeways met. thus every worshipper, who entered the house of prayer by its main approach, was invited to reflect upon the fine qualities of this gentleman, as recorded in large letters. to a devout mind this might do no harm; but all perlycross was not devout, and many a light thought was suggested, or perhaps an untimely smile produced, by this too sprightly memorial. "a spirited epitaph that, sir," was the frequent remark of visitors. "but scarcely conceived in a proper spirit," was the parson's general reply. the hideous western gallery, the parish revel called the fair, and this unseemly tombstone, had been sore tribulations to the placed mind of penniloe; and yet he durst not touch that stone, sacred not to memory only, but to vested rights, and living vein of local sentiment. however the fates were merciful. "very sad accident this morning, sir. i do hope you will try to forgive us, mr. penniloe," said robson adney, the manager of the works, one fine october morning, and he said it with a stealthy wink; "seven of our chaps have let our biggest scaffold-pole, that red one, with a butt as big as a milestone, roll off their clumsy shoulders, and it has smashed poor squire toms' old tombstone into a thousand pieces. never read a word of it again, sir--such a sad loss to the churchyard! but quite an accident, sir, you know; purely a casual accident." the curate looked at him, but he "smiled none"--as another tombstone still expresses it; and if charity compelled mr. penniloe to believe him, gratitude enforced another view; for adney well knew his dislike of that stone, and was always so eager to please him. but that every one who so desires may judge for himself, whether farmer steve was right, or parson penniloe, here are the well-remembered lines that formed the preface to divine worship in the parish of perlycross. "'halloa! who lieth here?' 'i, old squire jan toms.' 'what dost lack?' 'a tun of beer, for a tipple with them fantoms.'" chapter xxxiii. the schoolmaster abroad. "boys, here's a noise!" sergeant jakes strode up and down the long schoolroom on friday morning, flapping his empty sleeve, and swinging that big cane with the tuberous joints, whose taste was none too saccharine. that well-known ejaculation, so expressive of stern astonishment, had for the moment its due effect. curly heads were jerked back, elbows squared, sniggers were hushed, the munch of apples (which had been as of milching kine) stuck fast, or was shunted into bulging cheek; never a boy seemed capable of dreaming that there was any other boy in the world besides himself. scratch of pens, and grunts of mental labour, were the only sounds in this culmination of literature, known as "copy-exercise." as achilles, though reduced to a ghost, took a longer stride at the prowess of his son; and as deep joys, on a similar occasion, pervaded latona's silent breast; even so high-jarks sucked the top of his cane, and felt that he had not lived in vain. there are many men still hearty--though it is so long ago--who have led a finer life, through that man's higher culture. but presently--such is the nature of human nature, in its crude probation--the effect of that noble remonstrance waned. silence (which is itself a shadow, cast by death upon life perhaps) began to flicker--as all dulness should--with the play of small ideas moving it. little timid whispers, a cane's length below the breath, and with the heart shuffling out of all participation; and then a tacit grin that was afraid to move the molars, and then a cock of eye, that was intended to involve (when a bigger eye was turned away) its mighty owner; and then a clink of marbles in a pocket down the leg; and then a downright joke, of such very subtle humour, that it stole along the bench through funnel'd hands; and then alas, a small boy of suicidal levity sputtered out a laugh, which made wiser wigs stand up! his crime was only deepened by ending in sham cough; and sad to say, the very boy who had made the fatal joke (instead of being grateful for reckless approbation) stood up and pointed an unmanly finger at him. the sergeant's keen eye was upon them both; and a tremble ran along the oak, that bore many tempting aptitudes for the vindication of ethics. but the sergeant bode his time. his sense of justice was chivalrous. let the big boy make another joke. "boys, here's a noise, again!" those who have not had the privilege of the sergeant's lofty discipline can never understand--far less convey--the significance of his second shout. it expressed profound amazement, horror at our fallen state, incredulity of his own ears, promptitude to redress the wrong, and yet a pathetic sorrow at the impending grim necessity. the boys knew well that his second protest never ascended to heaven in vain; and the owners of tender quarters shrank, and made ready to slide beneath the protection of their bench. other boys, with thick corduroys, quailed for the moment, and closed their mouths; but what mouth was ever closed permanently, by the opening of another? "now you shall have it, boys," the sergeant thundered, as the uproar waxed beyond power of words. "any boy slipping out of stroke shall have double cuts for cowardice. stop the ends up. all along both rows of benches; i am coming, i am coming!" "oh sir, please sir, 'twadn' me, sir! 'twor all along o' bill cornish, sir." he had got this trimmer by the collar, and his cane swung high in air, when the door was opened vigorously, and a brilliant form appeared. brilliant, less by its own merits, than by brave embellishment, as behoves a youth ascending stairs of state from page to footman, and mounting upward, ever upward, to the vinous heights of butlerhood. for this was bob cornish, bill's elder brother; and he smiled at the terrors of the hurtling cane, compulsive but a year ago, of tears. with a dignity already imbibed from binstock, this young man took off his hat, and employing a spare slate as a tray, presented a letter with a graceful bow. he was none too soon, but just in time. the weapon of outraged law came down, too lightly to dust a jacket; and the smiter, wonder-smitten, went to a desk, and read as follows. "lady waldron will be much obliged if sergeant jakes will come immediately in the vehicle sent with the bearer of this letter. let no engagement forbid this. mr. penniloe has kindly consented to it." the roof resounded with shouts of joy, instead of heavy wailing, as the sergeant at once dismissed the school; and in half an hour he entered the business-room at walderscourt, and there found the lady of the house, looking very resolute, and accompanied by her daughter. "soldier jakes will take a chair. see that the door is closed, my child, and no persons lingering near it. now, inez, will you say to this brave soldier of your father's regiment, what we desire him to undertake, if he will be so faithful; for the benefit of his colonel's family; also for the credit of this english country." this was clever of my lady. she knew that the veteran's liking was not particularly active for herself, or any of the spanish nation; but that he had transferred his love and fealty of so many years, to his officer's gentle daughter. any request from nicie would be almost as sacred a command to him, as if it had come from her father. he stood up, made a low bow followed by a military salute, and gazed at the sweet face he loved so well. "it is for my dear father's sake; and i am as sure as he himself would be," miss waldron spoke with tears in her eyes, and a sad smile on her lips that would have moved a heart much harder than this veteran's, "that you will not refuse to do us a great, a very great service, if you can. and we have nobody we can trust like you; because you are so true, and brave." the sergeant rose again, and made another bow even deeper than the former one; but instead of touching his grizzled locks he laid his one hand on his heart; and although by no means a gushing man, he found it impossible to prevent a little gleam, like the upshot of a well, quivering under his ferny brows. "we would not ask you even so," continued nicie, with a grateful glance, "if it were not that you know the place, and perhaps may find some people there still living to remember you. when my father lay wounded at the house of my grandfather, and was in great danger of his life, you, being also disabled for a time, were allowed at his request to remain with him, and help him. will you go to that place again, to do us a service no one else can do?" "to the end of the world, miss, without asking why. but the lord have mercy on all them boys! whatever will they do without me?" "we will arrange about all that, with mr. penniloe's consent. if that can be managed, will you go, at once, and at any inconvenience to yourself?" "no ill-convenience shall stop me, miss. if i thought of that twice, i should be a deserter, afore the lines of the enemy. to be of the least bit of use to you, is an honour as well as a duty to me." "i thought that you would; i was sure that you would." inez gave a glance of triumph at her less trustful mother. "and what makes us hurry you so, is the chance that has suddenly offered for your passage. we heard this morning, by an accident almost, that a ship is to sail from topsham to-morrow, bound direct for cadiz. not a large ship, but a fast-sailing vessel--a schooner i think they call it, and the captain is one of binstock's brothers. you would get there in half the time it would take to go to london, and wait about for passage, and then come all down the channel. and from cadiz you can easily get on. you know a little spanish, don't you?" "not reg'lar, miss. but it will come back again. i picked up just enough for this--i couldn't understand them much; but i could make them look as if they understanded me." "that is quite sufficient. you will have letters to three or four persons who are settled there, old servants of my grandfather. we cannot tell which of them may be alive, but may well hope that some of them are so. the old house is gone, i must tell you that. after all the troubles of the war, there was not enough left to keep it up with." "that grand old house, miss, with the pillars, and the carrots, and the arches, the same as in a picture! and everybody welcome; and you never knew if there was fifty, or a hundred in it----" "sergeant, you describe it well;" lady waldron interrupted. "there are no such mansions in this country. alas, it is gone from us for ever, because we loved our native land too well!" "not only that," said the truthful inez; "but also because the young count, as you would call him, has wasted the relics of his patrimony. and now i will explain to you the reasons for our asking this great service of you." the veteran listened with close attention, and no small astonishment, to the young lady's clear account of that great public lottery, and the gorgeous prize accruing on the death of sir thomas waldron. this was enough to tempt a ruined man to desperate measures; and jakes had some knowledge in early days of the young count's headstrong character. but if it should prove so, if he were guilty of the crime which had caused so much distress and such prolonged unhappiness, yet his sister could not bear that the sordid motive should be disclosed, at least in this part of the world. for the sake of others, it would be needful to denounce the culprit; but if the detection were managed well, no motive need be assigned at all. let every one form his own conclusion. spanish papers, and spanish news, came very sparely to devonshire; and the english public would be sure (in ignorance of that financial scheme, whose result supplied the temptation) to ascribe the assault upon protestant rites to popish contempt and bigotry. "i should tell the whole, if i had to decide it;" said nicie with the candour and simplicity of youth. "if he has done it, for the sake of nasty money, let everybody know what he has done it for." but the sergeant shook his head, and quite agreed with lady waldron. the world was quite quick enough at bad constructions, without receiving them ready-made. "leave busy-bodies to do their own buzzing;" was his oracular suggestion. "'tis a grand old family, even on your mother's side, miss;" nicie smiled a little, as her mother stared at this new comparative estimate. "and what odds to our clodhoppers what they do? a don don't look at things the same as a dung-carter; and it takes a man who knows the world to make allowance for him. the count may have done it, mind. i won't say no, until such time as i can prove it. but after all, 'tis comforting to think that it was so, compared to what we all was afraid of. why, the dear old colonel would be as happy as a king, in the place he was so nigh going to after the battle of barosa; looking down over the winding of the river, and the moon among the orange-trees, where he was a' making love!" "hush!" whispered nicie, as her mother turned away, with a trembling in her throat; and the old man saw that the memory of the brighter days had brought the shadows also. "saturday to-morrow. boys will do very well, till monday;" he came out with this abruptly, to cover his confusion. "by that time, please god, i shall be in the bay of biscay. this is what i'll do, miss, if it suits you and my lady. i'll come again to-night at nine o'clock, with my kit slung tidy, and not a word to anybody. then i can have the letters, miss, and my last orders. ship sails at noon to-morrow, name of _montilla_. mail-coach to exeter passes white post, a little after half-past ten to-night. be aboard easily, afore daylight. no, miss, thank you, i shan't want no money. passage paid to and fro. old soldier always hath a shot in the locker." "as if we should let you go, like that! you shall not go at all, unless you take this purse." that evening he received his last instructions, and the next day he sailed in the schooner _montilla_. even after the many strange events, which had by this time caused such a whirl of giddiness in perlycross, that if there had been a good crack across the street, every man and woman would have fallen headlong into it; and even before there had been leisure for people to try to tell them anyhow, to one another--much less discuss them at all as they deserved--this sudden break-up of the school, and disappearance of high jarks, would have been absolutely beyond belief, if there had not been scores of boys, too loudly in evidence everywhere. but when a chap, about four feet high, came scudding in at any door that was open, and kicking at it if it dared to be shut, and then went trying every cupboard-lock, and making sad eyes at his mother if the key was out; and then again, when he was stuffed to his buttons--which he would be, as sure as eggs are eggs--if the street went howling with his playful ways, and every corner was in a jerk with him, and no elderly lady could go along without her umbrella in front of her--how was it possible for any mother not to feel herself guilty of more harm than good? in a word, "high jarks" was justified (as all wisdom is) of his children; and the weak-minded women, who had complained that he smote too hard, were the first to find fault with the feeble measures of his substitute, vickary toogood of honiton. this gentleman came into office on monday, smiling in a very superior manner at his predecessor's arrangements. "i think we may lock up that," he said, pointing to the sergeant's little tickler; "we must be unworthy of our vocation, if we cannot dispense with such primitive tools." a burst of applause thrilled every bench; but knowing the boys of his parish so well, mr. penniloe shook his head with dubious delight. and truly before the week was out, many a time would he murmur sadly--"oh for one hour of the sergeant!" as he heard the babel of tongues outside, and entering saw the sprawling elbows, slouching shoulders, and hands in pockets, which the "apostle of moral force"--_moral farce_ was its sound and meaning here--permitted as the attitude of pupilage. "sim'th i be quite out in my reckoning;" old channing the clerk had the cheek to say, as he met the parson outside the school-door; "didn't know it were whit-monday yet." mr. penniloe smiled, but without rejoicing; he understood the reference too well. upon whit-monday the two rival benefit-clubs of the village held their feast, and did their very utmost from bridge to abbey, to out-drum, out-fife, and out-trumpet one another. neither in his house was his conscience left untouched. "i think lady waldron might have sent us a better man than that is;" mrs. muggridge observed one afternoon, when the uproar came across the road, and pierced the rectory windows. "i am not sure but what little master mike could keep better order than that is. why, the beating of the bounds was nothing to it. what could you be about, sir, to take such a man as that?" thyatira had long established full privilege of censure. "certainly there is a noise;" the curate was always candid. "but he brought the very highest credentials from the institute. we have scarcely given him fair trial yet. the system is new, you see, mrs. muggridge; and it must be allowed some time to take effect. no physical force, the moral sense appealed to, the higher qualities educed by kindness, the innate preference of right promoted and strengthened by self-exertion, the juvenile faculties to be elevated, from the moment of earliest development, by a perception of their high responsibility, and, and--well i really forget the rest, but you perceive that it amounts to----" "row, and riot, and roaring rubbish. that's what it amounts to, sir. but i beg your pardon, sir; excuse my boldness, for speaking out, upon things so far above me. but when they comes across the road, at ten o'clock in the morning, to beg for a lump of raw beefsteak, by reason of two boys getting four black eyes, in fighting across the master's desk, the new system seem not apostolical. an apostle, about as much as i am! my father was above me, and had gifts, and he put himself back, when not understanded, to the rising generation; but he never would demean himself, to send for raw beefsteak for their black eyes." "and i think he would have shown his common sense in that. what did you do, my good thyatira?" mr. penniloe had a little spice of mischief in him, which always accompanies a sub-sense of humour. "this was what i did, sir. i looked at him, and he seemed to have been in the wars himself, and to have come across, perhaps to get out of them, being one of the clever ones, as true schoolmaster sayeth, and by the same token not so thick of head; and he looked up at me, as if he was proud of it, to take me in; while the real fighting boys look down, as i know by my brother who was guilty of it; and i said to him, very quiet like--'no steak kept here for moral-force black-eyes-boys. you go to robert jakes, the brother of a man that understands his business, and tell him to enter in his books, half a pound prime-cut, for four black eyes, to the credit of vickary toogood.'" it was not only thus, but in many other ways, that the village at large shed painful tears (sadly warranted by the ears), and the church looked with scorn at the children straggling in, like a lot of dissenters going anyhow; and the cross at the meeting of the four main roads, which had been a fine stump for centuries, lost its proper coat of whitewash on candlemas-day; and the crystal perle itself began to be threaded with red from pugnacious noses. for the lesson of all history was repeated, that softness universal, and unlimited concession, set off very grandly, but come home with broken heads, to load their guns with grapnel. and what could mr. penniloe do, when some of the worst belligerents were those of his own household; upon one frontier his three pupils, and upon another, zip tremlett? pike, peckover, and mopuss, the pupils now come back again, were all very decent and law-abiding fellows, but had drifted into a savage feud with the factory boys at the bottom of the village. as they were but three against three score, it soon became unsafe for them to cross perlebridge, without securing their line of retreat. of course they looked down from a lofty height upon "cads who smelled of yarn, and even worse;" but what could moral, or even lineal excellence, avail them against the huge disparity of numbers? each of them held himself a match for any three of the enemy, and they issued a challenge upon that scale; but the paper-cap'd host showed no chivalry. on one occasion, this noble trio held the bridge victoriously against the whole force of the enemy, inflicting serious loss, and even preparing for a charge upon the mass. but the cowardly mass found a heap of road-metal, and in lack of their own filled the air with it, and the pennilovian heroes had begun to bite the dust, when luckily farmer john rode up, and saved the little force from annihilation by slashing right and left through the operative phalanx. when mr. penniloe heard of this pitched battle, he was deeply grieved; and sending for his pupils administered a severe rebuke to them. but john pike's reply was a puzzler to him. "if you please, sir, will you tell us what to do, when they fall upon us?" "endeavour to avoid them;" replied the clergyman, feeling some want of confidence however in his counsel. "so we do, sir, all we can;" pike made answer, with the aspect of a dove. "but they won't be avoided, when they think they've got enough cads together to lick us." "i should like to know one thing," enquired the hopper, striking out his calves, which were now becoming of commanding size; "are we to be called 'latin tay-kettles,' and 'parson's pups,' and then do nothing but run away?" "my father says that the road is called the king's highway;" said mopuss, who was a fat boy, with great deliberation, "because all his subjects have a right to it, but no right to throw it at one another." "i admit that a difficulty arises there;" replied mr. penniloe as gravely as he could, for mopuss was always quoting his papa, a lawyer of some eminence. "but really, my lads, we must not have any more of this. there is fault upon both sides, beyond all doubt. i shall see the factory manager to-morrow, and get him to warn his pugnacious band. i am very unwilling to confine you to these premises; but if i hear of any more pitched battles, i shall be compelled to do so, until peace has been proclaimed." here again was jakes to seek; for the fear of him lay upon the factory boys, as heavily as upon his own school-children. and perhaps as sore a point as any was that he should have been rapt away, without full reason rendered. chapter xxxiv. loyalty. "i do not consider myself at all an inquisitive man," mr. penniloe reflected, and here the truth was with him; "nevertheless it is hard upon me to be refused almost the right to speculate upon this question. they have told me that it is of the last importance, to secure this great disciplinarian--never appreciated while with us, but now deplored so deeply--for a special service in the south of spain. what that special service is, i am not to know, until his return; possibly not even then. and mr. webber has no idea what the meaning of it is. but i know that it has much to do--all to do, i might even say--with that frightful outrage of last november--three months ago, alas, alas, and a sad disgrace upon this parish still! marvellous are the visitations of the lord. practically speaking, we know but little more of that affair now, than on the day it was discovered. if it were not for one thing, i should even be driven at last to gowler's black conclusion; and my faith in the true love of a woman, and in the honesty of a proud brave woman would be shattered, and leave me miserable. but now it is evident that good and gentle nicie is acting entirely with her mother; and to imagine that she would wrong her father is impossible. perhaps i shall even get friend gowler's hundred pounds. what a triumph that would be! to obtain a large sum for the service of god from an avowed--ah well, who am i to think harshly of him? but the money might even be blest to himself; which is the first thing to consider. it is my duty to accept it therefore, if i can only get it. "and here again is jemmy fox, not behaving at all as he used to do. concealing something from me--i am almost sure of it by his manner--and discussing it, i do believe, with gronow--an intimacy that cannot be good for him. i wish i could perceive more clearly, in what points i have neglected my duty to the parish; for i seem to be losing hold upon it, which must be entirely my own fault. there must be some want of judgment somewhere--what else could lead to such very sad fighting? even zip, a little girl, disgracing us by fighting in the streets! that at any rate i can stop, and will do so pretty speedily." this was a lucky thought for him, because it led to action, instead of brooding, into which miserable condition he might otherwise have dropped. and when a man too keen of conscience hauls himself across the coals, the governor of a hot place takes advantage to peep up between them. mr. penniloe rang the bell, and begged mrs. muggridge to be good enough to send miss zippy to him. zip, who had grown at least two inches since the death of her grandmother--not in length perhaps so much as in the height she made of it--came shyly into the dusky bookroom, with one of her long hands crumpling the lower corner of her pinafore into her great brown eyes. she knew she was going to catch it, and knew also the way to meet it, for she opened the conversation with a long-drawn sob. "don't be frightened, my dear child;" said the parson with the worst of his intention waning. "i am not going to scold you much, my dear." "oh, i was so terrible afraid, you was." the little girl crept up close to him, and began to play with his buttonhole, curving her lissome fingers in and out, like rosebuds in a trellis, and looking down at the teardrops on her pinny. "plaise sir, i knows well enough as i desarves a bit of it." "then why did you do it, my dear child? but i am glad that you feel it to be wrong." the clergyman was sitting in the deep square chair, where most of his sermons came to him, and he brought his calm face down a little, to catch the expression of the young thing's eyes. suddenly she threw herself into his arms, and kissed his lips, and cheeks, and forehead, and stroked his silvery hair, and burst into a passionate wail; and then slid down upon a footstool, and nursed his foot. "do 'e know why i done that?" she whispered, looking up over his knees at him. "because there be nobody like 'e, in the heavens, or the earth, or the waters under the earth. her may be as jealous as ever her plaiseth; but i tell 'e, i don't care a cuss." "my dear little impetuous creature," mr. penniloe knew that his darling fay was the one defied thus recklessly; "i am sure that you are fond of all of us. and to please me, as well as for much higher reasons, you must never use bad words. bad deeds too i have heard of, zip, though i am not going to scold much now. but why did you get into conflict with a boy?" zip pondered the meaning of these words for a moment, and then her conscience interpreted. "because he spoke bad of 'e, about the fair." she crooked her quick fingers together as she spoke, and tore them asunder with vehemence. "and what did you do to him? eh zip? oh zip!" "nort, for to sarve 'un out, as a' desarved. only pulled most of 's hair out. his moother hurned arter me; but i got inside the ge-at." "a nice use indeed for my premises--to make them a refuge, after committing assault and battery! well, what shall we come to next?" "plaise sir, i want to tell 'e zummut;" said the child, looking up very earnestly. "bain't it perlycrass fair, come tuesday next?" "i am sorry to say that it is. a day of sad noise and uproar. remember that little zip must not go outside the gates, that day." "nor passon nayther;" the child took hold of his hand, as if she were pulling him inside the gate, for her nature was full of gestures; and then she gazed at him with a sage smile of triumph--"and passon mustn't go nayther." mr. penniloe took little heed of this (though he had to think of it afterwards) but sent the child to have her tea, with muggridge and the children. but before he could set to his work in earnest, although he had discovered much to do, in came his own child, little fay, looking round the room indignantly. with her ladylike style, she was much too grand to admit a suspicion of jealousy, but she smoothed her golden hair gently back, and just condescended to glance round the chairs. mr. penniloe said nothing, and feigned to see nothing, though getting a little afraid in his heart; for he always looked on fay as representing her dear mother. he knew that the true way to learn a child's sentiments, is to let them come out of their own accord. there is nothing more jealous than a child, except a dog. "oh, i thought darkie was here again!" said fay, throwing back her shoulders, and spinning on one leg. "this room belongs to darkie now altogether. though i can't see what right she has to it." mr. penniloe treated this soliloquy, as if he had not heard it; and went on with his work, as if he had no time to attend to children's affairs just now. "it may be right, or it may be wrong," said fay, addressing the room in general, and using a phrase she had caught up from pike, a very great favourite of hers; "but i can't see why all the people of this house should have to make way for a gipsy." this was a little too much for a father and clergyman to put up with. "fay!" said mr. penniloe in a voice that made her tremble; and she came and stood before him, contrite and sobbing, with her head down, and both hands behind her back. without raising her eyes the fair child listened, while her father spoke impressively; and then with a reckless look, she tendered full confession. "father, i know that i am very wicked, and i seem to get worse every day. i wish i was the devil altogether; because then i could not get any worse." "my little child," said her father with amazement; "i can scarcely believe my ears. my gentle little fay to use such words!" "oh, _she_ thinks nothing of saying that! and you know how fond you are of her, papa. i thought it might make you fond of me." "this must be seen to at once," thought mr. penniloe, when he had sent his jealous little pet away; "but what can i do with that poor deserted child? passionate, loving, very strong-willed, grateful, fearless, sensitive, inclined to be contemptuous, wonderfully quick at learning, she has all the elements of a very noble woman--or of a very pitiable wreck. quite unfit to be with my children, as my better judgment pronounced at first. she ought to be under a religious, large-minded, firm, but gentle woman--a lady too, or she would laugh at her. though she speaks broad devonshire dialect herself, she detects in a moment the mistakes of others, and she has a lofty contempt for vulgarity. she is thrown by the will of god upon my hands, and i should be a coward, or a heartless wretch, if i shirked the responsibility. it will almost break her heart to go from me; but go she must for her own sake, as well as that of my little ones." "how are you, sir?" cried a cheerful voice. "i fear that i interrupt you. but i knocked three or four times, and got no answer. excuse my coming in like this. can i have a little talk with you?" "certainly, dr. fox. i beg your pardon; but my mind was running upon difficult questions. let us have the candles, and then i am at your service." "now," said jemmy when they were alone again; "i dare say you think that i have behaved very badly, in keeping out of your way so long." "not badly, but strangely;" replied the parson, who never departed from the truth, even for the sake of politeness. "i concluded that there must be some reason; knowing that i had done nothing to cause it." "i should rather think not. nothing ever changes you. but it was for your sake. and now i will enlighten you, as the time is so close at hand. it appears that you have not succeeded in abolishing the fair." "not for this year. there were various formalities. but this will be the last of those revels, i believe. the proclamation will be read on tuesday morning. after this year, i hope, no more carousals prolonged far into the penitential day. it will take them by surprise; but it is better so. otherwise there would have been preparations for a revel more reckless, as being the last." "i suppose you know, sir, what bitter offence you are giving to hundreds of people all around?" "i am sorry that it should be so. but it is my simple duty." "nothing ever stops you from your duty. but i hope you will do your duty to yourself and us, by remaining upon your own premises that day." "certainly not. if i did such a thing, i should seem to be frightened of my own act. please god, i shall be in the market-place, to hear the proclamation read, and attend to my parish-work afterwards." "i know that it is useless to argue with you, sir. none of our people would dare to insult you; but one cannot be sure of outsiders. at any rate, do keep near the village, where there are plenty to defend you." "no one will touch me. i am not a hero; and i can't afford to get my new hat damaged. i shall remain among the civilized, unless i am called away." "well, that is something; though not all that i could wish. and now i will tell you why i am glad, much as i dislike the fair, that for this year at least it is to be. it is a most important date to me, and i hope it will bring you some satisfaction also. unless we manage very badly indeed, or have desperately bad luck, we shall get hold of the villains who profaned your churchyard, and through them of course find the instigator." with this preface, fox told his tale to mr. penniloe, and quite satisfied him about the reasons for concealing it so long, as well as made him see that it would not do to preach upon the subject yet. "my dear young friend, no levity, if you please;" said the parson, though himself a little, a very little, prone to it on the sly, among people too solid to stumble. "i draw my lessons from the past, or present. better men than myself insist upon the terrors of the future, and scare people from looking forward. but our church, according to my views, is a cheerful and progressive mother, encouraging her children, and fortifying----" "quite so;" said jemmy fox, anticipating too much on that head; "but she would not fortify us with such a lenten _fare_ as this. little pun, sir, not so very bad. however, to business. i meant to have told you nothing of this till monday or tuesday, until it struck me that you would be hurt perhaps, if the notice were so very short. the great point is that not a word of our intentions should get abroad, or the rogues might make themselves more scarce than rogues unluckily are allowed to be. this is why we have put off our application to mockham, until tuesday morning; and even then we shall lay our information as privately as possible. but we must have a powerful posse, when we proceed to arrest them; for one of the men, as i told you, is of tremendous bulk and stature, and the other not a weakling. and perhaps the third, the fellow they come to meet, will show fight on their behalf. we must allow no chance of escape, and possibly they may have fire-arms. we shall want at least four constables, as well as gronow, and myself." "but all good subjects of the king are bound to assist, if called upon in the name of his majesty, at the execution of a warrant." "so they are; but they never do it, even when there is no danger. in the present case, they would boldly run away. and more than that, by ten o'clock on fair-night, how will his majesty's true lieges be? unable to keep their own legs, i fear. the trouble will be to keep our own force sober. but gronow has undertaken to see to that. if he can do it, we shall be all right. we may fairly presume that the enemy also will not be too steady upon their pins. the only thing i don't like is that a man of gronow's age should be in the scuffle. he has promised to keep in the background; but if things get lively, can i trust him?" "i should think it very doubtful. he looks an uncommonly resolute man. if there is a conflict, he will be in it. but do you think that the big man harvey really is our zippy's father? if so, i am puzzled by what his mother said; and i think the old lady was truthful. so far as i could understand what she said, her son had never been engaged in any of the shocking work we hear so much of now. and she would not have denied it from any sense of shame, for she confessed to even worse things, on the part of other sons." "she may not have known it. he has so rarely been at home. a man of that size would have been notorious throughout the parish, if he had ever lived at home; whereas nobody knows him, not even joe crang, who knows every man and horse for miles around. but the whetstone people are a tribe apart, and keep all their desolate region to themselves." "the district is extra-parochial, a sort of no-man's land almost," mr. penniloe answered thoughtfully. "an entire parish intervenes between their hill and hagdon; so that i cannot go among them, without seeming to intrude upon a neighbour's duties. otherwise it is very sad to think that a colony almost of heathens should be permitted in the midst of us. i hear that there is a new landowner now, coming from your father's part of the country, who claims seigniorial rights over them, which they intend to resist with all their might." "to be sure. sir henry haggerstone is the man, a great friend of mine, and possibly something nearer before long. he cares not a pin for the money; but he is not the man to forego his rights, especially when they are challenged. i take a great interest in those people. sir henry promised me an introduction, through his steward, or whoever it is; and but for this business i should have gone over. but as these two fellows have been among them, i thought it wiser to keep away. i intend to know more of them, when this is over. i rather like fellows who refuse to pay." "you have plenty of experience of them, doctor, without going over to the whetstone. would that we had a few gratuitous church-builders, as well as a gratuitous doctor in this parish! but i sadly fear that your services will be too much in demand after this arrest. you should have at least six constables, if our people will not help you. supposing that the whetstone men are there, would they not attempt a rescue?" "no sir; they will not be there; it is not their custom. i am ashamed, as it is, to take four men against two, and would not, except for the great importance of it. but i am keeping you too long. i shall make a point of beholding you no more, until wednesday morning; except of course in church on sunday. you must be kept out of it altogether. it is not for me to tell you what to do; but i trust that you will not add to our anxieties, by appearing at all in the matter. your busiest time of the year is at hand; and i scarcely know whether i have done right, in worrying you at all about this affair." "truly the time is appointed now for conflict with the unseen powers, rather than those of our own race. but why are we told to gird our loins--of which succincture the spencer is expressive, and therefore curtly clerical--unless we are also to withstand evil-doers, even in the market-place? peace is a thing that we all desire; but no man must be selfish of it. if every man stuck to his own corner only, would there ever be a dining-table? be not surprised then, master jemmy fox, if i should appear upon the warlike scene. as the statesmen of the age say--when they don't know what to say--i reserve my right of action." fox was compelled to be satisfied with this because he could get no better. yet he found it hard to be comfortable about the now urgent outlook. beyond any doubt, he must go through with the matter in hand, and fight it well out. but where would he be, if the battle left him, with two noble heroes disabled, and both of them beyond the heroic time of life. as concerned himself, he was quite up for the fight, and regarded the prospect with pleasure, as behoves a young man, who requires a little change, and has a lady-love who will rejoice in his feats. moreover he knew that he was very quick of foot, and full of nimble dodges; but these elderly men could not so skip away, even if their dignity allowed it. after much grim meditation, when he left the rectory, he made up his mind to go straight to squire mockham; and although it was a doubtful play of cards, to consult thus informally the justice, before whom the information was soon to be laid, it seemed to him, on the whole, to be the proper course. on tuesday it would be too late to receive any advice upon the subject. but mr. mockham made no bones of it. whether he would grant the warrant or not, was quite another question, and must depend upon the formal depositions when received. the advice that he gave was contingent only upon the issue of the warrant, as to which he could say nothing yet. but he did not hesitate, as the young man's friend, to counsel him about his own share in the matter. "keep all your friends out of it. let none of them be there. the execution of a warrant is the duty of the authorities, not of amateurs and volunteers. even you yourself should not appear, unless it be just to identify; though afterwards you must do so, of course, when the charge comes to be heard. better even that criminals should escape, than that non-official persons should take the business on themselves. as a magistrate's son, you must know this." "that is all very well, in an ordinary case," said fox, who had got a great deal more than he wanted. "but here it is of such extreme importance to get to the bottom of this matter; and if they escape, where are we?" "all very true. but if you apply to the law, you must let the law do its own work, and in its own way, though it be not perfect. all you can do, is to hope for the best." "and probably get the worst," said jemmy, with a grin of resignation. "but i suppose i may be at hand, and ready to give assistance, if called upon?" "certainly," answered mr. mockham, rubbing his hands gently; "that is the privilege of every subject, though not claimed very greedily. by-the-by, i was told that there is to be some sort of wrestling at your fair this year. have you heard anything about it?" "well, perhaps a little." the young man looked slyly at the magistrate, for one of the first things he had heard was that mockham had started the scheme by giving ten guineas towards the prize-fund. "among other things i heard that polwarth is coming, the cornish champion, as they call him." "and he holds the west of england belt. it is too bad," said the magistrate, "that we should have no man to redeem it. when i was a boy, we should all have been mad, if the belt had gone over the border long. but who is there now? the sport is decaying, and fisticuffs (far more degrading work) are ousting it altogether. i think you went to see the play last year." "i just looked in at it, once or twice. it did not matter very much to me, as a son of somerset; but it must have been very grievous to a true devonian, to see cornwall chucking his countrymen about, like a lot of wax-headed ninepins. and no doubt he will do the same thing this year. you can't help it--can you, squire?" "don't be too sure of that, my friend. a man we never heard of has challenged for the belt, on behalf of devon. he will not play in the standards, but have best of three backs with the cornishman, for the belt and a special prize raised by subscription. when i was a lad i used to love to see it, ay, and i knew all the leading men. why, all the great people used to go to see it then. the lord lieutenant of the county would come down from westminster for any great match; and as for magistrates--well, the times are changed." "you need not have asked me the news, i see. to know all about it, i must come to you. i should have been glad to see something of it, if it is to be such a big affair. but that will be impossible on account of this job. good night, sir. twelve o'clock, i think you said, will suit for our application?" "yes, and to stop malicious mouths--for they get up an outcry, if one knows anybody--i shall get sir edwin sanford to join me. he is in the commission for somerset too; and so we can arrange it--if issued at all, to hold good across the border." chapter xxxv. a wrestling bout. valentine's day was on sunday that year, and a violent gale from the south and west set in before daylight, and lasted until the evening, without bringing any rain. anxiety was felt about the chancel roof, which had only been patched up temporarily, and waterproofed with thick tarpaulins; for the exeter builders had ceased work entirely during that december frost, and as yet had not returned to it. to hurry them, while engaged elsewhere, would not have been just, or even wise, inasmuch as they might very fairly say, "let us have a little balancing of books first, if you please." however, the old roof withstood the gale, being sheltered from the worst of it, and no further sinking of the wall took place; but at the abbey, some fifty yards eastward, a very sad thing came to pass. the south-western corner and the western end (the most conspicuous part remaining) were stripped, as if by a giant's rip-hook, of all their dark mantle of ivy. like a sail blown out of the bolt-ropes, away it all went bodily, leaving the white flint rough and rugged, and staring like a suburban villa of the most choice effrontery. the contrast with the remainder of the ruins and the old stone church was hideous; and mr. penniloe at once resolved to replace and secure afresh as much of the fallen drapery as had not been shattered beyond hope of life. walter haddon very kindly offered to supply the ladders, and pay half the cost; for the picturesque aspect of his house was ruined by this bald background. this job was to be put in hand on thursday; but worse things happened before that day. "us be going to have a bad week of it," old channing, the clerk, observed on monday, as he watched the four vanes on the tower (for his eyes were almost as keen as ever) and the woodcock feathers on the western sky; "never knowed a dry gale yet, but were follered by a wet one twice as bad; leastways, if a' coom from the dartmoor mountains." however, things seemed right enough on tuesday morning, to people who seldom think much of the sky; and the rustics came trooping in to the fair, as brave as need be, and with all their sunday finery. a prettier lot of country girls no englishman might wish, and perhaps no other man might hope to see, than the laughing, giggling, blushing, wondering, simpering, fluttering, or bridling maidens, fresh from dairy, or churn, or linhay, but all in very bright array, with love-knots on their breasts, and lavender in their pocket-handkerchiefs. with no depressing elegance perhaps among them, and no poetic sighing for impossible ideals; and probably glancing backwards, more than forwards on the path of life, because the rule and the practice is, for the lads of the party to walk behind. louts are these, it must be acknowledged, if looked at from too high a point; and yet, in their way, not by any means so low, as a topper on the high horse, with astral spurs, and a banner of bad latin, might condemn them for to be. if they are clumsy, and awkward, and sheepish, and can only say--"thank 'e, sir! veyther is quite well," in answer to "how are you to-day, john?"--some of it surely is by reason of a very noble quality, now rarer than the great auk's egg; and known, while it was a noun still substantive, as modesty. but there they were, and plenty of them, in the year ; and they meant to spend their money in good fairing, if so be their girls were kind. mr. penniloe had a lot of good heart in him; and when he came out to stand by the bellman, and trumpeter who thrilled the market-place, his common sense, and knowledge of the darker side, had as much as they could do to back him up against the impression of the fair young faces, that fell into the dumps, at his sad decree. the strong evil-doers were not come yet, their time would not begin till the lights began to flare, and the dark corners hovered with temptation. silence was enjoined three times by ding-dong of bell and blare of trump, and thrice the fatal document was read with stern solemnity and mute acceptance of every creature except ducks, whom nothing short of death can silence, and scarcely even that when once their long valves quiver with the elegiac strain. the trumpeter from exeter, with scarlet sash and tassel, looked down from an immeasurable height upon the village bellman, and a fiddler in the distance, and took it much amiss that he should be compelled to time his sonorous blasts by the tinkle tinkle of old nunks. "truly, i am sorry," said the curate to himself, while lads and lasses, decked with primrose, and the first white violets, whispered sadly to one another--"no more fairing after this"--"i am sorry that it should be needful to stop all these innocent enjoyments." "then why did you send for me, sir?" asked the trumpeter rather savagely, as one who had begged at the rectory for beer, to medicate his lips against the twang of brass, but won not a drop from mrs. muggridge. suddenly there came a little volley of sharp drops--not of the liquid he desired--dashed into the trumpeter's red face, and against the back of the parson's hat--the first skit of rain, that seemed rather to rise, as if from a blow-pipe, than fall from the clouds. mr. penniloe hastened to his house close by, for the market-place was almost in a straight line with the school, and taking his old gingham umbrella, set off alone for a hamlet called southend, not more than half a mile from the village. although not so learned in the weather as his clerk, he could see that the afternoon was likely to prove wet, and the longer he left it the worse it would be, according to all indications. without any thought of adversaries, he left the village at a good brisk pace, to see an old parishioner of whose illness he had heard. crossing a meadow on his homeward course he observed that the footpath was littered here and there with strips and patches of yellow osier peel, as if, since he had passed an hour or so ago, some idle fellow had been "whittling" wands from a withy-bed which was not far off. for a moment he wondered what this could mean; but not a suspicion crossed his mind of a rod in preparation for his own back. alas, too soon was this gentleman enlightened. the lonely footpath came sideways into a dark and still more lonesome lane, deeply sunk between tangled hedges, except where a mouldering cob wall stood, sole relic of a worn-out linhay. mr. penniloe jumped lightly from the treddled stile into the mucky and murky lane, congratulating himself upon shelter here, for a squally rain was setting in; but the leap was into a den of wolves. from behind the cob wall, with a yell, out rushed four hulking fellows, long of arm and leg, still longer of the weapons in their hands. each of them bore a white withy switch, flexible, tough, substantial, seemly instrument for a pious verger--but what would pious vergers be doing here, and why should their faces retire from view? each of them had tied across his most expressive, and too distinctive part, a patch of white muslin, such as imparts the sweet sense of modesty to a chamber-window; but modesty in these men was small. three of them barred the parson's road, while the fourth cut off his communications in the rear; but even so did he not perceive the full atrocity of their intentions. to him they appeared to be inditing of some new form of poaching, or some country game of skill perhaps, or these might be rods of measurement. "allow me to pass, my friends," he said; "i shall not interfere with your proceedings. be good enough to let me go by." "us has got a little bit o' zummat," said the biggest of them, with his legs astraddle, "to goo with 'e, passon, and to 'baide with 'e a bit. a choice bit of fairing, zort o' peppermint stick, or stick lickerish." "i am not a fighting man; but if any man strikes me, let him beware for himself. i am not to be stopped on a public highway, like this." as mr. penniloe spoke, he unwisely closed his umbrella, and holding it as a staff of defence, advanced against the enemy. one step was all the advance he made, for ere he could take another, he was collared, and tripped up, and cast forward heavily upon his forehead. there certainly was a great stone in the mud; but he never knew whether it was that, or a blow from a stick, or even the ebony knob of his own umbrella, that struck him so violently as he fell; but the effect was that he lay upon his face, quite stunned, and in danger of being smothered in the muck. "up with's coat-tails! us'll dust his jacket. ring the bull on 'un--one, two, dree, vour." the four stood round, with this very fine christian, ready--as the christian faith directs, for weak members, not warmed up with it,--ready to take everything he could not help; and the four switches hummed in the air with delight, like the thirsty swords of homer; when a rush as of many winds swept them back to innocence. a man of great stature, and with blazing eyes, spent no words upon them, but lifted up the biggest with a chuck below his chin, which sent him sprawling into the ditch, with a broken jaw, then took another by the scruff of his small clothes, and hefted him into a dog-rose stool, which happened to stand on the top of the hedge with shark's teeth ready for their business; then he leaped over the prostrate parson, but only smote vacant air that time. "the devil, the devil, 'tis the devil himself!" cried the two other fellows, cutting for their very lives. "reckon, i were not a breath too soon;" said the man who had done it, as he lifted mr. penniloe, whose lips were bubbling and nose clotted up; "why, they would have killed 'e in another minute, my dear. d--d if i bain't afeared they has done it now." that the clergyman should let an oath pass unrebuked, would have been proof enough to any one who knew him that it never reached his mind. his silver hair was clogged with mud, and his gentle face begrimed with it, and his head fell back between the big man's knees, and his blue eyes rolled about without seeing earth or heaven. "that doiled jemmy fox, we wants 'un now. never knowed a doctor come, when a' were wanted. holloa, you be moving there, be you? you dare stir, you murderer!" it was one of the men lately pitched into the hedge; but he only groaned again, at that great voice. "do 'e veel a bit better now, my dear? i've a girt mind to kill they two hosebirds in the hedge; and what's more, i wull, if 'e don't came round pretty peart." as if to prevent the manslaughter threatened, the parson breathed heavily once or twice, and tried to put his hand to his temples; and then looked about with a placid amazement. "you 'bide there, sir, for a second," said the man, setting him carefully upon a dry bank with his head against an ash-tree. "thy soul shall zee her desire of thine enemies, as i've a'read when i waz a little buy." to verify this promise of holy writ, he took up the stoutest of the white switches, and visiting the ditch first, and then the hedge-trough, left not a single accessible part of either of those ruffians without a weal upon it as big as his thumb, and his thumb was not a little one. they howled like a couple of pigs at the blacksmith's, when he slips the ring into their noses red-hot; and it is lawful to hope that they felt their evil deeds. "t'other two shall have the very same, bumbai; i knows where to put hands on 'em both;" said the operator, pointing towards the village; and it is as well to mention that he did it. "now, sir, you come along of i." he cast away the fourth rod, having elicited their virtues, and taking mr. penniloe in his arms, went steadily with him to the nearest house. this stood alone in the outskirts of the village; and there two very good old ladies lived, with a handsome green railing in front of them. these, after wringing their hands for some minutes, enabled mr. penniloe to wash his face and head, and gave him some red currant wine, and sent their child of all work for mrs. muggridge. meanwhile the parson began to take a more distinct view of the world again, his first emotion being anxiety about his sunday beaver, which he had been wearing in honour of the proclamation--the last duty it was ever destined to discharge. but the "gigantic individual," as the good ladies called him, was nowhere to be seen, when they mustered courage to persuade one another to peep outside the rails. by this time the weather was becoming very bad. everybody knows how a great gale rises; not with any hurry, or assertion of itself, (as a little squall does, that is limited for time) but with a soft hypocritical sigh, and short puffs of dissimulation. the solid great storm, that gets up in the south, and means to make every tree in england bow, to shatter the spray on the land's-end cliffs while it shakes all the towers of london, begins its advance without any broad rush, but with many little ticklings of the space it is to sweep. a trumpery frolic where four roads meet, a woman's umbrella turned inside out, a hat tossed into a horse-pond perhaps, a weather-cock befooled into chace of head with tail, and a clutch of big raindrops sheafed into the sky and shattered into mist again--these, and a thousand other little pranks and pleasantries, are as the shrill admonitions of the fife, in the vanguard of the great invasion of the heavens. but what cares a man, with his money in his pockets, how these larger things are done? and even if his money be yet to seek, still more shall it preponderate. a tourney of wrestlers for cash and great glory was crowding the courtyard of the _ivy-bush_ with every man who could raise a shilling. a steep roof of rick-cloth and weatherproof canvas, supported on a massive ridge-pole would have protected the enclosure from any ordinary storm; but now the tempestuous wind was tugging, whistling, panting, shrieking, and with great might thundering, and the violent rain was pelting, like the rattle of pebbles on the chessil beach, against the strained canvas of the roof; while the rough hoops of candles inside were swinging, with their crops of guttering tallow welted, like sucked stumps of asparagus. nevertheless the spectators below, mounted on bench, or stool, or trestle, or huddled against the rope-ring, were jostling, and stamping, and craning their necks, and digging elbows into one another, and yelling, and swearing, and waving rotten hats, as if the only element the lord ever made was mob. suddenly all jabber ceased, and only the howls of the storm were heard, and the patter from the sodden roof, as polwarth of bodmin, having taken formal back from dascombe of devon, (the winner of the standards, a very fine player, but not big enough for him) skirred his flat hat into the middle of the sawdust, and stood there flapping his brawny arms, and tossing his big-rooted nose, like a bull. in the flare of the lights, his grin looked malignant, and the swing of his bulk overweening; and though he said nothing but "cornwall for ever!" he said it as if it meant--"devonshire be d--d!" after looking at the company with mild contempt, he swaggered towards the umpires, and took off his belt, with the silver buckles and the red stones flashing, and hung it upon the cross-rail for defiance. a shiver and a tremble of silence ran through the hearts, and on the lips of three hundred sad spectators. especially a gentleman who sate behind the umpires, dressed in dark riding-suit and a flapped hat, was swinging from side to side with strong feeling. "is there no man to try a fall for devonshire? won't kill him to be beaten. consolation money, fifty shillings." the chairman of the committee announced; but nobody came forward. a deep groan was heard from old channing the clerk, who had known such very different days; while the cornishman made his three rounds of the ring, before he should buckle on the belt again; and snorted each time, like goliath. gathering up the creases of his calves, which hung like the chins of an alderman, he stuck his heels into the devonshire earth, to ask what it was made of. then, with a smile, which he felt to be kind, and heartily large to this part of the world, he stooped to pick up the hat gay with seven ribbons, wrung from devonshire button-holes. but behold, while his great hand was going to pick it up thus carelessly, another hat struck it, and whirled it away, as a quoit strikes a quoit that appears to have won. "devon for ever! and cornwall to the devil!" a mighty voice shouted, and a mighty man came in, shaking the rain and the wind from his hair. a roar of hurrahs overpowered the gale, as the man taking heed of nobody, strode up to the belt, and with a pat of his left hand, said--"i wants this here little bit of ribbon." "thee must plai for 'un fust," cried the hero of cornwall. "what else be i come for?" the other enquired. when formalities had been satisfied, and the proper clothing donned, and the champions stood forth in the ring, looking at one another, the roof might have dropped, without any man heeding, until it came across his eyes. the challenger's name had been announced--"harvey tremlett, of devonshire"--but only one or two besides old channing had any idea who he was; and even old channing was not aware that the man had been a wrestler from early youth, so seldom had he visited his native place. "a' standeth like a man as understood it," "a' be bigger in the back than carnishman," "hope 'a hath trained, or 's wind won't hold;" sundry such comments of critical power showed that the public, as usual, knew ten times as much as the performers. these, according to the manner of the time, were clad alike, but wore no pads, for the brutal practice of kicking was now forbidden at meetings of the better sort. a jacket, or jerkin, of tough sail-cloth, half-sleeved and open in front afforded firm grasp, but no clutch for throttling; breeches of the stoutest cord, belted at waist and strapped at knee, red worsted stockings for devonshire, and yellow on behalf of cornwall, completed their array; except that the cornishman wore ankle-boots, while the son of devon, at his own request, was provided only with sailor's pumps. the advantage of these, for lightness of step and pliancy of sole, was obvious; but very few players would venture upon them, at the risk of a crushed and disabled foot. "fear he bain't nim' enough for they pea-shells. they be all very well for a boy;" said channing. the cornishman saw that he had found his match, perhaps even his master in bodily strength, if the lasting power could be trusted. skill and endurance must decide the issue, and here he knew his own pre-eminence. he had three or four devices of his own invention, but of very doubtful fairness; if all other powers failed, he would have recourse to them. for two or three circuits of the ring, their mighty frames and limbs kept time and poise with one another. each with his left hand grasped the other by the shoulder lappet; each kept his right hand hovering like a hawk, and the fingers in ply for a dash, a grip, a tug. face to face, and eye to eye, intent upon every twinkle, step for step they marched sideways, as if to the stroke of a heavy bell, or the beating of slow music. each had his weight thrown slightly forwards, and his shoulders slouched a little, watching for one unwary move, and testing by some subtle thrill the substance of the other, as a glass is filliped to try its ring. by a feint of false step, and a trick of eye, polwarth got an opening. in he dashed, the other's arm flew up, and the cornish grip went round him. in vain he put forth his mighty strength, for there was no room to use it. down he crashed, but turned in falling, so that the back was doubtful. "back"! "fair back"! "no back at all." "four pins." "never, no, three pins." "see where his arm was?" "foul, foul, foul!" shouts of wrath, and even blows ensued; for a score or two of cornishmen were there. "hush for the umpires!" "hold your noise." "thee be a liar." "so be you." the wind and the rain were well out-roared, until the umpires, after some little consultation gave award. "we allow it true back, for cornwall. unless the fall claims foul below belt. if so, it will be for referee." which showed that they differed upon that point. "let 'un have it. i won't claim no foul. let 'un do it again, if 'a can." thus spake the fallen man, striding up to the umpires' post. a roar of cheers rang round the tent, though many a devonshire face looked glum, and a few groans clashed with the frank hurrahs. the second bout was a brief one, but afforded much satisfaction to all lovers of fair play, and therefore perhaps to the cornishmen. what tremlett did was simply this. he feigned to be wholly absorbed in guarding against a repetition of the recent trick. the other expecting nothing more than tactics of defence was caught, quite unawares, by his own device, and down he went--a very candid four-pin fall. now came the final bout, the supreme decision of the tie, the crowning struggle for the palm. the issue was so doubtful, that the oldest and most sage of all palæstric oracles could but look,--and feared that voice might not prove--wise. skill was equally divided, (setting dubious tricks aside), strength was a little in favour of devon, but not too much turn of the balance, (for cornwall had not produced a man of such magnitude for many years) experience was on cornwall's side; condition, and lasting power, seemed to be pretty fairly on a par. what was to settle it? devonshire knew. that is to say, the fair county had its hopes,--though always too modest and frugal to back them--that something which it produces even more freely than fair cheeks and kind eyes, and of which the corner land is not so lavish--to wit fine temper, and tranquillity of nature, might come to their mother's assistance. even for fighting, no man is at the best of himself, when exasperated. far less can he be so in the gentler art. a proverb of large equity, and time-honoured wisdom, declares (with the bluntness of its race) that "sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander." this maxim is pleasant enough to the goose; but the gander sputters wrathfully when it comes home to his breast. polwarth felt it as a heinous outrage, that he had been the victim of his own device. as he faced his rival for the last encounter, a scowl came down upon his noble knobby forehead, his keen eyes glowered as with fire in his chest, and his wiry lips closed viciously. the devonshire man, endowed with larger and less turbid outlook, perceived that the other's wrath was kindled, and his own duty was to feed the flame. accordingly, by quiet tricks, and flicks, such as no man would even feel unless already too peppery, he worked the moral system hard, and roused in the other's ample breast--or brain, if that be the combative part--a lofty disdain of discretion. polwarth ground his teeth, and clenched his fist, spat fire--and all was up with him. one savage dash he made, which might have swept a milestone backward, breast clashed on breast, he swung too high, the great yellow legs forsook the earth, and the great red ones flashed between them, then the mighty frame span in the air like a flail, and fell flat as the blade of a turf-beater's spade. "all over! all up! needn't ask about that. three times three for devonshire! again, again, again! carnies, what can 'e say to that now?" wild triumph, fierce dejection, yearning to fight it out prevailed; every man's head was out of the government of his neck--when these two leading counties were quenched alike. the great pole of red pine, fit mast for an admiral, bearing all the structure overhead, snapped, like a carrot, to a vast wild blast. in a weltering squash lay victor and vanquished, man with his fists up, and man eager to go at him, hearts too big to hold themselves for exultation, and hearts so low that wifely touch was needed to encourage them, glorious head that had won fifty shillings, and poor numskull that had lost a pot of beer. prostrate all, with mouths full of tallow, sawdust, pitch, and another fellow's toes. many were for a twelvemonth limpers; but nobody went to churchyard. chapter xxxvi. a fighting bout. after that mighty crash, every body with any sense left in its head went home. there was more to talk about than perlycross had come across in half a century. and the worst of it was, that every blessed man had his own troubles first to attend to; which is no fun at all, though his neighbour's are so pleasant. the fair, in the covered market-place, had long been a dreary concern, contending vainly against the stronger charm of the wrestling booth, and still more vainly against the furious weather. even the biggest and best fed flares--and they were quite as brisk in those days as they are now--gifted though they might be with rage and vigour, lost all self-control, and dashed in yellow forks, here there and everywhere, singeing sometimes their own author's whiskers. like a man who lives too fast, they killed themselves; and the poor cheap-jacks, the universal oracles, the benevolent bounty-men, chucking guineas right and left, the master of cupid's bower, who supplied every lass with a lord, and every lad with a lady having a lapful of a hundred thousand pounds--sadly they all strapped up, and lit their pipes, and shivered at that terrible tramp before them, cursing the weather, and their wives, and even the hallowed village of perlycross. though the coaches had forsaken this ancient track from exeter to london, and followed the broader turnpike roads, there still used to be every now and then a string of packhorses, or an old stage-waggon, not afraid of hills and making no fuss about time, but straggling at leisure through the pristine thoroughfares, thwarted less with toll-bars. notably, old hill's _god-be-with-us_ van left exeter on tuesdays, with the goodwill of three horses, some few hours in the afternoon, and might be trusted to appear at perlycross according to the weather and condition of the roads. what more comfortable course of travel could there be for any one who understood it, and enjoyed sound sleep, and a good glass of ale at intervals, with room enough to dine inside if he thought fit, than the _god-be-with-us_ van afforded? for old hill was always in charge of it himself, and expected no more than a penny a mile, and perhaps the power to drink the good health of any peaceful subject of the king, who might be inclined to come along with him, and listen to his moving tales. the horses were fat, and they rested at night, and took it easily in the daytime; and the leader had three little bells on his neck, looking, when you sat behind him, like a pair of scales; and without them he always declined to take a step, and the wheelers backed him up in that denial. for a man not bound to any domineering hour, or even to a self-important day, the broad-wheeled waggon belonging to old hill--"old-as-the-hills" some flippant younkers called him--was as good an engine as need be, for crossing of the country, when it wanted to be crossed, and halting at any town of hospitable turn. that same shrove-tuesday,--and it is well to mark the day, because master hill was so superior to dates--this man who asserted the dignity of our race, by not allowing matter to disturb him, was coming down hill with his heavy drag on, in a road that was soft from the goodness of the soil; when a man with two legs made of better stuff than ours, either came out of a gate across the van, or else fairly walked it down by superior speed behind. "ship ahoy!" he shouted; and old hill was wide awake, for he had two or three barrels that would keep rolling into the small of his back--as he called it, with his usual oblivion of chronology--and so he was enabled to discern this man, and begin at his leisure to consider him. if the man had shouted again, or shown any other symptom of small hurry, the driver--or properly speaking the drifter, for the horses did their own driving--would have felt some disappointment in him, as an inferior fellow-creature. but the man on foot, or at least on stumps, was in no more hurry than old hill himself, and steadfastly trudged to the bottom of the hill, looking only at the horses--a very fine sign. the land being devon, it is needless to say that there was no inconsistency about it. wherever one hill ends, there another begins, with just room enough between them for a horse to spread his legs, and shake himself with self-approbation. and he is pretty sure to find a crystal brook, purling across the road, and twinkling bright temptation to him. "hook up skid, and then 'e can jump in;" said old hill in the hollow where the horses backed, and he knew by the clank that it had been done, and then by a rattle on the floor behind him, that the stranger had embarked by the chains at the rear. after about a mile or so of soft low whistling, in which he excelled all carriers, old hill turned round with a pleasant grin, for there was a great deal of good about him. "going far?" he asked, as an opening of politeness, rather than of curiosity. "zort of a place, called perlycrass;" replied the wooden-leg'd man, who was sitting on a barrel. manifestly an ancient sailor, weather-beaten, and taciturn, the residue of a strong and handsome man. the whole of this had been as nearly to the carrier's liking, as the words and deeds of any man can be to any other's. therefore before another mile had been travelled, old hill turned round again, with a grin still sweeter. "pancake day, bain't it?" was his very kind enquiry. "b'lieve it be;" replied the other, in the best and truest british style. after this no more was lacking to secure old hill's regard than the very thing the sailor did. there was a little flap of canvas, like a loophole in the tilt, fitted for the use of chawers, and the cleanliness of the floor. timberlegs after using this, with much deliberation and great skill, made his way forward, and in deep silence poked old hill with his open tobacco-box. if it were not silver, it was quite as good to look at, and as bright as if it held the freedom of the city; the tobacco, moreover, was of goodly reek, and a promise of inspiration such as never flows through custom-house. "thank 'e, i'll have a blade bumbai. will 'e zit upon that rope of onions?" the sailor shook his head; for the rim of a barrel, though apt to cut, cuts evenly like a good schoolmaster. "'long of nelson?" master hill enquired, pointing to the places where the feet were now of deputy. the old tar nodded; and then with that sensitive love of accuracy which marks the tar, growled out, "leastways, wan of them." "and what come to t'other wan?" master hill was capable of really large human interest. "had 'un off, to square the spars, and for zake of vamily." he had no desire to pursue the subject, and closed it by a big squirt through the flap. old hill nodded with manly approbation. plymouth was his birthplace; and he knew that other sons of nelson had done this; for it balanced their bodies, and composed their minds with another five shillings a week for life, and the sale of the leg covered all expenses. "you'm a very ingenious man;" he glanced as he spoke, at the sailor's jury-rig; "i'll war'n no doctor could a' vitted 'e up, like thiccy." "vitted 'un myself with double swivel. can make four knots an hour now. they doctors can undo 'e; but 'em can't do 'e up. a cove can't make sail upon a truck-head." "and what do 'e say to the weather, cap'n?" master hill enquired of his passenger, when a few more compliments had passed, and the manes of the horses began to ruffle, and the tilt to sway and rattle with the waxing storm. "think us shall have as big a gale of wind as ever come out of the heavens," the sailor replied, after stumping to the tail of the van, and gazing windwards; "heave to pretty smart, and make all snug afore sunset, is my advice. too much sail on this here little craft, for such a blow as us shall have to-night." "can't stop short of taunton town." old hill was famed for his obstinacy. "can 'e take in sail? can 'e dowse this here canvas? can 'e reef it then somehow?" the old man shook his head. "tell 'e what then, shipmate--if 'e carry on for six hours more, this here craft will be on her beam-ends, wi'out mainsail parteth from his lashings, sure as my name is dick herniman." this tar of the old school, better known as "timber-leg'd dick," disembarked from the craft, whose wreck he had thus predicted, at a turning betwixt perliton and perlycross, and stumped away up a narrow lane, at a pace quite equal to that of the _god-be-with-us_ van. the horses looked after him, as a specimen of biped hitherto beyond their experience; and old hill himself, though incapable of amazement (which is a rapid process) confessed that there were some advantages in this form of human pedal, as well as fine economy of cloth and leather. "how 'a doth get along, nimbler nor i could!" the carrier reflected, as his nags drove on again. "up to zummat ratchety, i'll be bound he be now. a leary old salt as ever lived. never laughed once, never showed a smile, but gotten it all in his eyes he have: and the eyes be truer folks than the lips. enough a'most to tempt a man to cut off 's own two legses." some hours later than this, and one hour later than the downfall of the wrestler's roof, the long market-place, forming one side of the street--a low narrow building set against the churchyard wall, between the school and the lych-gate, looked as dismal, and dreary, and deserted, as the bitterest enemy of fairs could wish. the torrents of rain, and fury of the wind, had driven all pleasure-seekers, in a grievously drenched and battered plight, to seek for wiser comfort; and only a dozen or so of poor creatures, either too tipsy to battle with the wind, or too reckless in their rags to care where they were, wallowed upon sacks, and scrabbled under the stanchion-boards, where the gaiety had been. the main gates, buckled back upon their heavy hinges, were allowed to do nothing in their proper line of business, until the church-clock should strike twelve, for such was the usage; though as usual nobody had ever heard who ordained it. a few oil-lamps were still in their duty, swinging like welted horn-poppies in the draught, and shedding a pale and spluttering light. the man who bore the keys had gone home three times, keeping under hele with his oil-skins on, to ask his wife--who was a woman of some mark--whether he might not lock the gates, and come home and have his bit of bacon. but she having strong sense of duty, and a good log blazing, and her cup of tea, had allowed him very generously to warm his hands a little, and then begged him to think of his family. this was the main thing that he had to do; and he went forth again into the dark, to do it. meanwhile, without anybody to take heed (for the sergeant, ever vigilant, was now on guard in spain), a small but choice company of human beings, was preparing for action in the old school-porch, which stood at the back of the building. staffs they had, and handcuffs too, and supple straps, and loops of cord; all being men of some learning in the law, and the crooked ways of people out of harmony therewith. if there had been light enough to understand a smile, they would have smiled at one another, so positive were they that they had an easy job, and so grudgeful that the money should cut up so small. the two worthy constables of perlycross felt certain that they could do it better by themselves; and the four invoked from perliton were vexed, to have to act with village lubbers. their orders were not to go nigh the wrestling, or show themselves inside the market-place, but to keep themselves quiet, and shun the weather, and what was a great deal worse, the beer. every now and then, the ideas of jolly noises, such as were appropriate to the time, were borne upon the rollicking wings of the wind into their silent vestibule, suggesting some wiping of lips, which, alas, were ever so much too dry already. at a certain signal, they were all to hasten across the corner of the churchyard, at the back of the market-place, and enter a private door at the east end of the building, after passing through the lych-gate. suddenly the rain ceased, as if at sound of trumpet; like the mouth of a cavern the sky flew open, and the wind, leaping three points of the compass, rushed upon the world from the chambers of the west. such a blast, as had never been felt before, filled the whole valley of the perle, and flung mowstack, and oakwood, farmhouse, and abbey, under the sweep of its wings as it flew. the roar of the air overpowered the crash of the ruin it made, and left no man the sound of his own voice to himself. these great swoops of wind always lighten the sky; and as soon as the people blown down could get up, they were able to see the church-tower still upright, though many men swore that they heard it go rock. very likely it rocked, but could they have heard it? in the thick of the din of this awful night, when the church-clock struck only five instead of ten--and it might have struck fifty, without being heard--three men managed, one by one, and without any view of one another, to creep along the creases of the storm, and gain the gloomy shelter of the market-place. "every man for himself," is the universal law, when the heavens are against the whole race of us. not one of these men cared to ask about the condition of the other two, nor even expected much to see them, though each was more resolute to be there himself, because of its being so difficult. "very little chance of timberlegs to-night," said one to another, as two of them stood in deep shadow against the back wall, where a voice could be heard if pitched in the right direction; "he could never make way again' a starm like this." "thou bee'st a liar," replied a gruff voice, as the clank of metal on the stone was heard. "timberlegs can goo, where flesh and bone be mollichops." he carried a staff like a long handspike, and prodded the biped on his needless feet, to make him wish to be relieved of them. "us be all here now," said the third man, who seemed in the wavering gloom to fill half the place. "what hast thou brought us for, timber-leg'd dick?" "bit of a job, same as three months back. better than clam-pits, worn't it now? got a good offer for thee too, harvey, for that old ramshackle place. handy hole for a louderin' job, and not far from them clam-pits." "ay, so a' be. never thought of that. and must have another coney, now they wise 'uns have vound out nigger's nock. lor' what a laugh we had, jem and i, at they fules of perlycrass!" "then perlycross will have the laugh at thee. harvey tremlett, and james kettel, i arrest 'e both, in the name of his majesty the king." six able-bodied men (who had entered, unheard in the roar of the gale, and unseen in the gloom), stood with drawn staffs, heels together, and shoulder to shoulder, in a semi-circle, enclosing the three conspirators. "read thy warrant aloud," said dick herniman, striking his handspike upon the stones, and taking command in right of intellect; while the other twain laid their backs against the wall, and held themselves ready for the issue. dick had hit a very hard nail on the head. none of these constables had been young enough to undergo sergeant jakes, and thenceforth defy the most lofty examiner. "didn't hear what 'e zed," replied head-constable, making excuse of the wind, which had blown him but little of the elements. but he lowered his staff, and held consultation. "then i zay it again," shouted timber-leg'd dick, stumping forth with a power of learning, for he had picked up good leisure in hospitals; "if thou representest the king, read his majesty's words, afore taking his name in vain." these six men were ready, and resolute enough, to meet any bodily conflict; but the literary crisis scared them. "can e' do it, jack?" "don't know as i can." "wish my boy bill was here." "don't run in my line"--and so on. "if none on 'e knows what he be about," said the man with the best legs to stand upon, advancing into the midst of them, "i know a deal of the law; and i tell 'e, as a friend of the king, who hath lost two legs for 'un, in the royal navy, there can't be no lawful arrest made here. and the liberty of the subject cometh in, the same as a' doth again' highwaymen. harvey tremlett, and jem kettel, the law be on your side, to 'protect the liberty of the subject.'" this was enough for the pair who had stood, as law-abiding englishmen, against the wall, with their big fists doubled, and their great hearts doubting. "here goo'th for the liberty of the subject," cried harvey tremlett, striding forth; "i shan't strike none as don't strike me. but if a doth, a' must look out." the constables wavered, in fear of the law, and doubt of their own duty; for they had often heard that every man had a right to know what he was arrested for. unluckily one of them made a blow with his staff at harvey tremlett; then he dropped on the flags with a clump in his ear, and the fight in a moment was raging. somebody knocked jemmy kettel on the head, as being more easy to deal with; and then the blood of the big man rose. three stout fellows fell upon him all together, and heavy blows rung on the drum of his chest, from truncheons plied like wheel-spokes. forth flew his fist-clubs right and left, one of them meeting a staff in the air, and shattering it back into its owner's face. never was the peace of the king more broken; no man could see what became of his blows, legs and arms went about like windmills, substance and shadow were all as one, till the substance rolled upon the ground, and groaned. this dark flight resembled the clashing of a hedgerow in the fury of a midnight storm; when the wind has got in and cannot get out, when ground-ash, and sycamore, pole, stub, and saplin, are dashing and whirling against one another, and even the sturdy oak-tree in the trough is swaying, and creaking, and swinging on its hole. "zoonder not to kill e'er a wan of 'e, i 'ood. but by the lord, if 'e comes they byses"--shouted harvey tremlett, as a rope was thrown over his head from behind, but cut in half a second by herniman--"more of 'e, be there?" as the figures thickened--"have at 'e then, wi' zummat more harder nor visties be!" he wrenched from a constable his staff, and strode onward, being already near the main gate now. as he whirled the heavy truncheon round his head, the constables hung back, having two already wounded, and one in the grip of reviving jem, who was rolling on the floor with him. "zurrender to his majesty;" they called out, preferring the voluntary system. "a varden for the lot of 'e!" the big man said, and he marched in a manner that presented it. but not so did he walk off, blameless and respectable. he had kept his temper wonderfully, believing the law to be on his side, after all he had done for the county. now his nature was pressed a little too hard for itself, when just as he had called out--"coom along, jem; there be nort to stop 'e, timberlegs;" retiring his forces with honour--two figures, hitherto out of the moil, stood across him at the mouth of exit. "who be you?" he asked, with his anger in a flame; for they showed neither staff of the king, nor warrant. "volunteers, be 'e? have a care what be about." "harvey tremlett, here you stop." said a tall man, square in front of him. but luckily for his life, the lift of the sky showed that his hair was silvery. "never hits an old man. you lie there;" tremlett took him with his left hand, and laid him on the stones. but meanwhile the other flung his arms around his waist. "wult have a zettler? then thee shall," cried the big man, tearing him out like a child, and swinging his truncheon, for to knock him on the head, and jemmy fox felt that his time was come. down came the truncheon, like a paviour's rammer, and brains would have weltered on the floor like suds, but a stout arm dashed across, and received the crash descending. "pumpkins!" cried the smiter, wondering much what he had smitten, as two bodies rolled between his legs and on the stones. "coom along, jemmy boy. nare a wan to stop 'e." the remnant of the constables upon their legs fell back. the lord was against them. they had done their best. the next job for them was to heal their wounds, and get an allowance for them, if they could. now the human noise was over, but the wind roared on, and the rushing of the clouds let the stars look down again. tremlett stood victorious in the middle of the gateway. hurry was a state of mind beyond his understanding. was everybody satisfied? well, no one came for more. he took an observation of the weather, and turned round. "shan't bide here no longer," he announced. "dick, us'll vinish up our clack to my place. rain be droud up, and i be off." "no, harvey tremlett, you will not be off. you will stay here like a man, and stand your trial." mr. penniloe's hand was upon his shoulder, and the light of the stars, thrown in vaporous waves, showed the pale face firmly regarding him. "well, and if i says no to it, what can 'e do?" "hold you by the collar, as my duty is." the parson set his teeth, and his delicate white fingers tightened their not very formidable grasp. "sesh!" said the big man, with a whistle, and making as if he could not move. "when a man be baten, a' must gie in. wun't 'e let me goo, passon? do 'e let me goo." "tremlett, my duty is to hold you fast. i owe it to a dear friend of mine, as well as to my parish." "well, you be a braver man than most of 'em, i zimmeth. but do 'e tell a poor chap, as have no chance at all wi' 'e, what a' hath dooed, to be lawed for 'un so crule now." "prisoner, as if you did not know. you are charged with breaking open colonel waldron's grave, and carrying off his body." "oh lord! oh lord in heaven!" shouted harvey tremlett. "jem kettel, hark to thiccy! timberlegs, do 'e hear thic? all they blessed constables, as has got their bellyful, and ever so many wise gen'lemen too, what do 'e think 'em be arter us for? arter us for resurrectioneering! never heered tell such a joke in all my life. they hosebirds to _ivy-bush_ cries 'carnwall for ever!' but i'm blest if i don't cry out 'perlycrass for ever!' oh lord, oh lord! was there ever such a joke? don't 'e hold me, sir, for half a minute, just while i has out my laugh--fear i should throw 'e down with shaking so." timber-leg'd dick came up to his side, and not being of the laughing kind, made up for it by a little hornpipe in the lee; his mental feet striking, from the flints pitched there, sparks enough to light a dozen pipes; while kettel, though damaged severely about the mouth, was still able to compass a broad and loud guffaw. "prisoners," mr. penniloe said severely, for he misliked the ridicule of his parish; "this is not at all a matter to be laughed at. the evidence against you is very strong, i fear." "zurrender, zurrender, to his majesty the king!" cried tremlett, being never much at argument. "constables, if 'ee can goo, take charge. but i 'ont have no handicuffs, mind. wudn't a gie'd 'ee a clout, if i had knawed it. zarve 'ee right though, for not rading of thic warrant-papper. jemmy boy, you zurrender to the king; and i be passon's prisoner. honour bright fust though--nort to come agin' us, unless a' be zet down in warrant-papper. passon, thee must gi'e thy word for that. timberlegs, coom along for layyer." "certainly, i give my word, as far as it will go, that no other charge shall be brought against you. the warrant is issued for that crime only. prove yourselves guiltless of that, and you are free." "us won't be very long in prison then. a day or two bain't much odds to we." chapter xxxvii. gentle as a lamb. of the nine people wounded in that agoräic struggle, which cast expiring lustre on the fairs of perlycross, every one found his case most serious to himself, and still more so to his wife; and even solemn, in the presence of those who had to settle compensation. herniman had done some execution, as well as received a nasty splinter of one leg, which broke down after his hornpipe; and kettel had mauled the man who rolled over with him. but, as appeared when the case was heard, tremlett had by no means done his best; and his lawyer put it touchingly and with great effect, that he was loth to smite the sons of his native county, when he had just redeemed their glory, by noble discomfiture of cornwall. one man only had a parlous wound; and as is generally ordained in human matters, this was the one most impartial of all, the one who had no interest of his own to serve, the one who was present simply out of pure benevolence, and a briton's love of order. so at least his mother said; and every one acknowledged that she was a woman of high reasoning powers. many others felt for him, as who would have done the same, with like opportunity. for only let a healthy, strong, and earnest-minded englishman--to use a beloved compound epithet of the day--hear of a hot and lawful fight impending, with people involved in it, of whom he has some knowledge, and we may trust him heartily to be there or thereabouts, to see--as he puts it to his conscience--fair play. but an if he chance to be in love just then, with a very large percentage of despair to reckon up, and one of the combatants is in the count against him, can a doubt remain of his eager punctuality? this was poor frank gilham's case. dr. gronow was a prudent man, and liked to have the legions on his side. he perceived that young frank was a staunch and stalwart fellow, sure to strike a good blow on a friend's behalf. he was well aware also of his love for christie, and could not see why it should come to nothing. while jemmy fox's faith in the resources of the law, and in his own prowess as a power in reserve, were not so convincing to the elder mind. "better make sure, than be too certain," was a favourite maxim of this shrewd old stager; and so without jemmy's knowledge he invited frank, to keep out of sight unless wanted. this measure saved the life of dr. fox, and that of harvey tremlett too, some of whose brothers had adorned the gallows. even as it was, jemmy fox lay stunned, with the other man's arm much inserted in his hat. where he would have been without that arm for buffer, the cherub, who sits on the chimney-pots of harley street, alone can say. happily the other doctor was unhurt, and left in full possession of his wits, which he at once exerted. after examining the wounded yeoman, who had fainted from the pain and shock, he borrowed a mattress from the rectory, a spring-cart and truss of hay from channing the baker, and various other appliances; and thus in spite of the storm conveyed both patients to hospital. this was the _old barn_ itself, because all surgical needs would be forthcoming there more readily, and so it was wiser to decline mr. penniloe's offer of the rectory. with the jolting of the cart, and the freshness of the air, fox began to revive ere long; and though still very weak and dizzy, was able to be of some service at his own dwelling-place; and although he might not, when this matter first arose, have shown all the gratitude which the sanguine do expect, in return for frank gilham's loyalty, he felt very deep contrition now, when he saw this frightful fracture, and found his own head quite uncracked. the six constables, though they had some black eyes, bruised limbs, and broken noses, and other sources of regret, were (in strict matter of fact, and without any view to compensation) quite as well as could be expected. and as happens too often, the one who groaned the most had the least occasion for it. it was only the wick of a lamp, that had dropped, without going out, on this man's collar, and burned a little hole in his _niddick_, as it used to be called in devonshire. tremlett readily gave his word that no escape should be attempted; and when mrs. muggridge came to know that this was the man who had saved her master, nothing could be too good for him. so constables and prisoners were fed and cared for, and stowed for the night in the long schoolroom, with hailstones hopping in the fireplace. in the morning, the weather was worse again; for this was a double-barrel'd gale, as an ignorant man might term it; or rather perhaps two several gales, arising from some vast disturbance, and hitting into one another. otherwise, why should it be known and remembered even to the present day, as the great ash-wednesday gale, although it began on shrove-tuesday, and in many parts raged most fiercely then? at perlycross certainly there was no such blast upon the second day, as that which swept the abbey down: when the wind leaped suddenly to the west, and the sky fell open, as above recorded. upon that wild ash-wednesday forenoon, the curate stood in the churchyard mourning, even more than the melancholy date requires. where the old abbey had stood for ages (backing up the venerable church with grand dark-robed solemnity, and lifting the buckler of ancient faith above many a sleeping patriarch) there was nothing but a hideous gap, with murky clouds galloping over it. shorn of its ivy curtain by the tempest of last sunday, the mighty frame had reeled, and staggered, and with one crash gone to ground last night, before the impetuous welkin's weight. "is all i do to be always vain, and worse than vain--destructive, hurtful, baneful, fatal i might say, to the very objects for which i strive? here is the church, unfinished, leaky, with one of its corners gone underground, and the grand stone screen smashed in two; here is the abbey, or alas not here, but only an ugly pile of stones! here is the outrage to my dear friend, and the shame to the parish as black as ever; for those men clearly know nothing of it. and here, or at any rate close at hand, the sad drawback upon all good works; for at lady-day in pour the bills, and my prayers (however earnest) will not pay them. it has pleased the lord, in his infinite wisdom, to leave me very short of cash." unhappily his best hat had been spoiled, in that interview with the four vergers; and in his humility he was not sure that the one on his head was good enough even to go to the commination service. however it need not have felt unworthy; for there was not a soul in the church to be adjured, save that which had been under its own brim. the clerk was off for perliton, swearing--even at his time of life!--that he had been subpoenaed, as if that could be on such occasion; and as for the pupils, all bound to be in church, the hopper had been ordered by the constables to present himself to the magistrates (though all the constables denied it) and pike, and mopuss, felt it their duty to go with him. in a word, all perlycross was off, though services of the church had not yet attained their present continuity; and though every woman, and even man, had to plod three splashy miles, with head on chest, in the teeth of the gale up the river. how they should get into the room, when there, was a question that never occurred to them. there they all yearned to be; and the main part, who could not raise a shilling, or prove themselves uncles, or aunts, or former sweethearts of the two constables who kept the door, had to crouch under dripping shrubs outside the windows, and spoiled all squire mockham's young crocuses. that gentleman was so upright, and thoroughly impartial, that to counteract his own predilections for a champion wrestler, he had begged a brother-magistrate to come and sit with him on this occasion; not sir edwin sanford, who was of the quorum for somerset, but a man of some learning and high esteem, the well-known dr. morshead. thus there would be less temptation for any tattler to cry, "hole and corner," as spiteful folk rejoice to do, while keeping in that same place themselves. although there was less perhaps of mischief-making in those days than now; and there could be no more. the constables marched in, with puff and blow, like victors over rebels, and as if they had carried the prisoners captive, every yard of the way, from perlycross. all of them began to talk at once, and to describe with more vigour than truth the conflict of the night before. but dr. morshead stopped them short, for the question of resistance was not yet raised. what the bench had first to decide was whether a case could be made out for a _mittimus_, in pursuance of the warrant, to the next petty sessions on monday; whence the prisoners would be remitted probably to the quarter sessions. the two accused stood side by side (peaceful and decorous, as if they were accustomed to it); and without any trepidation admitted their identity. it was rather against their interests that the official clerk was absent--this not being a stated meeting, but held for special purpose--for magistrates used to be a little nervous, without their proper adviser; and in fear of permitting the guilty to escape, they sometimes remanded upon insufficient grounds. in the present case, there was nothing whatever to connect these two men with the crime, except the testimony of joe crang, and what might be regarded as their own admission, overheard by dr. fox. the latter was not in court, nor likely so to be; and as for the blacksmith's evidence, however positive it might seem, what did it amount to? and such as it was, it was torn to rags, through the quaking of the deponent. for a sharp little lawyer started up, as lawyers are sure to do everywhere, and crossed the room to where herniman sat, drumming the floor with metallic power, and looking very stolid. but a glance had convinced the keen attorney, that here were the brains of the party, and a few short whispers settled it. "guinea, if 'e gets 'em off; if not, ne'er a farden." "right!" said the lawyer, and announced himself. "blickson, for the defence, your worships--maurice blickson of silverton." the proper bows were interchanged; and then came crang's excruciation. already this sturdy and very honest fellow, was as he elegantly described it, in a "lantern-sweat" of terror. it is one thing to tell a tale to two friends in a potato-field, and another to narrate the same on oath, with four or five quills in mysterious march, two most worshipful signors bending brows of doubt upon you, and thirty or forty faces scowling at every word--"what a liar you be!" and when on the top of all this, stands up a noble gentleman, with keen eyes, peremptory voice, contemptuous smiles, and angry gestures, all expressing his christian sorrow, that the devil should have so got hold of you,--what blacksmith, even of poetic anvil (whence all rhythm and metre spring) can have any breath left in his own bellows? joe crang had fallen on his knees, to take the oath; as witnesses did, from a holy belief that this turned the rungs of the gallows the wrong way; and then he had told his little tale most sadly, as one who hopes never to be told of it again. his business had thriven, while his health was undermined; through the scores of good people, who could rout up so much as a knife that wanted a rivet, or even a boy with one tooth pushing up another; and though none of them paid more than fourpence for things that would last them a fortnight to talk about, their money stayed under the thatch, while joe spent nothing but a wink for all his beer. but ah, this was no winking time! crang was beginning to shuffle off, with his knuckles to his forehead; and recovering his mind so loudly that he got in a word about the quality of his iron--which for the rest of his life he would have cited, to show how he beat they justesses--when he found himself recalled, and told to put his feet together. this, from long practice of his art, had become a difficulty to him, and in labouring to do it he lost all possibility of bringing his wits into the like position. this order showed blickson to be almost a verulam in his knowledge of mankind. joe crang recovered no self-possession, on his own side of better than a gallon strong. "blacksmith, what o'clock is it now?" crang put his ears up, as if he expected the church-clock to come to his aid; and then with a rally of what he was hoping for, as soon as he got round the corner, replied--"four and a half, your honour." "i need not remind your worships," said blickson, when the laughter had subsided; "that this fellow's evidence, even if correct, proves nothing whatever against my clients. but just to show what it is worth, i will, with your worships' permission, put a simple question to him. he has sworn that it was two o'clock on a foggy morning, and with no church-clock to help him, when he saw, in his night-mare this ghostly vision. perhaps he should have said--'four and a half;' which in broad daylight is his idea of the present hour. now, my poor fellow, did you swear, or did you not, on a previous occasion, that one of the men who so terrified you out of your heavy sleep, was dr. james fox--a gentleman, dr. morshead, of your own distinguished profession? don't shuffle with your feet, crang, nor yet with your tongue. did you swear that, or did you not?" "well, if i did, twadn't arkerate." "in plain english, you perjured yourself on that occasion. and yet you expect their worships to believe you now! now look at the other man, the tall one. by which of his features do you recognize him now, at four and a half, in the morning?" "dun'now what veitchers be. knows 'un by his size, and manner of standin'. should like to hear's voice, if no object to you, layyer." "my friend, you call me by your own name. such is your confusion of ideas. will your worships allow me to assist this poor numskull? the great cornish wrestler is here, led by that noble fraternal feeling, which is such a credit to all men distinguished, in any walk of life. mr. polwarth of bodmin, will you kindly stand by the side of your brother in a very noble art?" it was worth a long journey in bad weather (as squire mockham told his guests at his dinner-party afterwards, and dr. morshead and his son confirmed it) to see the two biggest growths of devonshire and of cornwall standing thus amicably side by side, smiling a little slyly at each other, and blinking at their worships with some abashment, as if to say--"this is not quite in our line." for a moment the audience forgot itself, and made itself audible with three loud cheers. "silence!" cried their worships, but not so very sternly. "reckon, i could drow 'e next time;" said cornwall. "wun't zay but what 'e maight;" answered devon courteously. "now little blacksmith," resumed the lawyer, though joe crang was considerably bigger than himself; "will you undertake to swear, upon your hope of salvation, which of those two gentlemen you saw, that night?" joe crang stared at the two big men, and his mind gave way within him. he was dressed in his best, and his wife had polished up his cheeks and nose with yellow soap, which gleamed across his vision with a kind of glaze, and therein danced pen, ink, and paper, the figures of the big men, the faces of their worships, and his own hopes of salvation. "maight 'a been carnisher;" he began to stammer, with a desire to gratify his county; but a hiss went round the room from devonian sense of justice; and to strike a better balance, he finished in despair--"wull then, it waz both on 'em." "stand down, sir!" dr. morshead shouted sternly, while blickson went through a little panorama of righteous astonishment and disgust. all the audience roared, and a solid farmer called out--"don't come near me, you infernal liar," as poor crang sought shelter behind his topcoat. so much for honesty, simplicity, and candour, when the nervous system has broken down! "after that, i should simply insult the intelligence of your worships;" continued the triumphant lawyer, "by proceeding to address you. perhaps i should ask you to commit that wretch for perjury; but i leave him to his conscience, if he has one." "the case is dismissed," dr. morshead announced, after speaking for a moment to his colleague. "unless there is any intention to charge these men with resisting or assaulting officers, in the execution of their warrant. it has been reported, though not formally, that some bystander was considerably injured. if any charge is entered on either behalf, we are ready to receive the depositions." the constables, who had been knocked about, were beginning to consult together, when blickson slipped among them, after whispering to herniman, and a good deal of nodding of heads took place, while pleasant ideas were interchanged, such as, "handsome private compensation;" "twenty-five pounds to receive to-night, and such men are always generous;" "a magnificent supper-party at the least, if they are free. if not, all must come to nothing." the worthy constabulary--now represented by a still worthier body, and one of still finer feeling--perceived the full value of these arguments; and luckily for the accused, dr. gronow was not present, being sadly occupied at _old barn_. "although there is no charge, and no sign of any charge, your worships, and therefore i have no _locus standi_;" mr. blickson had returned to his place, and adopted an airy and large-hearted style; "i would crave the indulgence of the bench, for one or two quite informal remarks; my object being to remove every stigma from the characters of my respected clients. on the best authority i may state, that their one desire, and intention, was to surrender, like a pair of lambs"--at this description a grin went round, and the learned magistrates countenanced it--"if they could only realise the nature of the charge against them. but when they demanded, like englishmen, to know why their liberty should be suddenly abridged, what happened? no one answered them! all those admirable men were doubtless eager to maintain the best traditions of the law; but the hurricane out-roared them. they laboured to convey their legal message; but where is education, when the sky falls on its head? on the other hand, one of these law-abiding men had been engaged gloriously, in maintaining the athletic honour of his county. this does not appear to have raised in him at all the pugnacity, that might have been expected. he strolled into the market-place, partly to stretch his poor bruised legs, and partly perhaps, to relieve his mind; which men of smaller nature would have done, by tippling. suddenly he is surrounded by a crowd of very strong men in the dark. the fair has long been over; the lights are burning low; scarcely enough of fire in them to singe the neck of an enterprising member of our brave constabulary. in the thick darkness, and hubbub of the storm, the hero who has redeemed the belt, and therewith the ancient fame of our county, supposes--naturally supposes, charitable as his large mind is, that he is beset for the sake of the money, which he has not yet received, but intends to distribute so freely, when he gets it. the time of this honourable bench is too valuable to the public to be wasted over any descriptions of a petty skirmish, no two of which are at all alike. my large-bodied client, the mighty wrestler, might have been expected to put forth his strength. it is certain that he did not do so. the man, who had smitten down the pride of cornwall, would strike not a blow against his own county. he gave a playful push or two, a chuck under the chin, such as a pretty milkmaid gets, when she declines a sweeter touch. i marvel at his wonderful self-control. his knuckles were shattered by a blow from a staff; like a roof in a hailstorm his great chest rang--for the men of perliton can hit hard--yet is there anything to show that he even endeavoured to strike in return? and how did it end? in the very noblest way. the pastor of the village, a most saintly man, but less than an infant in harvey tremlett's hands, appears at the gate, when there is no other let or hindrance to the freedom of a briton. is he thrust aside rudely? is he kicked out of the way? nay, he lays a hand upon the big man's breast, the hand of a minister of the cross. he explains that the law, by some misapprehension, is fain to apprehend this simple-minded hero. the nature of the sad mistake is explained; and to use a common metaphor, which excited some derision just now, but which i repeat, with facts to back me,--gentle as a lamb, yonder lion surrenders!" "the lamb is very fortunate in his shepherd;" said dr. morshead drily, as the lawyer sat down, under general applause. "but there is nothing before the bench, mr. blickson. what is the object of all this eloquence?" "the object of my very simple narrative, your worships, is to discharge my plain duty to my clients. i would ask this worshipful bench, not only to dismiss a very absurd application, but also to add their most weighty opinions, that harvey tremlett, and james fox--no, i beg pardon that was the first mistake of this ever erroneous blacksmith--james kettel, i should say, have set a fine example of perfect submission to the law of the land." "oh come, mr. blickson, that is out of the record. we pronounce no opinion upon that point. we simply adjudge that the case be now dismissed." chapter xxxviii. an inland run. "won'erful well, 'e doed it, sir. if ever i gets into queer street, you be the one to get me out." this well-merited compliment was addressed by dick herniman to attorney blickson, at a convivial gathering held that same afternoon, to celebrate the above recorded triumph of astræa. the festal party had been convoked at the wheatsheaf tavern in perliton square, and had taken the best room in the house, looking out of two windows upon that noble parallelogram, which perliton never failed to bring with it, orally, when it condescended to visit perlycross. the party had no idea of being too abstemious, the object of its existence being the promotion, as well as the assertion, of the liberty of the subject. six individuals were combining for this lofty purpose, to wit the two gentlemen so unjustly charged, and their shrewd ally of high artistic standing, that very able lawyer who had vindicated right; also captain timberlegs, and horatio peckover, esquire; and pleasant it is as well as strange to add, master joseph crang of susscot, blacksmith, farrier, and engineer. for now little differences of opinion, charges of perjury and body-snatching, assault and battery, and general malfeasance, were sunk in the large liberality of success, the plenitude of john barleycorn, and the congeniality of cordials. that a stripling like the hopper should be present was a proof of some failure of discretion upon his part, for which he atoned by a tremendous imposition; while the prudent pike, and the modest mopuss, had refused with short gratitude this banquet, and gone home. but the hopper regarded himself as a witness--although he had not been called upon--in right of his researches at blackmarsh, and declared that officially he must hear the matter out, for an explanation had been promised. the greater marvel was perhaps that joe crang should be there, after all the lash of tongue inflicted on him. but when their worships were out of sight, blickson had taken him by the hand, in a truly handsome manner, and assured him of the deep respect he felt, and ardent admiration, at his too transparent truthfulness. joe crang, whose heart was very sore, had shed a tear at this touching tribute, and was fain to admit, when the lawyer put it so, that he was compelled in his own art to strike the finest metal the hardest. so now all six were in very sweet accord, having dined well, and now refining the firmer substances into the genial flow. attorney blickson was in the chair, for which nature had well qualified him; and perhaps in the present more ethereal age, he might have presided in a "syndicate" producing bubbles of gold and purple, subsiding into a bluer tone. for this was a man of quick natural parts, and gifted in many ways for his profession. every one said that he should have been a barrister; for his character would not have mattered so much, when he went from one town to another, and above all to such a place as london, where they think but little of it. if he could only stay sober, and avoid promiscuous company, and make up his mind to keep his hand out of quiet people's pockets, and do a few other respectable things, there was no earthly reason that any one could see, why he should not achieve fifty guineas a day, and even be a match for mopuss k. c., the father of mr. penniloe's fattest pupil. "this honourable company has a duty now before it;" mr. blickson drew attention by rapping on the table, and then leaning back in his chair, with a long pipe rested on a bowl of punch, or rather nothing but a punch-bowl now. on his right hand sat herniman, the giver of the feast--or the lender at least, till prize-money came to fist--and on the other side was tremlett, held down by heavy nature from the higher flights of bacchus, because no bowl was big enough to make him drunk; "yes, a duty, gentlemen, which i, as the representative of law cannot see neglected. we have all enjoyed one another's 'good health,' in the way in which it concerns us most; we have also promoted, by such prayers, the weal of the good squire mockham, and that of another gentleman, who presented himself as _amicus curiæ_--gentlemen, excuse a sample of my native tongue--a little prematurely perhaps last night, and left us to sigh for him vainly to-day. i refer to the gentleman, with whom another, happily now present, and the soul of our party, and rejoicing equally in the scriptural name of james, was identified in an early stage of this still mysterious history, by one of the most conscientious, truthful and self-possessed of all witnesses, i have ever had the honour yet of handling in the box. at least he was not in the box, because there was none; but he fully deserves to be kept in a box. i am sorry to see you smile--at my prolixity i fear; therefore i will relieve you of it. action is always more urgent than words. duty demands that we should have this bowl refilled. pleasure, which is the fairer sex of duty, as every noble sailor knows too well, awaits us next in one of her most tempting forms, as an ancient poet has observed. if it is sweet to witness from the shore the travail of another, how much sweeter to have his trials brought before us over the flowing bowl, while we rejoice in his success and share it. gentlemen, i call upon captain richard herniman for his promised narrative of that great expedition, which by some confusion of the public mind has become connected with a darker enterprise. captain richard herniman to the fore!" "bain't no cappen, and han't got no big words," said timber-leg'd dick, getting up with a rattle, and standing very staunchly; "but can't refuse this here gentleman, under the circumstances. and every word as i says will be true." after this left-handed compliment, received with a cheer in which the lawyer joined, the ancient salt premised that among good friends, he relied on honour bright, that there should be no dirty turn. to this all pledged themselves most freely; and he trusting rather in his own reservations than their pledge, that no harm should ever come of it, shortly told his story, which in substance was as follows. but some names which he omitted have been filled in, now that all fear of enquiry is over. in the previous september, when the nights were growing long, a successful run across the channel had been followed by a peaceful, and well-conducted, landing at a lonely spot on the devonshire coast, where that pretty stream the otter flows into the sea. that part of the shore was very slackly guarded then; and none of the authorities got scent, while scent was hot, of this cordial international transaction. some of these genuine wares found a home promptly and pleasantly in the neighbourhood, among farmers, tradesmen, squires, and others, including even some loyal rectors, and zealous justices of the peace, or peradventure their wives and daughters capable of minding their own keys. some, after dwelling in caves, or furze-ricks, barns, potato-buries, or hollow trees, went inland, or to sidmouth, or seaton, or anywhere else where a good tax-payer had plastered up his windows, or put "dairy" on the top of them. but the prime of the cargo, and the very choicest goods, such as fine cognac, rich silk and rare lace, too good for pedlars, and too dear for country parsons still remained stored away very snugly, in some old dry cellars beneath the courtyard of a ruined house at budleigh; where nobody cared to go poking about, because the old gentleman who lived there once had been murdered nearly thirty years ago, for informing against smugglers, and was believed to be in the habit of walking there now. these shrewd men perceived how just it was that he should stand guard in the spirit over that which in the flesh he had betrayed, especially as his treason had been caused by dissatisfaction with his share in a very fine contraband venture. much was now committed to his posthumous sense of honour; for the free-traders vowed that they could make a thousand pounds of these choice wares in any wealthy town, like bath, or bristol, or even weymouth, then more fashionable than it is now. but suddenly their bright hopes were dashed. instead of reflecting on the value of these goods, they were forced to take hasty measures for their safety. a very bustling man, of a strange suspicious turn, as dry as a mull of snuff, and as rough as a nutmeg-grater; in a word a scotchman out of sympathy with the natives, was appointed to the station at sidmouth, and before he unpacked his clothes began to rout about, like a dog who has been trained to hunt for morels. very soon he came across some elegant french work, in cottages, or fishers' huts, or on the necks of milkmaids; and nothing would content him until he had discovered, even by such deep intriguery as the distribution of lollipops, the history of the recent enterprise. "let bygones be bygones," would have been the christian sentiment of any new-comer at all connected with the district; and sandy macspudder must have known quite well, that his curiosity was in the worst of taste, and the result too likely to cast discredit on his own predecessor, who was threatening to leave the world just then, with a large family unprovided for. yet such was this scotchman's pertinacity and push, that even the little quiet village of budleigh, which has nothing to do but to listen to its own brook prattling to the gently smiling valley, even this rose-fringed couch of peace was ripped up by the slashing of this rude lieutenant's cutlass. a spectre, even of the best devonian antecedents, was of less account than a scare-crow to this matter-of-fact lowlander. "a' can smell a rat in that ghostie," was his profane conclusion. this put the spirited free-traders on their mettle. fifty years ago, that scotch interloper would have learned the restful qualities of a greener sod than his. but it is of interest to observe how the english nature softened, when the martial age had lapsed. it scarcely occurred to this gentler generation, that a bullet from behind a rock would send this spry enquirer to solve larger questions on his own account. savage brutality had less example now. the only thing therefore was to over-reach this man. he was watching all the roads along the coast, to east and west; but to guard all the tangles of the inward roads, and the blessed complexity of devonshire lanes would have needed an army of pure natives. whereas this busy foreigner placed no faith in any man born in that part of the world--such was his judgment--and had called for a draft of fellows having different vowels. this being so, it served him right to be largely out-witted by the thick-heads he despised. and he had made such a fuss about it, at head-quarters, and promised such wonders if the case were left to him, that when he captured nothing but a string of worn-out kegs filled with diluted sheep-wash, he not only suffered for a week from gastric troubles--through his noseless hurry to identify cognac--but also received a stinging reprimand, and an order for removal to a very rugged coast, where he might be more at home with the language and the manners. and his predecessor's son obtained that sunny situation. thus is zeal rewarded always, when it does not win the seal. none will be surprised to hear that the simple yet masterly stratagem, by means of which the fair western county vindicated its commercial rights against northern arrogance and ignoble arts, was the invention of a british tar, an old agamemnon, a true heart of oak, re-membered also in the same fine material. the lessons of nelson had not been thrown away; this humble follower of that great hero first mis-led the adversary, and then broke his line. invested as he was by superior forces seeking access even to his arsenal, he despatched to the eastward a lumbering craft, better known to landsmen as a waggon, heavily laden with straw newly threshed, under which was stowed a tier of ancient kegs, which had undergone too many sinkings in the sea (when a landing proved unsafe) to be trusted any more with fine contents. therefore they now contained sheep-wash, diluted from the brook to the complexion of old brandy. in the loading of this waggon special mystery was observed, which did not escape the vigilance of the keen lieutenant's watchmen. with a pair of good farm-horses, and a farm-lad on the ridge of the load, and a heavy fellow whistling not too loudly on the lade-rail, this harmless car of fictitious bacchus, crowned by effete ceres, wended its rustic way towards the lowest bridge of otter, a classic and idyllic stream. these two men, of pastoral strain and richest breadth of language, carried orders of a simplicity almost equal to their own. no sooner was this waggon lost to sight and hearing in the thick october night, and the spies sped away by the short cuts to report it, than a long light cart, with a strong out-stepping horse, came down the wooded valley to the ghostly court. in half an hour, it was packed, and started inland, passing the birthplace of a very great man, straight away to farringdon and rockbear, with orders to put up at clist hidon before daylight, where lived a farmer who would harbour them securely. on the following night they were to make their way, after shunning cullompton, to the shelter in blackmarsh, where they would be safe from all intrusion, and might await fresh instructions, which would take them probably towards bridgwater, and bristol. by friendly ministrations of the whetstone men, who had some experience in trade of this description, all this was managed with the best success; jem kettel knew the country roads, by dark as well as daylight, and harvey tremlett was not a man to be collared very easily. in fact, without that sad mishap to their very willing and active nag, they might have fared through perlycross, as they had through other villages, where people wooed the early pillow, without a trace or dream of any secret treasure passing. meanwhile at sidmouth the clever scotchman was enjoying his own acuteness. he allowed that slowly rolling waggon of the eleusine dame to proceed some miles upon its course, before his men stood at the horses' heads. there was wisdom in this, as well as pleasure--the joy a cat prolongs with mouse--inasmuch as all these good things were approaching his own den of spoil. when the scotchmen challenged the devonshire swains, with flourish of iron, and of language even harder, an interpreter was sorely needed. not a word could the northmen understand that came from the broad soft southron tongues; while the devonshire men feigning, as they were bidden, to take them for highwaymen, feigned also not to know a syllable of what they said. this led, as it was meant to do, to very lavish waste of time, and increment of trouble. the carters instead of lending hand for the unloading of their waggon, sadly delayed that operation, by shouting out "thaves!" at the top of their voice, tickling their horses into a wild start now and then, and rolling the preventive men off at the tail. macspudder himself had a narrow escape; for just when he chanced to be between two wheels, both of them set off, without a word of notice; and if he had possessed at all a western body, it would have been run over. being made of corkscrew metal by hereditary right, he wriggled out as sound as ever; and looked forward all the more to the solace underlying this reluctant pile, as dry as any of his own components. nothing but his own grunts can properly express the fattening of his self-esteem (the whole of which was home-fed) when his men, without a fork--for the boreal mind had never thought of that--but with a great many chops of knuckles (for the skin of straw is tougher than a scotchman's) found their way at midnight, like a puzzled troop of divers, into the reef at bottom of the sheefy billows. their throats were in a husky state, from chaff too penetrative, and barn-dust over volatile, and they risked their pulmonary weal, by opening a too sanguine cheer. "duty compels us to test the staple;" the officer in command decreed; and many mouths gaped round the glow of his bullseye. "don't 'ee titch none of that their wassh!" the benevolent devonians exclaimed in vain. want of faith prevailed; every man suspected the verdict of his predecessor, and even his own at first swallow. if timber-leg'd dick could have timed the issue, what a landing he might have made! for the coast-guard tested staple so that twenty miles of coast were left free for fifty hours. having told these things in his gravest manner, herniman, who so well combined the arts of peace and war, filled another pipe, and was open to enquiry. everybody accepted his narrative with pleasure, and heartily wished him another such a chance of directing fair merchandise along the lanes of luck. the blacksmith alone had some qualms of conscience, for apparent back-slidings from the true faith of free-trade. but they clapped him on the back, and he promised with a gulp, that he never would peep into a liberal van again. "there is one thing not quite clear to me;" said the hopper, when the man of iron was settled below the table, whereas the youth had kept himself in trim for steeple-chasing. "what could our friend have seen in that vehicle of free-trade, to make him give that horrible account of its contents? and again, why did mr. harvey tremlett carry off that tool of his, which i found in the water?" with a wave of his hand--for his tongue had now lost, by one of nature's finest arrangements, the exuberance of the morning, whereas a man of sober silence would now have gushed into bright eloquence--the chairman deputed to herniman, and tremlett, the honour of replying to the hopper. "you see, sir," said the former, "it was just like this. we was hurried so in stowing cargo, that some of the finest laces in the world, such as they call _valentines_, worth maybe fifty or a hundred pounds a yard, was shot into the hold anyhow, among a lot of silks and so on. harvey, and jemmy, was on honour to deliver goods as they received them; blacksmith seed some of this lace a'flappin' under black tarporly; and he knowed as your poor squire had been figged out for 's last voyage with same sort of stuff, only not so good. a clever old 'ooman maketh some, to perlycrass; honiton lace they calls it here. what could a' think but that squire was there? reckon, master crang would a' told 'e this, if so be a' hadn't had a little drap too much." "thou bee'st a liar. han't had half enough, i tell 'e." the blacksmith from under the table replied, and then rolled away into a bellowsful of snores. "to be sure!" said peckover. "i see now. tamsin tamlin's work it was. sergeant jakes told me all about it. with all the talk there had been of robbing graves, and two men keeping in the dark so, no wonder crang thought what he did. many people went to see that lace, i heard; and they said it was too good to go underground; though nothing could be too good for the squire. well now, about that other thing--why did mr. tremlett make off with _little billy_?" "can't tell 'e, sir, very much about 'un;" the wrestler answered, with a laugh at the boy's examination. "happen i tuk 'un up, a'veelin' of 'un, to frighten blacksmith maybe; and then i vancied a' maight come handy like, if nag's foot went wrong again. then when nag gooed on all right, i just chucked 'un into a pool of watter, for to kape 'un out o' sight of twisty volk. ort more to zatisfy this yung gent?" "yes. i am a twisty folk, i suppose. unless there is any objection, i should like very much to know why dr. fox was sent on that fool's errand to the pits." "oh, i can tell 'e that, sir," replied jem kettel, for the spirit of the lad, and his interest in their doings, had made him a favourite with the present company. "it were one of my mates as took too much trouble. he were appointed to meet us at the cornder of the four roads, an hour afore that or more; and he got in a bit of a skear, it seems not knowing why we was so behindhand. but he knowed dr. vox, and thought 'un better out o' way, being such a sharp chap, and likely to turn meddlesome. he didn't want 'un to hang about up street, as a' maight with some sick 'ooman, and so he zent un' t'other road, to tend a little haxident. wouldn't do he no harm, a' thought, and might zave us some bother. but, lord! if us could have only knowed the toorn your volk would putt on it, i reckon us should have roared and roared, all droo the strates of perlycrass. vainest joke as ever coom to my hearin', or ever wull, however long the lord kapeth me a'livin'. and to think of jem kettel being sworn to for a learned doctor! never had no teethache i han't, since the day i heered on it." a hearty laugh was held to be a sovereign cure for toothache then, and perhaps would be so still, if the patient could accomplish it. "well, so far as that goes, you have certainly got the laugh of us;" master peckover admitted, not forgetting that he himself came in for as much as any one. "but come now, as you are so sharp, just give me your good opinion. and you being all along the roads that night, ought to have seen something. who were the real people in that horrid business?" "the lord in heaven knoweth, sir;" said tremlett very solemnly. "us passed in front of perlycrass church, about dree o'clock of the morning. nort were doing then, or us could scarcely have helped hearing of it. even if 'em heered our wheels, and so got out of sight, i reckon, us must a' seed the earth-heap, though moon were gone a good bit afore that. and zim'th there waz no harse there. a harse will sing out a'most always to another harse at night, when a' heareth of him coming, and a' standeth lonely. us coom athert ne'er chick nor cheeld from perlycrass to blackmarsh. as to us and clam-pit volk, zoonder would us goo to gallows than have ort to say to grave-work. and gallows be too good for 'un, accardin' my opinion. but gen'lemen, afore us parts, i wants to drink the good health of the best man i've a knowed on airth. bain't saying much perhaps, for my ways hath been crooked like. but maketh any kearless chap belave in good above 'un, when a hap'th acrass a man as thinketh nort of his own zell, but gi'eth his life to other volk. god bless passon penniloe!" chapter xxxix. needful returns. now it happened that none of these people, thus rejoicing in the liberty of the subject, had heard of the very sad state of things, mainly caused by their own acts, and now prevailing at _old barn_. tremlett knew that he had struck a vicious blow, at the head of a man who had grappled him, but he thought he had missed it and struck something else, a bag, or a hat, or he knew not what, in the pell mell scuffle and the darkness. his turn of mind did not incline him to be by any means particular as to his conduct, in a hot and hard personal encounter; but knowing his vast strength he generally abstained from the use of heavy weapons, while his temper was his own. but in this hot struggle, he had met with a mutually shattering blow from a staff, as straight as need be upon his right-hand knuckles; and the pain from this, coupled with the wrath aroused at the access of volunteer enemies, had carried him--like the raging elements outside--out of all remembrance of the true "sacredness of humanity." he struck out, with a sense of not doing the right thing, which is always strengthened afterwards; and his better stars being ablink in the gale, and the other man's gone into the milky way, he hit him too hard; which is a not uncommon error. many might have reasoned (and before all others, harvey tremlett's wife, if still within this world of reason; and a bad job it was for him that she was now outside it) that nothing could be nobler, taking people as we find them--and how else can we get the time to take them?--than the behaviour of this champion wrestler. but, without going into such sweet logic of affinity, and rhetoric of friends (whose minds have been made up in front of it) there was this crushing fact to meet, that an innocent man's better arm was in a smash. no milder word, however medical, is fit to apply to frank gilham's poor fore-arm. they might call it the _ulna_--for a bit of latin is a solace, to the man who feels the pain in a brother christian's member--and they might enter nobly into fine nerves of anatomy; but the one-sided difficulty still was there--they had got to talk about it; he had got to bear it. not that he made any coward outcry of it. a truer test of manliness (as has been often said, by those who have been through either trial), truer than the rush of blood and reckless dash of battle, is the calm, open-eyed, and firm-fibred endurance of long, ever-grinding, never-graduating pain. the pain that has no pang, or paroxysm, no generosity to make one cry out "well done!" to it, and be thankful to the lord that it must have done its worst; but a fluid that keeps up a slow boil, by day and night, and never lifts the pot-lid, and never whirls about, but keeps up a steady stew of flesh, and bone, and marrow. "i fear there is nothing for it, but to have it off," dr. gronow said, upon the third day of this frightful anguish. he had scarcely left the patient for an hour at a time; and if he had done harsh things in his better days, no one would believe it of him, who could see him now. "it was my advice at first, you know; but you would not have it, jemmy. you are more of a surgeon than i am. but i doubt whether you should risk his life, like this." "i am still in hopes of saving it. but you see how little i can do," replied fox, whose voice was very low, for he was suffering still from that terrible concussion, and but for the urgency of gilham's case, he would now have been doctoring the one who pays the worst for it. "if i had my proper touch, and strength of nerve, i never should have let it come to this. there is a vile bit of splinter that won't come in, and i am not firm enough to make it. i wish i had left it to you, as you offered. after all, you know much more than we do." "no, my dear boy. it is your special line. such a case as lady waldron's i might be more at home with. i should have had the arm off long ago. but the mother--the mother is such a piteous creature? what has become of all my nerve? i am quite convinced that fly-fishing makes a man too gentle. i cannot stand half the things i once thought nothing of. by-the-by, couldn't you counteract her? you know the old proverb-- 'one woman rules the men; two makes them think again,' it would be the best thing you could do." "i don't see exactly what you mean," answered jemmy, who had lost nearly all of his sprightliness. "plainer than a pikestaff. send for your sister. you owe it to yourself, and her; and most of all to the man who has placed his life in peril, to save yours. it is not a time to be too finical." "i have thought of it once or twice. she would be of the greatest service now. but i don't much like to ask her. most likely she would refuse to come, after the way in which i packed her off." "my dear young friend," said dr. gronow, looking at him steadfastly, "if that is all you have to say, you don't deserve a wife at all worthy of the name. in the first place, you won't sink your own little pride; and in the next, you have no idea what a woman is." "young farrant is the most obliging fellow in the world," replied fox, after thinking for a minute. "i will put him on my young mare _perle_, who knows the way; and he'll be at foxden before dark. if chris likes to come, she can be here well enough, by twelve or one o'clock to-morrow." "like, or no like, i'll answer for her coming; and i'll answer for her not being very long about it," said the senior doctor; and on both points he was right. christie was not like herself, when she arrived, but pale, and timid, and trembling. her brother had not mentioned frank in his letter, doubting the turn she might take about it, and preferring that she should come to see to himself, which was her foremost duty. but young mr. farrant, the churchwarden's son, and pretty minnie's brother, had no embargo laid upon his tongue; and had there been fifty, what could they have availed to debar such a clever young lady? she had cried herself to sleep, when she knew all, and dreamed it a thousand times worse than it was. now she stood in the porch of the _old barn_, striving, and sternly determined to show herself rational, true to relationship, sisterly, and nothing more. but her white lips, quick breath, and quivering eyelids, were not altogether consistent with that. instead of amazement, when mrs. gilham came to meet her, and no jemmy, she did not even feign to be surprised, but fell into the bell-sleeves (which were fine things for embracing) and let the deep throbs of her heart disclose a tale that is better felt than told. "my dearie," said the mother, as she laid the damask cheek against the wrinkled one, and stroked the bright hair with the palm of her hand, "don't 'e give way, that's a darling child. it will all be so different now you are come. it was what i was longing for, day and night, but could not bring myself to ask. and i felt so sure in my heart, my dear, how sorry you would be for him." "i should think so. i can't tell you. and all done for jemmy, who was so ungrateful! my brother would be dead, if your son was like him. there has never been anything half so noble, in all the history of the world." "my dear, you say that, because you think well of our frankie--i have not called him that, since tuesday now. but you do think well of him, don't you now?" "don't talk to me of thinking well indeed! i never can endure those weak expressions. when i like people, i do like them." "my dear, it reminds me quite of our own country, to hear you speak out so hearty. none of them do it up your way, much; according to what i hear of them. i feel it so kind of you, to like frank gilham." "well! am i never to be understood? is there no meaning in the english language? i don't like him only. but with all my heart, i love him." "he won't care if doctors cut his arm off now, if he hath one left to go round you." the mother sobbed a little, with second fiddle in full view; but being still a mother, wiped her eyes, and smiled with content at the inevitable thing. "one thing remember," said the girl, with a coaxing domestic smile, and yet a lot of sparkle in her eyes; "if you ever tell him what you twisted out of me, in a manner which i may call--well, too circumstantial--i am afraid that i never should forgive you. i am awfully proud, and i can be tremendous. perhaps he would not even care to hear it. and then what would become of me? can you tell me that?" "my dear, you know better. you know, as well as i do, that ever since he saw you, he has thought of nothing else. it has made me feel ashamed, that i should have a son capable of throwing over all the world beside----" "but don't you see, that is the very thing i like? noble as he is, if it were not for that, i--well, i won't go into it; but you ought to understand. he can't think half so much of me, as i do of him." "then there is a pair of you. and the lord has made you so. but never fear, my pretty. not a whisper shall he have. you shall tell him all about it, with your own sweet lips." "as if i could do that indeed! why, mrs. gilham, was that what you used to do, when you were young? i thought people were ever so much more particular in those days." "i can hardly tell, my dear. sometimes i quite forget, because it seems so long ago; and at other times i'm not fit to describe it, because i am doing it over again. but for pretty behaviour, and nice ways--nice people have them in every generation; and you may take place with the best of them. but we are talking, as if nothing was the matter. and you have never asked even how we are going on!" "because i know all about it, from the best authority. coming up the hill we met dr. gronow, and i stopped the chaise to have a talk with him. he does not think the arm will ever be much good again; but he leaves it to younger men, to be certain about anything. that was meant for jemmy, i suppose. he would rather have the pain, than not, he says; meaning of course in the patient--not himself. it shows healthy action--though i can't see how--and just the proper quantity of inflammation, which i should have thought couldn't be too little. he has come round to jemmy's opinion this morning, that if one--something or other--can be got to stay in its place, and not do something or other--the poor arm may be saved, after all; though never as strong as it was before. he says it must have been a frightful blow. i hope that man will be punished for it heavily." "i hope so too, with all my heart; though i am not revengeful. mr. penniloe was up here yesterday, and he tried to make the best of it. i was so vexed that i told him, he would not be quite such a christian about it perhaps, if he had the pain in his own arm. but he has made the man promise to give himself up, if your brother, or my son, require it. i was for putting him in jail at once, but the others think it better to wait a bit. but as for his promise, i wouldn't give much for that. however, men manage those things, and not women. did the doctor say whether you might see my frankie?" "he said i might see jemmy; though jemmy is very queer. but as for frank, if i saw him through a chink in the wall, that would be quite enough. but he must not see me, unless it was with a telescope through a two-inch door. that annoyed me rather. as if we were such babies! but he said that you were a most sensible woman, and that was the advice you gave him." "what a story! oh my dear, never marry a doctor--though i hope you will never have the chance--but they really don't seem to care what they say. it was just the same in my dear husband's time. dr. gronow said to me--'if she comes when i am out, don't let her go near either of them. she might do a lot of mischief. she might get up an argument, or something.' and so, i said----" "oh, mrs. gilham, that is a great deal worse than telling almost any story. an argument! do i ever argue? i had better have stayed away, if that is the way they think of me. a telescope and a two-inch door, and not be allowed perhaps to open my mouth! there is something exceedingly unjust in the opinions men entertain of women." "not my frank, my dear. that is where he differs from all the other young men in the world. he has the most correct and yet exalted views; such as poets had, when there were any. if you could only hear him going on about you, before he got that wicked knock i mean, of course,--his opinions not only of your hair and face, nor even your eyes, though all perfectly true, but your mind, and your intellect, and disposition, and power of perceiving what people are, and then your conversation--almost too good for us, because of want of exercise--and then, well i really forget what came next." "oh, mrs. gilham, it is all so absurd! how could he talk such nonsense? i don't like to hear of such things; and i cannot believe there could be anything, to come next." "oh yes, there was, my dear, now you remind me of it. it was about the small size of your ears, and the lovely curves inside them. he had found out in some ancient work,--for i believe he could hold his own in greek and latin, even with mr. penniloe,--that a well-shaped ear is one of the rarest of all feminine perfections. that made him think no doubt of yours, for men are quite babies when they are in love; and he found yours according to the highest standard. men seem to make all those rules about us, simply according to their own ideas! what rules do we ever make about them?" "i am so glad that you look at things in that way," christie answered, with her fingers going slyly up her hair, to let her ears know what was thought of them; "because i was afraid that you were too much--well perhaps that thinking so much of your son, you might look at things one-sidedly. and yet i might have known from your unusual common sense--but i do believe dr. gronow is coming back; and i have not even got my cloak off! wait a bit, till things come round a little. a telescope, and a two-inch door! one had better go about in a coal-sack, and curl-papers. not that i ever want such things,--curves enough in my ears perhaps. but really i must make myself a little decent. they have taken my things up to my old room, i suppose. try to keep him here, till i come back. he says that i get up arguments. let me get up one with him." "my orders are as stern as they are sensible;" dr. gronow declared, when she had returned, beautifully dressed and charming, and had thus attacked him with even more of blandishment than argument; "your brother you may see, but not to talk much at one time to him; for his head is in a peculiar state, and he does much more than he ought to do. he insists upon doing everything, which means perpetual attention to his friend. but he does it all as if by instinct, apparently without knowing it; and that he should do it all to perfection, is a very noble proof of the thoroughness of his grounding. the old school, the old school of training--there is nothing like it after all. any mere sciolist, any empiric, any smatterer of the new medical course--and where would frank gilham's arm be now? not in a state of lenitive pain, sanative, and in some degree encouraging, but in a condition of incipient mortification. for this is a case of compound comminuted fracture; so severe that my own conviction was--however no more of that to you two ladies. only feel assured that no more could be done for the patient in the best hospital in london. and talking of upstart schools indeed, and new-fangled education, have you heard what the boys have done at perlycross? i heard the noise upstairs, and i was obliged to shut the window, although it is such a soft spring-day. i was going down the hill to stop it, when i met miss fox. it is one of the most extraordinary jokes i ever knew." "oh, do tell us. we have not heard a word about it. but i am beginning to think that this is not at all a common place. i am never surprised at anything that happens at perlycross." this was not a loyal speech on the part of the fair christie. "from what i have heard of that moral force-man," mrs. gilham remarked, with slow shake of her head; "i fear that his system would work better in a future existence, than as we are now. from what my son told me, before his accident, i foresaw that it must lead up to something quite outrageous. nothing ever answers long, that goes against all the wisdom of our ancestors." "excuse me for a minute; i must first see how things are going on upstairs. as soon as i am at liberty, i will tell you what i saw. though i like the march of intellect, when discipline directs it." dr. gronow, who was smiling, which he seldom was, except after whirling out a two-ounce trout, went gently upstairs and returned in a few minutes, and sat down to tell his little tale. "every thing there going on as well as can be. your brother is delighted to hear that you are come. but the other patient must not hear a word about it yet. we don't want any rapid action of the heart. well, what the young scamps have done is just this. the new schoolmaster has abolished canes, you know, and birches, and every kind of physical compulsion. he exclaims against coercion, and pronounces that boys are to be guided by their hearts, instead of being governed by their--pardon me, a word not acknowledged in the language of these loftier days. this gentleman seems to have abolished the old system of the puerile body and mind, without putting anything of cogency in its place. he has introduced novelties, very excellent no doubt, if the boys would only take to them, with intellects as lofty as his own. but that is the very thing the boys won't do. i am a liberal--so far as feelings go, when not overpowered by the judgment--but i must acknowledge that the best extremes of life, the boyhood made of nature, and the age made of experience, are equally staunch in their toryism. but this man's great word is--reform. as long as the boys thought it meant their benches, and expected to have soft cushions on them, they were highly pleased, and looked forward to this tribute to a part which had hitherto been anything but sacred. their mothers too encouraged it, on account of wear and tear; but their fathers could not see why they should sit softer at their books, than they had to do at their trenchers. "but yesterday unluckily the whole of it came out. there arrived a great package, by old hill the carrier, who has had his van mended that was blown over, and out rushed the boys, without asking any leave, to bring in their comfortable cushions. all they found was a great blackboard, swinging on a pillar, with a socket at the back, and a staple and chain to adjust it. toogood expected them to be in raptures, but instead of that they all went into sulks; and the little fellows would not look at it, having heard of black magic and witchcraft. toogood called it a 'demonstration-table, for the exhibition of object-lessons.' "mr. penniloe, as you may suppose, had long been annoyed and unhappy about the new man's doings, but he is not supreme in the week-day school, as he is on sunday; and he tried to make the best of it, till the right man should come home. and i cannot believe that he went away on purpose to-day, in order to let them have it out. but the boys found out that he was going, and there is nobody else they care twopence for. "everybody says, except their mothers, that they must have put their heads together over-night, or how could they have acted with such unity and precision? not only in design but in execution, the accomplished tactician stands confessed. instead of attacking the enemy at once, when many might have hastened to his rescue, they deferred operations until to-day, and even then waited for the proper moment. they allowed him to exhaust all the best of his breath in his usual frothy oration--for like most of such men he can spout for ever, and finds it much easier than careful teaching. "then as he leaned back, with pantings in his chest, and eyes turned up at his own eloquence, two of the biggest boys flung a piece of clothes-line round his arms from behind, and knotted it, while another slipped under the desk, and buckled his ankles together with a satchel-strap, before he knew what he was doing. then as he began to shout and bellow, scarcely yet believing it, they with much panting and blowing, protrusion of tongues, and grunts of exertion, some working at his legs, and some shouldering at his loins, and others hauling on the clothes-line, but all with perfect harmony of action, fetched their preceptor to the demonstration-board, and laying him with his back flat against it, strapped his feet to the pedestal; then pulling out the staple till the board was perpendicular, they secured his coat-collar to the shaft above it, and there he was--as upright as need be, but without the power to move, except at his own momentous peril. then to make quite sure of him, a clever little fellow got upon a stool, and drew back his hair, bright red, and worn long like a woman's, and tied it with a book-tape behind the pillar. you may imagine how the poor preceptor looks. any effort of his to release himself will crush him beneath the great demonstration, like a mouse in a figure-of-four trap." "but are we to believe, dr. gronow," asked christie, "that you came away, and left the poor man in that helpless state?" "undoubtedly i did. it is no concern of mine. and the boys had only just got their pea-shooters. he has not had half enough to cure him yet. besides, they had my promise; for the boys have got the keys, they are charging a penny for a view of this reformer; but they won't let any one in without a promise of strict neutrality. i gave a shilling, for i am sure they have deserved it. somebody will be sure to cast him loose, in plenty of time for his own good. this will be of the greatest service to him, and cure him for a long time of big words." "but suppose he falls forward upon his face, and the board falls upon him and suffocates him. why, it would be the death of mr. penniloe. you are wanted here of course, dr. gronow; but i shall put my bonnet on, and rush down the hill, to the release of the higher education." "don't rush too fast, miss fox. there's a tree blown down across the lane, after you turn out of the one you came by. we ought to have had it cleared, but they say it will take a fortnight to make some of the main roads passable again. i would not go, if i were you. somebody will have set him free, before you get there. i'll go out and listen. with the wind in the north, we can hear their hurrah-ing quite plainly at the gate. you can come with me, if you like." "oh, it is no hurrahing, dr. gronow! how can you deceive me so? it is a very sad sound indeed;" said christie, as they stood at the gate, and she held her pretty palms to serve as funnels for her much admired ears. "it sounds like a heap of boys weeping and wailing. i fear that something sadly vindictive has been done. one never can have a bit of triumph, without that." she scarcely knew the full truth of her own words. it was indeed an epoch of nemesis. this fourth generation of boys in that village are beginning to be told of it, on knees that shake, with time, as well as memory. and thus it befell. "what, lock me out of my own school-door! can't come in, without i pay a penny! may do in spain; but won't do here." a strong foot was thrust into the double of the door, a rattle of the handle ran up the lock and timber, and conscience made a coward of the boy that took the pennies. an odic force, as the present quaky period calls it, permeated doubtless from the master hand. back went the boy, and across him strode a man, rather tall, wiry, torve of aspect, hyporrhined with a terse moustache, hatted with a vast sombrero. at a glance he had the whole situation in his eye, and his heart,--worst of all, in his strong right arm. he flung off a martial cloak, that might have cumbered action, stood at the end of the long desk, squared his shoulders and eyebrows, and shouted-- "boys, here's a noise!" as this famous battle-cry rang through the room, every mother's darling knew what was coming. consternation is too weak a word. grinning mouths fell into graves of terror, castaway pea-shooters quivered on the floor, fat legs rattled in their boots, and flew about, helter-skelter, anywhere, to save their dear foundations. vain it was; no vanishing point could be discovered. wisdom was come, to be justified of her children. the schoolmaster of the ancient school marched with a grim smile to the door, locked it, and pocketed the key. three little fellows, untaught as yet the expediency of letting well alone, had taken the bunch of keys, and brought forth, and were riding disdainfully the three canes dormant under the new dispensation. "bring me those implements," commanded sergeant jakes, "perhaps they may do--to begin with." he arranged them lovingly, and then spoke wisely. "my dear young friends, it is very sad to find, that while i have been in foreign parts, you have not been studying discipline. the gentleman, whom you have treated thus, will join me, i trust, by the time i have done, in maintaining that i do not bear the rod in vain. any boy who crawls under a desk may feel assured that he will get it ten times worse." pity draws a mourning veil, though she keeps a place to peep through, when her highly respected cousin, justice, is thus compelled to assert herself. enough that very few indeed of the highly cultured boys of perlycross showed much aptitude that week for sedentary employment. chapter xl. home and foreign. six weeks was the average time allowed for the voyage to and fro of the schooner _montilla_ (owned by messrs. besley of exeter) from topsham to cadiz, or wherever it might be; and little uneasiness was ever felt, if her absence extended to even three months. for spaniards are not in the awkward habit of cracking whips at old time, when he is out at grass, much less of jumping at his forelock; and iberian time is nearly always out at grass. when a thing will not help to do itself to-day, who knows that it may not be in a kinder mood to-morrow? the spirit of worry, and unreasonable hurry, is a deadly blast to all serenity of mind and dignity of demeanour, and can be in harmony with nothing but bad weather. thus the _montilla's_ period was a fluctuating numeral. as yet english produce was of high repute, and the continent had not been barb-wired by ourselves, against our fleecy merchandise. the spaniards happened to be in the vein for working, and thus on this winter trip the good trader's hold was quickly cleared of english solids, and refilled with spanish fluids; and so the _montilla_ was ready for voyage homeward the very day her passenger rejoined. this pleased him well, for he was anxious to get back, though not at all aware of the urgent need arising. luckily for him and for all on board, the schooner lost a day in getting out to sea, and thus ran into the rough fringes only of the great storm that swept the english coast and channel. in fact she made good weather across the bay of biscay, and swang into her berth at topsham, several days before she was counted due. the sergeant's first duty was, of course, to report himself at walderscourt; and this he had done, before he made that auspicious re-entry upon his own domain. the ladies did not at all expect to see him, for days or even weeks to come, having heard nothing whatever of his doings; for the post beyond france was so uncertain then, that he went away with orders not to write. when jakes was shown into the room, lady waldron was sitting alone, and much agitated by a letter just received from mr. webber, containing his opinion of all that had happened at perliton on wednesday. feeling her unfitness for another trial, she sent for her daughter, before permitting the envoy to relate his news. then she strove to look calmly at him, and to maintain her cold dignity as of yore; but the power was no longer in her. months of miserable suspense, perpetual brooding, and want of sleep, had lowered the standard of her pride; and nothing but a burst of painful sobs saved her from a worse condition. the sergeant stood hesitating by the door, feeling that he had no invitation to see this, and not presuming to offer comfort. but miss waldron seeing the best thing to do, called him, and bade him tell his news in brief. "may it please your ladyship," the veteran began, staring deeply into his new spanish hat, about which he had received some compliments; "all i have to tell your ladyship is for the honour of the family. your ladyship's brother is as innocent as i be. he hath had nought to do with any wicked doings here. he hath not got his money, but he means to have it." "thank god!" cried lady waldron, but whether about the money, or the innocence, was not clear; and then she turned away, to have things out with herself; and jakes was sent into the next room, and sat down, thanking the crown of his hat that it covered the whole of his domestic interests. when feminine excitement was in some degree spent, and the love of particulars (which can never long be quenched by any depth of tears), was reviving, sergeant jakes was well received, and told his adventures like a veteran. a young man is apt to tell things hotly, as if nothing had ever come to pass before; but a steady-goer knows that the sun was shining, and the rain was raining, and the wind was blowing, ere he felt any one of them. alike the whole must be cut short. it appears that the sergeant had a fine voyage out, and picked up a good deal of his lapsed spanish lore, from two worthy spanish hands among the crew. besley of exeter did things well--as the manner of that city is--victuals were good, and the crew right loyal, as generally happens in that case. captain binstock stood in awe of his elder brother, the butler, and never got out of his head its original belief that the sergeant was his brother's schoolmaster. against that idea chronology strove hazily, and therefore vainly. the sergeant strode the deck with a stick he bought at exeter, spoke of his experience in transports, regarded the masts as a pair of his own canes--in a word was master of the ship, whenever there was nothing to be done to her. a finer time he never had, for he was much too wiry to be sea-sick. all the crew liked him, whether present or absent, and never laughed at him but in the latter case. he corrected their english, when it did not suit his own, and thus created a new form of discipline. most of this he recounted in his pungent manner, without a word of self-laudation; and it would have been a treat to christie fox to hear him; but his present listeners were too anxious about the result to enjoy this part of it. then he went to the city to which he was despatched, and presented his letters to the few he could find entitled to receive them. the greater part were gone beyond the world of letters, for twenty-five years make a sad gap in the post. and of the three survivors, one alone cared to be troubled with the bygone days. but that one was a host in himself, a loyal retainer of the ancient family, in the time of its grandeur, and now in possession of a sinecure post, as well as a nice farm on the hills, both of which he had obtained through their influence. he was delighted to hear once more of the beautiful lady he had formerly adored. he received the sergeant as his guest, and told him all that was known of the present state of things, concerning the young count--as he still called him--and all that was likely to come of it. it was true that the count had urged his claim, and brought evidence in support of it; but at present there seemed to be very little chance of his getting the money for years to come, even if he should do so in the end; and for that he must display, as they said, fresh powers of survivorship. he had been advised to make an offer of release and quit-claim, upon receipt of the sum originally advanced without any interest; but he had answered sternly, "either i will have all, or none." the amount was so large, that he could not expect to receive the whole immediately; and he was ready to accept it by instalments; but the authorities would not pay a penny, nor attempt an arrangement with him, for fear of admitting their liability. in a very brief, and candid, but by no means honest manner, they refused to be bound at all by the action of their fathers. when that was of no avail, because the city-tolls were in the bond, they began to call for proof of this, and evidence of that, and set up every possible legal obstacle, hoping to exhaust the claimant's sadly dwindled revenues. above all, they maintained that two of the lives in the assurance-deed were still subsisting, although their lapse was admitted in their own minutes, and registered in the record. and it was believed that in this behalf, they were having recourse to personation. that scandalous pretext must be demolished, before it could become of prime moment to the count to prove the decease of his brother-in-law; and certain it was that no such dramatic incident had occurred in the city, as that which her ladyship had witnessed, by means of her imagination. with a long fight before him, and very scanty sinews of war to maintain it, the claimant had betaken himself to madrid, where he had powerful friends, and might consult the best legal advisers. but his prospects were not encouraging; for unless he could deposit a good round sum, for expenses of process, and long enquiry, and even counterbribing, no one was likely to take up his case, so strong and so tough were the forces in possession. rash friends went so far as to recommend him to take the bull by the horns at once, to lay forcible hands upon the city-tolls, without any order from a law-court, for the deed was so drastic that this power was conferred; but he saw that to do this would simply be to play into the hands of the enemy. for thus he would probably find himself outlawed, or perhaps cast into prison, with the lapse of his own life imminent; for the family of the barcas were no longer supreme in the land, as they used to be. "ungrateful thieves! vile pigs of burghers!" lady waldron exclaimed with just indignation. "my grandfather would have strung them up with straw in their noses, and set them on fire. they sneer at the family of barca, do they? it shall trample them underfoot. my poor brother shall have my last penny to punish them; for that i have wronged him in my heart. ours is a noble race, and most candid. we never deign to stoop ourselves to mistrust or suspicion: i trust master sergeant, you have not spoken so to the worthy and loyal diego, that my brother may ever hear of the thoughts introduced into my mind concerning him?" "no, my lady, not a word. everything i did, or said, was friendly, straight-forward, and favourable to the honour of the family." "you are a brave man; you are a faithful soldier. forget that by the force of circumstances i was compelled to have such opinions. but can you recite to me the names of the two persons, whose lives they have replenished?" "yes, my lady. señor diego wrote them down in this book on purpose. he thought that your ladyship might know something of them." "for one i have knowledge of everything; but the other i do not know," lady waldron said, after reading the names. "this poor señorita was one of my bridesmaids, known to me from my childhood. _la giralda_ was her name of intimacy, what you call her nickname, by reason of her stature. her death i can prove too well, and expose any imitation. but the spanish nation--you like them much? you find them gentle, brave, amiable, sober, not as the english are, generous, patriotic, honourable?" "quite as noble and good, my lady, as we found them five and twenty years agone. and i hope that the noble count will get his money. a bargain is a bargain--as we say here. and if they are so honourable----" "ah, that is quite a different thing. inez, i must leave you. i desire some time to think. my mind is very much relieved of one part, although of another still more distressed. i request you to see to the good refreshment of this honourable and faithful soldier." lady waldron acknowledged the sergeant's low bow, with a kind inclination of her andalusian head (which is something in the headway among the foremost) and left the room with a lighter step than her heart had allowed her for many a week. "this will never do, sergeant; this won't do at all," said miss waldron coming up to him, as soon as she had shut the door behind her lofty mother. "i know by your countenance, and the way you were standing, and the side-way you sit down again, that you have not told us everything. that is not the right way to go on, sergeant jakes." "miss nicie!" cried jakes, with a forlorn hope of frightening her, for she had sat upon his knee, many a time, ten or twelve years ago, craving stories of good boys and bad boys. but now the eyes, which he used to fill with any emotion he chose to call for, could produce that effect upon his own. "can you think that i don't understand you?" said nicie, never releasing him from her eyes. "what was the good of telling me all those stories, when i was a little thing, except for me to understand you? when anybody tells me a story that is true, it is no good for him to try anything else. i get so accustomed to his way, that i catch him out in a moment." "but my dear, my dear miss nicie," the sergeant looked all about, as in large appeal, instead of fixing steady gaze; "if i have told you a single word that is not as true as gospel--may i----" "now don't be profane, sergeant jakes. that was allowed perhaps in war-time. and don't be crooked--which is even worse. i never called in question any one thing you have said. all i know is that you have stopped short. you used to do just the same with me, when things i was too young to hear came in. you are easier to read than one of your own copies. what have you kept in the background, you unfaithful soldier?" "oh miss, how you do remind me of the colonel! not that he ever looked half as fierce. but he used to say, 'jakes what a deep rogue you are!' meaning how deeply he could trust me, against all his enemies. but miss, i have given my word about this." "then take it back, as some people do their presents. what is the good of being a deep rogue, if you can't be a shallow one? i should hope you would rather be a rogue, to other people than to me. i will never speak to you again, unless you show now that you can trust me, as my dear father used to trust in you. no secrets from me, if you please." "well, miss, it was for your sake, more than anybody else's. but you must promise, honour bright, not to let her ladyship know of it; for it might be the death of her. it took me by surprise, and it hath almost knocked me over; for i never could have thought there was more troubles coming. but who do you think i ran up against, to exeter?" "how can i tell? don't keep me waiting. that kind of riddle is so hateful always." "master tom, miss nicie! your brother, master tom! 'sir thomas waldron' his proper name is now. you know they have got a new oil they call _gas_, to light the public places of the big towns with, and it makes everything as bright as day, and brighter than some of the days we get now. well, i was intending to come on last night by the bristol mail, and wait about till you was up; and as i was standing with my knapsack on my shoulder, to see her come in from plymouth, in she comes, and a tall young man dressed all in black, gets down slowly from the roof, and stands looking about very queerly. "'bain't you going no further, sir?' says the guard to him very civil, as he locked the bags in; 'only allows us three minutes and a half,'--for the young man seemed as if he did not care what time it was. "'no. i can't go home;' says he, as if nothing mattered to him. i was handing up my things, to get up myself, when the tone of his voice took me all of a heap. "'what, master tom!' says i, going up to him. "'who are you?' says he. 'master tom, indeed!' for i had this queer sort of hat on, and cloak, like a blessed foreigner. "well, when i told him who i was, he did not seem at all as he used to be, but as if i had done him a great injury; and as for his luggage, it would have gone on with the coach, if the guard had not called out about it. "'come in here;' he says to me, as if i was a dog, him that was always so well-spoken and polite! and he turned sharp into _the old london inn_, leaving all his luggage on the stones outside. "'private sitting-room, and four candles!' he called out, marching up the stairs, and making me a sign to follow him. everybody seemed to know him there, and i told them to fetch his things in. "'no fire! hot enough already. put the candles down, and go;' said he to the waiter, and then he locked the door, and threw the key upon the table. it takes a good deal to frighten me, miss. but i assure you i was trembling; for i never saw such a pair of eyes--not furious, but so desperate; and i should have been but a baby in his hands, for he is bigger than even his father was. then he pulled out a newspaper, and spread it among the candles. "'now, you man of perlycross,' he cried, 'you that teach the boys, who are going to be grave-robbers,--is this true, or is it all a cursed lie?' excuse me telling you, miss, exactly as he said it. 'the lord in heaven help me, i think i shall go mad, unless you can tell me it is all a wicked lie.' up and down the room he walked, as if the boards would sink under him; while i was at my wits' ends, as you may well suppose, miss. "'i have never heard a word of any of this, master tom;' i said, as soon as i had read it; for it was all about something that came on at perliton before the magistrates, last wednesday. 'i have been away in foreign parts.' "miss nicie, he changed to me from that moment. i had not said a word about how long i was away, or anything whatever to deceive him. but he looked at my hat that was lying on a chair, and my cloak that was still on my back, as much as to say--'i ought to have known it;' and then he said, 'give me your hand, old jakes. i beg your pardon a thousand times. what a fool i must be, to think you would ever have allowed it!' "this put me in a very awkward hole; for i was bound to acknowledge that i had been here, when the thing, he was so wild about, was done. but i let him go on, and have his raving out. for men are pretty much the same as boys; though expecting of their own way more, which i try to take out of the young ones. but a loud singing out, and a little bit of stamping, brings them into more sense of what they be. "'i landed at plymouth this morning,' he said, 'after getting a letter, which had been i don't know where, to tell me that my dear father, the best man that ever lived, was dead. i got leave immediately, and came home to comfort my mother and sister, and to attend to all that was needful. i went into the coffee-room, before the coach was ready; and taking up the papers, i find this! they talk of it, as if it was a thing well known, a case of great interest in the county; a _mystery_ they call it, a very lively thing to talk about--_the great perlycross mystery_, in big letters, cried at every corner, made a fine joke of in every dirty pot-house. it seems to have been going on for months. perhaps it has killed my mother and my sister. it would soon kill me, if i were there, and could do nothing.' "here i found a sort of opening; for the tears rolled down his face, as he thought of you, miss nicie, and your dear mamma; and the rage in his heart seemed to turn into grief, and he sat down in one of the trumpery chairs that they make nowadays, and it sprawled and squeaked under him, being such an uncommon fine young man in trouble. so i went up to him, and stood before him, and lifted his hands from his face, as i had done many's the time, when he was a little fellow, and broke his nose perhaps in his bravery. and then he looked up at me quite mild, and said-- "'i believe i am a brute, jakes. but isn't this enough to make me one?' "i stayed with him all night, miss; for he would not go to bed, and he wouldn't have nothing for to eat or drink; and i was afraid to leave him so. but i got him at last to smoke a bit of my tobacco; and that seemed to make him look at things a little better. i told him all i knew, and what i had been to spain for, and how you and her ladyship were trying bravely to bear the terrible will of the lord; and then i coaxed him all i could, to come along of me, and help you to bear it. but he said--'i might take him for a coward, if i chose; but come to walderscourt he wouldn't, and face his own mother and sister he couldn't; until he had cleared off this terrible disgrace.'" "he is frightfully obstinate, he always was;" said nicie, who had listened to this tale, with streaming eyes; "but it would be such a comfort to us both, to have him here. what has become of him? where is he now?" "that is the very thing i dare not tell you, miss; because he made me swear to keep it to myself. by good rights, i ought to have told you nothing; but you managed so to work it out of me. i would not come away from him, till i knew where he would be, because he was in such a state of mind. but i softened him down a good bit, i believe; and he might take a turn, if you were to write, imploring of him. i will take care that he gets it, for he made me promise to write, and let him know exactly how i found things here, after being away so long. but he is that bitter against this place, that it will take a deal to bring him here. you must work on his love for his mother, miss nicie, and his pity for the both of you. that is the only thing that touches him. and say that it is no fault of perlycross, but strangers altogether." "you shall have my letter before the postman comes, so that you may send it with your own. what a good friend you have been to us, dear jakes! my mother's heart would break at last, if she knew that tom was in england, and would not come first of all to her. i can scarcely understand it. to me it seems so unnatural." "well, miss, you never can tell by yourself, how other people will take things--not even your own brother. and i think he will soon come round, miss nicie. according to my opinion, it was the first shock of the thing, and the way he got it, that drove him out of his mind a'most. maybe, he judges you by himself, and fancies it would only make you worse, to see him, with this disgrace upon him. for that's what he can't get out of his head; and it would be a terrible meeting for my lady, with all the pride she hath in him. i reckon 'tis the spanish blood that does it; englishman as he is, all over. but never fear, miss nicie; we'll fetch him here, between the two of us, afore we are much older. he hath always been loving in his nature; and love will drive the anger out." chapter xli. the pride of life. harvey tremlett kept his promise not to leave the neighbourhood, until the result of the grievous injury done to frank gilham should be known. another warrant against him might be issued for that fierce assault, and he had made up his mind to stand a trial, whatever result might come of it. what he feared most, and would have fled from, was a charge of running contraband goods, which might have destroyed a thriving trade, and sent him and his colleagues across the seas. rough and savage as he became, (when his violent temper was provoked) and scornful of home-life and quiet labour--these and other far from exemplary traits, were mainly the result of his roving habits, and the coarse and lawless company into which he had ever fallen. and it tended little to his edification, that he exercised lordship over them, in virtue of superior strength. but his nature was rather wild than brutal; in its depths were sparks and flashes of manly generosity, and even warmth of true affection for the few who had been kind to him, if they took him the right way of his stubborn grain. he loved his only daughter zip, although ashamed of showing it; and he was very proud of his lineage, and the ancient name of tremlett. thus mr. penniloe had taken unawares the straightest road to his good will, by adopting the waif as an inmate of his house, and treating her, not as a servant, but a child. that zip should be a lady, as the daughters of that norman race had been for generations, was the main ambition of her father's life. he had seen no possibility of it; and here was almost a surety of it, unless she herself threw away the chance. rather a pretty scene was toward for those who are fond of humanity, at the ruined tremlett mill, on the morning of saint david's day. harvey had taken to this retreat--and a very lonely home it was--for sundry good reasons of his own; the most important of which was not entrusted even to his daughter, or the revered and beloved parson. this was to prepare a refuge, and a store house for free-trade, more convenient, better placed, larger, and much safer than the now notorious fastness of blackmarsh. here were old buildings, and mazy webs of wandering; soft cliff was handy, dark wood and rushing waters, tangled lanes, furzy corners, nooks of overhanging, depths of in-and-out hood-winks of nature, when she does not wish man to know everything about her. the solid firm, directed by timber-leg'd dick, were prepared to pay a fine price, as for a paper mill, for this last feudal tenure of the tremlett race. but the last male member of that much discounted stock (or at any rate the last now producible in court, without criminal procedure) had refused to consider the most liberal offers, even of a fine run of free-trade, all to himself--as still it is--for the alienation in fee-simple of this last sod of hereditament. for good consideration, he would grant a lease, which blickson might prepare for them; but he would be--something the nadir of benediction--if he didn't knock down any man, who would try to make him rob his daughter. the league of free-traders came into his fine feelings, and took the mills and premises, on a good elastic lease. but the landlord must put them into suitable condition. this he was doing now, with technical experience, endeavouring at the same time to discharge some little of his new parental duties. jem kettel found it very hard, that though allowed to work, he was not encouraged (as he used to be) to participate in the higher moments. "you clear out, when my darter cometh. you be no fit company for she." jem could not see it, for he knew how good he was. but the big man had taken a much larger turn. he was not going to alter his own course of life. that was quite good enough for him; and really in those days people heard so much of "reform! reform!" dinged for ever in their ears, that any one at all inclined to think for himself had a tendency towards backsliding. none the less, must he urge others to reform; as the manner has been of all ages. tremlett's present anxiety was to provide his daughter with good advice, and principles so exalted, that there might be no further peril of her becoming like himself. from him she was to learn the value of proper pride and dignity, of behaving in her new position, as if she had been born to it, of remembering distant forefathers, but forgetting her present father, at any rate as an example. to this end he made her study the great ancestral bible--not the canonical books however, so much as the covers and fly-leaves--the wholly uninspired records of the tremlett family. these she perused with eager eyes, thinking more highly of herself, and laying in large store of pride--a bitter stock to start with--even when the course of youth is fair. but whether for evil or for good, it was pleasant to see the rough man sitting, this first day of the spring-time, teaching his little daughter how sadly he and she had come down in the world. zip had been spared from her regular lessons, by way of a treat, to dine with her father, before going--as was now arranged--to the care of a lady at exeter. jem kettel had been obliged to dine upon inferior victuals, and at the less fashionable hour of eleven a.m.; for it was not to be known that he was there, lest attention should be drawn to the job they were about. tremlett had washed himself very finely, in honour of this great occasion, and donned a new red woollen jacket, following every curve and chunk of his bulky chest and rugged arms. he had finished his dinner, and was in good spirits, with money enough from his wrestling prize to last him until the next good run, and a pipe of choice tobacco (such as could scarcely be got at exeter), issuing soft rings of turquoise tint to the black oak beams above. the mill-wheel was gone; but the murmur of the brook, and the tinkle of the trickle from the shattered trough, and the singing of birds in their love-time came, like the waving of a branch that sends the sunshine in. the dark-haired child was in the window-seat, with her sunday frock on, and her tresses ribboned back, and her knees wide apart to make a lap for the bible, upon which her great brown eyes were fixed. puffs of the march wind now and then came in, where the lozenges of glass were gone, and lifted loose tussocks of her untrussed hair, and set the sunshine dancing on the worn planks of the floor. but the girl was used to breezes, and her heart was in her lesson. "hunderds of 'em, more than all the kings and queens of england!" she said, with her very clear voice trembling, and her pointed fingers making hop-scotch in and out the lines of genealogy. "what can fay penniloe show like that? but was any of 'em colonels, father?" "maight a'been, if 'em would a' comed down to it. but there wasn't no colonels, in the old times, i've a' heered. us was afore that sort of thing were found out." "to be sure. i might have knowed. but was any of 'em, sirs, the same as sir thomas waldron was?" "scores of 'em, when they chose to come down to it. but they kept that, most ways, for the younger boys among 'em. the father of the family was bound to be a lord." "oh father! real lords? and me to have never seed one! what hath become of the laws of the land? but why bain't you a real lord, the same as they was?" "us never cared to keep it up;" said the last of the visible tremletts, after pondering over this difficult point. "you see, zip, it's only the women cares for that. 'tis no more to a man, than the puff of this here pipe." "but right is right, father. and it soundeth fine. was any of them earls, and marquises, and dukes, and whatever it is that comes over that?" "they was everything they cared to be. barons, and counts, and dukes, spelled the same as ducks, and holy empires, and holy sepulkers. but do'e, my dear, get my baccy box." what summit of sovereignty they would have reached, if the lecture had proceeded, no one knows; for as zip, like a princess, was stepping in and out among the holes of the floor, with her father's tin box, the old door shook with a sharp and heavy knock; and the child with her face lit up by the glory of her birth, marched away to open it. this she accomplished with some trouble, for the timber was ponderous and rickety. a tall young man strode in, as if the place belonged to him, and said, "i want to see harvey tremlett." "here be i. who be you?" the wrestler sat where he was, and did not even nod his head; for his rule was always to take people, just as they chose to take him. but the visitor cared little for his politeness, or his rudeness. "i am sir thomas waldron's son. if i came in upon you rudely, i am sorry for it. it is not what i often do. but just now i am not a bit like myself." "sir, i could take my oath of that; for your father was a gen'leman. zippy, dust a cheer, my dear." "no, young lady, you shall not touch it," said the young man, with a long stride, and a gentle bow to the comely child. "i am fitter to lift chairs than you are." this pleased the father mightily; and he became quite gracious, when the young sir thomas said to him, while glancing with manifest surprise at his quick and intelligent daughter-- "mr. tremlett, i wish to speak to you, of a matter too sad to be talked about, in the presence of young ladies." this was not said by way of flattery or conciliation; for zip, with her proud step and steadfast gaze, was of a very different type from that of the common cottage lass. she was already at the door, when her father said-- "go you down to the brook, my dear, and see how many nestesses you can find. then come back and say good-bye to daddy, afore go home to passonage. must be back afore dark, you know." "what a beautiful child!" young waldron had been looking with amazement at her. "i know what the tremletts used to be; but i had no idea they could be like that. i never saw such eyes in all my life." "her be well enough," replied the father shortly. "and now, sir, what is it as i can do for you? i knows zummat of the troubles on your mind; and if i can do'e any good, i wull." "two things i want of you. first, your word of honour--and i know what you tremletts have been in better days--that you had nothing to do with that cursed and devilish crime in our churchyard." "sir," answered tremlett, standing up for the first time in this interview, "i give you my oath by that book yon'ner that i knows nort about it. we be coom low; but us bain't zunk to that yet." he met sir thomas waldron, eye to eye, and the young man took his plastered hand, and knew that it was not a liar's. "next i want your good advice," said the visitor, sitting down by him; "and your help, if you will give it. i will not speak of money because i can see what you are. but first to follow it up, there must be money. shall i tell you what i shall be glad to do, without risk of offending you? very well; i don't care a fig for money, in a matter such as this. money won't give you back your father, or your mother, or anybody, when they are gone away from you. but it may help you to do your duty to them. at present, i have no money to speak of; because i have been with my regiment, and there it goes away, like smoke. but i can get any quantity almost, by going to our lawyers. if you like, and will see to it, i will put a thousand pounds in your hands, for you to be able to work things up; and another thousand, if you make anything of it. don't be angry with me. i don't want to bribe you. it is only for the sake of doing right. i have seen a great deal of the world. can you ever get what is right, without paying for it?" "no, sir, you can't. and not always, if you do. but you be the right sort, and no mistake. tell you what, sir thomas--i won't take a farden of your money, 'cos it would be a'robbin' of you. i han't got the brains for gooin' under other folk, like. generally they does that to me. but i know an oncommon sharp young fellow, jemmy kettel is his name. a chap as can goo and come fifty taimes, a'most, while i be a toornin' round wance; a'knoweth a'most every rogue for fifty maile around. and if you like to goo so far as a ten-pun' note upon him, i'll zee that a'doth his best wi'un. but never a farden over what i said." "i am very much obliged to you. here it is; and another next week, if he requires it. i hate the sight of money, while this thing lasts; because i know that money is at the bottom of it. tremlett, you are a noble fellow. your opinion is worth something. now don't you agree with me in thinking, that after all it comes to this--everything else has been proved rubbish--the doctors are at the bottom of it?" "well, sir, i am afeared they be. i never knowed nort of 'em, thank the lord. but i did hear they was oncommon greedy to cut up a poor brother of mine, as coom to trouble. i was out o' country then; or by gosh, i wud a' found them a job or two to do at home." the young man closed his lips, and thought. tremlett's opinion, although of little value, was all that was needed to clench his own. "i'll go and put a stop to it at once;" he muttered; and after a few more words with the wrestler, he set his long legs going rapidly, and his forehead frowning, in the direction of that �sculapian fortress, known as the _old barn_. by this time dr. fox was in good health again, recovering his sprightly tone of mind, and magnanimous self-confidence. his gratitude to frank gilham now was as keen and strong as could be wished; for the patient's calmness, and fortitude, and very fine constitution had secured his warm affection, by affording him such a field for skill, and such a signal triumph, as seldom yet have rejoiced a heart at once medical and surgical. whenever dr. gronow came, and dwelling on the ingenious structure designed and wrought by jemmy's skill, poured forth kind approval and the precious applause of an expert, the youthful doctor's delight was like a young mother's pride in her baby. and it surged within him all the more, because he could not--as the mother does--inundate all the world with it. wiser too than that sweet parent, he had refused most stubbornly to risk the duration of his joy, or imperil the precious subject, by any ardour of excitement or flutter of the system. the patient lay, like a well-set specimen in the box of a naturalist, carded, and trussed, and pinned, and fibred, bound to maintain one immutable plane. his mother hovered round him with perpetual presence; as a house-martin flits round her fallen nestling, circling about that one pivot of the world, back for a twittering moment, again sweeping the air for a sip of him. but the one he would have given all the world to have a sip of, even in a dream he must not see. such was the stern decree of the power, even more ruthless than that to which it punctually despatches us--�sculapius, less mansuete to human tears than �acus. to put it more plainly, and therefore better,--master frank did not even know that miss christie was on the premises. christie was sitting by the window, thrown out where the barn-door used to be,--where the cart was backed up with the tithe-sheaves golden, but now the gilded pills were rolled, and the only wholesome bit of metal was the sunshine on her hair--when she saw a large figure come in at the gate (which was still of the fine agricultural sort) and a shudder ran down her shapely back. with feminine speed of apprehension, she felt that it could be one man only, the man she had heard so much of, a monster of size and ferocity, the man who had "concussed" her brother's head, and shattered an arm of great interest to her. that she ran to the door, which was wide to let the spring in, and clapped it to the post, speaks volumes for her courage. "you can't come in here, harvey tremlett," she cried, with a little foot set, as a forlorn hope, against the bottom of the door, which (after the manner of its kind) refused to go home, when called upon; "you have done harm enough, and i am astonished that you should dare to imagine we would let you in." "but i am not harvey tremlett, at all. i am only tom waldron. and i don't see why i should be shut out when i have done no harm." the young lady was not to be caught with chaff. she took a little peep through the chink, having learned that art in a very sweet manner of late; and then she threw open the door, and showed herself, a fine figure of blushes. "miss fox, i am sure," said the visitor, smiling and lifting his hat as he had learned to do abroad. "but i won't come in, against orders, whatever the temptation may be." "we don't know any harm of you, and you may come in;" answered chris, who was never long taken aback. "your sister is a dear friend of mine. i am sorry for being so rude to you." waldron sat down, and was cheerful for awhile, greatly pleased with his young entertainer, and her simple account of the state of things there. but when she enquired for his mother and sister, the cloud returned, and he meant business. "you are likely to know more than i do," he said, "for i have not been home, and cannot go there yet. i will not trouble you with dark things--but may i have a little talk with your brother?" miss fox left the room at once, and sent her brother down; and now a very strange surprise befell the sprightly doctor. sir thomas waldron met him with much cordiality and warmth, for they had always been good friends, though their natures were so different; and then he delivered this fatal shot. "i am very sorry, my dear jemmy, but i have had to make up my mind to do a thing you won't much like. i know you have always thought a great deal of my sister, inez; and now i am told, though i have not seen her, that you are as good as engaged to her. but you must perceive that it would never do. i could not wish for a better sort of fellow, and i have the highest opinion of you. really i think that you would have made her as happy as the day is long, because you are so clever, and cheerful, and good-tempered, and--and in fact i may say, good all round. but you must both of you get over it. i am now the head of the family; and i don't like saying it, but i must. i cannot allow you to have nicie; and i shall forbid nicie to think any more of you." "what, the deuce, do you mean, tom?" asked jemmy, scarcely believing his ears. "what's up now, in the name of goodness? what on earth have you got into your precious noddle?" "jemmy, my noddle--as you call it--may not be a quarter so clever as yours; and in fact i know it is not over-bright, without having the benefit of your opinion. but for all that, it has some common sense; and it knows its own mind pretty well; and what it says, it sticks to. you are bound to take it in a friendly manner, because that is how i intend it; and you must see the good sense of it. i shall be happy and proud myself to continue our friendship. only you must pledge your word, that you will have nothing more to say to my sister, inez." "but why, tom, why?" fox asked again, with increasing wonder. he was half inclined to laugh at the other's solemn and official style, but he saw that it would be a dangerous thing, for waldron's colour was rising. "what objection have you discovered, or somebody else found out for you? surely you are dreaming, tom!" "no, i am not. and i shall not let you. i should almost have thought that you might have known, without my having to tell you. if you think twice, you will see at once, that reason, and common sense, and justice, and knowledge of the world, and the feeling of a gentleman--all compel you to--to knock off, if i may so express it. i can only say that if you can't see it, everybody else can, at a glance." "no doubt i am the thickest of the thick--though it may not be the general opinion. but do give me ever such a little hint, tom; something of a twinkle in this frightful fog." "well, you are a doctor, aren't you now?" "certainly i am, and proud of it. only wish i was a better one." "very well. the doctors have dug up my father. and no doctor ever shall marry his daughter." the absurdity of this was of a very common kind, as the fallacy is of the commonest; and there was nothing very rare to laugh at. but fox did the worst thing he could have done--he laughed till his sides were aching. too late he perceived that he had been as scant of discretion, as the other was of logic. "that's how you take it, is it, sir?" young waldron cried, ready to knock him down, if he could have done so without cowardice. "a lucky thing for you, that you are on the sick-list; or i'd soon make you laugh the other side of your mouth, you guffawing jackanapes. if you can laugh at what was done to my father, it proves that you are capable of doing it. when you have done with your idiot grin, i'll just ask you one thing--never let me set eyes on your sniggering, grinning, pill-box of a face again." "that you may be quite sure you never shall do," answered fox, who was ashy pale with anger; "until you have begged my pardon humbly, and owned yourself a thick-headed, hot-headed fool. i am sorry that your father should have such a ninny of a cad to come after him. everybody acknowledges that the late sir thomas was a gentleman." the present sir thomas would not trust himself near such a fellow for another moment, but flung out of the house without his hat; while fox proved that he was no coward, by following, and throwing it after him. and the other young man proved the like of himself, by not turning round and smashing him. chapter xlii. his last bivouac. "have i done wrong?" young waldron asked himself, as he strode down the hill, with his face still burning, and that muddy hat on. "most fellows would have knocked him down. i hope that nice girl heard nothing of the row. the walls are jolly thick, that's one good thing; as thick as my poor head, i dare say. but when the fellow dared to laugh! good heavens, is our family reduced to that? i dare say i am a hot-headed fool, though i kept my temper wonderfully; and to tell me i am not a gentleman! well, i don't care a rap who sees me now, for they must hear of this affair at walderscourt. i think the best thing that i can do is to go and see old penniloe. he is as honest as he is clear-headed. if he says i'm wrong, i'll believe it. and i'll take his advice about other things." this was the wisest resolution of his life, inasmuch as it proved to be the happiest. mr. penniloe had just finished afternoon work with his pupils, and they were setting off; pike with his rod to the long pool up the meadows, which always fished best with a cockle up it, peckover for a long steeple-chase, and mopuss to look for chalcedonies, and mosses, among the cleves of hagdon hill; for nature had nudged him into that high bliss, which a child has in routing out his father's pockets. the parson, who felt a warm regard for a very fine specimen of hot youth, who was at once the son of his oldest friend, and his own son in literature--though minerva sat cross-legged at that travail--he, mr. penniloe, was in a gentle mood, as he seldom failed to be; moreover in a fine mood, as behoves a man who has been dealing with great authors, and walking as in a crystal world, so different from our turbid fog. to him the young man poured forth his troubles, deeper than of certain classic woes, too substantial to be laid by any triple cast of dust. and then he confessed his flagrant insult to a rising member of the great profession. "you have behaved very badly, according to your own account;" mr. penniloe said with much decision, knowing that his own weakness was to let people off too easily, and feeling that duty to his ancient friend compelled him to chastise his son; "but your bad behaviour to jemmy fox has some excuse in quick temper provoked. your conduct towards your mother and sister is ten times worse; because it is mean." "i don't see how you can make that out." young waldron would have flown into a fury with any other man who had said this. even as it was, he stood up with a doubtful countenance, glancing at the door. "it is mean, in this way," continued the parson, leaving him to go, if he thought fit, "that you have thought more of yourself than them. because it would have hurt your pride to go to them, with this wrong still unredressed, you have chosen to forget the comfort your presence must have afforded them, and the bitter pain they must feel at hearing that you have returned and avoided them. in a like case, your father would not have acted so." waldron sat down again, and his great frame trembled. he covered his face with his hands, and tears shone upon his warted knuckles; for he had not yet lost all those exuberances of youth. "i never thought of that," he muttered; "it never struck me in that way. though jakes said something like it. but he could not put it, as you do. i see that i have been a cad, as jemmy fox declared i was." "jemmy is older, and he should have known better than to say anything of the sort. he must have lost his temper sadly; because he could never have thought it. you have not been what he calls a cad; but in your haste and misery, you came to the wrong decision. i have spoken strongly, tom, my boy; more strongly perhaps than i should have done. but your mother is in weak health now; and you are all in all to her." "the best you can show me to be is a brute; and i am not sure that that is not worse than a cad. i ought to be kicked every inch of the way home; and i'll go there as fast as if i was." "that won't do at all," replied the curate smiling. "to go is your duty; but not to rush in like a thunderbolt, and amaze them. they have been so anxious about your return, that it must be broken very gently to them. if you wish it, and can wait a little while, i will go with you, and prepare them for it." "sir, if you only would--but no, i don't deserve it. it is a great deal too much to expect of you." "what is the time? oh, a quarter past four. at half past, i have to baptise a child well advanced in his seventh year, whose parents have made it the very greatest personal favour to me, to allow him to be 'crassed'--as they express it. and i only discovered their neglect, last week! who am i to find fault with any one? if you don't mind waiting for about half-an-hour, i will come back for you, and meanwhile mrs. muggridge will make your hat look better; master jemmy must have lost his temper too, i am afraid. good-bye for the moment; unless i am punctual to the minute, i know too well what will happen--they will all be off. for they 'can't zee no vally in it,' as they say. alas, alas, and we are wild about missions to hindoos, and hottentots!" as soon as mr. penniloe had left the house, the youth, who had been lowered in his own esteem, felt a very strong desire to go after him. possibly this was increased by the sad reproachful gaze of thyatira; who, as an old friend, longed to hear all about him, but was too well-mannered to ask questions. cutting all consideration short--which is often the best thing to do with it--he put on his fairly re-established hat, and cared not a penny whether mrs. channing, the baker's wife, was taking a look into the street or not; or even mrs. tapscott, with the rosemary over her window. then he turned in at the lych-gate, thinking of the day when his father's body had lain there (as the proper thing was for a body to do) and then he stood in the churchyard, where the many ways of death divided. three main paths, all well-gravelled, ran among those who had toddled in the time of childhood down them, with wormwood and stock-gilly flowers in their hands; and then sauntered along them, with hands in pockets, and eyes for the maidens over tombstone-heads; and then had come limping along on their staffs; and now were having all this done for them, without knowing anything about it. none of these ways was at all to his liking. peace--at least in death--was there, green turf and the rounded bank, gray stone, and the un-household name, to be made out by a grandchild perhaps, proud of skill in ancient letters, prouder still of a pocket-knife. what a faint scratch on soft stone! and yet the character far and away stronger than that of the lettered times that follow it. young waldron was not of a morbid cast, neither was his mind introspective; as (for the good of mankind) is ordained to those who have the world before them. he turned to the right by a track across the grass, followed the bend of the churchyard wall, and fearing to go any further, lest he should stumble on his father's outraged grave, sat down upon a gap of the gray enclosure. this gap had been caused by the sweep of tempest that went up the valley at the climax of the storm. the wall, being low, had taken little harm; but the great west gable of the abbey had been smitten, and swung on its back, as a trap-door swings upon its hinges. thick flint structure, and time-worn mullion, massive buttress, and deep foundation, all had gone flat, and turned their fangs up, rending a chasm in the tattered earth. but this dark chasm was hidden from view, by a pile of loose rubble, and chunks of flint, that had rattled down when the gable fell, and striking the cross-wall had lodged thereon, breaking the cope in places, and hanging (with tangles of ivy, and tufts of toad-flax) over the interval of wall and ruin, as a snowdrift overhangs a ditch. here the young man sat down; as if any sort of place would do for him. the gap in the wall was no matter to him, but happened to suit his downcast mood, and the misery of the moment. here he might sit, and wait, until mr. penniloe had got through a job, superior to the burial-service, because no one could cut you in pieces, directly afterwards, without being hanged for it. he could see mr. penniloe's black stick, standing like a little parson--for some of them are proud of such resemblance--in the great south porch of the church; and thereby he knew that he could not miss his friend. as he lifted his eyes to the ancient tower, and the black yew-tree still steadfast, and the four vanes (never of one opinion as to the direction of the wind, in anything less than half a gale), and the jackdaws come home prematurely, after digging up broad-beans, to settle their squabble about their nests; and then as he lowered his gaze to the tombstones, and the new foundation-arches, and other labours of a parish now so hateful to him--heavy depression, and crushing sense of the wrath of god against his race, fell upon his head; as the ruin behind him had fallen on its own foundations. he felt like an old man, fain to die, when time is gone weary and empty. what was the use of wealth to him, of bodily strength, of bright ambition to make his country proud of him, even of love of dearest friends, and wedded bliss--if such there were--and children who would honour him? all must be under one black ban of mystery insoluble; never could there be one hearty smile, one gay thought, one soft delight; but ever the view of his father's dear old figure desecrated, mangled, perhaps lectured on. he could not think twice of that, but groaned--"the lord in heaven be my help! the lord deliver me from this life?" he was all but delivered of this life--happy, or wretched--it was all but gone. for as he flung his body back, suiting the action to his agony of mind--crash went the pile of jagged flint, the hummocks of dead mortar, and the wattle of shattered ivy. he cast himself forward, just in time, as all that had carried him broke and fell, churning, and grinding, and clashing together, sending up a cloud of powdered lime. so sudden was the rush, that his hat went with it, leaving his brown curls grimed with dust, and his head for a moment in a dazed condition, as of one who has leapt from an earthquake. he stood with his back to the wall, and the muscles of his great legs quivering, after the strain of their spring for dear life. then scarcely yet conscious of his hair-breadth escape, he descried mr. penniloe coming from the porch, and hastened without thought to meet him. "billy-jack!" said the clergyman, smiling, yet doubtful whether he ought to smile. "they insisted on calling that child 'billy-jack.' 'william-john' they would not hear of. i could not object, for it was too late; and there is nothing in it uncanonical. but i scarcely felt as i should have done, when i had to say--'billy-jack, i baptise thee,' etc. i hope they did not do it to try me. now the devonshire mind is very deep and subtle; though generally supposed to be the simplest of the simple. but what has become of your hat, my dear boy? surely thyatira has had time enough to clean it." "she cleaned it beautifully. but it was waste of time. it has gone down a hole. come, and i will show you. i wonder my head did not go with it. what a queer place this has become!" "a hole! what hole can there be about here?" mr. penniloe asked, as he followed the young man. "the downfall of the abbey has made a heap, rather than what can be called a hole. but i declare you are right! why, i never saw this before; and i looked along here with haddon, not more than a week age. don't come too near; it is safe enough for me, but you are like neptune, a shaker of the earth. alas for our poor ivy!" he put on his glasses, and peered through the wall-gap, into the flint-strewn depth outside. part of the ruins, just dislodged, had rolled into a pit, or some deep excavation; the crown of which had broken in, probably when the gable fell. the remnant of the churchyard wall was still quite sound, and evidently stood away from all that had gone on outside. "be thankful to god for your escape," mr. penniloe said, looking back at the youth. "it has indeed been a narrow one. if you had been carried down there head-foremost, even your strong frame would have been crushed like an egg-shell." "i am not sure about that; but i don't want to try it. i think i can see a good piece of my hat; and i am not going to be done out of it. will you be kind enough, sir, to wait, while i go round by the stile, and get in at that end? you see that it is easy to get down there; but a frightful job from this side. you won't mind waiting, will you, sir?" "if you will take my advice," said the curate, "you will be content to let well alone. it is the great lesson of the age. but nobody attends to it." the young man did not attend to it; and for once mr. penniloe had given bad advice; though most correct in principle, and in practice too, nine times and a half out of every ten. "here i am, sir. can you see me?" sir thomas waldron shouted up the hole. "it is a queer place, and no mistake. please to stop just where you are. then you can give me notice, if you see the ground likely to cave in. halloa! why, i never saw anything like it! here's a stone arch, and a tunnel beyond it, just like what you've got at the rectory, only ever so much bigger. looks as if the old abbey had butted up against it, until it all got blown away. if i had got a fellow down here to help me, i believe i could get into it. but all these chunks are in the way." "my dear young friend, it will soon be dark; and we have more important things to see to. you are not at all safe down there; if the sides fell in, you would never come out alive." "it has cost me a hat; and i won't be done. i can't go home without a hat, till dark. i am not coming up, till i know all about it. do oblige me, sir, by having the least little bit of patience." mr. penniloe smiled. the request, as coming from such a quarter, pleased him. and presently the young man began to fling up great lumps of clotted flint, as if they were marbles, right and left. "what a volcano you are!" cried the parson, as the youth in the crater stopped to breathe. "it is nothing but a waste of energy. the hole won't run away, my dear tom. you had much better leave it for the proper man to-morrow." "don't say that. i am the proper man." how true his words were, he had no idea. "but i hear somebody whistling. if i had only got a fellow, to keep this stuff back, i could get on like a house on fire." it was pike coming back from the long pool in the meadow, with a pretty little dish of trout for supper. his whistling was fine; as a fisherman's should be, for want of something better in his mouth; and he never got over the churchyard stile, without this little air of consolation for the ghosts. as he topped the ridge of meadow that looks down on the river, mr. penniloe waved his hat to him, over the breach of the churchyard wall; and he nothing loth stuck his rod into the ground, pulled off his jacket, and went down to help. "all clear now. we can slip in like a rabbit. but it looks uncommonly black inside, and it seems to go a long way underground;" waldron shouted up to the clergyman. "we cannot do anything, without a light." "i'll tell you what, sir," pike chimed in. "this passage runs right into the church, i do believe." "that is the very thing i have been thinking;" answered mr. penniloe. "i have heard of a tradition to that effect. i should like to come down, and examine it." "not yet, sir; if you please. there is scarcely room for three. and it would be a dangerous place for you. but if you could only give us something like a candle----" "oh, i know!" the sage pike suggested, with an angler's quickness. "ask him to throw us down one of the four torches stuck up at the lych-gate. they burn like fury; and i dare say you have got a lucifer, or a promethean." "not a bad idea, pike;" answered mr. penniloe. "i believe that each of them will burn for half-an-hour." soon he returned with the driest of them, from the iron loop under the covered space; and this took fire very heartily, being made of twisted tow soaked in resin. "i am rather big for this job;" said sir thomas, as the red flame sputtered in the archway, "perhaps you would like to go first, my young friend." "very much obliged," replied pike drawing back; "but i don't seem to feel myself called upon to rush into the bowels of the earth, among six centuries of ghosts. i had better stop here, perhaps, till you come back." "very well. at any rate hold my coat. it is bad enough; i don't want to make it worse. i shan't be long, i dare say. but i am bound to see the end of it." young waldron handed his coat to pike, and stooping his tall head with the torch well in front of him, plunged into the dark arcade. grim shadows flitted along the roof, as the sound of his heavy steps came back; then the torchlight vanished round a bend of wall, and nothing could either be seen or heard. mr. penniloe, in some anxiety, leaned over the breach in the churchyard fence, striving to see what was under his feet; while pike mustered courage to stand in the archway--which was of roughly chiselled stone--but kept himself ready for instant flight, as he drew deep breaths of excitement. by-and-by, the torch came quivering back, throwing flits of light along the white-flint roof; and behind it a man, shaking worse than any shadow, and whiter than any torchlit chalk. "great god!" he cried, staggering forth, and falling with his hand on his heart against the steep side of the pit. "as sure as there is a god in heaven, i have found my father!" "what!" cried the parson; "pike, see to the torch; or you'll both be on fire." in a moment, he ran round by way of the stile, and slid into the pit, without thinking of his legs, laying hold of some long rasps of ivy. pike very nimbly leaped up the other side; this was not the sort of hole to throw a fly in. "give me the torch. you stay here, tom. you have had enough of it." mr. penniloe's breath was short, because of the speed he had made of it. "it is my place now. you stop here, and get the air." "i think it is rather my place, than of any other man upon the earth. am i afraid of my own dear dad? follow me, and i will show him to you." he went with a slow step, dazed out of all wonder--as a man in a dream accepts everything--down the dark passage again, and through the ice-cold air, and the shivering fire. then he stopped suddenly, and stooped the torch, stooping his curly head in lowliness behind it; and there, as if set down by the bearers for a rest, lay a long oaken coffin. mr. penniloe came to his side, and gazed. at their feet lay the good and true-hearted colonel, or all of him left below the heaven, resting placidly, unprofaned, untouched by even the hand of time; unsullied and honourable in his death, as in his loyal and blameless life. the clear light fell upon the diamond of glass, (framed in the oak above his face, as was often done then for the last look of love) and it showed his white curls, and tranquil forehead, and eyelids for ever closed against all disappointment. his son could not speak, but sobbed, and shook, with love, and reverence, and manly grief. but the clergyman, with a godly joy, and immortal faith, and heavenly hope, knelt at the foot, and lifted hands and eyes to the god of heaven. "behold, he hath not forsaken us! his mercy is over all his works. and his goodness is upon the children of men." chapter xliii. two fine lessons. at the _old barn_ that afternoon, no sooner was young sir thomas gone, than remarkable things began to happen. as was observed in a previous case, few of us are yet so vast of mind, as to feel deeply, and fairly enjoy the justice of being served with our own sauce. haply this is why sauce and justice are in latin the self-same word. few of us even are so candid, as to perceive when it comes to pass; more often is a world of difference found betwixt what we gave, and what we got. fox was now treated by nicie's brother, exactly as he had treated gilham about his sister christie. he was not remarkably rash of mind--which was ever so much better for himself and friends--yet he was quick of perception; and when his sister came and looked at him, and said with gentle sympathy--"oh, jemmy, has sir thomas forbidden your bans? no wonder you threw his hat at him"--it was a little more than he could do, not to grin at the force of analogy. "he is mad." he replied, with strong decision. yet at the twinkle of her eyes, he wondered whether she held that explanation valid, in a like case, not so very long ago. "i have made up my mind to it altogether;" he continued, with the air magnanimous. "it is useless to strive against the force of circumstances." "made up your mind to give up nicie, because her brother disapproves of it?" christie knew well enough what he meant. but can girls be magnanimous? "i should think not. how can you be so stupid? what has a brother's approval to do with it? do you think i care twopence for fifty thousand brothers? brothers are all very well in their way; but let them stick to their own business. a girl's heart is her own, i should hope; and her happiness depends on herself, not her brother. i call it a great piece of impudence, for a brother to interfere in such matters." "oh!" said christie, and nothing more. neither did she even smile; but went to the window, and smoothed her apron, the pretty one she wore, when she was mixing water-colours. "you shall come and see him now;" said jemmy, looking at the light that was dancing in her curls, but too lofty to suspect that inward laughter made them dance. "it can't hurt him now; and my opinion is that it might even do him a great deal of good. i'll soon have him ready, and i'll send his blessed mother to make another saucepanful of chicken broth. and chris, i'll give you clear decks, honour bright." "i am quite at a loss to understand your meaning." the mendacious christie turned round, and fixed her bright eyes upon his most grandly; as girls often do, when they tell white lies--perhaps to see how they are swallowed. "very well then; that is all right. it will save a lot of trouble; and perhaps it is better to leave him alone." "there again! you never seem to understand me, jemmy! and of course, you don't care how much it upsets a poor patient, never to see a change of faces. of course you are very kind; and so is dr. gronow; and poor mrs. gilham is a most delightful person. still, after being for all that time so desperately limited--that's not the word at all--i mean, so to some extent restricted, or if you prefer it prohibited, from--from any little change, any sort of variety of expressions, of surroundings, of in fact, society----" "ah yes, no doubt! of etcetera, etcetera. but go you on floundering, till i come back, and perhaps then you will know what you mean. perhaps also you would look a little more decent with your apron off," dr. fox suggested, with the noble rudeness so often dealt out to sisters. "be sure you remind him that yesterday was leap-year's day; and then perhaps you will be able to find some one to understand you." "if that is the case, you may be quite certain that i won't go near him." but before very long she thought better of that. was it just to punish one for the offences of another? with a colour like the first bud of monthly rose peeping through its sepals in the southern corner, she ran into the shrubbery--for there was nothing to call a garden--and gathered a little posy of russian violets and wild primrose. then she pulled her apron off, and had a good look at herself, and could not help knowing that she had not seen a lovelier thing for a long time; and if love would only multiply it by two,--and it generally does so by a thousand--the result would be something stupendous, ineffable, adorable. such thoughts are very bright and cheerful, full of glowing youth and kindness, young romance and contempt of earth. but the longer we plod on this earth, the deeper we stick into it; as must be when the foot grows heavy, having no _talaria_. long enduring pain produces a like effect with lapse of years. the spring of the system loses coil, from being on perpetual strain; sad proverbs flock into the brain, instead of dancing verses. frank gilham had been ploughed and harrowed, clod-crushed, drilled, and scarified by the most advanced, enlightened, and practical of all medical high-farmers. if ever fox left him, to get a breath of air, gronow came in to keep the screw on; and when they were both worn out, young webber (who began to see how much he had to learn, and what was for his highest interest) was allowed to sit by, and do nothing. a consultation was held, whenever the time hung heavily on their hands; and webber would have liked to say a word, if it could have been uttered without a snub. meanwhile, frank gilham got the worst of it. at last he had been allowed to leave his bed, and taste a little of the fine spring air, flowing down from hagdon hill, and bearing first waft of the furze-bloom. haggard weariness and giddy lightness, and a vacant wondering doubt (as to who or what he was, that scarcely seemed worth puzzling out), would have proved to any one who cared to know it, that his head had lain too long in one position, and was not yet reconciled to the change. and yet it should have welcomed this relief, if virtue there be in heredity, inasmuch as this sofa came from white post farm, and must have comforted the head of many a sick progenitor. the globe of thought being in this state, and the arm of action crippled, the question was--would heart arise, dispense with both, and have its way? for awhile it seemed a doubtful thing; so tedious had the conflict been, and such emptiness left behind it. the young man, after dreams most blissful, and hopes too golden to have any kin with gilt, was reduced to bare bones and plastered elbows, and knees unsafe to go down upon. but the turn of the tide of human life quivers to the influence of heaven. in came christie, like a flush of health, rosy with bright maidenhood; yet tremulous as a lily is, with gentle fear and tenderness. pity is akin to love--as those who know them both, and in their larger hearts have felt them, for our smaller sakes pronounce--but when the love is far in front, and pauses at the check of pride; what chance has pride, if pity comes, and takes her mistress by the hand, and whispers--"try to comfort him?" none can tell, who are not in the case, and those who are know little of it, how these strange things come to pass. but sure it is that they have their way. the bashful, proud, light-hearted maiden, ready to make a joke of love, and laugh at such a fantasy, was so overwhelmed with pity, that the bashfulness forgot to blush, the pride cast down its frightened eyes, and the levity burst into tears. but of all these things she remembered none. and forsooth they may well be considered doubtful, in common with many harder facts; because the house was turned upside down, before any more could be known of it. there was coming, and going, and stamping of feet, horses looking in at the door, and women calling out of it; and such a shouting and hurrahing, not only here but all over the village, that the perle itself might well have stopped, like simöis and scamander, to ask what the fish out of water were doing. and it might have stopped long, without being much wiser; so thoroughly everybody's head was flown, and everybody's mouth filled with much more than the biggest ears found room for. to put it in order is a hopeless job, because all order was gone to grit. but as concerns the _old barn_ (whose thatch, being used to quiet eaves-droppings, had enough to make it stand up in sheaf again)--first dashed up a young man on horseback, (and the sympathetic nag was half mad also) the horse knocking sparks out of the ground, as if he had never heard of lucifers, and the man with his legs all out of saddle, waving a thing that looked like a letter, and shouting as if all literature were comprised in vivâ voce. now this was young farrant, the son of the churchwarden; and really there was no excuse for him; for the farrants are a very clever race; and as yet competitive examination had not made the sight of paper loathsome to any mind cultivating self-respect. "you come out, and just read this;" he shouted to the _barn_ in general. "you never heard such a thing in all your life. all the village is madder than any march hare. i shan't tell you a word of it. you come out and read. and if that doesn't fetch you out, you must be a clam of oysters. if you don't believe me, come and see it for yourselves. only you will have to get by jakes, and he is standing at the mouth, with his french sword drawn." "in the name of heaven, what the devil do you mean?" cried fox, running out, and catching fire of like madness, of all human elements the most explosive, "and this--why, this letter is the maddest thing of all! a man who was bursting to knock me down, scarcely two gurgles of the clock ago! and now, i am his beloved jemmy! mrs. gilham, do come out. surely that chicken has been stewed to death. oh, ma'am, you have some sense in you. everybody else is gone off his head. who can make head or tail of this? let me entreat you to read it, mrs. gilham. farrant, you'll be over that colt's head directly. mrs. gilham, this is meant for a saner eye than mine. your head-piece is always full of self-possession." highly flattered with this tribute, the old lady put on her spectacles, and read, slowly and decorously. "beloved jemmy, "i am all that you called me, a hot-headed fool, and a cad; and everything vile on the back of it. the doctors are the finest chaps alive, because they have never done harm to the dead. come down at once, and put a bar across, because jakes must have his supper. perlycross folk are the best in the world, and the kindest-hearted, but we must not lett them go in there. i am off home, for if anybody else was to get in front of me, and tell my mother, i should go wild, and she would be quite upsett. when you have done all you think proper, come up and see poor nicie. "from your affectionate, and very sorry, "t. r. waldron." "now the other, ma'am!" cried doctor fox. "here is another from the parson. oh come now, we shall have a little common sense." "my dear jemmy, "it has pleased the lord, who never afflicts us without good purpose, to remove that long and very heavy trouble from us. we have found the mortal remains of my dear friend, untouched by any human hand, in a hollow way leading from the abbey to the church. we have not yet discovered how it happened; and i cannot stop to tell you more, for i must go at once to walderscourt, lest rumour should get there before us; and sir thomas must not go alone, being of rather headlong, though very noble nature. sergeant jakes has been placed on guard, against any rash curiosity. i have sent for the two churchwardens and can leave it safely to them and to you, to see that all is done properly. if it can be managed, without undue haste, the coffin should be placed inside the church, and the doors locked until the morning. when that is done, barricade the entrance to the tunnel; although i am sure that the people of our parish would have too much right feeling, as well as apprehension, to attempt to make their way in, after dark. to-morrow, i trust we shall offer humble thanks to the giver of all good, for this great mercy. i propose to hold a short special service; though i fear there is no precedent in the prayer-book. this will take a vast weight off your mind, as well as mine, which has been sorely tried. i beg you not to lose a minute, as many people might become unduly excited. "most truly yours, "philip penniloe." "p.s.--this relieves us also from another dark anxiety, simply explaining the downfall of the s.e. corner of the chancel." "it seems hard upon me; but it must be right, because the parson has decreed it;" dr. fox cried, without a particle of what is now called "slavish adulation of the church"--which scarcely stuck up for herself in those days--but by virtue of the influence which a kind and good man always gains, when he does not overstrain his rights. "i am off, mrs. gilham, i can trust you to see to the pair of invalids upstairs." then he jumped upon young mr. farrant's horse, and leaving him to follow at foot leisure, dashed down the hill towards perlycross. at the four cross-roads, which are the key of the position, and have all the village and the valley in command, he found as fine a concourse perhaps as had been there since the great days of the romans. not a rush of dread, and doubting, and of shivering back-bones, such as had been on that hoary morning, when the sun came through the fog, and showed churchwarden farmer john, and channing the clerk, and blacksmith crang, trudging from the potato-field, full of ghastly tidings, and encountering at that very spot sergeant jakes, and cornish, and the tremulous tramp of half the village, afraid of resurrection. instead of hurrying from the churchyard, as a haunt of ghouls and fiends, all were hastening towards it now, with deep respect reviving. the people who lived beyond the bridge, and even beyond the factory, and were much inclined by local right to sit under the dissenting minister--himself a very good man, and working in harmony with the curate--many of these, and even some from priestwell, having heard of it, pushed their right to know everything, in front of those who lived close to the church and looked through the railings every day. farmer john horner was there on his horse, trotting slowly up and down, as brave as a mounted policeman is, and knowing every one by name called out to him to behave himself. moreover walter haddon stood at the door of the _ivy-bush_, with his coat off, and his shirtsleeves rolled, and ready to double his fist at any man who only drank small beer, at the very first sign of tumult. but candidly speaking this was needless, powerful as the upheaval was, and hot the spirit of enquiry; for the wives of most of the men were there, and happily in an english crowd that always makes for good manners. fox was received with loud hurrahs, and many ran forward to shake his hand; some, who had been most black and bitter in their vile suspicions, having the manliness to beg his pardon, and abuse themselves very heartily. he forgave them with much frankness, as behoves an englishman, and with a pleasant smile at their folly, which also is nicely national. for after all, there is no other race that can give and take as we do; not by any means headlong, yet insisting upon decision--of the other side, at any rate--and thus quickening the sense of justice upon the average, in our favour. fox, with the truly british face of one who is understood at last, but makes no fuss about it, gave up his horse at the lych-gate, and made off where he was beckoned for. here were three great scaffold-poles and slings fixed over the entrance to the ancient under-way; and before dark all was managed well. and then a short procession, headed by the martial march of jakes, conveyed into the venerable church the mortal part of a just and kind man and a noble soldier, to be consigned to-morrow to a more secure, and ever tranquil, and still honoured resting-place. this being done, the need of understanding must be satisfied. dr. fox, and dr. gronow, with the two churchwardens, and channing the clerk, descended the ladder into the hole, and with a couple of torches kindled went to see the cause and manner of this strange yet simple matter--a four-month mystery of darkness, henceforth as clear as daylight. when they beheld it, they were surprised, not at the thing itself--for it could scarcely have happened otherwise, under the circumstances--but at the coincidences, which had led so many people of very keen intelligence into, as might almost be said, every track, except the right one. and this brought home to them one great lesson--"_if you wish to be sure of a thing, see it with your own good eyes._" and another--but that comes afterwards. the passage, dug by the monks no doubt, led from the abbey directly westward to the chancel of the church, probably to enable them to carry their tapers burning, and discharge their duties there promptly and with vestments dry, in defiance of the weather. the crown, of loose flints set in mortar, was some eight feet underground, and the line it took was that adopted in all christian burial. the grave of the late sir thomas waldron was prepared, as he had wished, far away from the family vault (which had sadly undermined the church), and towards the eastern end of the yard, as yet not much inhabited. as it chanced, the bottom lay directly along a weak, or worn-out part of the concrete arch below; and the men who dug it said at the time that their spades had struck on something hard, which they took to be loose blocks of flint. however being satisfied with their depth, and having orders to wall the bottom, they laid on either side some nine or ten courses of brickwork, well flushed in with strong and binding mortar; but the ends being safe and bricks running short, to save any further trouble, they omitted the cross-wall at the ends. thus when the weight of earth cast in pressed more and more heavily upon the heavy coffin, the dome of concreted flints below collapsed, the solid oaken box dropped quietly to the bottom of the tunnel, and the dwarf brick sides having no tie across, but being well bonded together, and well-footed, full across the vacancy into one another, forming a new arch, or more correctly a splay span-roof, in lieu of the old arch which had yielded to the strain. thus the earth above took this new bearing, and the surface of the ground was no more disturbed than it always is by settlement. no wonder then that in the hurried search, by men who had not been down there before, and had not heard of any brickwork at the sides, and were at that moment in a highly nervous state, not only was the grave reported empty--which of course was true enough--but no suspicion was entertained that the bottom they came to (now covered with earth) was anything else than a rough platform for the resting-place. and the two who could have told them better, being proud of their skill in foundations, had joined the builders' staff, and been sent away to distant jobs. in the heat of foregone conclusion, and the terror created by the blacksmith's tale, and the sad condition of that faithful little _jess_, the report had been taken as final. no further quest seemed needful; and at squire mockham's order, the empty space had been filled in at once, for fear of the excitement, and throng of vulgar gazers, gathering and thickening around the empty grave. such are the cases that make us wonder at the power of co-incidence, and the very strange fact that the less things seem to have to do with one another, the greater is their force upon the human mind, when it tries to be too logical. many little things, all far apart, had been fetched together by fine reasoning process, and made to converge towards a very fine error, with certainty universal. even that humble agent, or patient, little _jess_--despised as a dog, by the many who have no delight in their better selves--had contributed very largely to the confluence of panic. if she could only have thrown the light of language on her woeful plight, the strongest clench to the blacksmith's tale would never have come near his pincers. for the slash that rewarded her true love fell, not from the spade of a churchyard-robber, but from a poacher's bill-hook. this has already been intimated; and mr. penniloe must have learned it then; if he had simply taken time, instead of making off at five miles an hour, when speccotty wanted to tell his tale. this should be a warning to clergymen; for perhaps there was no other man in the parish, whose case the good parson would thus have postponed, without prospect of higher consolation. and it does seem a little too hard upon a man, that because his mind is gone astray unawares, his soul should drop out of cultivation! that poor little spaniel was going home sadly, to get a bit of breakfast, and come back to her duty; when trespassing unwittingly upon the poacher's tricks, at early wink of daylight, she was taken for a minion of the evil one, and met with a vigour which is shown too seldom, by even true sportsmen, to his emissaries. perhaps before she quitted guard, she may have had a nip at the flowers on the grave, and dropped them back, when she failed to make sweet bones of them. without further words--though any number of words, if their weight were by the score, would be too few--the slowest-headed man in perlycross might lay to his heart the second lesson, read in as mild a voice as penniloe's, above. and without a word at all, he may be trusted to go home with it; when the job is of other folk's hands, but his own pocket. "_never scamp your work_," was preached more clearly by this long trouble, and degradation of an honourable parish, than if mr. penniloe had stood in the pulpit, for a week of sundays, with the mouth of king solomon laid to his ear, and the trump of the royal mail upon his lips. chapter xliv. and one still finer. if it be sweet to watch at ease the troubles of another, how much sweeter to look back, from the vantage ground of happiness, upon one's own misfortunes! to be able to think--"well, it was too bad! another week would have killed me. how i pulled through it, is more than i can tell; for everybody was against me! and the luck--the luck kept playing leap-frog; fifty plagues all upon one another's back; and my poor little self at the bottom. not a friend came near me; they were all so sorry, but happened to be frightfully down themselves. i assure you, my dear, if it had not been for you, and the thought of our blessed children, and perhaps my own--well, i won't say 'pluck,' but determination to go through with it; instead of arranging these flowers for dinner, you would have been wreathing them for a sadder purpose." the lady sheds a tear, and says--"darling jack, see how you have made my hand shake! i have almost spoiled that truss of hoya, and this schubertia won't stand up. but you never said a word about it, at the time! was that fair to me, jack?" and the like will come to pass again, perhaps next year, perhaps next week. but the beauty of country-life, as it then prevailed (ere the hungry hawk of stock-exchange poised his wings above the stock-dove) was to take things gently, softly, with a cooing faith in goodness, both above us and around. men must work; but being born (as their best friends, the horses, are), for that especial purpose, why should they make it still more sad, by dwelling upon it, at the nose-bag time? how much wiser to allow that turbulent bit of stuff, the mind, to abide at ease, and take things in, rather than cast them forth half-chewed, in the style of our present essayists? now this old village was the right sort of place, to do such things, without knowing it. there was no great leading intellect (with his hands returned to feet), to beat the hollow drum, and play shrill fife, and set everybody tumbling over his best friend's head. the rule of the men was to go on, according to the way in which their fathers went; talking as if they were running on in front, but sticking effectually to the old coat-tail. which in the long run is the wisest thing to do. they were proud of their church, when the sunday mood was on, and their children came home to tell about it. there she was. let her stand; if the folk with money could support her. it was utterly impossible to get into their heads any difference betwixt the church in the churchyard, and the one that inhabits the sky above. when a man has been hard at work all the week, let his wife be his better half on sunday. nothing that ever can be said, or done, by the most ardent "pastor," will ever produce that enthusiasm among the tegs of his flock, which spreads so freely among the ewes, and lambs. mr. penniloe would not be called a _pastor_; to him the name savoured of a cant conceit. neither did he call himself a _priest_; for him it was quite enough to be a clergyman of the church of england; and to give his life to that. therefore, when the time came round, and the turn of the year was fit for it, this parson of that humbler type was happy to finish, without fuss, the works that he had undertaken, with a lofty confidence in the lord, which had come to ground too often. his faith, though fine, had never been of that grandly abstract quality, which expects the ravens to come down, with bread instead of bills, and build a nest for sweet doves _gratis_. to pay every penny that was fairly due, and shorten no man of his saturday wage, towards the sunday consolation; to perceive that business must not be treated as a purely spiritual essence; and to know that a great many very good people drip away (as tallow does from its own wick) from their quick flare of promises; also to bear the brunt of all, and cast up the toppling column, with the balance coming down on his own chest--what wonder that he had scarcely any dark hair left, and even the silver was inclined to say adieu? when a man, who is getting on in years, comes out of a long anxiety, about money, and honour, and his sense of right, he finds even in the soft flush of relief that a great deal of his spring is gone. a bachelor of arts, when his ticks have been paid by a groaning governor, is fit and fresh to start again, and seldom dwells with due remorse upon the sacrifice vicarious. his father also, if of right paternal spirit, soars above the unpleasant subject; leaves it to the mother to drive home the lesson--which she feels already to be too severe--and says, "well, jack, you have got your degree; and that's more than the squire's son can boast of." but the ancient m.a. of ten lustres, who has run into debt on his own hook, and felt the hook running into him, is in very different plight, even when he has wriggled off. parson penniloe was sorely humble, his placid forehead sadly wrinkled, and his kindly eyes uncertain how to look at his brother men, even from the height of pulpit; when in his tremulous throat stuck fast that stern and difficult precept--"owe no man anything." even the strongest of mankind can scarcely manage to come up to that, when fortune is not with him, and his family tug the other way. the glory of the lord may be a lofty prospect, but becomes a cloudy pillar, when the column is cast up, and will not square with cash in hand. scarcely is it too much to say, that since the days of abraham, it would have been hard to find a man of stronger faith than penniloe,--except at the times when he broke down (in vice of matters physical) and proved at one break two ancient creeds--_exceptio probat regulam_; and _corruptio optimi pessima_. while he was on the balance now, as a man of the higher ropes should be, lifting the upper end of his pole, that the glory of his parish shone again, yet feeling the butt inclined to swag, by reason of the bills stuck upon it, who should come in to the audience and audit but young sir thomas waldron? this youth had thought perhaps too little of himself,--because those candid friends, his brother-boys had always spoken of his body so kindly, without a single good word for his mind--but now he was authorized, and even ordered, by universal opinion to take a much fairer view of his own value. nothing that ever yet came to pass has gone into words without some shift of colour, and few things even without change of form; and so it would have been beyond all nature if the events above reported had been told with perfect accuracy even here. how much less could this be so, in the hot excitement of the time, with every man eager to excel his neighbour's narrative, and every woman burning to recall it with her own pure imagination! what then of the woman, who had been blessed enough to enrich the world, and by the same gift ennoble it, with the hero, who at a stroke had purged the family, the parish, and the nation? nevertheless he came in gently, modestly, and with some misgivings, into the room, where he had trembled, blushed, and floundered on all fours, over the old gray latin steps, which have broken many a knee-cap. "if you please, sir," he said to his old tutor, who alone had taught him anything, for at eton he had barely learned good manners; "my mother begs you to read this. and we are all ashamed of our behaviour." "no, tom, no. you have no cause for that. your mother may have been a little hard at first. but she has meant to be just throughout. the misery she has passed through--none but herself can realise." "you see, sir, she does not sing out about things, as most women do; and that of course makes it ever so much worse for her." the young man spoke, like some deep student of feminine nature; but his words were only those of the good housekeeper at walderscourt. mr. penniloe took them in that light, and began to read without reply. "truly esteemed and valued sir. with some hesitation of the mind i come to say that in all i have said and done, my mind has been of the wrong intelligence most largely. it always appears in this land of britain, as if nobody of it could make a mistake. but we have not in my country such great wisdom and good fortune. also in any other european land of which i have the acquaintance, the natives are wrong in their opinions sometimes. "but this does not excuse me of my mistake. i have been unjust to you and to all people living around my place of dwelling. but by my dear son, and his very deep sagacity, it has been made manifest that your good people were considered guilty, without proper justice, of a wrong upon my husband's memory. also that your good church, of which he thought so well in the course of his dear life, has treated him not with ignominy, but with the best of her attention, receiving him into the sacred parts, where the priests of our religion in the times of truth conversed. this is to me of the holiest and most gracious consolation. "therefore i entreat you to accept, for the uses of so good a building, the little sum herewith committed to your care, which flows entirely from my own resources, and not from the property of my dear husband, so much engaged in the distribution of the law. when that is disengaged, my dear son rodrigo, with my approbation will contribute from it the same amount for the perfection of the matter." "one, two, three, four, five. and every one of them a hundred pounds! my dear tom, i feel a doubt----" mr. penniloe leaned back and thought. he was never much excited about money, except when he owed it to, or for the lord. "i call it very poor amends indeed. what would ten times as much be, after all that you have suffered? and how can you refuse it, when it is not for yourself? my mother will be hurt most dreadfully, and never think well again of the church of england." "tom, you are right;" mr. penniloe replied, while a smile flitted over his conscience. "i should indeed convey a false impression of the character of our dear mother. but as for the other £ --well----" "my father's character must be considered, as well as your good mother's." sir thomas was not strong at metaphor. "and i am sure of one thing, sir. if he could have known what would happen about him, and how beautifully every one behaved, except his own people--but it's no use talking. if you don't take it, i shall join the early methodists. what do you think of that, sir? i am always as good as my word, you know." "ah! ah! it may be so;" the curate answered thoughtfully, returning to the mildness of exclamation from which these troubles had driven him. "but allow me a little time for consideration. your mother's very generous gift, i can accept without hesitation, and have no right to do otherwise. but as to your father's estate, i am placed in a delicate position, by reason of my trusteeship; and it is possible that i might go wrong; at any rate, i must consult----" "mrs. fox, sir, from foxden!" thyatira muggridge cried, with her face as red as a turkey's wattle, and throwing the door of the humble back-room as wide as if it never could be wide enough. for the lady was beautifully arrayed. "i come to consult, not to be consulted. my confidence in myself has been misplaced;" said the mother of jemmy and christie, after making the due salutation. "sir thomas, i beg you not to go. you have some right to a voice in the matter; if as they tell me at _old barn_, you have conquered your repugnance to my son, and are ready to receive him as your brother-in-law." "madam, i was a fool," said tom, offering his great hand with a sheepish look. "your son has forgiven me; and i hope that you will. jemmy is the finest fellow ever born." "a credit to his mother, as his mother always thought. and what is still better for himself, a happy man, in winning the affections of the sweetest girl on earth. i have seen your dear sister--what a gentle darling!" "nicie is very well in her way, madam. but she has a strong will of her own. jemmy will find that out, some day. upon the whole, i am sorry for him." "he talks in the very same way of his sister. if young men listened to young men, none of them would ever marry. oh, mr. penniloe, you can be trusted at any rate, to look at things from a higher point of view." "i try sometimes; but it is not easy. and i generally get into scrapes, when i do. but i have one consolation. nobody ever takes my advice." "i mean to take it," mrs. fox replied, looking into his gentle eyes, with the faith which clever women feel in a nature larger than their own. "you need not suppose that i am impulsive. but i know what you are. when every one else in this stupid little place condemned my son, without hearing a word, there was one who was too noble, too good a christian, to listen to any reason. he was right when the mother herself was wrong. for i don't mind telling you, as i have even told my son, that knowing what he is, i could not help suspecting that he--that he had something to do with it. not that lady waldron had any right whatever--and it will take me a long time to forgive her, and her son is quite welcome to tell her that. what you felt yourself was quite different, sir thomas." "i can't see that my mother did any harm. why, she even suspected her own twin-brother! if you were to bear ill-will against my mother----" "of such little tricks i am incapable, sir thomas. and of course i can allow for foreigners. even twenty years of english life cannot bring them to see things as we do. their nature is so--well, i won't say narrow. neither will i say 'bigoted,' although----" "we quite understand you, my dear madam." mr. penniloe was shocked at his own rudeness, in thus interrupting a lady, but he knew that very little more would produce a bad breach betwixt walderscourt and foxden. "what a difference really does exist among people equally just and upright----" "my dear mother is as just and upright as any englishwoman in the world, protestant or catholic," the young man exclaimed, having temper on the bubble, yet not allowing it to boil against a lady. "but if his own mother condemned him, how--i can't put it into words, as i mean it--how can she be in a wax with my mother? and more than that--as it happens, mrs. fox, my mother starts for spain to day, and i cannot let her go alone." "now the lord must have ordered it so," thought the parson. "what a clearance of hostile elements!" but fearing that the others might not so take it, he said only--"ah, indeed!" "to her native land?" asked mrs. fox, as a protestant not quite unbigoted; and a woman who longed to have it out. "it seems an extraordinary thing just now. but perhaps it is a pilgrimage." "yes, madam, for about £ , ," answered sir thomas, in his youthful tory vein, not emancipated yet from disdain of commerce; "not for the sake of the money, of course; but to do justice to the brother she had wronged. mr. penniloe can tell you all about it. i am not much of a hand at arithmetic." "we won't trouble any one about that now;" the lady replied with some loftiness. "but i presume that lady waldron would wish to see me, before she leaves this country." "certainly she would if she had known that you were here. my sister had not come back yet, to tell her. she will be disappointed terribly, when she hears that you have been at perlycross. but she is compelled to catch the packet; and i fear that i must say 'good-bye'; mother would never forgive me, if she lost her voyage through any fault of mine." "you see how they treat us!" said mrs. fox of foxden, when the young man had made his adieu with great politeness. "i suppose you understand it, mr. penniloe, though your mind is so very much larger?" the clergyman scarcely knew what to say. he was not at all quick in the ways of the world; and all feminine rush was beyond him. "we must all allow for circumstances," was his quiet platitude. "all possible allowance i can make;" the lady replied with much self-command. "but i think there is nothing more despicable than this small county-family feeling! is lady waldron not aware that i am connected with the very foremost of your devonshire families? but because my husband is engaged in commerce, a military race may look down upon us! after all, i should like to know, what are your proudest landowners, but mere agriculturists by deputy? i never lose my temper; but it makes me laugh, when i remember that after all, they are simply dependent upon farming. is not that what it comes to, mr. penniloe?" "and a very noble occupation, madam. the first and the finest of the ways ordained by the lord for the sustenance of mankind. next to the care of the human soul, what vocation can be----" "you think so. then i tell you what i'll do, if only to let those waldrons know how little we care for their prejudices. everything depends upon me now, in my poor husband's sad condition. i will give my consent to my daughter's alliance--great people call it alliance, don't they?--with a young man, who is a mere farmer!" "i am assured that he will make his way," mr. penniloe answered with some inward smile, for it is a pleasant path to follow in the track of ladies. "he gets a higher price for pigs, than either of my churchwardens." "what could you desire more than that? it is a proof of the highest capacity. mr. and mrs. frank gilham shall send their wedding cards to walderscourt, with a prime young porker engraved on them. oh, mr. penniloe, i am not perfect. but i have an unusual gift perhaps of largeness of mind, and common sense; and i always go against any one, who endeavours to get the whip-hand of me. and i do believe my darling christie gets it from her mother." "she is a most charming young lady, mrs. fox. what a treasure she would be in this parish! the other day, she said a thing about our church----" "just like her. she is always doing that. and when she comes into her own money--but that is a low consideration. it is gratitude, my dear sir, the deepest and the noblest feeling that still survives in these latter days. without that heroic young man's behaviour, which has partly disabled him for life, i fear, i should have neither son nor daughter. and you say that the gilhams are of very good birth?" "the true name is _guillaume_, i believe. their ancestor came with the conqueror. not as a rapacious noble, but in a most useful and peaceful vocation; in fact----" "quite enough, mr. penniloe. in such a case, one scorns particulars. my daughter was sure that it was so. but i doubted; although you can see it in his bearing. a more thoroughly modest young man never breathed; but i shall try to make him not afraid of me. he told my daughter that, in his opinion, i realised--but you would think me vain; and i was justly annoyed at such nonsense. however, since i have had your advice, i shall hesitate no longer." mrs. fox smiled pleasantly, because her mind was quite made up, to save herself a world of useless trouble in this matter, and yet appear to take the upper hand in her surrender. wondering what advice he could have been supposed to give, the mild yet gallant parson led her to the foxden carriage, which had halted at his outer gate, and opposite the school house. here with many a bow they parted, thinking well of one another, and hoping for the like regard. but as the gentle curate passed the mouth of the tænarian tunnel leading to his lower realms, a great surprise befell him. "what has happened? there is something wrong. surely at this time of day, one ought to see the sunset through that hole," he communed with himself in wonder, for the dark arcade ran from east to west. "there must be a stoppage somewhere. i am almost sure i can see two heads. good people, come out, whoever you may be." "the fact of it is, sir," said sergeant jakes, marching out of the hole with great dignity, though his hat was white with cob-webs; "the fact of it is that this good lady hath received a sudden shock----" "no sir, no sir. not at all like that, sir. only as st. paul saith in chapter of ephesians--'this is a great mystery.'" "it is indeed. and i must request to have it explained immediately." thyatira's blushes and the sparkling of her eyes made her look quite pretty, and almost as good as young again, while she turned away with a final shot from the locker of old authority. "you ought to be ashamed, sir, according to my thinking, to be standing in this wind so long, without no hat upon your head." "you see, sir, it is just like this," the gallant sergeant followed up, when his love was out of hearing; "time hath come for mrs. muggridge to be married, now or never. it is not for me to say, as a man who fears the lord, that i think he was altogether right in the institooting of wedlock, supposing as ever he did so. but whether he did it, or whether he did not, the thing hath been so taken up by the humankind--women particular--that for a man getting on in years, 'tis the only thing respectable. thyatira hath proven that out of the bible, many times." "mr. jakes, the proper thing is to search the scriptures for yourself." "so thyatira saith. but lord! she findeth me wrong at every text, from looking up to women so. if she holdeth by st. paul, a quarter so much as she quoteth him, there won't be another man in perlycross with such a home as i shall have." "you have chosen one of the few wise virgins. jakes, i trust that you will be blest not only with a happy home in this world, but what is a thousand-fold more important, the aid of a truly religious wife, to lead a thoroughly humble, prayerful, and consistent christian life." "thank 'e, sir. thank 'e. with the grace of god, she will; and my first prayer to the lord in heaven will be just this--to let me live long enough for to see that young fool of a bob the butcher ahanging fom his own steelyard. by reason of the idiot he hath made of his self, by marrying of that silly minx, tamar haddon!" "the grace of god is boundless; and tamar may improve. try to make the best of her, mr. jakes. she will always look up to you, i am sure, feeling the strength of your character, and the example of higher principles." "she!" replied the sergeant without a blush, but after a keen reconnoitring glance. "the likes of her doesn't get no benefit from example. but i must not keep you, sir, so long without your hat on." "this is a day of many strange events," mr. penniloe began to meditate, as he leaned back in his long sermon-chair, with the shadows of the spring night deepening. "lady waldron gone, to support her brother's case in spain, because she had so wronged him. a thousand pounds suddenly forthcoming, to lift us out of our affliction; sweet nicie left in the charge of mrs. webber, who comes to five at walderscourt; christie fox allowed to have her own way, as she was pretty sure to do; and now thyatira, thyatira muggridge, not content to lead a quiet, useful, respectable, christian, and well-paid life, but launched into matrimony with a man of many stripes! i know not how the school will be conducted, or my own household, if it comes to that. truly, when a clergyman is left without a wife----" "i want to come in, and the door won't open"--a clear but impatient voice was heard--"i want to see you, before anybody else does." and then another shake was given. "why, zip, my dear child! zip, don't be so headlong. i thought you were learning self-command. why, how have you come? what is the meaning of all this?" "well, now they may kill me, if they like. i told them i would hear your voice again, and then they might skin me, if it suited them. i won't have their religion. there is none of it inside them. you are the only one i ever saw, that god has made with his eyes open. i like them very well, but what are they to you? why, they won't let me speak as i was made! it is no good sending me away again. parson, you mustn't stand up like that. can't you see that i want to kiss you?" "my dear little child, with all my heart. but i never saw any one half so----" "half so what? i don't care what, so long as i have got you round the neck," cried the child as she covered his face with kisses, drawing back every now and then, to look into his calm blue eyes with flashes of adoration. "the lord should have made me your child, instead of that well-conducted waxy thing--look at my nails! she had better not come now." "alas! have you cultivated nothing but your nails? but why did the good ladies send you home so soon? they said they would keep you until whitsuntide." "i got a punishment on purpose, and i let the old girls go to dinner. then i said the lord's prayer, and slipped down the back stairs." "and you plodded more than twenty miles alone! oh zip, what a difficult thing it will be to guide you into the ways of peace!" "they say i talks broad a bit still sometimes, and they gives me ever so much roilying. but i'd sit up all night with a cork in my mouth, if so be, i could plaize 'e, parson." "you must want something better than a cork, my dear"--vexed as he was, mr. penniloe admired the vigorous growth and high spirit of the child--"after twenty-two miles of our up and down roads. now go to mrs. muggridge, but remember one thing--if you are unkind to my little fay, how can you expect me to be kind to you?" "not a very lofty way for me to put it," he reflected, while zip was being cared for in the kitchen; "but what am i to do with that strange child? if the girl is mother to the woman, she will be none of the choir angelic, contented with duty, and hymns of repose. if 'nature maketh nadders,' as our good people say, zippy[ ] hath more of sting than sugar in her bowl." but when the present moment thrives, and life is warm and active, and those in whom we take delight are prosperous and happy, what is there why we should not smile, and keep in tune with all around, and find the flavour of the world returning to our relish? this may not be of the noblest style of thinking, or of living; but he who would, in his little way, rather help than harm his fellows, soon finds out that it cannot be done by carping and girding at them. by intimacy with their lower parts, and rank insistence on them, one may for himself obtain some power, yielded by a hateful shame. but who esteems him, who is better for his fetid labours, who would go to him for comfort when the world is waning, who--though in his home he may be loveable--can love him? mr. penniloe was not of those who mount mankind by lowering it. from year to year his influence grew, as grows a tree in the backwood age, that neither shuns nor defies the storm. though certain persons opposed him still--as happens to every active man--there was not one of them that did not think all the others wrong in doing so. for instance lady waldron, when she returned with her son from spain, thought mrs. fox by no means reasonable, and mrs. fox thought lady waldron anything but sensible, when either of them differed with the clergyman and the other. for verily it was a harder thing to settle all the important points concerning nicie and jemmy fox, than to come to a perfect understanding in the case of christie and frank gilham. however the parish was pleased at last to hear that everything had been arranged; and a mighty day it was to be for all that pleasant neighbourhood, although no doubt a quiet, and as every one hoped, a sober one. on account of her father's sad condition, christie as well as nicie, was to make her vows in the grand old church, which was not wholly finished yet, because there was so much more to do, through the fine influx of money. currency is so called perhaps, not only because it runs away so fast, but also because it runs together; the prefix being omitted through our warm affection and longing for the terms of familiarity. at any rate the parson and the stout churchwardens of perlycross had just received another hundred pounds when the following interview came to pass. it was on the bank of the crystal perle, at the place where the priestwell brook glides in, and a single plank without a handrail crosses it into the meads below. here are some stickles of good speed, and right complexion, for the fly to float quietly into a dainty mouth, and produce a fine fry in the evening; and here, if any man rejoice not in the gentle art, yet may he find sweet comfort and release of worldly trouble, by sitting softly on the bank, and letting all the birds sing to him, and all the flowers fill the air, and all the little waves go by, as his own anxieties have gone. sometimes mr. penniloe, whenever he could spare the time, allowed his heart to go up to heaven, where his soul was waiting for it and wondering at its little cares. and so on this fair morning of the may, here he sat upon a bank of spring, gazing at the gliding water through the mute salaam of twigs. "reverend, i congratulate you. never heard of a finer hit. a solid hundred out of gowler! never bet with a parson, eh? i thought he knew the world too well." a few months back and the clergyman would have risen very stiffly, and kept his distance from this joke. but now he had a genuine liking for this "godless gronow," and knew that his mind was the worst part of him. "doctor, you know that it was no bet;" he said, as he shook hands heartily. "nevertheless i feel some doubts about accepting----" "you can't help it. the money is not for yourself, and you rob the church, if you refuse it. the joke of it is that i saw through the mill-stone, where that conceited fellow failed. come now, as you are a sporting man, i'll bet you a crown that i catch a trout in this little stickle above the plank." "done!" cried mr. penniloe, forgetting his position, but observing gronow's as he whirled his flies. the doctor threshed heartily, and at his very best; even bending his back as he had seen pike do, and screwing up his lips, and keeping, in a strict line with his line, his body and his mind and whole existence. mr. penniloe's face wore an amiable smile, as he watched the intensity of his friend. crowns in his private purse were few and far between, and if he should attain one by the present venture, it would simply go into the poor-box; yet such was his sympathy with human nature that he hoped against hope to see a little trout pulled out. but the willows bowed sweetly, and the wind went by, and the water flowed on, with all its clever children safe. "here you are, reverend!" said the philosophic gronow, pulling out his cart-wheel like a man; "you can't make them take you when they don't choose, can you? but i'll make them pay out for it, when they begin to rise." "the fact of it is that you are too skilful, doctor; and you let them see so much of you that they feel it in their hearts." "there may be truth in that. but my own idea is, that i manage to instil into my flies too keen a sense of their own dependence upon me. now what am i to do? i must have a dish and a good dish too of trout, for this evening's supper. you know the honour and the pleasure i am to have of giving the last bachelor and maiden feast to the heroes and heroines of to-morrow, nicie and jemmy fox, christie and frank gilham. their people are glad to be quit of them in the fuss, and they are too glad to be out of it. none of your imported stuff for me. nothing is to be allowed upon the table, unless it is the produce of our own parish. a fine fore-quarter, and a ripe sirloin, my own asparagus, and lettuce, and sea-kail, and frame-potatoes in their jackets. stewed pears and clotted cream, grapes, and a pine-apple (coming of course from walderscourt)--oh reverend, what a good man you would be, if you only knew what is good to eat!" "but i do. and i shall know still better by and by. i understood that i was kindly invited." "to be sure, and one of the most important. but i must look sharp, or i shall never get the fish. by the by, you couldn't take the rod for half an hour, could you? i hear that you have been a fine hand at it." mr. penniloe stood with his hand upon a burr-knot of oak, and looked at the fishing-rod. if it had been a good, homely, hard-working, and plain-living bit of stuff, such as saint peter might have swung upon the banks of jordan, haply the parson might have yielded to the sweet temptation. for here within a few clicks of reel was goodly choice of many waters, various as the weather--placid glides of middle currents rippling off towards either bank, petulant swerves from bank, or hole, with a plashing and a murmur and a gurgling from below, and then a spread of quiet dimples deepening to a limpid pool. taking all the twists and turns of river perle and priestwell brook, there must have been a mile of water in two flowery meadows, water bright with stickle runs, gloomy with still corners, or quivering with crafty hovers where a king of fish might dwell. but lo, the king of fishermen, or at least the young prince was coming! the doctor caught the parson's sleeve, and his face assumed its worst expression, perhaps its usual one before he took to church-going and fly-fishing. "just look! over there, by that wild cherry-tree!" he whispered very fiercely. "i am sure it's that sneak of a pike once more. come into this bush, and watch him. i thought he was gone to oxford. why, i never saw him fishing once last week." "pike is no sneak, but a very honest fellow," his tutor answered warmly. "but i was obliged by a sad offence of his to stop him from handling the rod last week. he begged me to lay it on his back instead. the poor boy scarcely took a bit of food. he will never forget that punishment." "well he seems to be making up for it now. what luck he has, and i get none!" mr. penniloe smiled as his favourite pupil crossed the perle towards them. he was not wading--in such small waters there is no necessity for that--but stepping lightly from pile to pile and slab to slab, where the relics of an ancient weir stood above the flashing river. whistling softly, and calmly watching every curl and ripple, he was throwing a long line up the stream, while his flies were flitting as if human genius had turned them in their posthumous condition into moths. his rod showed not a glance of light, but from spike to top-ring quivered with the vigilance of death. while the envious gronow watched, with bated breath and teeth set hard, two or three merry little trout were taught what they were made for; then in a soft swirl near the bank that dimpled like a maiden's cheek, an excellent fish with a yellow belly bravely made room in it for something choice. before he had smacked his lips thoroughly, behold another fly of wondrous beauty--laced with silver, azure-pinioned, and with an exquisite curl of tail--came fluttering through the golden world so marvellous to the race below. the poor fly shuddered at the giddy gulf, then folded his wings and fell helpless. "i have thee," exclaimed the trout,--but ah! more truly the same thing said the pike. a gallant struggle, a thrilling minute, silvery dashes, and golden rolls, and there between dr. gronow's feet lay upon dr. gronow's land a visitor he would have given half the meadow to have placed there. "don't touch him," said pike, in the calmest manner; "or you'll be sure to let him in again. he will turn the pound handsomely, don't you think?" "a cool hand, truly, this pupil of yours!" quoth the doctor to the parson. "to consult me about the weight of my own fish, and then put him in his basket! young man, this meadow belongs to me." "yes, sir, i dare say; but the fish don't live altogether in the meadow. and i never heard that you preserve the perle. priestwell brook you do, i know. but i don't want to go there, if i might." "i dare say. perhaps the grapes are sour. never mind; let us see how you have done. i find them taking rather short to-day. why you don't mean to say you have caught all those!" "i ought to have done better," said the modest pike, "but i lost two very nice fish by being in too much of a hurry. that comes of being stopped from it all last week. but i see you have not been lucky yet. you are welcome to these, sir, if mr. penniloe does not want them. by strict right, i dare say they belong to you." "not one of them, mr. pike. but you are very generous. i hope to catch a basketful very shortly--still, it is just possible that this may not occur. i will take them provisionally, and with many thanks. now, will you add to the obligation, by telling, if your tutor has no objection, why he put you under such an awful veto?" "my boy, you are welcome to tell dr. gronow. it was only a bit of thoughtlessness, and your punishment has been severe." "i shall never touch cobbler's wax again on sunday. but i wanted to finish a may-fly entirely of my own pattern; and so after church i was touching up his wings, when in comes mr. penniloe with his london glasses on." "and i am proud to assure you, dr. gronow, that the lad never tried to deceive me. i should have been deeply pained, if he had striven to conceal it." "well done! that speaks well for both of you. pike, you are a straight-forward fellow. you shall have a day on my brook once a week. is there anything more i can do for you?" "yes sir, unless it is too much to ask; and perhaps mr. penniloe would like to hear it too. hopper and i have had many talks about it; and he says that i am superstitious. but his plan of things is to cut for his life over everything that he can see, without stopping once to look at it. and when he has jumped over it, he has no more idea what it was, than if he had run under it. he has no faith in anything that he does not see, and he never sees much of anything." "ha, master pike. you describe it well;" said the doctor, looking at him with much interest. "scepticism without enquiry. reverend, that hop-jumper is not the right stuff for a bishop." "if you please, dr. gronow, we will not discuss that now," the parson replied with a glance at young pike, which the doctor understood and heeded: "what is it, my boy, that you would ask of dr. gronow, after serious debate with peckover?" "nothing sir, nothing. only we would like to know, if it is not disagreeable to any one, how he could have managed from the very first to understand all about sir thomas waldron, and to know that we were all making fools of ourselves. i say that he must have seen a dream, like jacob, or have been cast into a vision, like so many other saints. but hopper says no; if there was any inspiration, dr. gronow was more likely to have got it from the devil." "come now, pike, and hopper too,--if he were here to fly my brook,--i call that very unfair of you. no, it was not you who said it; i can quite believe that. no fisherman reviles his brother. but you should have given him the spike, my friend. reverend, is this all the theology you teach? well, there is one answer as to how i knew it, and a very short one--the little word, _brains_." mr. penniloe smiled a pleasant smile, and simply said, "ah!" in his accustomed tone, which everybody liked for its sympathy and good faith. but pike took up his rod, and waved his flies about, and answered very gravely--"it must be something more than that." "no sir," said the doctor, looking down at him complacently, and giving a little tap to his grizzled forehead; "it was all done here, sir--just a trifling bit of brains." "but there never can have been such brains before;" replied pike with an angler's persistence. "why everybody else was a thousand miles astray, and yet dr. gronow hit the mark at once!" "it is a little humble knack he has, sir. just a little gift of thinking," the owner of all this wisdom spoke as if he were half-ashamed of it; "from his earliest days it has been so. nothing whatever to be proud of, and sometimes even a trouble to him, when others require to be set right. but how can one help it, master pike? there is the power, and it must be used. mr. penniloe will tell you that." "all knowledge is from above," replied the gentleman thus appealed to; "and beyond all question it is the duty of those who have this precious gift, to employ it for the good of others." "young man; there is a moral lesson for you. when wiser people set you right, be thankful and be humble. that has been my practice always, though i have not found many occasions for it." pike was evidently much impressed, and looked with reverence at both his elders. "perhaps then," he said, with a little hesitation and the bright blush of ingenuous youth, "i ought to set dr. gronow right in a little mistake he is making." "if such a thing be possible, of course you should," his tutor replied with a smile of surprise; while the doctor recovered his breath, made a bow, and said, "sir, will you point out my error?" "here it is, sir," quoth pike, with the certainty of truth overcoming his young diffidence, "this wire-apparatus in your brook--a very clever thing; what is the object of it?" "my _ichthyophylax_? a noble idea that has puzzled all the parish. a sort of a grill that only works one way. it keeps all my fish from going down to my neighbours, and yet allows theirs to come up to me; and when they come up, they can never get back. at the other end of my property, i have the same contrivance inverted, so that all the fish come down to me, but none of them can go up again. i saw the thing offered in a sporting paper, and paid a lot of money for it in london. reverend, isn't it a grand invention? it intercepts them all, like a sluicegate." "extremely ingenious, no doubt," replied the parson. "but is not it what a fair-minded person would consider rather selfish?" "not at all. they would like to have my fish, if they could; and so i anticipate them, and get theirs. quite the rule of the scriptures, reverend." "i think that i have read a text," said master pike, stroking his long chin, and not quite sure that he quoted aright; "the snare which he laid for others, in the same are his own feet taken!" "a very fine text," replied dr. gronow, with one of his most sarcastic smiles; "and the special favourite of the lord must have realized it too often. but what has that to do with my _ichthyophylax_?" "nothing, sir. only that you have set it so that it works in the wrong direction. all the fish go out, but they can't come back. and if it is so at the upper end, no wonder that you catch nothing." "can i ever call any man a fool again?" cried the doctor, when thoroughly convinced. "perhaps that disability will be no loss;" mr. penniloe answered quietly. footnote: [ ] this proved too true, as may be shown hereafter. the end. london: printed by william clowes and sons, limited, stamford street and charing cross.