13759	----	None 
51336	----	What is POSAT? By PHYLLIS STERLING SMITH Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Of course coming events cast their shadows before, but this shadow was 400 years long! The following advertisement appeared in the July 1953 issue of several magazines: MASTERY OF ALL KNOWLEDGE CAN BE YOURS! What is the secret source of those profound principles that can solve the problems of life? Send for our FREE booklet of explanation. Do not be a leaf in the wind! YOU can alter the course of your life! Tap the treasury of Wisdom through the ages! The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth POSAT an ancient secret society Most readers passed it by with scarcely a glance. It was, after all, similar to the many that had appeared through the years under the name of that same society. Other readers, as their eyes slid over the familiar format of the ad, speculated idly about the persistent and mildly mysterious organization behind it. A few even resolved to clip the attached coupon and send for the booklet--sometime--when a pen or pencil was nearer at hand. Bill Evans, an unemployed pharmacist, saw the ad in a copy of _Your Life and Psychology_ that had been abandoned on his seat in the bus. He filled out the blanks on the coupon with a scrap of stubby pencil. "You can alter the course of your life!" he read again. He particularly liked that thought, even though he had long since ceased to believe it. He actually took the trouble to mail the coupon. After all, he had, literally, nothing to lose, and nothing else to occupy his time. Miss Elizabeth Arnable was one of the few to whom the advertisement was unfamiliar. As a matter of fact, she very seldom read a magazine. The radio in her room took the place of reading matter, and she always liked to think that it amused her cats as well as herself. Reading would be so selfish under the circumstances, wouldn't it? Not but what the cats weren't almost smart enough to read, she always said. It just so happened, however, that she had bought a copy of the _Antivivisectionist Gazette_ the day before. She pounced upon the POSAT ad as a trout might snap at a particularly attractive fly. Having filled out the coupon with violet ink, she invented an errand that would take her past the neighborhood post office so that she could post it as soon as possible. Donald Alford, research physicist, came across the POSAT ad tucked at the bottom of a column in _The Bulletin of Physical Research_. He was engrossed in the latest paper by Dr. Crandon, a man whom he admired from the point of view of both a former student and a fellow research worker. Consequently, he was one of the many who passed over the POSAT ad with the disregard accorded to any common object. He read with interest to the end of the article before he realized that some component of the advertisement had been noted by a region of his brain just beyond consciousness. It teased at him like a tickle that couldn't be scratched until he turned back to the page. It was the symbol or emblem of POSAT, he realized, that had caught his attention. The perpendicularly crossed ellipses centered with a small black circle might almost be a conventionalized version of the Bohr atom of helium. He smiled with mild skepticism as he read through the printed matter that accompanied it. "I wonder what their racket is," he mused. Then, because his typewriter was conveniently at hand, he carefully tore out the coupon and inserted it in the machine. The spacing of the typewriter didn't fit the dotted lines on the coupon, of course, but he didn't bother to correct it. He addressed an envelope, laid it with other mail to be posted, and promptly forgot all about it. Since he was a methodical man, it was entrusted to the U.S. mail early the next morning, together with his other letters. Three identical forms accompanied the booklet which POSAT sent in response to the three inquiries. The booklet gave no more information than had the original advertisement, but with considerable more volubility. It promised the recipient the secrets of the Cosmos and the key that would unlock the hidden knowledge within himself--if he would merely fill out the enclosed form. Bill Evans, the unemployed pharmacist, let the paper lie unanswered for several days. To be quite honest, he was disappointed. Although he had mentally disclaimed all belief in anything that POSAT might offer, he had watched the return mails with anticipation. His own resources were almost at an end, and he had reached the point where intervention by something supernatural, or at least superhuman, seemed the only hope. He had hoped, unreasonably, that POSAT had an answer. But time lay heavily upon him, and he used it one evening to write the requested information--about his employment (ha!), his religious beliefs, his reason for inquiring about POSAT, his financial situation. Without quite knowing that he did so, he communicated in his terse answers some of his desperation and sense of futility. Miss Arnable was delighted with the opportunity for autobiographical composition. It required five extra sheets of paper to convey all the information that she wished to give--all about her poor, dear father who had been a missionary to China, and the kinship that she felt toward the mystic cults of the East, her belief that her cats were reincarnations of her loved ones (which, she stated, derived from a religion of the Persians; or was it the Egyptians?) and in her complete and absolute acceptance of everything that POSAT had stated in their booklet. And what would the dues be? She wished to join immediately. Fortunately, dear father had left her in a comfortable financial situation. To Donald Alford, the booklet seemed to confirm his suspicion that POSAT was a racket of some sort. Why else would they be interested in his employment or financial position? It also served to increase his curiosity. "What do you suppose they're driving at?" he asked his wife Betty, handing her the booklet and questionnaire. "I don't really know what to say," she answered, squinting a little as she usually did when puzzled. "I know one thing, though, and that's that you won't stop until you find out!" "The scientific attitude," he acknowledged with a grin. "Why don't you fill out this questionnaire incognito, though?" she suggested. "Pretend that we're wealthy and see if they try to get our money. Do they have anything yet except your name and address?" Don was shocked. "If I send this back to them, it will have to be with correct answers!" "The scientific attitude again," Betty sighed. "Don't you ever let your imagination run away with the facts a bit? What are you going to give for your reasons for asking about POSAT?" "Curiosity," he replied, and, pulling his fountain pen from his vest pocket, he wrote exactly that, in small, neat script. It was unfortunate for his curiosity that Don could not see the contents of the three envelopes that were mailed from the offices of POSAT the following week. For this time they differed. Bill Evans was once again disappointed. The pamphlet that was enclosed gave what apparently meant to be final answers to life's problems. They were couched in vaguely metaphysical terms and offered absolutely no help to him. His disappointment was tempered, however, by the knowledge that he had unexpectedly found a job. Or, rather, it had fallen into his lap. When he had thought that every avenue of employment had been tried, a position had been offered him in a wholesale pharmacy in the older industrial part of the city. It was not a particularly attractive place to work, located as it was next to a large warehouse, but to him it was hope for the future. It amused him to discover that the offices of POSAT were located on the other side of the same warehouse, at the end of a blind alley. Blind alley indeed! He felt vaguely ashamed for having placed any confidence in them. Miss Arnable was thrilled to discover that her envelope contained not only several pamphlets, (she scanned the titles rapidly and found that one of them concerned the sacred cats of ancient Egypt), but that it contained also a small pin with the symbol of POSAT wrought in gold and black enamel. The covering letter said that she had been accepted as an active member of POSAT and that the dues were five dollars per month; please remit by return mail. She wrote a check immediately, and settled contentedly into a chair to peruse the article on sacred cats. After a while she began to read aloud so that her own cats could enjoy it, too. Don Alford would not have been surprised if his envelope had shown contents similar to the ones that the others received. The folded sheets of paper that he pulled forth, however, made him stiffen with sharp surprise. "Come here a minute, Betty," he called, spreading them out carefully on the dining room table. "What do you make of these?" She came, dish cloth in hand, and thoughtfully examined them, one by one. "Multiple choice questions! It looks like a psychological test of some sort." "This isn't the kind of thing I expected them to send me," worried Don. "Look at the type of thing they ask. 'If you had discovered a new and virulent poison that could be compounded from common household ingredients, would you (1) publish the information in a daily newspaper, (2) manufacture it secretly and sell it as rodent exterminator, (3) give the information to the armed forces for use as a secret weapon, or (4) withhold the information entirely as too dangerous to be passed on?'" "Could they be a spy ring?" asked Betty. "Subversive agents? Anxious to find out your scientific secrets like that classified stuff that you're so careful of when you bring it home from the lab?" Don scanned the papers quickly. "There's nothing here that looks like an attempt to get information. Besides, I've told them nothing about my work except that I do research in physics. They don't even know what company I work for. If this is a psychological test, it measures attitudes, nothing else. Why should they want to know my attitudes?" "Do you suppose that POSAT is really what it claims to be--a secret society--and that they actually screen their applicants?" He smiled wryly. "Wouldn't it be interesting if I didn't make the grade after starting out to expose their racket?" He pulled out his pen and sat down to the task of resolving the dilemmas before him. His next communication from POSAT came to his business address and, paradoxically, was more personal than its forerunners. Dear Doctor Alford: We have examined with interest the information that you have sent to us. We are happy to inform you that, thus far, you have satisfied the requirements for membership in the Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth. Before accepting new members into this ancient and honorable secret society, we find it desirable that they have a personal interview with the Grand Chairman of POSAT. Accordingly, you are cordially invited to an audience with our Grand Chairman on Tuesday, July 10, at 2:30 P.M. Please let us know if this arrangement is acceptable to you. If not, we will attempt to make another appointment for you. The time specified for the appointment was hardly a convenient one for Don. At 2:30 P.M. on most Tuesdays, he would be at work in the laboratory. And while his employers made no complaint if he took his research problems home with him and worried over them half the night, they were not equally enthusiastic when he used working hours for pursuing unrelated interests. Moreover, the headquarters of POSAT was in a town almost a hundred miles distant. Could he afford to take a whole day off for chasing will-o-wisps? It hardly seemed worth the trouble. He wondered if Betty would be disappointed if he dropped the whole matter. Since the letter had been sent to the laboratory instead of his home, he couldn't consult her about it without telephoning. _Since the letter had been sent to the laboratory instead of his home!_ But it was impossible! He searched feverishly through his pile of daily mail for the envelope in which the letter had come. The address stared up at him, unmistakably and fearfully legible. The name of his company. The number of the room he worked in. In short, the address that he had never given them! "Get hold of yourself," he commanded his frightened mind. "There's some perfectly logical, easy explanation for this. They looked it up in the directory of the Institute of Physics. Or in the alumni directory of the university. Or--or--" But the more he thought about it, the more sinister it seemed. His laboratory address was available, but why should POSAT take the trouble of looking it up? Some prudent impulse had led him to withhold that particular bit of information, yet now, for some reason of their own, POSAT had unearthed the information. His wife's words echoed in his mind, "Could they be a spy ring? Subversive agents?" Don shook his head as though to clear away the confusion. His conservative habit of thought made him reject that explanation as too melodramatic. At least one decision was easier to reach because of his doubts. Now he knew he had to keep his appointment with the Grand Chairman of POSAT. He scribbled a memo to the department office stating that he would not be at work on Tuesday. * * * * * At first Don Alford had some trouble locating the POSAT headquarters. It seemed to him that the block in which the street number would fall was occupied entirely by a huge sprawling warehouse, of concrete construction, and almost entirely windowless. It was recessed from the street in several places to make room for the small, shabby buildings of a wholesale pharmacy, a printer's plant, an upholstering shop, and was also indented by alleys lined with loading platforms. It was at the back of one of the alleys that he finally found a door marked with the now familiar emblem of POSAT. He opened the frosted glass door with a feeling of misgiving, and faced a dark flight of stairs leading to the upper floor. Somewhere above him a buzzer sounded, evidently indicating his arrival. He picked his way up through the murky stairwell. The reception room was hardly a cheerful place, with its battered desk facing the view of the empty alley, and a film of dust obscuring the pattern of the gray-looking wallpaper and worn rug. But the light of the summer afternoon filtering through the window scattered the gloom somewhat, enough to help Don doubt that he would find the menace here that he had come to expect. The girl addressing envelopes at the desk looked very ordinary. _Not the Mata-Hari type_, thought Don, with an inward chuckle at his own suspicions. He handed her the letter. She smiled. "We've been expecting you, Dr. Alford. If you'll just step into the next room--" She opened a door opposite the stairwell, and Don stepped through it. The sight of the luxurious room before him struck his eyes with the shock of a dentist's drill, so great was the contrast between it and the shabby reception room. For a moment Don had difficulty breathing. The rug--Don had seen one like it before, but it had been in a museum. The paintings on the walls, ornately framed in gilt carving, were surely old masters--of the Renaissance period, he guessed. Although he recognized none of the pictures, he felt that he could almost name the artists. That glowing one near the corner would probably be a Titian. Or was it Tintorretto? He regretted for a moment the lost opportunities of his college days, when he had passed up Art History in favor of Operational Circuit Analysis. The girl opened a filing cabinet, the front of which was set flush with the wall, and, selecting a folder from it, disappeared through another door. Don sprang to examine the picture near the corner. It was hung at eye level--that is, at the eye level of the average person. Don had to bend over a bit to see it properly. He searched for a signature. Apparently there was none. But did artists sign their pictures back in those days? He wished he knew more about such things. Each of the paintings was individually lighted by a fluorescent tube held on brackets directly above it. As Don straightened up from his scrutiny of the picture, he inadvertently hit his head against the light. The tube, dislodged from its brackets, fell to the rug with a muffled thud. _Now I've done it!_ thought Don with dismay. But at least the tube hadn't shattered. In fact--it was still glowing brightly! His eyes registered the fact, even while his mind refused to believe it. He raised his eyes to the brackets. They were simple pieces of solid hardware designed to support the tube. There were no wires! Don picked up the slender, glowing cylinder and held it between trembling fingers. Although it was delivering as much light as a two or three hundred watt bulb, it was cool to the touch. He examined it minutely. There was no possibility of concealed batteries. The thumping of his heart was caused not by the fact that he had never seen a similar tube before, but because he had. He had never held one in his hands, though. The ones which his company had produced as experimental models had been unsuccessful at converting all of the radioactivity into light, and had, of necessity, been heavily shielded. Right now, two of his colleagues back in the laboratory would still be searching for the right combination of fluorescent material and radioactive salts with which to make the simple, efficient, self-contained lighting unit that he was holding in his hand at this moment! _But this is impossible!_ he thought. _We're the only company that's working on this, and it's secret. There can't be any in actual production!_ And even if one had actually been successfully produced, how would it have fallen into the possession of POSAT, an Ancient Secret Society, The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth? The conviction grew in Don's mind that here was something much deeper and more sinister than he would be able to cope with. He should have asked for help, should have stated his suspicions to the police or the F.B.I. Even now-- With sudden decision, he thrust the lighting tube into his pocket and stepped swiftly to the outer door. He grasped the knob and shook it impatiently when it stuck and refused to turn. He yanked at it. His impatience changed to panic. It was locked! A soft sound behind him made him whirl about. The secretary had entered again through the inner door. She glanced at the vacant light bracket, then significantly at his bulging pocket. Her gaze was still as bland and innocent as when he had entered, but to Don she no longer seemed ordinary. Her very calmness in the face of his odd actions was distressingly ominous. "Our Grand Chairman will see you now," she said in a quiet voice. Don realized that he was half crouched in the position of an animal expecting attack. He straightened up with what dignity he could manage to find. She opened the inner door again and Don followed her into what he supposed to be the office of the Grand Chairman of POSAT. Instead he found himself on a balcony along the side of a vast room, which must have been the interior of the warehouse that he had noted outside. The girl motioned him toward the far end of the balcony, where a frosted glass door marked the office of the Grand Chairman. But Don could not will his legs to move. His heart beat at the sight of the room below him. It was a laboratory, but a laboratory the like of which he had never seen before. Most of the equipment was unfamiliar to him. Whatever he did recognize was of a different design than he had ever used, and there was something about it that convinced him that this was more advanced. The men who bent busily over their instruments did not raise their eyes to the figures on the balcony. "Good Lord!" Don gasped. "That's an atomic reactor down there!" There could be no doubt about it, even though he could see it only obscurely through the bluish-green plastic shielding it. His thoughts were so clamorous that he hardly realized that he had spoken aloud, or that the door at the end of the balcony had opened. He was only dimly aware of the approaching footsteps as he speculated wildly on the nature of the shielding material. What could be so dense that only an inch would provide adequate shielding and yet remain semitransparent? His scientist's mind applauded the genius who had developed it, even as the alarming conviction grew that he wouldn't--couldn't--be allowed to leave here any more. Surely no man would be allowed to leave this place alive to tell the fantastic story to the world! "Hello, Don," said a quiet voice beside him. "It's good to see you again." "Dr. Crandon!" he heard his own voice reply. "_You're_ the Grand Chairman of POSAT?" He felt betrayed and sick at heart. The very voice with which Crandon had spoken conjured up visions of quiet lecture halls and his own youthful excitement at the masterful and orderly disclosure of scientific facts. To find him here in this mad and treacherous place--didn't anything make sense any longer? "I think we have rather abused you, Don," Dr. Crandon continued. His voice sounded so gentle that Don found it hard to think there was any evil in it. "I can see that you are suspicious of us, and--yes--afraid." * * * * * Don stared at the scene below him. After his initial glance to confirm his identification of Crandon, Don could not bear to look at him. Crandon's voice suddenly hardened, became abrupt. "You're partly right about us, of course. I hate to think how many laws this organization has broken. Don't condemn us yet, though. You'll be a member yourself before the day is over." Don was shocked by such confidence in his corruptibility. "What do you use?" he asked bitterly. "Drugs? Hypnosis?" Crandon sighed. "I forgot how little you know, Don. I have a long story to tell you. You'll find it hard to believe at first. But try to trust me. Try to believe me, as you once did. When I say that much of what POSAT does is illegal, I do not mean immoral. We're probably the most moral organization in the world. Get over the idea that you have stumbled into a den of thieves." Crandon paused as though searching for words with which to continue. "Did you notice the paintings in the waiting room as you entered?" Don nodded, too bewildered to speak. "They were donated by the founder of our Organization. They were part of his personal collection--which, incidentally, he bought from the artists themselves. He also designed the atomic reactor we use for power here in the laboratory." "Then the pictures are modern," said Don, aware that his mouth was hanging open foolishly. "I thought one was a Titian--" "It is," said Crandon. "We have several original Titians, although I really don't know too much about them." "But how could a man alive _today_ buy paintings from an artist of the Renaissance?" "He is not alive today. POSAT is actually what our advertisements claim--an _ancient_ secret society. Our founder has been dead for over four centuries." "But you said that he designed your atomic reactor." "Yes. This particular one has been in use for only twenty years, however." Don's confusion was complete. Crandon looked at him kindly. "Let's start at the beginning," he said, and Don was back again in the classroom with the deep voice of Professor Crandon unfolding the pages of knowledge in clear and logical manner. "Four hundred years ago, in the time of the Italian Renaissance, a man lived who was a super-genius. His was the kind of incredible mentality that appears not in every generation, or even every century, but once in thousands of years. "Probably the man who invented what we call the phonetic alphabet was one like him. That man lived seven thousand years ago in Mesopotamia, and his discovery was so original, so far from the natural course of man's thinking, that not once in the intervening seven thousand years has that device been rediscovered. It still exists only in the civilizations to which it has been passed on directly. "The super-genius who was our founder was not a semanticist. He was a physical scientist and mathematician. Starting with the meager heritage that existed in these fields in his time, he began tackling physical puzzles one by one. Sitting in his study, using as his principal tool his own great mind, he invented calculus, developed the quantum theory of light, moved on to electromagnetic radiation and what we call Maxwell's equations--although, of course, he antedated Maxwell by centuries--developed the special and general theories of relativity, the tool of wave mechanics, and finally, toward the end of his life, he mathematically derived the packing fraction that describes the binding energy of nuclei--" "But it can't be done," Don objected. "It's an observed phenomenon. It hasn't been derived." Every conservative instinct that he possessed cried out against this impossible fantasy. And yet--there sat the reactor, sheathed in its strange shield. Crandon watched the direction of Don's glance. "Yes, the reactor," said Crandon. "He built one like it. It confirmed his theories. His calculations showed him something else too. He saw the destructive potentialities of an atomic explosion. He himself could not have built an atomic bomb; he didn't have the facilities. But his knowledge would have enabled other men to do so. He looked about him. He saw a political setup of warring principalities, rival states, intrigue, and squabbles over political power. Giving the men of his time atomic energy would have been like handing a baby a firecracker with a lighted fuse. "What should he have done? Let his secrets die with him? He didn't think so. No one else in his age could have _derived_ the knowledge that he did. But it was an age of brilliant men. Leonardo. Michelangelo. There were men capable of _learning_ his science, even as men can learn it today. He gathered some of them together and founded this society. It served two purposes. It perpetuated his discoveries and at the same time it maintained the greatest secrecy about them. He urged that the secrets be kept until the time when men could use them safely. The other purpose was to make that time come about as soon as possible." Crandon looked at Don's unbelieving face. "How can I make you see that it is the truth? Think of the eons that man or manlike creatures have walked the Earth. Think what a small fraction of that time is four hundred years. Is it so strange that atomic energy was discovered a little early, by this displacement in time that is so tiny after all?" "But by one man," Don argued. Crandon shrugged. "Compared with him, Don, you and I are stupid men. So are the scientists who slowly plodded down the same road he had come, stumbling first on one truth and then the succeeding one. We know that inventions and discoveries do not occur at random. Each is based on the one that preceded it. We are all aware of the phenomenon of simultaneous invention. The path to truth is a straight one. It is only our own stupidity that makes it seem slow and tortuous. "He merely followed the straight path," Crandon finished simply. * * * * * Don's incredulity thawed a little. It was not entirely beyond the realm of possibility. But if it were true! A vast panorama of possible achievements spread before him. "Four hundred years!" he murmured with awe. "You've had four hundred years head-start on the rest of the world! What wonders you must have uncovered in that time!" "Our technical achievements may disappoint you," warned Crandon. "Oh, they're way beyond anything that you are familiar with. You've undoubtedly noticed the shielding material on the reactor. That's a fairly recent development of our metallurgical department. There are other things in the laboratory that I can't even explain to you until you have caught up on the technical basis for understanding them. "Our emphasis has not been on physical sciences, however, except as they contribute to our central project. We want to change civilization so that it can use physical science without disaster." For a moment Don had been fired with enthusiasm. But at these words his heart sank. "Then you've failed," he said bitterly. "In spite of centuries of advance warning, you've failed to change the rest of us enough to prevent us from trying to blow ourselves off the Earth. Here we are, still snarling and snapping at our neighbors' throats--and we've caught up with you. We have the atomic bomb. What's POSAT been doing all that time? Or have you found that human nature really can't be changed?" "Come with me," said Crandon. He led the way along the narrow balcony to another door, then down a steep flight of stairs. He opened a door at the bottom, and Don saw what must have been the world's largest computing machine. "This is our answer," said Crandon. "Oh, rather, it's the tool by which we find our answer. For two centuries we have been working on the newest of the sciences--that of human motivation. Soon we will be ready to put some of our new knowledge to work. But you are right in one respect, we are working now against time. We must hurry if we are to save our civilization. That's why you are here. We have work for you to do. Will you join us, Don?" "But why the hocus-pocus?" asked Don. "Why do you hide behind such a weird front as POSAT? Why do you advertise in magazines and invite just anyone to join? Why didn't you approach me directly, if you have work for me to do? And if you really have the answers to our problems, why haven't you gathered together all the scientists in the world to work on this project--before it's too late?" Crandon took a sighing breath. "How I wish that we could do just that! But you forget that one of the prime purposes of our organization is to maintain the secrecy of our discoveries until they can be safely disclosed. We must be absolutely certain that anyone who enters this building will have joined POSAT before he leaves. What if we approached the wrong scientist? Centuries of accomplishment might be wasted if they attempted either to reveal it or to exploit it! "Do you recall the questionnaires that you answered before you were invited here? We fed the answers to this machine and, as a result, we know more about how you will react in any given situation than you do yourself. Even if you should fail to join us, our secrets would be safe with you. Of course, we miss a few of the scientists who might be perfect material for our organization. You'd be surprised, though, at how clever our advertisements are at attracting exactly the men we want. With the help of our new science, we have baited our ads well, and we know how to maintain interest. Curiosity is, to the men we want, a powerful motivator." "But what about the others?" asked Don. "There must be hundreds of applicants who would be of no use to you at all." "Oh, yes," replied Crandon. "There are the mild religious fanatics. We enroll them as members and keep them interested by sending pamphlets in line with their interests. We even let them contribute to our upkeep, if they seem to want to. They never get beyond the reception room if they come to call on us. But they are additional people through whom we can act when the time finally comes. "There are also the desperate people who try POSAT as a last resort--lost ones who can't find their direction in life. For them we put into practice some of our newly won knowledge. We rehabilitate them--anonymously, of course. Even find jobs or patch up homes. It's good practice for us. "I think I've answered most of your questions, Don. But you haven't answered mine. Will you join us?" Don looked solemnly at the orderly array of the computer before him. He had one more question. "Will it really work? Can it actually tell you how to motivate the stubborn, quarrelsome, opinionated people one finds on this Earth?" Crandon smiled. "You're here, aren't you?" Don nodded, his tense features relaxing. "Enroll me as a member," he said. 
28091	----	THE DOUBLE FOUR By E. Phillips Oppenheim CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD London, New York, Toronto & Melbourne First published _September 1911_. _Reprinted October 1911_. Shilling Edition _April 1913_. _Reprinted February 1917_. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED CONTENTS 1. THE DESIRE OF MADAME 2. THE AMBASSADOR'S WIFE 3. THE MAN FROM THE OLD TESTAMENT 4. THE FIRST SHOT 5. THE SEVEN SUPPERS OF ANDREA KORUST 6. THE MISSION OF MAJOR KOSUTH 7. THE GHOSTS OF HAVANA HARBOUR 8. AN ALIEN SOCIETY 9. THE MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN 10. THE THIRTEENTH ENCOUNTER THE DOUBLE FOUR CHAPTER I THE DESIRE OF MADAME "_It is the desire of Madame that you should join our circle here on Thursday evening next, at ten o'clock._--SOGRANGE." The man looked up from the sheet of notepaper which he held in his hand, and gazed through the open French windows before which he was standing. It was a very pleasant and very peaceful prospect. There was his croquet lawn, smooth-shaven, the hoops neatly arranged, the chalk mark firm and distinct upon the boundary. Beyond, the tennis court, the flower gardens, and to the left the walled fruit garden. A little farther away was the paddock and orchard, and a little farther still the farm, which for the last four years had been the joy of his life. His meadows were yellow with buttercups; a thin line of willows showed where the brook wound its lazy way through the bottom fields. It was a home, this, in which a man could well lead a peaceful life, could dream away his days to the music of the west wind, the gurgling stream, the song of birds, and the low murmuring of insects. Peter Ruff stood like a man turned to stone, for even as he looked these things passed away from before his eyes, the roar of the world beat in his ears--the world of intrigue, of crime, the world where the strong man hewed his way to power, and the weaklings fell like corn before the sickle. * * * * * "_It is the desire of Madame!_" Peter Ruff clenched his fists as he read the words once more. It was a message from a world every memory of which had been deliberately crushed--a world, indeed, in which he had seemed no longer to hold any place. He was Peter Ruff, Esquire, of Aynesford Manor, in the County of Somerset. It could not be for him, this strange summons. The rustle of a woman's soft draperies broke in upon his reverie. He turned round with his usual morning greeting upon his lips. She was, without doubt, a most beautiful woman: petite, and well moulded, with the glow of health in her eyes and on her cheeks. She came smiling to him--a dream of muslin and pink ribbons. "Another forage bill, my dear Peter?" she demanded, passing her arm through his. "Put it away and admire my new morning gown. It came straight from Paris, and you will have to pay a great deal of money for it." He pulled himself together--he had no secrets from his wife. "Listen," he said, and read aloud: "_Rue de St. Quintaine, Paris._ "DEAR MR. RUFF,--_It is a long time since we had the pleasure of a visit from you. It is the desire of Madame that you should join our circle here on Thursday evening next, at ten o'clock._--SOGRANGE." Violet was a little perplexed. She failed, somehow, to recognise the sinister note underlying those few sentences. "It sounds friendly enough," she remarked. "You are not obliged to go, of course." Peter Ruff smiled grimly. "Yes, it sounds all right," he admitted. "They won't expect you to take any notice of it, surely?" she continued. "When you bought this place, Peter, you gave them definitely to understand that you had retired into private life, that all these things were finished with you." "There are some things," Peter Ruff said slowly, "which are never finished." "But you resigned," she reminded him. "I remember your letter distinctly." "From the Double Four," he answered, "no resignation is recognised save death. I did what I could, and they accepted my explanations gracefully and without comment. Now that the time has come, however, when they need, or think they need, my help, you see they do not hesitate to claim it." "You will not go, Peter? You will not think of going?" she begged. He twisted the letter between his fingers and sat down to his breakfast. "No," he said, "I shall not go." * * * * * That morning Peter Ruff spent upon his farm, looking over his stock, examining some new machinery, and talking crops with his bailiff. In the afternoon he played his customary round of golf. It was the sort of day which, as a rule, he found completely satisfactory, yet, somehow or other, a certain sense of weariness crept in upon him towards its close. The agricultural details in which he was accustomed to take so much interest had fallen a little flat. He even found himself wondering, after one of his best drives, whether it was well for the mind of a man to be so utterly engrossed by the flight of that small white ball towards its destination. More than once lately, despite his half-angry rejection of them, certain memories, half-wistful, half-tantalising, from the world of which he now saw so little, had forced their way in upon his attention. This morning the lines of that brief note seemed to stand out before him all the time with a curious vividness. In a way he played the hypocrite to himself. He professed to have found that summons disturbing and unwelcome, yet his thoughts were continually occupied with it. He knew well that what would follow was inevitable, but he made no sign. Two days later he received another letter. This time it was couched in different terms. On a square card, at the top of which was stamped a small coronet, he read as follows: "_Madame de Maupassim at home, Saturday evening, May 2nd, at ten o'clock._" In small letters at the bottom left-hand corner were added the words: "_To meet friends._" Peter Ruff put the card upon the fire and went out for a morning's rabbit shooting with his keeper. When he returned, luncheon was ready, but Violet was absent. He rang the bell. "Where is your mistress, Jane?" he asked the parlourmaid. The girl had no idea. Mrs. Ruff had left for the village several hours ago. Since then she had not been seen. Peter Ruff ate his luncheon alone and understood. The afternoon wore on, and at night he travelled up to London. He knew better than to waste time by purposeless inquiries. Instead he took the nine o'clock train the next morning to Paris. * * * * * It was a chamber of death into which he was ushered--dismal, yet, of its sort, unique, marvellous. The room itself might have been the sleeping apartment of an Empress--lofty, with white panelled walls adorned simply with gilded lines; with high windows, closely curtained now so that neither sound nor the light of day might penetrate into the room. In the middle of the apartment, upon a canopy bedstead which had once adorned a king's palace, lay Madame de Maupassim. Her face was already touched with the finger of death, yet her eyes were undimmed and her lips unquivering. Her hands, covered with rings, lay out before her upon the lace coverlid. Supported by many pillows, she was issuing her last instructions with the cold precision of the man of affairs who makes the necessary arrangements for a few days' absence from his business. Peter Ruff, who had not even been allowed sufficient time to change his travelling clothes, was brought without hesitation to her bedside. She looked at him in silence for a moment with a cold glitter in her eyes. "You are four days late, Monsieur Peter Ruff," she remarked. "Why did you not obey your first summons?" "Madame," he answered, "I thought that there must be a misunderstanding. Four years ago I gave notice to the council that I had married and retired into private life. A country farmer is of no further use to the world." The woman's thin lip curled. "From death and the Double Four," she said, "there is no resignation which counts. You are as much our creature to-day as I am the creature of the disease which is carrying me across the threshold of death." Peter Ruff remained silent. The woman's words seemed full of dread significance. Besides, how was it possible to contradict the dying? "It is upon the unwilling of the world," she continued, speaking slowly, yet with extraordinary distinctness, "that its greatest honours are often conferred. The name of my successor has been balloted for secretly. It is you, Peter Ruff, who have been chosen." This time he was silent, because he was literally bereft of words. This woman was dying, and fancying strange things! He looked from one to the other of the stern, pale faces of those who were gathered around her bedside. Seven of them there were--the same seven. At that moment their eyes were all focused upon him. Peter Ruff shrank back. "Madame," he murmured, "this cannot be." Her lips twitched as though she would have smiled. "What we have decided," she said, "we have decided. Nothing can alter that--not even the will of Mr. Peter Ruff." "I have been out of the world for four years," Peter Ruff protested. "I have no longer ambitions, no longer any desire----" "You lie!" the woman interrupted. "You lie, or you do yourself an injustice! We gave you four years, and, looking into your face, I think that it has been enough. I think that the weariness is there already. In any case, the charge which I lay upon you in these, my last moments, is one which you can escape by death only!" A low murmur of voices from those others repeated her words. "By death only!" Peter Ruff opened his lips, but closed them again without speech. A wave of emotion seemed passing through the room. Something strange was happening. It was Death itself which had come amongst them. * * * * * A morning journalist wrote of the death of Madame eloquently and with feeling. She had been a broadminded aristocrat, a woman of brilliant intellect and great friendships, a woman of whose inner life during the last ten or fifteen years little was known, yet who, in happier times, might well have played a great part in the history of her country. * * * * * Peter Ruff drove back from the cemetery with the Marquis de Sogrange, and for the first time since the death of Madame serious subjects were spoken of. "I have waited patiently," he declared, "but there are limits. I want my wife." Sogrange took him by the arm and led him into the library of the house in the Rue de St. Quintaine. The six men who were already there waiting rose to their feet. "Gentlemen," the Marquis said, "is it your will that I should be spokesman?" There was a murmur of assent. Then Sogrange turned towards his companion, and something new seemed to have crept into his manner--a solemn, almost threatening note. "Peter Ruff," he continued, "you have trifled with the one organisation in this world which has never allowed itself to have liberties taken with it or to be defied. Men who have done greater service than you have died for the disobedience of a day. You have been treated leniently, accordingly to the will of Madame. According to her will, and in deference to the position which you must now take up amongst us, we still treat you as no other has ever been treated by us. The Double Four admits your leadership and claims you for its own." "I am not prepared to discuss anything of the sort," Peter Ruff declared doggedly, "until my wife is restored to me." The Marquis smiled. "The traditions of your race, Mr. Ruff," he said, "are easily manifest in you. Now, hear our decision. Your wife shall be restored to you on the day when you take up this position to which you have become entitled. Sit down and listen." Peter Ruff was a rebel at heart, but he felt the grip of iron. "During these four years when you, my friend, have been growing turnips and shooting your game, events in the world have marched, new powers have come into being, a new page of history has been opened. As everything which has good at the heart evolves toward the good, so we of the Double Four have lifted our great enterprise on to a higher plane. The world of criminals is still at our beck and call, we still claim the right to draw the line between moral theft and immoral honesty; but to-day the Double Four is concerned with greater things. Within the four walls of this room, within the hearing of these my brothers, whose fidelity is as sure as the stones of Paris, I tell you a splendid secret. The Government of our country has craved for our aid and the aid of our organisation. It is no longer the wealth of the world alone which we may control, but the actual destinies of nations." "What I suppose you mean to say is," Peter Ruff remarked, "that you've been going in for politics?" "You put it crudely, my English bulldog," Sogrange answered, "but you are right. We are occupied now by affairs of international importance. More than once during the last few months ours has been the hand which has changed the policy of an empire." "Most interesting," Peter Ruff declared, "but so far as I personally am concerned----" "Listen," the Marquis interrupted. "Not a hundred yards from the French Embassy in London there is waiting for you a house and servants no less magnificent than the Embassy itself. You will become the ambassador in London of the Double Four, titular head of our association, a personage whose power is second to none in your marvellous city. I do not address words of caution to you, my friend, because we have satisfied ourselves as to your character and capacity before we consented that you should occupy your present position. But I ask you to remember this: the will of Madame lives even beyond the grave. The spirit which animated her when alive breathes still in all of us. In London you will wield a great power. Use it for the common good. And remember this: the Double Four has never failed, the Double Four can never fail." "I am glad to hear you are so confident," Peter Ruff said. "Of course, if I have to take this thing on I shall do my best; but, if I might venture to allude for a moment to anything so trifling as my own domestic affairs, I am very anxious to know about my wife." Sogrange smiled. "You will find Mrs. Ruff awaiting you in London," he announced. "Your address is Merton House, Berkeley Square." "When do I go there?" Peter Ruff asked. "To-night," was the answer. "And what do I do when I get there?" he persisted. "For three days," the Marquis told him, "you will remain indoors and give audience to whomever may come to you. At the end of that time, you will understand a little more of our purpose and our objects--perhaps even of our power." "I see difficulties," Peter Ruff remarked. "My name, you see, is uncommon." Sogrange drew a document from the breast pocket of his coat. "When you leave this house to-night," he proclaimed, "we bid good-bye for ever to Mr. Peter Ruff. You will find in this envelope the title-deeds of a small property which is our gift to you. Henceforth you will be known by the name and the title of your estates." "Title!" Peter Ruff gasped. "You will reappear in London," Sogrange continued, "as the Baron de Grost." Peter Ruff shook his head. "It won't do," he declared. "People will find me out." "There is nothing to be found out," the Marquis went on, a little wearily. "Your country life has dulled your wits, Baron. The title and the name are justly yours--they go with the property. For the rest, the history of your family, and of your career up to the moment when you enter Merton House to-night, will be inside this packet. You can peruse it upon the journey, and remember that we can at all times bring a hundred witnesses, if necessary, to prove that you are whom you declare yourself to be. When you get to Charing Cross, do not forget that it will be the carriage and servants of the Baron de Grost which await you." Peter shrugged his shoulders. "Well," he said thoughtfully, "I suppose I shall get used to it." "Naturally," Sogrange answered. "For the moment, we are passing through a quiet time, necessitated by the mortal illness of Madame. You will be able to spend the next few weeks in getting used to your new position. You will have a great many callers, inspired by us, who will see that you make the right acquaintances and that you join the right clubs. At the same time, let me warn you always to be ready. There is trouble brooding just now all over Europe. In one way or another we may become involved at any moment. The whole machinery of our society will be explained to you by your secretary. You will find him already installed at Merton House. A glass of wine, Baron, before you leave?" Peter Ruff glanced at the clock. "There are my things to pack," he began. Sogrange smiled. "Your valet is already on the front seat of the automobile which is waiting," he remarked. "You will find him attentive and trustworthy. The clothes which you brought with you we have taken the liberty of dispensing with. You will find others in your trunk, and at Merton House you can send for any tailor you choose. One toast, Baron. We drink to the Double Four--to the great cause!" There was a murmur of voices. Sogrange lifted once more his glass. "May Peter Ruff rest in peace!" he said. "We drink to his ashes. We drink long life and prosperity to the Baron de Grost!" * * * * * The Marquis alone attended his guest to the station. They walked up and down the long platform of the Gare du Nord, Sogrange talking most of the time in an undertone, for there were many things which he yet had to explain. There came a time, however, when his grip upon his companion's arm suddenly tightened. They were passing a somewhat noticeable little group--a tall, fair man, with close-shaven hair and military moustache, dressed in an English travelling suit and Homburg hat, and by his side a very brilliant young woman, whose dark eyes, powdered face, and marvellous toilette rendered her a trifle conspicuous. In the background were a couple of servants. "The Count von Hern-Bernadine!" the Marquis whispered. Peter glanced at him for a moment as they passed. "Bernadine, without a doubt!" he exclaimed. "And his companion?" "Mademoiselle Delucie, from the _Comédie Française_," the Marquis replied. "It is just like Bernadine to bring her here. He likes to parade the ostensible cause for his visit to Paris. It is all bluff. He cares little for the ladies of the theatre, or any other woman, except when he can make tools of them. He is here just now----" The Marquis paused. Peter looked at him interrogatively. "Why?" he asked. "Because you are here," the Marquis affirmed. "Baron, I meant to speak to you about that man before we parted. There is no great work done without difficulties. The greatest difficulty you will have to face in your new life is that man. It is very possible that you may find within the course of a few months that your whole career, your very life, has developed into a duel _à outrance_ with him." They had turned again, and were once more in sight of the little group. Bernadine had thrown a loose overcoat over his tweed travelling clothes, and with a cigarette between his fingers was engaged in deferential conversation with the woman by his side. His servant stood discreetly in the background, talking to the other domestic--a sombrely clad young person carrying a flat jewel-case, obviously the maid of the young Frenchwoman. "He is taking her across," the Marquis remarked. "It is not often that he travels like this. Perhaps he has heard that you are susceptible, my friend." Peter shrugged his shoulders. "The game is too young yet!" he declared. "It is never too young for Bernadine to take a hand," the Marquis replied grimly. "Listen, de Grost. Bernadine will probably try to make friends with you. You may think it wise to accept his advances, you may believe that you can guard your own secrets in his company; perhaps, even, that you may learn his. Do not try it, my friend. You have received the best proof possible that we do not underrate your abilities, but there is no other man like Bernadine. I would not trust myself alone with him." "You are taking it for granted," Peter interposed, "that our interests must be at all times inimical." The Marquis laid his hand upon the other's arm. "My friend," he said, "there are interests which are sometimes elastic, _rapprochements_ which may vary between chilly friendliness and a certain intimacy. But between the interests of the Double Four and the interests represented by that young man there yawns the deepest gulf which you or any other man could conceive. Bernadine represents the Teuton--muscle and bone and sinew. He is German to the last drop of his heart's blood. Never undervalue him, I beseech you. He is not only a wonderful politician: he is a man of action, grim, unbending, unswerving as a man may be whose eyes are steadfastly fixed upon one goal. The friendships of France may sometimes change, but her one great enmity never. Bernadine represents that enmity. According to the measure of your success, so you will find him placid or venomous. Think of yourself as a monk, dear Baron, and Bernadine as the Devil Incarnate. From him there is safety only in absence." Peter smiled as he shook hands with his companion and climbed into the train. "At any rate," he said, "I have been warned." * * * * * During the journey to Boulogne, at least, the repeated warnings of the Marquis seemed quite unnecessary. Bernadine and his companion remained in their engaged carriage, and de Grost, who dined in the restaurant car and sauntered once or twice along the corridors, saw nothing of them. At Boulogne they stayed in their carriage until the rush on to the boat was over, and it was not until they were half-way across the Channel that Peter felt suddenly an arm thrust through his as he leaned over the rail on the upper deck. He moved instinctively away from the vessel's side, a proceeding which seemed to afford some amusement to the man who had accosted him. "Monsieur le Baron," said Bernadine, "let me be the first to congratulate you upon your new dignity." "Very kind of you, I am sure, Count von Hern," Peter answered. "Bernadine to you, my friend," the other protested. "So you have come once more into the great game?" Peter remained silent. His features had assumed an expression of gentle inquiry. "Once more I congratulate you," Bernadine continued. "In the old days you were shrewd and successful in your small undertakings, but you were, after all, little more than a policeman. To-day you stand for other things." "Monsieur le Comte talks in enigmas," Peter murmured. Bernadine smiled. "Cautious as ever!" he exclaimed. "Ah, my dear Baron, you amuse me, you and the elegant Sogrange--Sogrange, who will pull the strings to which you must dance. Do you think that I did not see you both upon the platform, gazing suspiciously at me? Do you think that I did not hear the words of warning you received as clearly as though I had been standing by your side? 'It is Bernadine!' Sogrange whispers. 'Bernadine and Mademoiselle Delucie--a dangerous couple! Have a care, Monsieur le Baron!' Oh, that is what passed, without a doubt! So when you take your place in the train you wrap yourself in an armour of isolation; you are ready all the time to repel some deep-laid scheme, you are relieved to discover that, so far, at any rate, this terrible Bernadine and his beautiful travelling companion have not forced themselves upon you. Is it not so?" Peter shrugged his shoulders. "It is the south wind," he remarked, "which carries us across so quickly to-night." "The south wind, without a doubt," Bernadine assented politely. "Dear Baron, my congratulations are sincere. No one can come into the battlefield, the real battlefield of life, without finding enemies there waiting for him. You and I represent different causes. When our interests clash, I shall not try to throw you off a Channel boat, or to buy you with a cheque, or to hand you over to the tender mercies of the beautiful Mademoiselle Delucie. Until then, have no fear, my British friend. I shall not even ask you to drink with me, for I know that you would look suspiciously into the tumbler. _Au revoir_, and good fortune!" Bernadine passed into the shadows and sank into a steamer chair by the side of his travelling companion. Peter continued his lonely walk, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his overcoat, his eyes fixed upon the Folkestone lights, becoming every moment clearer and clearer. * * * * * At Charing Cross all was as Sogrange had indicated. His servant remained to look after the luggage, a tall footman conducted him towards a magnificent automobile. Then, indeed, he forgot Bernadine and all this new stir of life--forgot everything in a sudden rush of joy. It was Violet who leaned forward to greet him--Violet, looking her best, and altogether at her ease amongst this new splendour. "Welcome, Monsieur le Baron!" she whispered as he took his place by her side. He took her hands and held them tightly, closely. "I always knew," he murmured, "that you hankered after a title." "Such a snob, aren't I!" she exclaimed. "Never mind, you wait!" They were moving rapidly westward now. A full moon was shining down upon the city, the streets were thronged with pedestrians and a block of vehicles. The Carlton was all ablaze. In the softening light Pall Mall had become a stately thoroughfare, the Haymarket and Regent Street picturesque with moving throngs, a stream of open cabs, women in cool evening dresses, men without hats or overcoats, on their way from the theatres. It was a vivid, almost a fascinating little picture. Peter caught a glimpse of his wife's face as she looked upon it. "I believe," he whispered, "that you are glad." She turned upon him with a wonderful smile, the light flashing in her eyes. "Glad! Oh, Peter, of course I am glad! I hated the country; I pined and longed for life. Couldn't you see it, dear? Now we are back in it again--back amongst the big things. Peter, dear, you were never meant to shoot rabbits and play golf, to grow into the likeness of those awful people who think of nothing but sport and rural politics and their neighbours' weaknesses! The man who throws life away before he has done with it, dear, is a wastrel. Be thankful that it's back again in your hands--be thankful, as I am!" He sighed, and with that sigh went all his regrets for the life which had once seemed to him so greatly to be desired. He recognised in those few seconds the ignominy of peace. "There is not the slightest doubt about it," he admitted, "I do make mistakes." The automobile came to a standstill before the portico of an imposing mansion at the corner of Berkeley Square. "We are home!" Violet whispered. "Try to look as though you were used to it all!" A grave-faced major-domo was already upon the steps. In the hall was a vision of more footmen in quiet but impressive livery. Violet entered with an air of familiarity. Peter, with one last sigh, followed her. There was something significant to him in that formal entrance into his new and magnificent home. Outside, Peter Ruff seemed somewhere to have vanished into thin air. It was the Baron de Grost who had entered into his body--the Baron de Grost with a ready-made present, a fictitious past, a momentous future. CHAPTER II THE AMBASSADOR'S WIFE Alone in his study, with fast-locked door, Baron de Grost sat reading word by word with zealous care the dispatch from Paris which had just been delivered into his hands. From the splendid suite of reception-rooms which occupied the whole of the left-hand side of the hall, came the faint sound of music. The street outside was filled with automobiles and carriages setting down their guests. Madame was receiving to-night a gathering of very distinguished men and women, and it was only on very urgent business indeed that her husband had dared to leave her side. The room in which he sat was in darkness except for the single heavily shaded electric lamp which stood by his elbow. Peter was wearing Court dress, with immaculate black silk stockings, and diamond buckles upon his shoes. A red ribbon was in his button-hole and a French order hung from his neck. His passion for clothes was certainly amply ministered to by the exigencies of his new position. Once more he read those last few words of this unexpectedly received dispatch--read them with a frown upon his forehead and the light of trouble in his eyes. For three months he had done nothing but live the life of an ordinary man of fashion and wealth. His first task--for which, to tell the truth, he had been anxiously waiting--was here before him, and he found it little to his liking. Again he read slowly to himself the last paragraph of Sogrange's letter:-- "_As ever, dear friend, one of the greatest sayings which the men of my race have ever perpetrated, once more justifies itself, 'Cherchez la femme!' Of monsieur we have no manner of doubt; we have tested him in every way. And, to all appearance, madame should also be above suspicion. Yet those things of which I have spoken have happened. For two hours this morning I was closeted with Picon here. Very reluctantly he has placed the matter in my hands. I pass it on to you. It is your first undertaking, cher Baron, and I wish you bon fortune. A man of gallantry, as I know you are, you may regret that it should be a woman--and a beautiful woman, too--against whom the finger must be pointed. Yet, after all, the fates are strong and the task is yours._--SOGRANGE." The music from the reception-rooms grew louder and more insistent. Peter rose to his feet, and, moving to the fireplace, struck a match and carefully destroyed the letter which he had been reading. Then he straightened himself, glanced for a moment at the mirror, and left the room to join his guests. * * * * * "Monsieur le Baron jests," the lady murmured. Peter shook his head. "Indeed, no, madame!" he answered earnestly. "France has offered us nothing more delightful in the whole history of our _entente_ than the loan of yourself and your brilliant husband. Monsieur de Lamborne makes history amongst us politically, whilst madame----" Peter sighed, and his companion leaned a little towards him. Her dark eyes were full of sentimental regard. "Yes?" she whispered. "Continue. It is my wish." "I am the good friend of Monsieur de Lamborne," Peter said, and in his tone there seemed to lurk some far-away touch of regret, "yet madame knows that her conquests here have been many." The ambassador's wife fanned herself and remained silent for a moment, a faint smile playing at the corners of her full, curving lips. She was indeed a very beautiful woman--elegant, a Parisian to the finger-tips, with pale cheeks but eyes dark and soft; eyes trained to her service, whose flash was an inspiration, whose very droop had set beating the hearts of men less susceptible than the Baron de Grost. Her gown was magnificent, of amber satin--a colour daring but splendid; the outline of her figure as she leaned slightly back in her seat might indeed have been traced by the inspired finger of some great sculptor. Peter, whose reputation as a man of gallantry was well established, felt the whole charm of her presence--felt, too, the subtle indications of preference which she seemed inclined to accord to him. There was nothing which eyes could say which hers were not saying during those few minutes. Peter, indeed, glanced around a little nervously. His wife had still her moments of unreasonableness; it was just as well that she was engaged with a party of her guests at the farther end of the apartments! "You are trying to turn my head," his beautiful companion whispered. "You flatter me." "It is not possible," he answered. Again the fan fluttered. "Ah, monsieur," she continued, dropping her voice until it scarcely rose above a whisper, "there are not many men like you. You speak of my husband and his political gifts. Yet, what, after all, do they amount to? What is his position, indeed, if one glanced behind the scenes, compared with yours?" The face of the Baron de Grost became like a mask. It was as though suddenly he had felt the thrill of danger close at hand--danger even in that scented atmosphere wherein he sat. "Alas, madame!" he answered, "it is you now who are pleased to jest. Your husband is a great and powerful ambassador. I, unfortunately, have no career, no place in life, save the place which the possession of a few millions gives to a successful financier." She laughed very softly, and again her eyes spoke to him. "Monsieur," she murmured, "you and I together could make a great alliance; is it not so?" "Madame," he faltered doubtfully, "if one dared hope----" Once more the fire of her eyes, this time not only voluptuous. Was the man stupid or only cautious? "If that alliance were once concluded," she said softly, "one might hope for everything." "If it rests only with me," he began seriously, "oh, madame!" He seemed overcome. Madame was gracious; but was he really stupid or only very much in earnest? "To be one of the world's money kings," she whispered, "it is wonderful, that. It is power--supreme, absolute power! There is nothing beyond--there is nothing greater." Then Peter, who was watching her closely, caught another gleam in her eyes, and he began to understand. He had seen it before amongst a certain type of her countrywomen--the greed of money. He looked at her jewels, and he remembered that, for an ambassador, her husband was reputed to be a poor man. The cloud of misgiving passed away from him; he settled down to the game. "If money could only buy the desire of one's heart!" he murmured. "Alas!" His eyes seemed to seek out Monsieur de Lamborne amongst the moving throngs. She laughed softly, and her hand brushed his. "Money and one other thing, Monsieur le Baron," she whispered in his ear, "can buy the jewels from a crown--can buy even the heart of a woman." A movement of approaching guests caught them up and parted them for a time. The Baroness de Grost was at home from ten till one, and her rooms were crowded. Peter found himself drawn on one side a few minutes later by Monsieur de Lamborne himself. "I have been looking for you, de Grost," the latter declared. "Where can we talk for a moment?" His host took the ambassador by the arm and led him into a retired corner. Monsieur de Lamborne was a tall, slight man, somewhat cadaverous-looking, with large features, hollow eyes, thin but carefully arranged grey hair, and a pointed grey beard. He wore a frilled shirt, and an eyeglass suspended by a broad, black ribbon hung down upon his chest. His face, as a rule, was imperturbable enough, but he had the air just now of a man greatly disturbed. "We cannot be overheard here," Peter remarked. "It must be an affair of a few words only, though." Monsieur de Lamborne wasted no time in preliminaries. "This afternoon," he said, "I received from my Government papers of immense importance, which I am to hand over to your Foreign Minister at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning." Peter nodded. "Well?" De Lamborne's thin fingers trembled as they played nervously with the ribbon of his eyeglass. "Listen," he continued, dropping his voice a little. "Bernadine has undertaken to send a copy of their contents to Berlin by to-morrow night's mail." "How do you know that?" The ambassador hesitated. "We, too, have spies at work," he remarked grimly. "Bernadine wrote and sent a messenger with the letter to Berlin. The man's body is drifting down the Channel, but the letter is in my pocket." "The letter from Bernadine?" "Yes." "What does he say?" "Simply that a verbatim copy of the document in question will be dispatched to Berlin to-morrow evening without fail," replied the ambassador. "There are no secrets between us," Peter declared, smoothly. "What is the special importance of this document?" De Lamborne shrugged his shoulders. "Since you ask," he said, "I tell you. You know of the slight coolness which there has been between our respective Governments? Our people have felt that the policy of your Ministers in expending all their energies and resources in the building of a great fleet, to the utter neglect of your army, is a wholly one-sided arrangement, so far as we are concerned. In the event of a simultaneous attack by Germany upon France and England, you would be utterly powerless to render us any measure of assistance. If Germany should attack England alone, it is the wish of your Government that we should be pledged to occupy Alsace-Lorraine. You, on the other hand, could do nothing for us if Germany's first move were made against France." Peter was deeply interested, although the matter was no new one to him. "Go on," he directed. "I am waiting for you to tell me the specific contents of this document." "The English Government has asked us two questions; first, how many complete army corps we consider she ought to place at our disposal in this eventuality; and, secondly, at what point should we expect them to be concentrated? The dispatch which I received to-night contains the reply to these questions." "Which Bernadine has promised to forward to Berlin to-morrow night," Peter remarked softly. De Lamborne nodded. "You perceive," he said, "the immense importance of the affair. The very existence of that document is almost a _casus belli_." "At what time did the dispatch arrive," Peter asked, "and what has been its history since?" "It arrived at six o'clock," the ambassador declared. "It went straight into the inner pocket of my coat; it has not been out of my possession for a single second. Even whilst I talk to you I can feel it." "And your plans? How are you intending to dispose of it to-night?" "On my return to the Embassy I shall place it in the safe, lock it up, and remain watching it until morning." "There doesn't seem to be much chance for Bernadine," Peter remarked. "But there must be no chance--no chance at all," Monsieur de Lamborne asserted, with a note of passion in his thin voice. "It is incredible, preposterous, that he should even make the attempt. I want you to come home with me and share my vigil. You shall be my witness in case anything happens. We will watch together." Peter reflected for a moment. "Bernadine makes few mistakes," he said thoughtfully. Monsieur de Lamborne passed his hand across his forehead. "Do I not know it?" he muttered. "In this instance, though, it seems impossible for him to succeed. The time is so short and the conditions so difficult. I may count upon your assistance, Baron?" Peter drew from his pocket a crumpled piece of paper. "I received a telegram from headquarters this evening," he said, "with instructions to place myself entirely at your disposal." "You will return with me, then, to the Embassy?" Monsieur de Lamborne asked eagerly. Peter did not at once reply. He was standing in one of his characteristic attitudes, his hands clasped behind him, his head a little thrust forward, watching with every appearance of courteous interest the roomful of guests, stationary just now, listening to the performance of a famous violinist. It was, perhaps, by accident that his eyes met those of Madame de Lamborne, but she smiled at him subtly--more, perhaps, with her wonderful eyes than with her lips themselves. She was the centre of a very brilliant group, a most beautiful woman holding court, as was only right and proper, amongst her admirers. Peter sighed. "No," he said, "I shall not return with you, de Lamborne. I want you to follow my suggestions, if you will." "But, assuredly----" "Leave here early and go to your club. Remain there until one, then come to the Embassy. I shall be there awaiting your arrival." "You mean that you will go there alone? I do not understand," the ambassador protested. "Why should I go to my club? I do not at all understand!" "Nevertheless, do as I say," Peter insisted. "For the present, excuse me. I must look after my guests." The music had ceased, there was a movement towards the supper room. Peter offered his arm to Madame de Lamborne, who welcomed him with a brilliant smile. Her husband, although, for a Frenchman, he was by no means of a jealous disposition, was conscious of a vague feeling of uneasiness as he watched them pass out of the room together. A few minutes later he made his excuses to his wife, and, with a reluctance for which he could scarcely account, left the house. There was something in the air, he felt, which he did not understand. He would not have admitted it to himself, but he more than half divined the truth. The vacant seat in his wife's carriage was filled that night by the Baron de Grost. * * * * * At one o'clock precisely Monsieur de Lamborne returned to his house, and found de Grost gazing with obvious respect at the ponderous safe let into the wall. "A very fine affair--this," he remarked, motioning with his head towards it. "The best of its kind," Monsieur de Lamborne admitted. "No burglar yet has ever succeeded in opening one of its type. Here is the packet," he added, drawing the document from his pocket. "You shall see me place it in safety." Peter stretched out his hand and examined the sealed envelope for a moment closely. Then he moved to the writing-table, and, placing it upon the letter scales, made a note of its exact weight. Finally he watched it deposited in the ponderous safe, suggested the word to which the lock was set, and closed the door. Monsieur de Lamborne heaved a sigh of relief. "I fancy this time," he said, "that our friends at Berlin will be disappointed. Couch or easy-chair, Baron?" "The couch, if you please," Peter replied, "a strong cigar, and a long whisky and soda. So! Now for our vigil." The hours crawled away. Once Peter sat up and listened. "Any rats about?" he inquired. The ambassador was indignant. "I have never heard one in my life," he answered. "This is quite a modern house." Peter dropped his match-box and stooped to pick it up. "Any lights on anywhere except in this room?" he asked. "Certainly not," Monsieur de Lamborne answered. "It is past three o'clock, and every one has gone to bed." Peter rose and softly unbolted the door. The passage outside was in darkness. He listened intently for a moment, and returned yawning. "One fancies things," he murmured apologetically. "For example?" de Lamborne demanded. Peter shook his head. "One mistakes," he said. "The nerves become over-sensitive." The dawn broke, and the awakening hum of the city grew louder and louder. Peter rose and stretched himself. "Your servants are moving about in the house," he remarked. "I think that we might consider our vigil at an end." Monsieur de Lamborne rose with alacrity. "My friend," he said, "I feel that I have made false pretences to you. With the day I have no fear. A thousand pardons for your sleepless night." "My sleepless night counts for nothing," Peter assured him; "but before I go, would it not be as well that we glance together inside the safe?" De Lamborne shook out his keys. "I was about to suggest it," he replied. The ambassador arranged the combination and pressed the lever. Slowly the great door swung back. The two men peered in. "Untouched!" de Lamborne exclaimed, a little note of triumph in his tone. Peter said nothing, but held out his hand. "Permit me," he interposed. De Lamborne was conscious of a faint sense of uneasiness. His companion walked across the room and carefully weighed the packet. "Well?" de Lamborne cried. "Why do you do that? What is wrong?" Peter turned and faced him. "My friend," he said, "this is not the same packet." The ambassador stared at him incredulously. "This packet can scarcely have gained two ounces in the night," Peter went on. "Besides, the seal is fuller. I have an eye for these details." De Lamborne leaned against the back of the table. His eyes were a little wild, but he laughed hoarsely. "We fight, then, against the creatures of another world," he declared. "No human being could have opened that safe last night." Peter hesitated. "Monsieur de Lamborne," he said, "the room adjoining is your wife's?" "It is the salon of madame," the Ambassador admitted. "What are the electrical appliances doing there?" Peter demanded. "Don't look at me like that, de Lamborne. Remember that I was here before you arrived." "My wife takes an electric massage every day," Monsieur de Lamborne answered in a hard, unnatural voice. "In what way is Monsieur le Baron concerned in my wife's doings?" "I think that there need be no answer to that question," Peter said quietly. "It is a greater tragedy which we have to face. I maintain that your safe was entered from that room. A search will prove it." "There will be no search there," de Lamborne declared fiercely. "I am the ambassador of France, and my power under this roof is absolute. I say that you shall not cross that threshold." Peter's expression did not change. Only his hands were suddenly outstretched with a curious gesture--the four fingers were raised, the thumbs depressed. Monsieur de Lamborne collapsed. "I submit," he muttered. "It is you who are the master. Search where you will." * * * * * "Monsieur has arrived?" the woman demanded breathlessly. The proprietor of the restaurant himself bowed a reply. His client was evidently well known to him. "Monsieur has ascended some few minutes ago." The woman drew a little sigh of relief. A vague misgiving had troubled her during the last few hours. She raised her veil as she mounted the narrow staircase which led to the one private room at the Hôtel de Lorraine. Here she was safe; one more exploit accomplished, one more roll of notes for the hungry fingers of her dress-maker. She entered, without tapping, the room at the head of the stairs, pushing open the ill-varnished door with its white-curtained top. At first she thought that the little apartment was empty. "Are you there?" she exclaimed, advancing a few steps. The figure of a man glided from behind the worn screen close by her side and stood between her and the door. "Madame!" Peter said, bowing low. Even then she scarcely realised that she was trapped. "You!" she cried. "You, Baron! But I do not understand. You have followed me here?" "On the contrary, madame," he answered; "I have preceded you." Her colossal vanity triumphed over her natural astuteness. The man had employed spies to watch her! He had lost his head. It was an awkward matter, this, but it was to be arranged. She held out her hands. "Monsieur," she said, "let me beg you now to go away. If you care to, come and see me this evening. I will explain everything. It is a little family affair which brings me here." "A family affair, madame, with Bernadine, the enemy of France," Peter declared gravely. She collapsed miserably, her fingers grasping at the air; the cry which broke from her lips harsh and unnatural. Before he could tell what was happening, she was on her knees before him. "Spare me!" she begged, trying to seize his hands. "Madame," Peter answered, "I am not your judge. You will kindly hand over to me the document which you are carrying." She took it from the bosom of her dress. Peter glanced at it and placed it in his breast-pocket. "And now?" she faltered. Peter sighed--she was a very beautiful woman. "Madame," he said, "the career of a spy is, as you have doubtless sometimes realised, a dangerous one." "It is finished!" she assured him breathlessly. "Monsieur le Baron, you will keep my secret? Never again, I swear it, will I sin like this. You will not tell my husband?" "Your husband already knows, madame," was the quiet reply. "Only a few hours ago I proved to him whence had come the leakage of so many of our secrets lately." She swayed upon her feet. "He will never forgive me!" she cried. "There are others," Peter declared, "who forgive more rarely even than husbands." A sudden illuminating flash of horror told her the truth. She closed her eyes and tried to run from the room. "I will not be told!" she screamed. "I will not hear. I do not know who you are. I will live a little longer!" "Madame," Peter said, "the Double Four wages no war with women, save with spies only. The spy has no sex. For the sake of your family, permit me to send you back to your husband's house." * * * * * That night two receptions and a dinner party were postponed. All London was sympathising with Monsieur de Lamborne, and a great many women swore never again to take a sleeping draught. Madame de Lamborne lay dead behind the shelter of those drawn blinds, and by her side an empty phial. CHAPTER III THE MAN FROM THE OLD TESTAMENT Bernadine, sometimes called the Count von Hern, was lunching at the Savoy with the pretty wife of a Cabinet Minister, who was just sufficiently conscious of the impropriety of her action to render the situation interesting. "I wish you would tell me, Count von Hern," she said, soon after they had settled down in their places, "why my husband seems to object to you so much. I simply dared not tell him that we were going to lunch together; and, as a rule, he doesn't mind what I do in that way." Bernadine smiled slowly. "Ah, well," he remarked, "your husband is a politician and a very cautious man. I dare say he is like some of those others, who believe that because I am a foreigner and live in London, that therefore I am a spy." "You a spy!" she laughed. "What nonsense!" "Why nonsense?" She shrugged her shoulders. She was certainly a very pretty woman, and her black gown set off to its fullest advantage her deep red hair and fair complexion. "I suppose because I can't imagine you anything of the sort," she declared. "You see, you hunt and play polo, and do everything which the ordinary Englishmen do. Then one meets you everywhere. I think, Count von Hern, that you are much too spoilt, for one thing, to take life seriously." "You do me an injustice," he murmured. "Of course," she chattered on, "I don't really know what spies do. One reads about them in these silly stories, but I have never felt sure that as live people they exist at all. Tell me, Count von Hern, what could a foreign spy do in England?" Bernadine twirled his fair moustache and shrugged his shoulders. "Indeed, my dear lady," he admitted, "I scarcely know what a spy could do nowadays. A few years ago you English people were all so trusting. Your fortifications, your battleships, not to speak of your country itself, were wholly at the disposal of the enterprising foreigner who desired to acquire information. The party who governed Great Britain then seemed to have some strange idea that these things made for peace. To-day, however, all that is changed." "You seem to know something about it," she remarked. "I am afraid that mine is really only the superficial point of view," he answered; "but I do know that there is a good deal of information which seems absolutely insignificant in itself, for which some foreign countries are willing to pay. For instance, there was a Cabinet Council yesterday, I believe, and someone was going to suggest that a secret but official visit be paid to your new harbour works up at Rosyth. An announcement will probably be made in the papers during the next few days as to whether the visit is to be undertaken or not. Yet there are countries who are willing to pay for knowing even such an insignificant item of news as that a few hours before the rest of the world." Lady Maxwell laughed. "Well, I could earn that little sum of money," she declared gaily, "for my husband has just made me cancel a dinner-party for next Thursday because he has to go up to the stupid place." Bernadine smiled. It was really a very unimportant matter, but he loved to feel, even in his idle moments, that he was not altogether wasting his time. "I am sorry," he said, "that I am not myself acquainted with one of these mythical personages, that I might return you the value of your marvellous information. If I dared think, however, that it would be in any way acceptable, I could offer you the diversion of a restaurant dinner-party for that night. The Duchess of Castleford has kindly offered to act as hostess for me, and we are all going on to the Gaiety afterwards." "Delightful!" Lady Maxwell exclaimed. "I should love to come." Bernadine bowed. "You have, then, dear lady, fulfilled your destiny," he said. "You have given secret information to a foreign person of mysterious identity, and accepted payment." Now Bernadine was a man of easy manners and unruffled composure. To the natural _insouciance_ of his aristocratic bringing-up he had added the steely reserve of a man moving in the large world, engaged more often than not in some hazardous enterprise. Yet, for once in his life, and in the midst of the idlest of conversations, he gave himself away so utterly that even this woman with whom he was lunching--a very butterfly lady indeed--could not fail to perceive it. She looked at him in something like astonishment. Without the slightest warning his face had become set in a rigid stare, his eyes were filled with the expression of a man who sees into another world. The healthy colour faded from his cheeks; he was white even to the parted lips; the wine dripped from his raised glass on to the tablecloth. "Why, whatever is the matter with you?" she demanded. "Is it a ghost that you see?" Bernadine's effort was superb, but he was too clever to deny the shock. "A ghost indeed," he answered, "the ghost of a man whom every newspaper in Europe has declared to be dead." Her eyes followed his. The two people who were being ushered to a seat in their immediate vicinity were certainly of somewhat unusual appearance. The man was tall and thin as a lath, and he wore the clothes of the fashionable world without awkwardness, and yet with the air of one who was wholly unaccustomed to them. His cheek-bones were remarkably high, and receded so quickly towards his pointed chin that his cheeks were little more than hollows. His eyes were dry and burning, flashing here and there, as though the man himself were continually oppressed by some furtive fear. His thick black hair was short-cropped, his forehead high and intellectual. He was a strange figure indeed in such a gathering, and his companion only served to accentuate the anachronisms of his appearance. She was, above all things, a woman of the moment--fair, almost florid, a little thick-set, with tightly laced yet passable figure. Her eyes were blue, her hair light-coloured. She wore magnificent furs, and as she threw aside her boa she disclosed a mass of jewellery around her neck and upon her bosom, almost barbaric in its profusion and setting. "What an extraordinary couple!" Lady Maxwell whispered. Bernadine smiled. "The man looks as though he had stepped out of the Old Testament," he murmured. Lady Maxwell's interest was purely feminine, and was riveted now upon the jewellery worn by the woman. Bernadine, under the mask of his habitual indifference, which he had easily reassumed, seemed to be looking away out of the restaurant into the great square of a half-savage city, looking at that marvellous crowd, numbered by their thousands, even by their hundreds of thousands, of men and women whose arms flashed out toward the snow-hung heavens, whose lips were parted in one chorus of rapturous acclamation; looking beyond them to the tall, emaciated form of the bare-headed priest in his long robes, his wind-tossed hair and wild eyes, standing alone before that multitude in danger of death, or worse, at any moment--their idol, their hero. And again, as the memories came flooding into his brain, the scene passed away, and he saw the bare room, with its whitewashed walls and blocked-up windows; he felt the darkness, lit only by those flickering candles. He saw the white, passion-wrung faces of the men who clustered together around the rude table, waiting; he heard their murmurs; he saw the fear born in their eyes. It was the night when their leader did not come! Bernadine poured out another glass of wine and drank it slowly. The mists were clearing away now. He was in London, at the Savoy Restaurant, and within a few yards of him sat the man with whose name all Europe once had rung--the man hailed by some as martyr, and loathed by others as the most fiendish Judas who ever drew breath. Bernadine was not concerned with the moral side of this strange encounter. How best to use his knowledge of this man's identity was the question which beat upon his brain. What use could be made of him, what profit for his country and himself? And then a fear--a sudden, startling fear. Little profit, perhaps, to be made, but the danger--the danger of this man alive with such secrets locked in his bosom! The thought itself was terrifying, and even as he realised it a significant thing happened--he caught the eye of the Baron de Grost, lunching alone at a small table just inside the restaurant. "You are not at all amusing," his guest declared. "It is nearly five minutes since you have spoken." "You, too, have been absorbed," he reminded her. "It is that woman's jewels," she admitted. "I never saw anything more wonderful. The people are not English, of course. I wonder where they come from." "One of the Eastern countries, without a doubt," he replied carelessly. Lady Maxwell sighed. "He is a peculiar-looking man," she said, "but one could put up with a good deal for jewels like that. What are you doing this afternoon--picture galleries or your club?" "Neither, unfortunately," Bernadine answered. "I have promised to go with a friend to look at some polo ponies." "Do you know," she remarked, "that we have never been to see those Japanese prints yet?" "The gallery is closed until Monday," he assured her, falsely. "If you will honour me then, I shall be delighted." She shrugged her shoulders, but said nothing. She had an idea that she was being dismissed, but Bernadine, without the least appearance of hurry, gave her no opportunity for any further suggestions. He handed her into her automobile, and returned at once into the restaurant. He touched Baron de Grost upon the shoulder. "My friend the enemy!" he exclaimed, smiling. "At your service in either capacity," the baron replied. Bernadine made a grimace and accepted the chair which de Grost had indicated. "If I may, I will take my coffee with you," he said. "I am growing old. It does not amuse me so much to lunch with a pretty woman. One has to entertain, and one forgets the serious business of lunching. I will take my coffee and cigarette in peace." De Grost gave an order to the waiter and leaned back in his chair. "Now," he suggested, "tell me exactly what it is that has brought you back into the restaurant." Bernadine shrugged his shoulders. "Why not the pleasure of this few minutes' conversation with you?" he asked. The baron carefully selected a cigar and lit it. "That," he said, "goes well, but there are other things." "As, for instance?" De Grost leaned back in his chair and watched the smoke of his cigar curl upwards. "One talks too much," he remarked. "Before the cards are upon the table it is not wise." They chatted upon various matters. De Grost himself seemed in no hurry to depart, nor did his companion show any signs of impatience. It was not until the two people whose entrance had had such a remarkable effect upon Bernadine, rose to leave, that the mask was for a moment lifted. De Grost had called for his bill and paid it. The two men strolled out together. "Baron," Bernadine said suavely, linking his arm through the other man's as they passed into the foyer, "there are times when candour even amongst enemies becomes an admirable quality." "Those times, I imagine," de Grost answered grimly, "are rare. Besides, who is to tell the real thing from the false?" "You do less than justice to your perceptions, my friend," Bernadine declared, smiling. De Grost merely shrugged his shoulders. Bernadine persisted. "Come," he continued, "since you doubt me, let me be the first to give you a proof that on this occasion, at any rate, I am candour itself. You had a purpose in lunching at the Savoy to-day. That purpose I have discovered by accident. We are both interested in those people." The Baron de Grost shook his head slowly. "Really----" he began. "Let me finish," Bernadine insisted. "Perhaps when you have heard all that I have to say you may change your attitude. We are interested in the same people, but in different ways. If we both move from opposite directions our friend will vanish. He is clever enough at disappearing, as he has proved before. We do not want the same thing from him, I am convinced of that. Let us move together and make sure that he does not evade us." "Is it an alliance which you are proposing?" de Grost asked, with a quiet smile. "Why not?" Bernadine answered. "Enemies have united before to-day against a common foe." De Grost looked across the palm court to where the two people who formed the subject of their discussion were sitting in a corner, both smoking, both sipping some red-coloured liqueur. "My dear Bernadine," he said, "I am much too afraid of you to listen any more. You fancy because this man's presence here was an entire surprise to you, and because you find me already on his track, that I know more than you do, and that an alliance with me would be to your advantage. You would try to persuade me that your object with him would not be my object. Listen! I am afraid of you--you are too clever for me. I am going to leave you in sole possession." De Grost's tone was final and his bow valedictory. Bernadine watched him stroll in a leisurely way through the foyer, exchanging greetings here and there with friends; watched him enter the cloak-room, from which he emerged with his hat and overcoat; watched him step into his automobile and leave the restaurant. He turned back with a clouded face and threw himself into an easy-chair. Ten minutes passed uneventfully. People were passing backwards and forwards all the time; but Bernadine, through his half-closed eyes, did little save watch the couple in whom he was so deeply interested. At last the man rose and, with a word of farewell to his companion, came out from the lounge and made his way up the foyer, turning toward the hotel. He walked with quick, nervous strides, glancing now and then restlessly about him. In his eyes, to those who understood, there was the furtive gleam of the hunted man. It was the passing of one who was afraid. The woman, left to herself, began to look around her with some curiosity. Bernadine, to whom a new idea had occurred, moved his chair nearer to hers, and was rewarded by a glance which certainly betrayed some interest. A swift and unerring judge in such matters, he came to the instant conclusion that she was not unapproachable. He acted upon impulse. Rising to his feet, he approached her and bowed easily, but respectfully. "Madame," he said, "it is impossible that I am mistaken. I have had the pleasure, have I not, of meeting you in St. Petersburg?" Her first reception of his coming was reassuring enough. At his mention of St. Petersburg, however, she frowned. "I do not think so," she answered in French. "You are mistaken. I do not know St. Petersburg." "Then it was in Paris," Bernadine continued, with conviction. "Madame is Parisian, without a doubt." She shook her head, smiling. "I do not think that I remember meeting you, monsieur," she replied doubtfully; "but perhaps----" She looked up, and her eyes drooped before his. He was certainly a very personable-looking man, and she had spoken to no one for so many months. "Believe me, madame, I could not possibly be mistaken," Bernadine assured her smoothly. "You are staying here for long?" She shrugged her shoulders. "Heaven knows!" she declared. "My husband he has, I think, what you call the wander fever. For myself, I am tired of it. In Rome we settle down; we stay five days, all seems pleasant, and suddenly my husband's whim carries us away without an hour's notice. The same thing at Monte Carlo; the same at Paris. Who can tell what will happen here? To tell you the truth, monsieur," she added, a little archly, "I think that if he were to come back at this moment we should probably leave England to-night." "Your husband is very jealous?" Bernadine whispered softly. She shrugged her shoulders. "Partly jealous and partly he has the most terrible distaste for acquaintances. He will not speak to strangers himself, or suffer me to do so. It is sometimes--oh! it is sometimes very _triste_!" "Madame has my sympathy," Bernadine assured her. "It is an impossible life--this. No husband should be so exacting." She looked at him with her round blue eyes, a touch of added colour in her cheeks. "If one could but cure him!" she murmured. "I would ask your permission to sit down," Bernadine remarked, "but I fear to intrude. You are afraid, perhaps, that your husband may return?" She shook her head. "It will be better that you do not stay," she declared. "For a moment or two he is engaged. He has an appointment in his room with a gentleman, but one never knows how long he may be." "You have friends in London, then?" Bernadine remarked thoughtfully. "Of my husband's affairs," the woman said, "there is no one so ignorant as I. Yet since we left our own country this is the first time I have known him willingly speak to a soul." "Your own country!" Bernadine repeated softly. "That was Russia, of course? Your husband's nationality is very apparent." The woman looked annoyed with herself. She remained silent. "May I not hope," Bernadine begged, "that you will give me the pleasure of meeting you again?" She hesitated for a moment. "He does not leave me," she replied. "I am not alone for five minutes during the day." Bernadine scribbled the name by which he was known in that locality, on a card, and passed it to her. "I have rooms in St. James's Street, quite close to here," he said. "If you could come and have tea with me to-day or to-morrow it would give me the utmost pleasure." She took the card and crumpled it in her hand. All the time, though, she shook her head. "Monsieur is very kind," she answered. "I am afraid--I do not think that it would be possible. And now, if you please, you must go away. I am terrified lest my husband should return." Bernadine bent low in a parting salute. "Madame," he pleaded, "you will come?" Bernadine was a handsome man, and he knew well enough how to use his soft and extraordinarily musical voice. He knew very well as he retired that somehow or other she would accept his invitation. Even then he felt dissatisfied and ill at ease as he left the place. He had made a little progress; but, after all, was it worth while? Supposing that the man with whom her husband was even at this moment closeted was the Baron de Grost! He called a taxi-cab and drove at once to the Embassy of his country. * * * * * Even at this moment de Grost and the Russian--Paul Hagon he called himself--were standing face to face in the latter's sitting-room. No conventional greetings of any sort had been exchanged. De Grost had scarcely closed the door behind him before Hagon addressed him breathlessly, almost fiercely. "Who are you, sir?" he demanded. "And what do you want with me?" "You had my letter?" de Grost inquired. "I had your letter," the other admitted. "It told me nothing. You speak of business. What business have I with any here?" "My business is soon told," de Grost replied; "but in the first place, I beg that you will not unnecessarily alarm yourself. There is, believe me, no need for it--no need whatever, although, to prevent misunderstandings, I may as well tell you at once that I am perfectly well aware who it is that I am addressing." Hagon collapsed into a chair. He buried his face in his hands and groaned. "I am not here necessarily as an enemy," de Grost continued. "You have very excellent reasons, I make no doubt, for remaining unknown in this city, or wherever you may be. As yet, let me assure you, your identity is not even suspected, except by myself and one other. Those few who believe you alive believe that you are in America. There is no need for anyone to know that Father----" "Stop!" the man begged piteously. "Stop!" De Grost bowed. "I beg your pardon!" he said. "Now tell me," the man demanded, "what is your price? I have had money. There is not much left. Sophia is extravagant, and travelling costs a great deal. But why do I weary you with these things?" he added. "Let me know what I have to pay for your silence." "I am not a blackmailer," de Grost answered sternly. "I am myself a wealthy man. I ask from you nothing in money; I ask you nothing in that way at all. A few words of information, and a certain paper which I believe you have in your possession, is all that I require." "Information?" Hagon repeated, shivering. "What I ask," de Grost declared, "is really a matter of justice. At the time when you were the idol of all Russia and the leader of the great revolutionary party, you received funds from abroad." "I accounted for them," Hagon muttered. "Up to a certain point I accounted for everything." "You received funds from the Government of a European Power," de Grost continued--"funds to be applied towards developing the revolution. I want the name of that Power, and proof of what I say." Hagon remained motionless for a moment. He had seated himself at the table, his head resting upon his hand, and his face turned away from de Grost. "You are a politician, then?" he asked slowly. "I am a politician," de Grost admitted. "I represent a great secret power which has sprung into existence during the last few years. Our aim, at present, is to bring closer together your country and Great Britain. Russia hesitates because an actual _rapprochement_ with us is equivalent to a permanent estrangement with Germany." Hagon nodded. "I understand," he said, in a low tone. "I have finished with politics. I have nothing to say to you." "I trust," de Grost persisted suavely, "that you will be better advised." Hagon turned round and faced him. "Sir," he demanded, "do you believe that I am afraid of death?" De Grost looked at him steadfastly. "No," he answered. "You have proved the contrary." "If my identity is discovered," Hagon continued, "I have the means of instant death at hand. I do not use it because of my love for the one person who links me to this world. For her sake I live, and for her sake I bear always the memory of the shameful past. Publish my name and whereabouts if you will. I promise you that I will make the tragedy complete. But, for the rest, I refuse to pay your price. A great Power trusted me, and, whatever their motives may have been, their money came very near indeed to freeing my people. I have nothing more to say to you, sir." The Baron de Grost was taken aback. He had scarcely contemplated refusal. "You must understand," he explained, "that this is not a personal matter. Even if I myself would spare you, those who are more powerful than I will strike. The society to which I belong does not tolerate failure. I am empowered even to offer you their protection, if you will give me the information for which I ask." Hagon rose to his feet, and before de Grost could foresee his purpose, had rung the bell. "My decision is unchanging," he said. "You can pull down the roof upon my head, but I carry next my heart an instant and an unfailing means of escape." A waiter stood in the doorway. "You will take this gentleman to the lift," Hagon directed. There was once more a touch in his manner of that half-divine authority which had thrilled the great multitudes of his believers. De Grost was forced to admit defeat. "Not defeat," he said to himself, as he followed the man to the lift; "only a check." Nevertheless, it was a serious check. He could not for the moment see his way farther. Arrived at his house, he followed his usual custom, and made his way at once to his wife's rooms. Violet was resting upon a sofa, but laid down her book at his entrance. "Violet," he declared, "I have come for your advice." "He refuses, then?" she asked eagerly. "Absolutely," de Grost assured her. "What am I to do? Bernadine is already upon the scent. He saw him at the Savoy to-day and recognised him." "Has Bernadine approached him yet?" Violet inquired. "Not yet," her husband answered. "He is half afraid to move. I think he realises, or will do very soon, how serious this man's existence may be for Germany." Violet was thoughtful for several moments; then she looked up. "Bernadine will try the woman," she asserted. "You say that Hagon is infatuated?" "Blindly," de Grost replied. "He scarcely lets her out of his sight." "Your people watch Bernadine?" "Always." "Very well, then," Violet went on, "you will find that he will attempt an intrigue with the woman. The rest should be easy for you." De Grost sighed as he bent over his wife. "My dear," he said, "there is no subtlety like that of a woman." * * * * * Bernadine's instinct had not deceived him, and the following afternoon his servant, who had already received orders, silently ushered Madame Hagon into his apartments. She was wrapped in magnificent sables and heavily veiled. Bernadine saw at once that she was very nervous and wholly terrified. He welcomed her in as matter-of-fact a manner as possible. "Madame," he declared, "this is quite charming of you! You must sit in my easy-chair here, and my man shall bring us some tea. I drink mine always after the fashion of your country, with lemon, but I doubt whether we make it so well. Won't you unfasten your jacket? I am afraid my rooms are rather warm." Madame had collected herself, but it was quite obvious that she was unused to adventures of this sort. Her hand, when he took it, trembled, and more than once she glanced furtively toward the door. "Yes, I have come," she murmured. "I do not know why. It is not right for me to come; yet there are times when I am weary--times when Paul seems fierce, and when I am terrified. Sometimes I even wish that I were back----" "Your husband seems very highly strung," Bernadine remarked. "He has doubtless led an exciting life." "As to that," she replied, gazing around her now, and gradually becoming more at her ease, "I know but little. He was a student professor at Moschaume when I met him. I think that he was at one of the universities in St. Petersburg." Bernadine glanced at her covertly. It came to him as an inspiration that the woman did not know the truth. "You are from Russia, then, after all," he said, smiling. "I felt sure of it." "Yes," she admitted reluctantly. "Paul is so queer in these things. He will not have me talk of it. He prefers that we are taken for French people. Indeed," she went on, "it is not I who desire to think too much of Russia. It is not a year since my father was killed in the riots, and two of my brothers were sent to Siberia." Bernadine was deeply interested. "They were amongst the revolutionaries?" She nodded. "Yes," she answered. "And your husband?" "He, too, was with them in sympathy. Secretly, too, I believe that he worked amongst them; only he had to be careful. You see, his position at the college made it difficult." Bernadine looked into the woman's eyes, and he knew then that she was speaking the truth. This man was indeed a great master; he had kept her in ignorance. "Always," Bernadine said, a few minutes later, as he passed her tea, "I read with the deepest interest of the people's movement in Russia. Tell me what became eventually of their great leader--the wonderful Father Paul." She set down her cup untasted, and her blue eyes flashed with a fire which turned them almost to the colour of steel. "Wonderful, indeed!" she exclaimed. "Wonderful Judas! It was he who wrecked the cause. It was he who sold the lives and liberty of all of us for gold." "I heard a rumour of that," Bernadine remarked, "but I never believed it." "It was true," she declared passionately. "And where is he now?" Bernadine asked. "Dead!" she answered fiercely. "Torn to pieces, we believe, one night in a house near Moscow. May it be so!" She was silent for a moment, as though engaged in prayer. Bernadine spoke no more of these things. He talked to her kindly, keeping up always his rôle of respectful, but hopeful, admirer. "You will come again soon?" he begged, when at last she insisted upon going. She hesitated. "It is so difficult," she murmured. "If my husband knew----" Bernadine laughed and touched her fingers caressingly. "Need one tell him?" he whispered. "You see, I trust you. I pray that you will come." * * * * * Bernadine was a man rarely moved towards emotion of any sort; yet even he was conscious of a certain sense of excitement as he stood looking out upon the Embankment from the windows of Paul Hagon's sitting-room a few days later. Madame was sitting on the settee. It was for her answer to a question that he waited. "Monsieur," she said at last, turning slowly towards him, "it must be 'No.' Indeed I am sorry, for you have been very charming to me, and without you I should have been dull. But to come to your rooms and dine alone to-night, it is impossible." "Your husband cannot return before the morning," Bernadine reminded her. "It makes no difference," she answered. "Paul is sometimes fierce and rough, but he is generous, and all his life he has worshipped me. He behaves strangely at times, but I know that he cares--all the time more, perhaps, than I deserve." "And there is no one else." Bernadine asked softly, "who can claim even the smallest place in your heart?" "Monsieur," the woman begged, "you must not ask me that. I think that you had better go away." Bernadine stood quite still for several moments. It was the climax towards which he had steadfastly guided the course of this mild intrigue. "Madame," he declared, "You must not send me away! You shall not!" She held out her hand. "Then you must not ask impossible things," she answered. Then Bernadine took the plunge. He became suddenly very grave. "Sophia," he said, "I am keeping a great secret from you, and I can do it no longer. When you speak to me of your husband you drive me mad. If I believed that really you loved him, I would go away and leave it to chance whether or not you ever discovered the truth. As it is----" "Well?" she interposed breathlessly. "As it is," he continued, "I am going to tell you now. Your husband has deceived you; he is deceiving you every moment." She looked at him incredulously. "You mean that there is another woman?" Bernadine shook his head. "Worse than that," he answered. "Your husband stole even your love under false pretences. You think that his life is a strange one; that his nerves have broken down; that he flies from place to place for distraction, for change of scene. It is not so. He left Rome, he left Nice, he left Paris for one and the same reason. He left because he went in peril of his life. I know little of your history, but I know as much as this: If ever a man deserved the fate from which he flees, your husband deserves it!" "You are mad!" she faltered. "No, I am sane," he went on. "It is you who are mad, not to have understood. Your husband goes ever in fear of his life. His real name is one branded with ignominy throughout the world. The man whom you have married, to whom you are so scrupulously faithful, is the man who sent your father to death and your brothers to Siberia." "Father Paul!" she screamed. "You have lived with him; you are his wife!" Bernadine declared. The colour had left her cheeks; her eyes, with their pencilled brows, were fixed in an almost ghastly stare; her breath was coming in uneven gasps. She looked at him in silent terror. "It is not true!" she cried at last. "It cannot be true!" "Sophia," he said, "you can prove it for yourself. I know a little of your husband and his doings. Does he not carry always with him a black box which he will not allow out of his sight?" "Always," she assented. "How did you know? By night his hand rests upon it. By day, if he goes out, it is in my charge." "Fetch it now," Bernadine directed. "I will prove my words." She did not hesitate for a moment. She disappeared into the inner room and came back after only a few moments' absence, carrying a black leather dispatch-box. "You have the key?" he asked. "Yes," she answered, looking at him and trembling; "but I dare not--oh, I dare not open it!" "Sophia," he said, "if my words are not true, I will pass out of your life for ever. I challenge you. If you open that box you will know that your husband is indeed the greatest scoundrel in Europe." She drew a key from a gold chain around her neck. "There are two locks," she told him. "The other is a combination, but I know the word. Who's that?" She started suddenly. There was a loud tapping at the door. Bernadine threw an antimacassar half over the box, but he was too late. De Grost and Hagon had crossed the threshold. The woman stood like some dumb creature. Hagon, transfixed, stood with his eyes riveted upon Bernadine. His face was distorted with passion; he seemed like a man beside himself with fury. De Grost came slowly forward into the middle of the room. "Count von Hern," he said, "I think that you had better leave." The woman found words. "Not yet!" she cried. "Not yet! Paul, listen to me. This man has told me a terrible thing." The breath seemed to come through Hagon's teeth like a hiss. "He has told you!" "Listen to me!" she continued. "It is the truth which you must tell now. He says that you--you are Father Paul!" Hagon did not hesitate. "It is true," he admitted. Then there was a silence--short, but tragical. Hagon seemed suddenly to have collapsed. He was like a man who has just had a stroke. He stood muttering to himself. "It is the end--this--the end!" he said, in a low tone. "It was for your sake, Sophia! I came to you poor, and you would have nothing to say to me. My love for you burned in my veins like fever. It was for you I did it--for your sake I sold my honour, the love of my country, the freedom of my brothers. For your sake I risked an awful death. For your sake I have lived like a hunted man, with the cry of the wolves always in my ears, and the fear of death and of eternal torture with me day by day. Have pity on me!" She was unmoved; her face had lost all expression. No one noticed in that rapt moment that Bernadine had crept from the room. "It was you," she cried, "who killed my father and sent my brothers into exile!" "God help me!" he moaned. She turned to de Grost. "Take him away with you, please," she said. "I have finished with him!" "Sophia!" he pleaded. She leaned across the table and struck him heavily upon the cheek. "If you stay here," she muttered, "I shall kill you myself!" * * * * * That night the body of an unknown foreigner was found in the attic of a cheap lodging-house in Soho. The discovery itself and the verdict at the inquest occupied only a few lines in the morning newspapers. Those few lines were the epitaph of one who was very nearly a Rienzi. The greater part of his papers de Grost mercifully destroyed, but one in particular he preserved. Within a week the much-delayed treaty was signed at Paris, London and St. Petersburg. CHAPTER IV THE FIRST SHOT De Grost and his wife were dining together at the corner table in a fashionable but somewhat Bohemian restaurant. Both had been in the humour for reminiscences, and they had outstayed most of their neighbours. "I wonder what people really think of us," Violet remarked pensively. "I told Lady Amershal, when she asked us to go there this evening, that we always dined together alone somewhere once a week, and she absolutely refused to believe me. 'With your own husband, my dear?' she kept on repeating." "Her ladyship's tastes are more catholic," the baron declared dryly. "Yet, after all, Violet, the real philosophy of married life demands something of this sort." Violet smiled and fingered her pearls for a minute. "What the real philosophy of married life may be I do not know," she said, "but I am perfectly content with our rendering of it. What a fortunate thing, Peter, with your intensely practical turn of mind, that Nature endowed you with so much sentiment." De Grost gazed reflectively at the cigarette which he had just selected from his case. "Well," he remarked, "there have been times when I have cursed myself for a fool, but, on the whole, sentiment keeps many fires burning." She leaned towards him and dropped her voice a little. "Tell me," she begged, "do you ever think of the years we spent together in the country? Do you ever regret?" He smiled thoughtfully. "It is a hard question, that," he admitted. "There were days there which I loved, but there were days, too, when the restlessness came--days when I longed to hear the hum of the city and to hear men speak whose words were of life and death and the great passions. I am not sure, Violet, whether, after all, it is well for one who has lived to withdraw absolutely from the thrill of life." She laughed softly but gaily. "I am with you," she declared, "absolutely. I think that the fairies must have poured into my blood the joy of living for its own sake. I should be an ungrateful woman indeed if I found anything to complain of nowadays. Yet there is one thing that sometimes troubles me," she went on, after a moment's pause. "And that?" he asked. "The danger," she said slowly. "I do not want to lose you, Peter. There are times when I am afraid." De Grost flicked the ash from his cigarette. "The days are passing," he remarked, "when men point revolvers at one another, and hire assassins to gain their ends. Now it is more a battle of wits. We play chess on the board of life still, but we play with ivory pieces instead of steel and poison. Our brains direct, and not our muscles." She sighed. "It is only the one man of whom I am afraid," she said. "You have outwitted him so often and he does not forgive." De Grost smiled. It was an immense compliment, this. "Bernadine," he murmured softly, "otherwise our friend, the Count von Hern." "Bernadine," she repeated. "All that you say is true; but when one fails with modern weapons, one changes the form of attack. Bernadine at heart is a savage." "The hate of such a man," de Grost remarked complacently, "is worth having. He has had his own way over here for years. He seems to have found the knack of living in a maze of intrigue and remaining untouchable. There were a dozen things before I came upon the scene which ought to have ruined him. Yet there never appeared to be anything to take hold of. The Criminal Investigation Department thought they had no chance. I remember Sir John Dory telling me in disgust that Bernadine was like one of those marvellous criminals one only reads about in fiction, who seem when they pass along the dangerous places to walk upon the air and leave no trace behind." "Before you came," she said, "he had never known a failure. Do you think that he is a man likely to forgive?" "I do not," de Grost answered grimly. "It is a battle, of course--a battle all the time. Yet, Violet, between you and me, if Bernadine were to go, half the savour of life for me would depart with him." Then there came a serious and wholly unexpected interruption. A man in dark, plain clothes, still wearing his overcoat and carrying a bowler hat, had been standing in the entrance of the restaurant for a moment or two, looking around the room as though in search of someone. At last he caught the eye of the Baron de Grost and came quickly towards him. "Charles," the Baron remarked, raising his eyebrows. "I wonder what he wants?" A sudden cloud had fallen upon their little feast. Violet watched the coming of her husband's servant and the reading of the note which he presented to his master with an anxiety which she could not wholly conceal. The Baron read the note twice, scrutinising a certain part of it closely with the aid of the monocle which he seldom used. Then he folded it up and placed it in the breast-pocket of his coat. "At what hour did you receive this, Charles?" he asked. "A messenger brought it in a taxi-cab about ten minutes ago, sir," the man replied. "He said that it was of the utmost importance, and that I had better try and find you." "A district messenger?" "A man in ordinary clothes, sir," Charles answered. "He looked like a porter in a warehouse, or something of that sort. I forgot to say that you were rung up on the telephone three times previously by Mr. Greening." The Baron nodded. "You can go," he said. "There is no reply." The man bowed and retired. De Grost called for his bill. "Is it anything serious?" Violet inquired. "No, not exactly serious," he answered. "I do not understand what has happened, but they have sent for me to go--well, where it was agreed that I should not go, except as a matter of urgent necessity." Violet knew better than to show any signs of disquietude. "Is it in London?" she asked. "Certainly," her husband replied. "I shall take a taxi-cab from here. I am sorry, dear, to have one of our evenings disturbed in this manner. I have always done my best to avoid it, but this summons is urgent." She rose and he wrapped her cloak around her. "You will drive straight home, won't you?" he begged. "I dare say that I may be back within an hour myself." "And if not?" she asked in a low tone. "If not," he replied, "there is nothing to be done." Violet bit her lip, but as he handed her into the small electric brougham which was waiting she smiled into his face. "You will come back, and soon, Peter," she declared confidently. "Wherever you go I am sure of that. You see, I have faith in my star which watches over you." He kissed her fingers and turned away. The commissionaire had already called him a taxi-cab. "To London Bridge," he ordered after a moment's hesitation, and drove off. The traffic citywards had long since finished for the day, and he reached his destination within ten minutes of leaving the restaurant. Here he paid the man, and, entering the station, turned to the refreshment-room and ordered a liqueur brandy. While he sipped it he smoked a cigarette and fully re-read in a strong light the note which he had received. The signature especially he pored over for some time. At last, however, he replaced it in his pocket, paid his bill, and, stepping out once more on to the platform, entered a telephone booth. A few minutes later he left the station and, turning to the right, walked slowly as far as Tooley Street. He kept on the right-hand side until he arrived at the spot where the great arches, with their scanty lights, make a gloomy thoroughfare into Bermondsey. In the shadow of the first of these he paused and looked steadfastly across the street. There were few people passing, and practically no traffic. In front of him was a row of warehouses, all save one of which was wrapped in complete darkness. It was the one where some lights were still burning which de Grost stood and watched. The lights, such as they were, seemed to illuminate the ground floor only. From his hidden post he could see the shoulders of a man apparently bending over a ledger, diligently writing. At the next window a youth, seated upon a tall stool, was engaged in, presumably, the same avocation. There was nothing about the place in the least mysterious or out-of-the-way. Even the blinds of the offices had been left undrawn. The man and the boy, who were alone visible, seemed, in a sense, to be working under protest. Every now and then the former stopped to yawn, and the latter performed a difficult balancing feat upon his stool. De Grost, having satisfied his curiosity, came presently from his shelter, almost running into the arms of a policeman, who looked at him closely. The Baron, who had an unlighted cigarette in his mouth, stopped to ask for a light, and his appearance at once set at rest any suspicions the policeman might have had. "I have a warehouse myself down in these parts," he remarked, as he struck the match, "but I don't allow my people to work as late as that." He pointed across the way, and the policeman smiled. "They are very often late there, sir," he said. "It is a Continental wine business, and there's always one or two of them over time." "It's bad business, all the same," de Grost declared pleasantly. "Good-night, policeman!" "Good-night, sir!" De Grost crossed the road diagonally, as though about to take the short cut across London Bridge, but as soon as the policeman was out of sight he retraced his steps to the building which they had been discussing, and, turning the battered brass handle of the door, walked calmly in. On his right and left were counting-houses framed with glass; in front, the cavernous and ugly depths of a gloomy warehouse. He knocked upon the window-pane on the right and passed forward a step or two, as though to enter the office. The boy who had been engaged in the left-hand counting-house came gliding from his place, passed silently behind the visitor, and turned the key of the outer door. What followed seemed to happen as though by some mysteriously directed force. The figures of men came stealing out from the hidden places. The clerk who had been working so hard at his desk calmly divested himself of a false moustache and wig, and, assuming a more familiar appearance, strolled out into the warehouse. De Grost looked around him with absolutely unruffled composure. He was the centre of a little circle of men, respectably dressed, but every one of them hard-featured, with something in their faces which suggested not the ordinary toiler but the fighting animal--the man who lives by his wits and knows something of danger. On the outskirts of the circle stood Bernadine. "Really," de Grost declared, removing his cigarette from his mouth for a moment, "this is most unexpected. In the matter of dramatic surprises, my friend Bernadine, you are most certainly in a class by yourself." Bernadine smiled. "You will understand, of course," he said, "that this little entertainment is entirely for your amusement--well stage-managed, perhaps, but my supers are not to be taken seriously. Since you are here, Baron, might I ask you to precede me a few steps to the tasting office?" "By all means," de Grost answered. "It is this way, I believe." He walked with unconcerned footsteps down the warehouse, on either side of which were great bins and a wilderness of racking, until he came to a small glass-enclosed office built out from the wall. Without hesitation he entered it, and, removing his hat, selected the more comfortable of the two chairs. Bernadine alone of the others followed him inside, closing the door behind. De Grost, who appeared exceedingly comfortable, stretched out his hand and took a small black bottle from a tiny mahogany racking fixed against the wall by his side. "You will excuse me, my dear Bernadine," he said, "but I see my friend Greening has been tasting a few wines. The 'XX' upon the label here signifies approval. With your permission." He half filled a glass and pushed the bottle towards Bernadine. "Greening's taste is unimpeachable," de Grost declared, setting down his glass empty. "No use being a director of a city business, you know, unless one interests oneself personally in it. Greening's judgment is simply marvellous. I have never tasted a more beautiful wine. If the boom in sherry does come," he continued complacently, "we shall be in an excellent position to deal with it." Bernadine laughed softly. "Oh, my friend--Peter Ruff or Baron de Grost, or whatever you may choose to call yourself," he said, "I am indeed wise to have come to the conclusion that you and I are too big to occupy the same little spot on earth!" De Grost nodded approvingly. "I was beginning to wonder," he remarked, "whether you would not soon arrive at that decision?" "Having arrived at it," Bernadine continued, looking intently at his companion, "the logical sequence naturally occurs to you." "Precisely, my dear Bernadine," de Grost assented. "You say to yourself, no doubt, 'One of us two must go!' Being yourself, you would naturally conclude that it must be me. To tell you the truth, I have been expecting some sort of enterprise of this description for a considerable time." Bernadine shrugged his shoulders. "Your expectations," he said, "seem scarcely to have provided you with a safe conduct." De Grost gazed reflectively into his empty glass. "You see," he explained, "I am such a lucky person. Your arrangements to-night, however, are, I perceive, unusually complete." "I am glad you appreciate them," Bernadine remarked dryly. "I would not for a moment," de Grost continued, "ask an impertinent or an unnecessary question, but I must confess that I am rather concerned to know the fate of my manager--the gentleman whom you yourself, with the aid of a costumier, so ably represented." Bernadine sighed. "Alas!" he said, "your manager was a very obstinate person." "And my clerk?" "Incorruptible!" Bernadine declared. "Absolutely incorruptible! I congratulate you, de Grost. Your society is one of the most wonderful upon the face of this earth. I know little about it, but my admiration is very sincere. Their attention to details and the personnel of their staff is almost perfect. I may tell you at once that no sum that could be offered tempted either of these men." "I am delighted to hear it," de Grost replied, "but I must plead guilty to a little temporary anxiety as to their present whereabouts." "At this moment," Bernadine remarked, "they are within a few feet of us; but, as you are doubtless aware, access to your delightful river is obtainable from these premises. To be frank with you, my dear Baron, we are waiting for the tide to rise." "So thoughtful about these trifles!" de Grost murmured. "But their present position? They are, I trust, not uncomfortable?" Bernadine stood up and moved to the farther end of the office. He beckoned his companion to his side and, drawing an electric torch from his pocket, flashed the light into a dark corner behind an immense bin. The forms of a man and a youth bound with ropes and gagged, lay stretched upon the floor. De Grost sighed. "I am afraid," he said, "that Mr. Greening, at any rate, is most uncomfortable." Bernadine turned off the light. "At least, Baron," he declared, "if such extreme measures should become necessary, I can promise you one thing--you shall have a quicker passage into eternity than they." De Grost resumed his seat. "Has it really come to that?" he asked. "Will nothing but so crude a proceeding as my absolute removal satisfy you?" "Nothing else is, I fear, practicable," Bernadine replied, "unless you decide to listen to reason. Believe me, my dear friend, I shall miss you and our small encounters exceedingly; but, unfortunately, you stand in the way of my career. You are the only man who has persistently baulked me. You have driven me to use against you means which I had grown to look upon as absolutely extinct in the upper circles of our profession." De Grost peered through the glass walls of the office. "Eight men, not counting yourself," he remarked, "and my poor manager and his faithful clerk lying bound and helpless. It is heavy odds, Bernadine." "There is no question of odds, I think," Bernadine answered smoothly. "You are much too clever a person to refuse to admit that you are entirely in my power." "And as regards terms? I really don't feel in the least anxious to make my final bow with so little notice," de Grost said. "To tell you the truth, I have been finding life quite interesting lately." Bernadine eyed his prisoner keenly. Such absolute composure was in itself disturbing. He was, for the moment, aware of a slight sensation of uneasiness, which his common sense, however, speedily disposed of. "There are two ways," he announced, "of dealing with an opponent. There is the old-fashioned one--crude, but, in a sense, eminently satisfactory--which sends him finally to adorn some other sphere." "I do not like that one," de Grost interrupted. "Get on with the alternative." "The alternative," Bernadine declared, "is when his capacity for harm can be destroyed." "That needs a little explanation," de Grost murmured. "Precisely. For instance, if you were to become absolutely discredited, I think that you would be effectually out of my way. Your people do not forgive." "Then discredit me, by all means," de Grost begged. "It sounds unpleasant, but I do not like your callous reference to the river." Bernadine gazed at his ancient opponent for several moments. After all, what was this but the splendid bravado of a beaten man, who is too clever not to recognise defeat? "I shall require," he said, "your code, the keys of your safe, which contains a great many documents of interest to me, and a free entry into your house." De Grost drew a bunch of keys reluctantly from his pocket and laid them upon the desk. "You will find the code bound in green morocco leather," he announced, "on the left-hand side, underneath the duplicate of a proposed Treaty between Italy and--some other Power. Between ourselves, Bernadine, I really expect that that is what you are after." Bernadine's eyes glistened. "What about the safe conduct into your house?" he asked. De Grost drew his case from his pocket and wrote a few lines on the back of one of his cards. "This will ensure you entrance there," he said, "and access to my study. If you see my wife, please reassure her as to my absence." "I shall certainly do so," Bernadine agreed, with a faint smile. "If I may be pardoned for alluding to a purely personal matter," de Grost continued, "what is to become of me?" "You will be bound and gagged in the same manner as your manager and his clerk," Bernadine replied smoothly. "I regret the necessity, but you see I can afford to run no risks. At four o'clock in the morning you will be released. It must be part of our agreement that you allow the man who stays behind the others for the purpose of setting you free, to depart unmolested. I think I know you better than to imagine you would be guilty of such _gaucherie_ as an appeal to the police." "That, unfortunately," de Grost declared, with a little sigh, "is, as you well know, out of the question. You are too clever for me, Bernadine. After all, I shall have to go back to my farm." Bernadine opened the door and called softly to one of his men. In less than five minutes de Grost was bound hand and foot. Bernadine stepped back and eyed his adversary with an air of ill-disguised triumph. "I trust, Baron de Grost," he said, "that you will be as comfortable as possible under the circumstances." De Grost lay quite still. He was powerless to move or speak. "Immediately," Bernadine continued, "I have presented myself at your house, verified your safe conduct, and helped myself to certain papers which I am exceedingly anxious to obtain," he went on, "I shall telephone here to the man whom I leave in charge, and you will be set at liberty in due course. If, for any reason, I meet with treachery and I do not telephone, you will join Mr. Greening and his young companion in a little--shall we call it aquatic recreation? I wish you a pleasant hour and success in the future, Baron--as a farmer." Bernadine withdrew and whispered his orders to his men. Soon the electric light was turned out and the place was in darkness. The front door was opened and closed; the group of confederates upon the pavement lit cigarettes and wished one another "Good-night" with the brisk air of tired employees released at last from long labours. Then there was silence. It was barely eleven o'clock when Bernadine reached the west-end of London. His clothes had become a trifle disarranged, and he called for a few minutes at his rooms in St. James's Street. Afterwards, he walked to Merton House and rang the bell. To the servant who answered it he handed his master's card. "Will you show me the way to the library?" he asked. "I have some papers to collect for the Baron de Grost." The man hesitated. Even with the card in his hand, it seemed a somewhat unusual proceeding. "Will you step inside, sir?" he begged. "I should like to show this to the Baroness. The master is exceedingly particular about anyone entering his study." "Do what you like so long as you do not keep me waiting," Bernadine replied. "Your master's instructions are clear enough." Violet came down the great staircase a few moments later, still in her dinner-gown, her face a little pale, her eyes luminous. Bernadine smiled as he accepted her eagerly offered hand. She was evidently anxious. A thrill of triumph warmed his blood. Once she had been less kind to him than she seemed now. "My husband gave you this!" she exclaimed. "A few minutes ago," Bernadine answered. "He tried to make his instructions as clear as possible. We are jointly interested in a small matter which needs immediate action." She led the way to the study. "It seems strange," she remarked, "that you and he should be working together. I thought that you were on opposite sides." "It is a matter of chance," Bernadine told her. "Your husband is a wise man, Baroness. He knows when to listen to reason." She threw open the door of the study, which was in darkness. "If you will wait a moment," she said, closing the door, "I will turn on the electric light." She touched the knobs in the wall, and the room was suddenly flooded with illumination. At the further end of the apartment was the great safe. Close to it, in an easy-chair, his evening coat changed for a smoking-jacket, with a neatly tied black tie replacing his crumpled white cravat, the Baron de Grost sat awaiting his guest. A fierce oath broke from Bernadine's lips. He turned toward the door only in time to hear the key turn. Violet tossed it lightly in the air across to her husband. "My dear Bernadine," the latter remarked, "on the whole, I do not think that this has been one of your successes. My keys, if you please." Bernadine stood for a moment, his face dark with passion. "Your keys are here, Baron de Grost," he said, placing them upon the table. "If a bungling amateur may make such a request of a professor, may I inquire how you escaped from your bonds and reached here before me?" The Baron de Grost smiled. "Really," he said, "you have only to think for yourself for a moment, my dear Bernadine, and you will understand. In the first place, the letter you sent me signed 'Greening' was clearly a forgery. There was no one else anxious to get me into their power, hence I associated it at once with you. Naturally, I telephoned to the chief of my staff--I, too, am obliged to employ some of these un-uniformed policemen, my dear Bernadine, as you may be aware. It may interest you to know, further, that there are seven entrances to the warehouse in Tooley Street. Through one of these something like twenty of my men passed and were already concealed in the place when I entered. At another of the doors a motor-car waited for me. If I had chosen to lift my finger at any time, your men would have been overpowered, and I might have had the pleasure of dictating terms to you in my own office. Such a course did not appeal to me. You and I, as you know, dear Count von Hern, conduct our peculiar business under very delicate conditions, and the least thing we either of us desire is notoriety. I managed things, as I thought, for the best. The moment you left the place my men swarmed in. We gently but firmly ejected your guard, released Greening and my clerk, and I passed you myself in Fleet Street, a little more comfortable, I think, in my forty horsepower motor-car than you in that very disreputable hansom. The other details are too absurdly simple; one need not enlarge upon them." Bernadine shrugged his shoulders. "I am at your service," he declared calmly. De Grost laughed. "My dear fellow," he said, "need I say that you are free to come or go, to take a whisky and soda with me or to depart at once--exactly as you feel inclined? The door was locked only until you restored to me my keys." He crossed the room, fitted the key in the lock and turned it. Bernadine drew himself up. "I will not drink with you," he said. "But some day a reckoning shall come." He turned to the door. De Grost laid his finger upon the bell. "Show Count von Hern out," he directed the astonished servant who appeared a moment or two later. CHAPTER V THE SEVEN SUPPERS OF ANDREA KORUST Baron de Grost was enjoying what he had confidently looked forward to as an evening's relaxation, pure and simple. He sat in one of the front rows of the stalls of the Alhambra, his wife by his side and an excellent cigar in his mouth. An hour or so before he had been in telephonic communication with Paris, had spoken with Sogrange himself, and received his assurance of a calm in political and criminal affairs amounting almost to stagnation. It was out of the season, and though his popularity was as great as ever, neither he nor his wife had any social engagements. Hence this evening at a music-hall, which Peter, for his part, was finding thoroughly amusing. The place was packed--some said owing to the engagement of Andrea Korust and his brother, others to the presence of Mademoiselle Sophie Celaire in her wonderful _Danse des Apaches_. The violinist that night had a great reception. Three times he was called before the curtain; three times he was obliged to reiterate his grateful but immutable resolve never to yield to the nightly storm which demanded more from a man who has given of his best. Slim, with the worn face and hollow eyes of a genius, he stood and bowed his thanks, but when he thought the time had arrived he disappeared, and though the house shook for minutes afterwards, nothing could persuade him to reappear. Afterward came the turn which, notwithstanding the furore caused by Andrea Korust's appearance, was generally considered to be equally responsible for the packed house--the Apache dance of Mademoiselle Sophie Celaire. Peter sat slightly forward in his chair as the curtain went up. For a time he seemed utterly absorbed by the performance. Violet glanced at him once or twice curiously. It began to occur to her that it was not so much the dance as the dancer in whom her husband was interested. "You have seen her before--this Mademoiselle Celaire?" she whispered. Peter nodded. "Yes," he admitted; "I have seen her before." The dance proceeded. It was like many others of its sort, only a little more daring, a little more finished. Mademoiselle Celaire, in her tight-fitting, shabby black frock, with her wild mass of hair, her flashing eyes, her seductive gestures, was, without doubt, a marvellous person. The Baron watched her every movement with absorbed attention. Even when the curtain went down he forgot to clap. His eyes followed her off the stage. Violet shrugged her shoulders. She was looking very handsome herself in a black velvet dinner gown, and a hat so exceedingly Parisian that no one had had the heart to ask her to remove it. "My dear Peter," she remarked, reprovingly, "a moderate amount of admiration for that very agile young lady I might, perhaps, be inclined to tolerate, but, having watched you for the last quarter of an hour, I am bound to confess that I am becoming jealous." "Of Mademoiselle Celaire?" he asked. "Of Mademoiselle Sophie Celaire." He leaned a little towards her. His lips were parted; he was about to make a statement or a confession. Just then a tall commissionaire leaned over from behind and touched him on the shoulder. "For Monsieur le Baron de Grost," he announced, handing Peter a note. Peter glanced towards his wife. "You permit me?" he murmured, breaking the seal. Violet shrugged her shoulders ever so slightly. Her husband was already absorbed in the few lines hastily scrawled across the sheet of notepaper which he held in his hand: [Illustration: 4] "Monsieur Baron de Grost. [Illustration: backward 4] "DEAR MONSIEUR LE BARON, "_Come to my dressing-room, without fail, as soon as you receive this._ "SOPHIE CELAIRE." Violet looked over his shoulder. "The hussy!" she exclaimed, indignantly. Her husband raised his eyebrows. With his forefinger he merely tapped the two numerals. "The Double Four!" she gasped He looked around and nodded. The commissionaire was waiting. Peter took up his silk hat from under the seat. "If I am detained, dear," he whispered, "you'll make the best of it, won't you? The car will be here, and Frederick will be looking out for you." "Of course," she answered, cheerfully. "I shall be quite all right." She nodded brightly, and Peter took his departure. He passed through a door on which was painted "Private," and through a maze of scenery and stage hands and ballet ladies, by a devious route, to the region of the dressing-rooms. His guide conducted him to the door of one of these and knocked. "_Entrez, monsieur_," a shrill feminine voice replied. Peter entered, and closed the door behind him. The commissionaire remained outside. Mademoiselle Celaire turned to greet her visitor. "It is a few words I desire with you as quickly as possible, if you please, Monsieur le Baron," she said, advancing towards him. "Listen." She had brushed out her hair, and it hung from her head straight and a little stiff, almost like the hair of an Indian woman. She had washed her face free of all cosmetics, and her pallor was almost waxen. She wore a dressing-gown of green silk. Her discarded black frock lay upon the floor. "I am entirely at your service, mademoiselle," Peter answered, bowing. "Continue, if you please." "You sup with me to-night--you are my guest." He hesitated. "I am very much honoured," he murmured. "It is an affair of urgency, then? Mademoiselle will remember that I am not alone here." She threw out her hands scornfully. "They told me in Paris that you were a genius!" she exclaimed. "Cannot you feel, then, when a thing is urgent? Do you not know it without being told? You must meet me with a carriage at the stage door in forty minutes. We sup in Hamilton Place with Andrea Korust and his brother." "With whom?" Peter asked, surprised. "With the Korust Brothers," she repeated. "I have just been talking to Andrea. He calls himself a Hungarian. Bah! They are as much Hungarian as I am!" Peter leaned slightly against the table and looked thoughtfully at his companion. He was trying to remember whether he had ever heard anything of these young men. "Mademoiselle," he said, "the prospect of partaking of any meal in your company is in itself enchanting, but I do not know your friends, the Korust Brothers. Apart from their wonderful music, I do not recollect ever having heard of them before in my life. What excuse have I, then, for accepting their hospitality? Pardon me, too, if I add that you have not as yet spoken as to the urgency of this affair." She turned from him impatiently, and, throwing herself back into the chair from which she had risen at his entrance, she began to exchange the thick woollen stockings which she had been wearing upon the stage for others of fine silk. "Oh, la, la!" she exclaimed. "You are very slow, Monsieur le Baron. It is, perhaps, my stage name which has misled you. I am Marie Lapouse. Does that convey anything to you?" "A great deal," Peter admitted, quickly. "You stand very high upon the list of my agents whom I may trust." "Then stay here no longer," she begged, "for my maid waits outside, and I need her services. Go back and make your excuses to your wife. In forty minutes I shall expect you at the stage door." "An affair of diplomacy, this, or brute force?" he inquired. "Heaven knows what may happen!" she replied. "To tell you the truth, I do not know myself. Be prepared for anything, but, for Heaven's sake, go now! I can dress no further without my maid, and Andrea Korust may come in at any moment. I do not wish him to find you here." Peter made his way thoughtfully back to his seat. He explained the situation to his wife so far as he could, and sent her home. Then he waited until the car returned, smoking a cigarette and trying once more to remember if he had ever heard anything of Andrea Korust or his brother from Sogrange. Punctually at the time stated he was outside the stage door of the music-hall, and a few minutes later Mademoiselle Celaire appeared, a dazzling vision of furs and smiles and jewellery imperfectly concealed. A small crowd pressed around to see the famous Frenchwoman. Peter handed her gravely across the pavement into his waiting motor-car. One or two of the loungers gave vent to a groan of envy at the sight of the diamonds which blazed from her neck and bosom. Peter smiled as he gave the address to his servant, and took his place by the side of his companion. "They see only the externals, this mob," he remarked. "They picture to themselves, perhaps, a little supper for two. Alas!" Mademoiselle Celaire laughed at him softly. "You need not trouble to assume that most disconsolate of expressions, my dear Baron," she assured him. "Your reputation as a man of gallantry is beyond question, but remember that I know you also for the most devoted and loyal of husbands. We waste no time in folly, you and I. It is the business of the Double Four." Peter was relieved, but his innate politeness forbade his showing it. "Proceed," he said. "The Brothers Korust," she went on, leaning towards him, "have a week's engagement at the Alhambra. Their salary is six hundred pounds. They play very beautifully, of course, but I think that it is as much as they are worth." Peter agreed with her fervently. He had no soul for music. "They have taken the furnished house belonging to one of your dukes, in Hamilton Place, for which we are bound; taken it, too, at a fabulous rent," Mademoiselle Celaire continued. "They have installed there a chef and a whole retinue of servants. They were here for seven nights; they have issued invitations for seven supper parties." "Hospitable young men they seem to be," Peter murmured. "I read in one of the stage papers that Andrea is a count in his own country, and that they perform in public only for the love of their music and for the sake of the excitement and travel." "A paragraph wholly inspired and utterly false," Mademoiselle Celaire declared firmly, sitting a little forward in the car and laying her hand, ablaze with jewels, upon his coat sleeve. "Listen. They call themselves Hungarians. Bah! I know that they are in touch with a great European Court, both of them, the Court of the country to which they really belong. They have plans, plans and schemes connected with their visit here, which I do not understand. I have done my best with Andrea Korust, but he is not a man to be trusted. I know that there is something more in these seven supper parties than idle hospitality. I and others like me, artistes and musicians, are invited, to give the assemblies a properly Bohemian tone, but there are to be other guests, attracted there, no doubt, because the papers have spoken of these gatherings." "You have some idea of what it all means, in your mind?" Peter suggested. "It is too vague to put into words," she declared, shaking her head. "We must both watch. Afterwards we will, if you like, compare notes." The car drew up before the doors of a handsome house in Hamilton Place. A footman received Peter, and relieved him of his hat and overcoat. A trim maid performed the same office for Mademoiselle Celaire. They met a moment or two later and were ushered into a large drawing-room in which a dozen or two of men and women were already assembled, and from which came a pleasant murmur of voices and laughter. The apartment was hung with pale green satin; the furniture was mostly Chippendale, upholstered in the same shade. A magnificent grand piano stood open in a smaller room, just visible beyond. Only one thing seemed strange to the two newly arrived guests. The room was entirely lit with shaded candles, giving a certain mysterious but not unpleasant air of obscurity to the whole suite of apartments. Through the gloom the jewels and eyes of the women seemed to shine with a new brilliance. Slight eccentricities of toilette--for a part of the gathering was distinctly Bohemian--were softened and subdued. The whole effect was somewhat weird, but also picturesque. Andrea Korust advanced from a little group to meet his guests. Off the stage he seemed at first sight frailer and slighter than ever. His dress coat had been exchanged for a velvet dinner jacket, and his white tie for a drooping black bow. He had a habit of blinking nearly all the time, as though his large brown eyes, which he seldom wholly opened, were weaker than they appeared to be. Nevertheless, when he came to within a few paces of his newly arrived visitors, they shone with plenty of expression. Without any change of countenance, however, he held out his hand. "Dear Andrea," Mademoiselle Celaire exclaimed, "you permit me that I present to you my dear friend, well known in Paris--alas! many years ago--Monsieur le Baron de Grost. Monsieur le Baron was kind enough to pay his respects to me this evening, and I have induced him to become my escort here." "It was my good fortune," Peter remarked, smiling, "that I saw Mademoiselle Celaire's name upon the bills this evening--my good fortune, since it has procured for me the honour of an acquaintance with a musician so distinguished." "You are very kind, Monsieur le Baron," Korust replied. "You stay here, I regret to hear, a very short time?" "Alas!" Andrea Korust admitted, "it is so. For myself, I would that it were longer. I find your London so attractive, the people so friendly. They fall in with my whims so charmingly. I have a hatred, you know, of solitude. I like to make acquaintances wherever I go, to have delightful women and interesting men around, to forget that life is not always gay. If I am too much alone I am miserable, and when I am miserable I am in a very bad way indeed. I cannot then make music." Peter smiled gravely and sympathetically. "And your brother? Does he, too, share your gregarious instincts?" Korust paused for a moment before replying. His eyes were quite wide open now. If one could judge from his expression, one would certainly have said that the Baron de Grost's attempts to ingratiate himself with his host were distinctly unsuccessful. "My brother has exactly opposite instincts," he said slowly. "He finds no pleasure in society. At the sound of a woman's voice he hides." "He is not here, then?" Peter asked, glancing around. Andrea Korust shook his head. "It is doubtful whether he joins us this evening at all," he declared. "My sister, however, is wholly of my disposition. Monsieur le Baron will permit me that I present her." Peter bowed low before a very handsome young woman with flashing black eyes, and a type of feature undoubtedly belonging to one of the countries of Eastern Europe. She was picturesquely dressed in a gown of flaming red silk, made as though in one piece, without trimming or flounces, and she seemed inclined to bestow upon her new acquaintance all the attention that he might desire. She took him at once into a corner and seated herself by his side. It was impossible for Peter not to associate the _empressement_ of her manner with the few words which Andrea Korust had whispered into her ear at the moment of their introduction. "So you," she murmured, "are the wonderful Baron de Grost? I have heard of you so often." "Wonderful!" Peter repeated, with twinkling eyes. "I have never been called that before. I feel that I have no claim whatever to distinction, especially in a gathering like this." She shrugged her shoulders and glanced carelessly across the room. "They are well enough," she admitted; "but one wearies of genius on every side of one. Genius is not the best thing in the world to live with, you know. It has whims and fancies. For instance, look at these rooms--the gloom, the obscurity--and I love so much the light." Peter smiled. "It is the privilege of genius," he remarked, "to have whims and to indulge in them." She sighed. "To do Andrea justice," she said, "it is, perhaps, scarcely a whim that he chooses to receive his guests in semi-darkness. He has weak eyes, and he is much too vain to wear spectacles. Tell me, you know everyone here?" "No one," Peter declared. "Please enlighten me, if you think it necessary. For myself," he added, dropping his voice a little, "I feel that the happiness of my evening is assured without making any further acquaintances." "But you came as the guest of Mademoiselle Celaire," she reminded him doubtfully, with a faint regretful sigh and a provocative gleam in her eyes. "I saw Mademoiselle Celaire to-night for the first time for years," Peter replied. "I called to see her in her dressing-room, and she claimed me for an escort this evening. I am, alas! a very occasional wanderer in the pleasant paths of Bohemia." "If that is really true," she murmured, "I suppose I must tell you something about the people, or you will feel that you have wasted your opportunity." "Mademoiselle," Peter whispered. She held out her hand and laughed into his face. "No!" she interrupted. "I shall do my duty. Opposite you is Mademoiselle Drezani, the famous singer at Covent Garden. Do I need to tell you that, I wonder? Rudolf Maesterling, the dramatist, stands behind her there in the corner. He is talking to the wonderful Cléo, whom all the world knows. Monsieur Guyer there, he is manager, I believe, of the Alhambra; and talking to him is Marborg, the great pianist. The two ladies talking to my brother are Esther Hammerton, whom, of course, you know by sight. She is leading lady, is she not, at the Hilarity Theatre? The other one is Miss Ransome. They tell me that she is your only really great English actress." Peter nodded appreciatively. "It is all most interesting," he declared. "Now, tell me, please, who is the military person with the stiff figure and sallow complexion standing by the door? He seems quite alone." The girl made a little grimace. "I suppose I ought to be looking after him," she admitted, rising reluctantly to her feet. "He is a soldier just back from India--a General Noseworthy, with all sorts of letters after his name. If Mademoiselle Celaire is generous, perhaps we may have a few minutes' conversation later on," she added, with a parting smile. "Say, rather, if Mademoiselle Korust is kind," de Grost replied, bowing. "It depends upon that only." He strolled across the room and rejoined Mademoiselle Celaire a few moments later. They stood apart in a corner. "I should like my supper," Peter declared. "They wait for one more guest," Mademoiselle Celaire announced. "One more guest! Do you know who it is?" "No idea," she answered. "One would imagine that it was someone of importance. Are you any wiser than when you came dear master?" she added under her breath. "Not a whit," he replied promptly. She took out her fan and waved it slowly in front of her face. "Yet you must discover what it all means to-night or not at all," she whispered. "The dear Andrea has intimated to me most delicately that another escort would be more acceptable if I should honour him again." "That helps," he murmured. "See, our last guest arrives. Ah!" A tall, spare-looking man was just being announced. They heard his name as Andrea presented him to a companion: "Colonel Mayson!" Mademoiselle Celaire saw a gleam in her companion's eyes. "It is coming--the idea?" she whispered. "Very vaguely," he admitted. "Who is this Colonel Mayson?" "Our only military aeronaut," Peter replied. She raised her eyebrows. "Aeronaut!" she repeated doubtfully. "I see nothing in that. Both my own country and Germany are years ahead of poor England in the air. Is it not so?" Peter smiled and held out his arm. "See," he said, "supper has been announced. Afterwards Andrea Korust will play to us, and I think that Colonel Mayson and his distinguished brother officer from India will talk. We shall see." They passed into a room whose existence had suddenly been revealed by the drawing back of some beautiful brocaded curtains. Supper was a delightful meal, charmingly served. Peter, putting everything else out of his head for the moment, thoroughly enjoyed himself, and, remembering his duty as a guest, contributed in no small degree towards the success of the entertainment. He sat between Mademoiselle Celaire and his hostess, both of whom demanded much from him in the way of attention. But he still found time to tell stories which were listened to by everyone, and exchanged sallies with the gayest. Only Andrea Korust, from his place at the head of the table, glanced occasionally towards his popular guest with a curious, half-hidden expression of distaste and suspicion. The more the Baron de Grost shone, the more uneasy Andrea became. The signal to rise from the meal was given almost abruptly. Mademoiselle Korust hung on to Peter's arm. Her own wishes and her brother's orders seemed to absolutely coincide. She led him towards a retired corner of the music-room. On the way, however, Peter overheard the introduction which he had expected. "General Noseworthy is just returned from India, Colonel Mayson," Korust said, in his usual quiet, tired tone. "You will, perhaps, find it interesting to talk together a little. As for me, I play because all are polite enough to wish it, but conversation disturbs me not in the least." Peter passed, smiling, on to the corner pointed out by his companion, which was the darkest and most secluded in the room. He took her fan and gloves, lit her cigarette, and leaned back by her side. "How does your brother, a stranger to London, find time to make the acquaintance of so many interesting people?" he asked. "He brought many letters," she replied. "He has friends everywhere." "I have an idea," Peter remarked, "that an acquaintance of my own, the Count von Hern, spoke to me once about him." She took her cigarette from her lips and turned her head slightly. Peter's expression was one of amiable reminiscence. His cheeks were a trifle flushed; his appearance was entirely reassuring. She laughed at her brother's caution. She found her companion delightful. "Yes, the Count von Hern is a friend of my brother's," she admitted carelessly. "And of yours?" he whispered, his arm slightly pressed against hers. She laughed at him silently and their eyes met. Decidedly Peter, Baron de Grost, found it hard to break away from his old weakness. Andrea Korust, from his place near the piano, breathed a sigh of relief as he watched. A moment or two later, however, Mademoiselle Korust was obliged to leave her companion to receive a late but unimportant guest, and almost simultaneously Colonel Mayson passed by on his way to the farther end of the apartment. Andrea Korust was bending over the piano to give some instructions to his accompanist. Peter leaned forward and his face and tone were strangely altered. "You will find General Noseworthy of the Indian Army a little inquisitive, Colonel," he remarked. The latter turned sharply round. There was meaning in those few words, without doubt! There was meaning, too, in the still, cold face which seemed to repel his question. He passed on thoughtfully. Mademoiselle Korust, with a gesture of relief, came back and threw herself once more upon the couch. "We must talk in whispers," she said gaily. "Andrea always declares that he does not mind conversation, but too much noise is, of course, impossible. Besides, Mademoiselle Celaire will not spare you to me for long." "There is a whole language," he replied, "which was made for whisperers. And as for Mademoiselle Celaire----" "Well?" He laughed softly. "Mademoiselle Celaire is, I think, more your brother's friend than mine," he murmured. "At least I will be generous. He has given me a delightful evening. I resign my claims upon Mademoiselle Celaire." "It would break your heart," she declared. His voice sank even below a whisper. Decidedly Peter, Baron de Grost, did not improve!... He rose to leave precisely at the right time, neither too early nor too late. He had spent altogether a most amusing evening. There were one or two little comedies which had diverted him extremely. At the moment of parting, the beautiful eyes of Mademoiselle Korust had been raised to his very earnestly. "You will come again very soon--to-morrow night?" she had whispered. "Is it necessary that you bring Mademoiselle Celaire?" "It is altogether unnecessary," Peter replied. "Let me try and entertain you instead, then." It was precisely at that instant that Andrea had sent for his sister. Peter watched their brief conversation with much interest and intense amusement. She was being told not to invite him there again and she was rebelling! Without a doubt he had made a conquest! She returned to him flushed, and with a dangerous glitter in her eyes. "Monsieur le Baron," she said, leading him on one side, "I am ashamed and angry." "Your brother is annoyed because you have asked me here to-morrow night?" he asked quickly. "It is so," she confessed. "Indeed, I thank you that you have spared me the task of putting my brother's discourtesy into words. Andrea takes violent fancies like that sometimes. I am ashamed, but what can I do?" "Nothing, mademoiselle," he admitted, with a sigh. "I obey, of course. Did your brother mention the source of his aversion to me?" "He is too absurd sometimes," she declared. "One must treat him like a great baby." "Nevertheless, there must be a reason," Peter persisted, gently. "He has heard some foolish thing from the Count von Hern," she admitted, reluctantly. "Do not let us think anything more about it. In a few days it will have passed. And meanwhile----" She paused. He leaned a little towards her. She was looking intently at a ring upon her finger. "If you would really like to see me," she whispered, "and if you are sure that Mademoiselle Celaire would not object, could you not ask me to tea to-morrow or the next day?" "To-morrow," Peter insisted, with a becoming show of eagerness. "Shall we say at the Carlton at five?" She hesitated. "Isn't that rather a public place?" she objected. "Anywhere else you like." She was silent for a moment. She seemed to be waiting for some suggestion from him. None came. "The Carlton at five," she murmured. "I am angry with Andrea. I feel, even, that I could break his wonderful violin in two!" Peter sighed once more. "I should like to twist von Hern's neck!" he declared. "Lucky for him that he's in St. Petersburg! Let us forget this unpleasant matter, mademoiselle. The evening has been too delightful for such memories." Mademoiselle Celaire turned to her escort as soon as they were alone in the car. "As an escort, let me tell you, my dear Baron," she exclaimed, with some pique, "that you are a miserable failure! For the rest----" "For the rest, I will admit that I am puzzled," Peter said. "I need to think. I have the glimmerings of an idea--no more." "You will act? It is an affair for us--for the Double Four?" "Without a doubt--an affair and a serious one," Peter assured her. "I shall act. Exactly how I cannot say until after to-morrow." "To-morrow?" she repeated. "Mademoiselle Korust takes tea with me," he explained. * * * * * In a quiet sort of way, the series of supper parties given by Andrea Korust became the talk of London. The most famous dancer in the world broke through her unvarying rule, and night after night thrilled the distinguished little gathering. An opera singer, the "star" of the season, sang; a great genius recited; and Andrea himself gave always of his best. Apart from this wonderful outpouring of talent, Andrea Korust himself seemed to possess the peculiar art of bringing into touch with one another people naturally interested in the same subjects. On the night after the visit of Peter, Baron de Grost, His Grace the Duke of Rosshire was present, the man in whose hands lay the destinies of the British Navy; and, curiously enough, on the same night, a great French writer on naval subjects was present, whom the Duke had never met, and with whom he was delighted to talk for some time apart. On another occasion, the Military Secretary to the French Embassy was able to have a long and instructive chat with a distinguished English general on the subject of the recent man[oe]uvres, and the latter received, in the strictest confidence, some very interesting information concerning the new type of French guns. On the following evening the greatest of our Colonial statesmen, a red-hot Imperialist, was able to chat about the resources of the Empire with an English politician of similar views, whom he chanced never to have previously met. Altogether these parties seemed to be the means of bringing together a series of most interesting people, interesting not only in themselves, but in their relations to one another. It was noticeable, however, that from this side of his little gatherings Andrea Korust remained wholly apart. He admitted that music and cheerful companionship were the only two things in life he really cared for. Politics or matters of world import seemed to leave him unmoved. If a serious subject of conversation were started at supper-time he was frankly bored, and took no pains to hide the fact. It is certain that whatever interesting topics were alluded to in his presence, he remained entirely outside any understanding of them. Mademoiselle Celaire, who was present most evenings, although with other escorts, was puzzled. She could see nothing whatever to account for the warning which she had received, and had at once passed on, as was her duty, to the Baron de Grost. She failed, also, to understand the faint but perceptible enlightenment to which Peter himself had admittedly attained after that first evening. Take that important conversation, for instance, between the French military _attaché_ and the British general. Without a doubt it was of interest, and especially so to the country which she was sure claimed his allegiance, but it was equally without doubt that Andrea Korust neither overheard a word of that conversation nor betrayed the slightest curiosity concerning it. Mademoiselle Celaire was a clever woman, and she had never felt so hopelessly at fault. Illumination was to come, however--illumination, dramatic and complete. The seventh and last of these famous supper parties was in full swing. Notwithstanding the shaded candles, which left the faces of the guests a little indistinct, the scene was a brilliant one. Mademoiselle Celaire was wearing her famous diamonds, which shone through the gloom like pin-pricks of fire; Garda Desmaines, the wonderful Garda, sat next to her host, her bosom and hair on fire with jewels, yet with the most wonderful light of all glowing in her eyes; a famous actor, who had thrown his proverbial reticence to the winds, kept his immediate neighbours in a state of semi-hysterical mirth; the clink of wine-glasses, the laughter of beautiful women, the murmur of cultivated voices, rose and fell through the faint, mysterious gloom. It was a picturesque, a wonderful scene enough. Pale as a marble statue, with the covert smile of the gracious host, Andrea Korust sat at the head of the table, well pleased with his company, as indeed he had the right to be. By his side was a great American statesman, who was travelling round the world, and yet had refused all other invitations of this sort. He had come for the pleasure of meeting the famous Dutch writer and politician, Mr. van Jool. The two were already talking intimately. It was at this point that tragedy, or something like it, intervened. A man's impatient voice was heard in the hall outside, a man's voice which grew louder and louder, more impatient, finally more passionate. People raised their heads to listen. The American statesman, who was, perhaps, the only one to realise exactly what was coming, slipped his hand into his pocket and gripped something cold and hard. Then the door was flung open. An apologetic and much disturbed butler made the announcement which had evidently been demanded of him. "Mr. von Tassen!" A silence followed--breathless--the silence before the bursting of the storm. Mr. von Tassen was the name of the American statesman, and the man who rose slowly from his place by his host's side was the exact double of the man who stood now upon the threshold, gazing in upon the room. The expression of the two alone was different. The new-comer was furiously angry, and looked it. The sham Mr. von Tassen was very much at his ease. It was he who broke the silence, and his voice was curiously free from all trace of emotion. He was looking his double over with an air of professional interest. "On the whole," he said calmly, "very good. A little stouter, I perceive, and the eyebrows a trifle too regular. Of course, when you make faces at me like that, it is hard to judge of the expression. I can only say that I did the best I could." "Who the devil are you, masquerading in my name?" the new-comer demanded, with emphasis. "This man is an impostor!" he added, turning to Andrea Korust. "What is he doing at your table?" Andrea leaned forward, and his face was an evil thing to look upon. "Who are you?" he hissed out. The sham Mr. von Tassen turned away for a moment and stooped down. The trick has been done often enough upon the stage, often in less time, but seldom with more effect. The wonderful wig disappeared, the spectacles, the lines in the face, the make-up of diabolical cleverness. With his back to the wall and his fingers playing with something in his pocket, Peter, Baron de Grost smiled upon his host. "Since you insist upon knowing--the Baron de Grost, at your service!" he announced. Andrea Korust was, for the moment, speechless. One of the women shrieked. The real Mr. von Tassen looked around him helplessly. "Will someone be good enough to enlighten me as to the meaning of this?" he begged. "Is it a roast? If so, I only want to catch on. Let me get to the joke, if there is one. If not, I should like a few words of explanation from you, sir," he added, addressing Peter. "Presently," the latter replied. "In the meantime, let me persuade you that I am not the only impostor here." He seized a glass of water and dashed it in the face of Mr. van Jool. There was a moment's scuffle, and no more of Mr. van Jool. What emerged was a good deal like the shy Maurice Korust, who accompanied his brother at the music-hall, but whose distaste for these gatherings had been Andrea's continual lament. The Baron de Grost stepped back once more against the wall. His host was certainly looking dangerous. Mademoiselle Celaire was leaning forward, staring through the gloom with distended eyes. Around the table every head was craned towards the centre of the disturbance. It was Peter again who spoke. "Let me suggest, Andrea Korust," he said, "that you send your guests--those who are not immediately interested in this affair--into the next room. I will offer Mr. von Tassen then the explanation to which he is entitled." Andrea Korust staggered to his feet. The man's nerve had failed. He was shaking all over. He pointed to the music-room. "If you would be so good, ladies and gentlemen!" he begged. "We will follow you immediately." They went, with obvious reluctance. All their eyes seemed focused upon Peter. He bore their scrutiny with calm cheerfulness. For a moment he had feared Korust, but that moment had passed. A servant, obeying his master's gesture, pulled back the curtains after the departing crowd. The four men were alone. "Mr. von Tassen," Peter said easily, "you are a man who loves adventures. To-night you experience a new sort of one. Over in your great country such methods as these are laughed at as the cheap device of sensation-mongers. Nevertheless, they exist. To-night is a proof that they exist." "Get on to facts, sir!" the American admonished. "Before you leave this room, you've got to explain to me what you mean by passing yourself off as Thomas von Tassen." Peter bowed. "With much pleasure, Mr. von Tassen," he declared. "For your information, I might tell you that you are not the only person in whose guise I have figured. In fact, I have had quite a busy week. I have been--let me see--I have been Monsieur le Marquis de Beau Kunel on the night when our shy friend, Maurice Korust, was playing the part of General Henderson. I have also been His Grace the Duke of Rosshire when my friend Maurice here was introduced to me as François Defayal, known by name to me as one of the greatest writers on naval matters. A little awkward about the figure I found His Grace, but otherwise I think that I should have passed muster wherever he was known. I have also passed as Sir William Laureston, on the evening when my rival artiste here sang the praises of Imperial England." Andrea Korust leaned forward with venomous eyes. "You mean that it was you who was here last night in Sir William Laureston's place?" he almost shrieked. "Most certainly," Peter admitted, "but you must remember that, after all, my performances have been no more difficult than those of your shy but accomplished brother. Whenever I took to myself a strange personality I found him there, equally good as to detail, and with his subject always at his finger-tips. We settled that little matter of the canal, didn't we?" Peter remarked cheerfully, laying his hand upon the shoulder of the young man. They stared at him, these two white-faced brothers, like tiger-cats about to spring. Mr. von Tassen was getting impatient. "Look here," he protested, "you may be clearing matters up so far as regards Mr. Andrea Korust and his brother, but I'm as much in the fog as ever. Where do I come in?" "Your pardon, sir!" Peter replied. "I am getting nearer things now. These two young men--we will not call them hard names--are suffering from an excess of patriotic zeal. They didn't come and sit down on a camp-stool and sketch obsolete forts, as those others of their countrymen do when they want to pose as the bland and really exceedingly ignorant foreigners. They went about the matter with some skill. It occurred to them that it might be interesting to their country to know what Sir William Laureston thought about the strength of the Imperial Navy, and to what extent his country were willing to go in maintaining their allegiance to Great Britain. Then there was the Duke of Rosshire. They thought they'd like to know his views as to the development of the Navy during the next ten years. There was that little matter, too, of the French guns. It would certainly be interesting to them to know what Monsieur le Marquis de Beau Kunel had to say about them. These people were all invited to sit at the hospitable board of our host here. I, however, had an inkling on the first night of what was going on, and I was easily able to persuade those in authority to let me play their several parts. You, sir," Peter added, turning to Mr. von Tassen, "you, sir, floored me. You were not an Englishman, and there was no appeal which I could make. I simply had to risk you. I counted upon your not turning up. Unfortunately, you did. Fortunately, you are the last guest. This is the seventh supper." Mr. von Tassen glanced around at the three men and made up his mind. "What do you call yourself?" he asked Peter. "The Baron de Grost," Peter replied. "Then, my friend the Baron de Grost," von Tassen said, "I think that you and I had better get out of this. So I was to talk about Germany with Mr. van Jool, eh?" "I have already explained your views," Peter declared, with twinkling eyes. "Mr. van Jool was delighted." Mr. von Tassen shook with laughter. "Say," he exclaimed, "this is a great story! If you're ready, Baron de Grost, lead the way to where we can get a whisky and soda and a chat." Mademoiselle Celaire came gliding out to them. "I am not going to be left here," she whispered, taking Peter's arm. Peter looked back from the door. "At any rate, Mr. Andrea Korust," he said, "your first supper was a success. Colonel Mayson was genuine. Our real English military aeronaut was here, and he has disclosed to you, Maurice Korust, all that he ever knew. Henceforth I presume your great country will dispute with us for the mastery of the air." "Queer country, this," Mr. von Tassen remarked, pausing on the step to light a cigar. "Seems kind of humdrum after New York, but there's no use talking--things do happen over here anyway!" CHAPTER VI THE MISSION OF MAJOR KOSUTH His host, very fussy as he always was on the morning of his big shoot, came bustling towards de Grost, with a piece of paper in his hand. The party of men had just descended from a large brake and were standing about on the edge of the common, examining cartridges, smoking a last cigarette before the business of the morning, and chatting together over the prospects of the day's sport. In the distance, a cloud of dust indicated the approach of a fast-travelling motor-car. "My dear Baron," Sir William Bounderby said, "I want you to change your stand to-day. I must have a good man at the far corner as the birds go off my land from there, and Addington was missing them shockingly yesterday. Besides, there is a new man coming on your left, and I know nothing of his shooting--nothing at all!" Peter smiled. "Anywhere you choose to put me, Sir William," he assented. "They came badly for Addington yesterday, and well for me. However, I'll do my best." "I wish people wouldn't bring strangers, especially to the one shoot where I'm keen about the bag. I told Portal he could bring his brother-in-law, and he's bringing this foreign fellow instead. Don't suppose he can shoot for nuts! Did you ever hear of him, I wonder? The Count von Hern, he calls himself." Peter was not on his guard and a little exclamation escaped him. "Bernadine!" he murmured, softly. "So the game begins once more!" His interest was unmistakable. It was not only the chill November air which had brought a touch of colour to his cheeks and the light to his eyes. "You seem pleased," Sir William Bounderby remarked, curiously. "You do know the fellow, then? Friend of yours, perhaps?" Peter shook his head. "Oh, yes! I know him, Sir William," he replied, "but I do not think that he would call himself a friend of mine. I know nothing about his shooting except that if he got a chance I think that he would like to shoot me." Sir William, who was a very literal man, looked grave. "I am sorry," he said, "if you are likely to find this meeting in any way awkward. I suppose there's nothing against him, eh?" he added, a little nervously. "I invited him purely on the strength of his being a guest of Portal's." "The Count von Hern comes, I believe," Peter assured his host, "of a distinguished European family. Socially there is nothing whatever against him. We happen to have run up against each other once or twice, that's all. That sort of thing will occur, you know, when the interests of finance touch the border-line of politics." "You have no objection to meeting him, then?" Sir William asked. "Not the slightest," Peter replied. "I do not know exactly in what direction the Count von Hern is extending his activities at present, but you will probably find any feeling of annoyance as regards our meeting to-day is entirely on his side." "I am very glad to hear it," Sir William declared. "I should not like anything to happen to disturb the harmony of your short visit to us." The motor-car had come to a standstill by this time. From it descended Mr. Portal himself, a large neighbouring landowner, a man of culture and travel. With him was Bernadine, in a very correct shooting suit and Tyrolese hat. On the other side of Mr. Portal was a short, thick-set man, with olive complexion, keen black eyes, black moustache and imperial, and sombrely dressed in City clothes. Sir William's eyebrows were slightly raised as he advanced to greet the party. Peter was at once profoundly interested. Mr. Portal introduced his guests. "You will forgive me, I am sure, for bringing a spectator, Bounderby," he said. "Major Kosuth, whom I have the honour to present--Major Kosuth, Sir William Bounderby--is high up in the diplomatic service of a people with whom we must feel every sympathy--the young Turks. The Count von Hern, who takes my brother-in-law's place, is probably known to you by name." Sir William welcomed his visitors cordially. "You do not shoot, Major Kosuth?" he asked. "Very seldom," the Turk answered. "I come to-day with my good friend, Count von Hern, as a spectator, if you permit." "Delighted," Sir William replied. "We will find you a safe place near your friend." The little party began to move toward the wood. It was just at this moment that Bernadine felt a touch upon his shoulder, and, turning round, found Peter by his side. "An unexpected pleasure, my dear Count," the latter declared, suavely. "I had no idea that you took an interest in such simple sports." The manners of the Count von Hern were universally quoted as being almost too perfect. It is a regrettable fact, however, that at that moment he swore--softly, perhaps, but with distinct vehemence. A moment later he was exchanging the most cordial of greetings with his old friend. "You have the knack, my dear de Grost," he remarked, "of turning up in the most surprising places. I certainly did not know that amongst your many accomplishments was included a love for field sports." Peter smiled quietly. He was a very fine shot, and knew it. "One must amuse oneself these days," he said. "There is little else to do." Bernadine bit his lip. "My absence from this country, I fear, has robbed you of an occupation." "It has certainly deprived life of some of its savour," Peter admitted, blandly. "By the by, will you not present me to your friend? I have the utmost sympathy with the intrepid political party of which he is a member." The Count von Hern performed the introduction with a reluctance which he wholly failed to conceal. The Turk, however, had been walking on his other side, and his hat was already lifted. Peter had purposely raised his voice. "It gives me the greatest pleasure, Major Kosuth," Peter said, "to welcome you to this country. In common, I believe, with the majority of my countrymen, I have the utmost respect and admiration for the movement which you represent." Major Kosuth smiled slowly. His features were heavy and unexpressive. There was something of gloom, however, in the manner of his response. "You are very kind, Baron," he replied, "and I welcome very much this expression of your interest in my party. I believe that the hearts of your country people are turned towards us in the same manner. I could wish that your country's political sympathies were as easily aroused." Bernadine intervened promptly. "Major Kosuth has been here only one day," he remarked lightly. "I tell him that he is a little too impatient. See, we are approaching the wood. It is as well here to refrain from conversation." "We will resume it later," Peter said, softly. "I have interests in Turkey, and it would give me great pleasure to have a talk with Major Kosuth." "Financial interests?" the latter inquired, with some eagerness. Peter nodded. "I will explain after the first drive," he said, turning away. Peter walked rather quickly until he reached a bend in the wood. He overtook his host on the way, and paused for a moment. "Lend me a loader for half an hour, Sir William," he begged. "I have to send my servant to the village with a telegram." "With pleasure!" Sir William answered. "There are several to spare. I'll send one to your stand. There's von Hern going the wrong way!" he exclaimed, in a tone of annoyance. Peter was just in time to stop the whistle from going to his mouth. "Do me another favour, Sir William," he pleaded. "Give me time to send off my telegram before the Count sees what I'm doing. He's such an inquisitive person," he went on, noticing his host's look of blank surprise. "Thank you ever so much!" Peter hurried on to his place. It was round the corner of the wood, and for the moment out of sight of the rest of the party. He tore a sheet from his pocket-book and scribbled out a telegram. His man had disappeared and a substitute taken his place by the time the Count von Hern arrived. The latter was now all amiability. It was hard to believe, from his smiling salutation, that he and the man to whom he waved his hand in so airy a fashion had ever declared war to the death! The shooting began a few minutes later. Major Kosuth, from a camp stool a few yards behind his friend, watched with somewhat languid interest. He gave one, indeed, the impression that his thoughts were far removed from this simple country party, the main object of whose existence for the present seemed to be the slaying of a certain number of inoffensive birds. He watched the indifferent performance of his friend and the remarkably fine shooting of his neighbour on the left, with the same lack-lustre eye and want of enthusiasm. The beat was scarcely over before Peter, resigning his smoking guns to his loader, lit a cigarette and strolled across to the next stand. He plunged at once into a conversation with Kosuth, notwithstanding Bernadine's ill-concealed annoyance. "Major Kosuth," he began, "I sympathise with you. It is a hard task for a man whose mind is centred upon great events to sit still and watch a performance of this sort. Be kind to us all and remember that this represents to us merely a few hours of relaxation. We, too, have our more serious moments." "You read my thoughts well," Major Kosuth declared. "I do not seek to excuse them. For half a lifetime we Turks have toiled and striven, always in danger of our lives, to help forward those things which have now come to pass. I think that our lives have become tinged with sombreness and apprehension. Now that the first step is achieved, we go forward, still with trepidation. We need friends, Baron de Grost." "You cannot seriously doubt but that you will find them in this country," Peter remarked. "There has never been a time when the English nation has not sympathised with the cause of liberty." "It is not the hearts of your people," Major Kosuth said, "which I fear. It is the antics of your politicians. Sympathy is a great thing, and good to have, but Turkey to-day needs more. The heart of a nation is big, but the number of those in whose hands it remains to give practical expression to its promptings is few." Bernadine, who had stood as much as he could, seized forcibly upon his friend. "You must remember our bargain, Kosuth," he insisted--"no politics to-day. Until to-morrow evening we rest. Now I want to introduce you to a very old friend of mine, the Lord-Lieutenant of the county." The Turk was bustled off, a little unwillingly. Peter watched them with a smile. It was many months since he had felt so keen an interest in life. The coming of Bernadine had steadied his nerves. His gun had come to his shoulder like the piston-rod of an engine. His eye was clear, his nerve still. There was something to be done! Decidedly, there was something to be done!... No man was better informed in current political affairs; but Peter, instead of joining the cheerful afternoon tea party at the close of the day, raked out a file of _The Times_ from the library, and studied it carefully in his room. There were one or two items of news concerning which he made pencil notes. He had scarcely finished his task before a servant brought in a dispatch. He opened it with interest and drew pencil and paper towards him. It was from Paris, and in the code which he had learnt by heart, no written key of which now existed. Carefully he transcribed it on to paper and read it through. It was dated from Paris a few hours back: "Kosuth left for England yesterday. Envoy from new Turkish Government. Requiring loan one million pounds. Asked for guarantee that it was not for warlike movement against Bulgaria; declined to give same. Communicated with English Ambassador and informed Kosuth yesterday that neither Government would sanction loan unless undertaking were given that the same was not to be applied for war against Bulgaria. Turkey is under covenant to enter into no financial obligations with any other Power while the interest of former loans remains in abeyance. Kosuth has made two efforts to obtain loan privately, from prominent English financier and French syndicate. Both have declined to treat on representations from Government. Kosuth was expected return direct to Turkey. If, as you say, he is in England with Bernadine, we commend the affair to your utmost vigilance. Germany exceedingly anxious enter into close relations with new Government of Turkey. Fear Kosuth's association with Bernadine proof of bad faith. Have had interview with Minister for Foreign Affairs, who relies upon our help. French Secret Service at your disposal, if necessary." Peter read the message three times with the greatest care. He was on the point of destroying it when Violet came into the room. She was wearing a long tea jacket of sheeny silk. Her beautiful hair was most becomingly arranged, her figure as light and girlish as ever. She came into the room humming gaily and swinging a gold purse upon her finger. "Won three rubbers out of four, Peter," she declared, "and a compliment from the Duchess. Aren't I a pupil to be proud of?" She stopped short. Her lips formed themselves into the shape of a whistle. She knew very well the signs. Her husband's eyes were kindling, there was a firm set about his lips, the palm of his hand lay flat upon that sheet of paper. "It was true?" she murmured. "It was Bernadine who was shooting to-day?" Peter nodded. "He was on the next stand," he replied. "Then there is something doing, of course," Violet continued. "My dear Peter, you may be an enigma to other people; to me you have the most expressive countenance I ever saw. You have had a cable which you have just transcribed. If I had been a few minutes later, I think you would have torn up the result. As it is, I think I have come just in time to hear all about it." Peter smiled, grimly but fondly. He uncovered the sheet of paper and placed it in her hands. "So far," he said, "there isn't much to tell you. The Count von Hern turned up this morning with a Major Kosuth, who was one of the leaders of the revolution in Turkey. I wired Paris, and this is the reply." She read the message through thoughtfully and handed it back. Peter lit a match, and standing over the fireplace, calmly destroyed it. "A million pounds is not a great sum of money," Violet remarked. "Why could not Kosuth borrow it for his country from a private individual?" "A million pounds is not a large sum to talk about," Peter replied, "but it is an exceedingly large sum for anyone, even a multi-millionaire, to handle in cash. And Turkey, I gather, wants it at once. Besides, considerations which might be of value from a Government are no security at all as applied to a private individual." She nodded. "Do you think that Kosuth means to go behind the existing treaty and borrow from Germany?" Peter shook his head. "I can't quite believe that," he said. "It would mean the straining of diplomatic relations with both countries. It is out of the question." "Then where does Bernadine come in?" "I do not know," Peter answered. Violet laughed. "What is it that you are going to try to find out?" she asked. "I am trying to discover who it is that Bernadine and Kosuth are waiting to see," Peter replied. "The worst of it is, I daren't leave here. I shall have to trust to the others." She glanced at the clock. "Well, go and dress," she said. "I'm afraid I've a little of your blood in me, after all. Life seems more stirring when Bernadine is on the scene." * * * * * The shooting party broke up two days later and Peter and his wife returned at once to town. The former found the reports which were awaiting his arrival disappointing. Bernadine and his guest were not in London, or if they were they had carefully avoided all the usual haunts. Peter read his reports over again, smoked a very long cigar alone in his study, and finally drove down to the City and called upon his stockbroker, who was also a personal friend. Things were flat in the City, and the latter was glad enough to welcome an important client. He began talking the usual market shop until his visitor stopped him. "I have come to you, Edwardes, more for information than anything," Peter declared, "although it may mean that I shall need to sell a lot of stock. Can you tell me of any private financier who could raise a loan of a million pounds in cash within the course of a week?" The stockbroker looked dubious. "In cash?" he repeated. "Money isn't raised that way, you know. I doubt whether there are many men in the whole city of London who could put up such an amount with only a week's notice." "But there must be someone," Peter persisted. "Think! It would probably be a firm or a man not obtrusively English. I don't think the Jews would touch it, and a German citizen would be impossible." "Semi-political, eh?" Peter nodded. "It is rather that way," he admitted. "Would your friend the Count von Hern be likely to be concerned in it?" "Why?" Peter asked, with immovable face. "Nothing, only I saw him coming out of Heseltine-Wrigge's office the other day," the stockbroker remarked, carelessly. "And who is Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge?" "A very wealthy American financier," the stockbroker replied, "not at all an unlikely person for a loan of the sort you mention." "American citizen?" Peter inquired. "Without a doubt. Of German descent, I should say, but nothing much left of it in his appearance. He settled over here in a huff, because New York society wouldn't receive his wife." "I remember all about it," Peter declared. "She was a chorus girl, wasn't she? Nothing particular against her, but the fellow had no tact. Do you know him, Edwardes?" "Slightly," the stockbroker answered. "Give me a letter to him," Peter said. "Give my credit as good a leg up as you can. I shall probably go as a borrower." Mr. Edwardes wrote a few lines and handed them to his client. "Office is nearly opposite," he remarked. "Wish you luck, whatever your scheme is." Peter crossed the street and entered the building which his friend had pointed out. He ascended in the lift to the third floor, knocked at the door which bore Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge's name, and almost ran into the arms of a charmingly dressed little lady, who was being shown out by a broad-shouldered, typical American. Peter hastened to apologise. "I beg your pardon," he said, raising his hat. "I was rather in a hurry, and I quite thought I heard someone say, 'Come in'." The lady replied pleasantly. Her companion, who was carrying his hat in his hand, paused reluctantly. "Did you want to see me?" he asked. "If you are Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge, I did," Peter admitted. "My name is the Baron de Grost, and I have a letter of introduction to you from Mr. Edwardes." Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge tore open the envelope and glanced through the contents of the note. Peter meanwhile looked at his wife with genuine but respectfully cloaked admiration. The lady obviously returned his interest. "Why, if you're the Baron de Grost," she exclaimed, "didn't you marry Vi Brown? She used to be at the Gaiety with me years ago." "I certainly did marry Violet Brown," Peter confessed; "and, if you will allow me to say so, Mrs. Heseltine-Wrigge, I should have recognised you anywhere from your photographs." "Say, isn't that queer?" the little lady remarked, turning to her husband. "I should love to see Vi again." "If you will give me your address," Peter declared promptly, "my wife will be delighted to call upon you." The man looked up from the note. "Do you want to talk business with me, Baron?" he asked. "For a few moments only," Peter answered. "I am afraid I am a great nuisance, and, if you wish it, I will come down to the City again." "That's all right," Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge replied. "Myra won't mind waiting a minute or two. Come through here." He turned back and led the way into a quiet-looking suite of offices, where one or two clerks were engaged writing at open desks. They all three passed into an inner room. "Any objection to my wife coming in?" Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge asked. "There's scarcely any place for her out there." "Delighted," Peter answered. She glanced at the clock. "Remember we have to meet the Count von Hern at half-past one at Prince's, Charles," she reminded him. Her husband nodded. There was nothing in Peter's expression to denote that he had already achieved the first object of his visit. "I shall not detain you," he said. "Your name has been mentioned to me, Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge, as a financier likely to have a large sum of money at his disposal. I have a scheme which needs money. Providing the security is unexceptionable, are you in a position to do a deal?" "How much do you want?" Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge asked. "A million to a million and a half," Peter answered. "Dollars?" "Pounds." It was not Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge's pose to appear surprised. Nevertheless his eyebrows were slightly raised. "Say, what is this scheme?" he inquired. "First of all," Peter replied, "I should like to know whether there's any chance of business if I disclose it." "Not an atom," Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge declared. "I have just committed myself to the biggest financial transaction of my life, and it will clean me out." "Then I won't waste your time," Peter announced, rising. "Sit down for a moment," Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge invited, biting the end off a cigar and passing the box towards Peter. "That's all right. My wife doesn't mind. Say, it strikes me as rather a curious thing that you should come in here and talk about a million and a half when that's just the amount concerned in my other little deal." Peter smiled. "As a matter of fact, it isn't at all queer," he answered. "I don't want the money. I came to see whether you were really interested in the other affair--the Turkish loan, you know." Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge withdrew his cigar from his mouth and looked steadily at his visitor. "Say, Baron," he declared, "you've got a nerve!" "Not at all," Peter replied. "I'm here as much in your interests as my own." "Whom do you represent, any way?" Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge inquired. "A company you never heard of," Peter replied. "Our offices are in the underground places of the world, and we don't run to brass plates. I am here because I am curious about that loan. Turkey hasn't a shadow of security to offer you. Everything which she can pledge is pledged to guarantee the interest on existing loans to France and England. She is prevented by treaty from borrowing in Germany. If you make a loan without security, Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge, I suppose you understand your position. The loan may be repudiated at any moment." "Kind of a philanthropist, aren't you?" Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge remarked quietly. "Not in the least," Peter assured him. "I know there's some tricky work going on, and I suppose I haven't brains enough to get to the bottom of it. That's why I've come blundering in to you, and why, I suppose, you'll be telling the whole story to the Count von Hern at luncheon in an hour's time." Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge smoked in silence for a moment or two. "This transaction of mine," he said at last, "isn't one I can talk about. I guess I'm on to what you want to know, but I simply can't tell you. The security is unusual, but it's good enough for me." "It seems so to you beyond a doubt," Peter replied. "Still, you have to do with a remarkably clever young man in the Count von Hern. I don't want to ask you any questions you feel I ought not to, but I do wish you'd tell me one thing." "Go right ahead," Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge invited. "Don't be shy." "What day are you concluding this affair?" Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge scratched his chin for a moment thoughtfully and glanced at his diary. "Well, I'll risk that," he decided. "A week to-day I hand over the coin." Peter drew a little breath of relief. A week was an immense time! He rose to his feet. "That ends our business, then, for the present," he said. "Now I am going to ask both of you a favour. Perhaps I have no right to, but as a man of honour, Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge, you can take it from me that I ask it in your interests as well as my own. Don't tell the Count von Hern of my visit to you." Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge held out his hand. "That's all right," he declared. "You hear, Myra?" "I'll be dumb, Baron," she promised. "Say when do you think Vi can come and see me?" Peter was guilty of snobbery. He considered it quite a justifiable weapon. "She is at Windsor this afternoon," he remarked. "What, at the garden party?" Mrs. Heseltine-Wrigge almost shrieked. Peter nodded. "I believe there's some fête or other to-morrow," he said; "but we're alone this evening. Why, won't you dine with us, say at the Carlton?" "We'd love to," the lady assented promptly. "At eight o'clock," Peter said, taking his leave. The dinner-party was a great success. Mrs. Heseltine-Wrigge found herself amongst the class of people with whom it was her earnest desire to become acquainted, and her husband was well satisfied to see her keen longing for Society likely to be gratified. The subject of Peter's call at the office in the City was studiously ignored. It was not until the very end of the evening, indeed, that the host of this very agreeable party was rewarded by a single hint. It all came about in the most natural manner. They were speaking of foreign capitals. "I love Paris," Mrs. Heseltine-Wrigge told her host. "Just adore it. Charles is often there on business, and I always go along." Peter smiled. There was just a chance here. "Your husband does not often have to leave London?" he remarked carelessly. She nodded. "Not often enough," she declared. "I just love getting about. Last week we had a perfectly horrible trip, though. We started off for Belfast quite unexpectedly, and I hated every minute of it." Peter smiled inwardly, but he said never a word. His companion was already chattering on about something else. Peter crossed the hall a few minutes later to speak to an acquaintance, slipped out to the telephone booth, and spoke to his servant. "A bag and a change," he ordered, "at Euston Station at twelve o'clock, in time for the Irish mail. Your mistress will be home as usual." An hour later the dinner-party broke up. Early the next morning Peter crossed the Irish Channel. He returned the following day, and crossed again within a few hours. In five days the affair was finished, except for the _dénouement_. Peter ascended in the lift to Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge's office the following Thursday, calm and unruffled as usual, but nevertheless a little exultant. It was barely half an hour ago since he had become finally prepared for this interview. He was looking forward to it now with feelings of undiluted satisfaction. Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge was in, he was told, and he was at once admitted to his presence. The financier greeted him with a somewhat curious smile. "Say, this is very nice of you to look me up again!" he exclaimed. "Still worrying about that loan, eh?" Peter shook his head. "No, I'm not worrying about that any more," he answered, accepting one of his host's cigars. "The fact of it is that if it were not for me you would be the one who would have to do the worrying." Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge stopped short in the act of lighting his cigar. "I'm not quite catching on," he remarked. "What's the trouble?" "There is no trouble, fortunately," Peter replied. "Only a little disappointment for our friends the Count von Hern and Major Kosuth. I have brought you some information which, I think, will put an end to that affair of the loan." Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge sat quite still for a moment. His brows were knitted; he showed no signs of nervousness. "Go right on," he said. "The security upon which you were going to advance a million and a half to the Turkish Government," Peter continued, "consisted of two Dreadnoughts and a cruiser, being built to the order of that country by Messrs. Shepherd and Hargreaves at Belfast." "Quite right," Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge admitted quietly. "I have been up and seen the boats. I have seen the shipbuilders, too." "Did you happen to mention to the latter," Peter inquired, "that you were advancing money upon those vessels?" "Certainly not," Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge replied. "Kosuth wouldn't hear of such a thing. If the papers got wind of it there'd be the devil to pay. All the same, I have got an assignment from the Turkish Government." "Not worth the paper it's written on," Peter declared blandly. Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge rose unsteadily to his feet. He was a strong, silent man, but there was a queer look about his mouth. "What the devil do you mean?" he demanded. "Briefly this," Peter explained. "The first payment, when these ships were laid down, was made not by Turkey, but by an emissary of the German Government, who arranged the whole affair in Constantinople. The second payment was due ten months ago, and not a penny has been paid. Notice was given to the late Government twice and absolutely ignored. According to the charter, therefore, these ships reverted to the shipbuilding company, who retained possession of the first payment as indemnity against loss. The Count von Hern's position was this. He represents the German Government. You were to find a million and a half of money, with the ships as security. You also have a contract from the Count von Hern to take those ships off your hands provided the interest on the loan became overdue, a state of affairs which, I can assure you, would have happened within the next twelve months. Practically, therefore, you were made use of as an independent financier to provide the money with which the Turkish Government, broadly speaking, have sold the ships to Germany. You see, according to the charter of the shipbuilding company, these vessels cannot be sold to any foreign Government without the consent of Downing Street. That is the reason why the affair had to be conducted in such a roundabout manner." "All this is beyond me," Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge said hoarsely. "I don't care a d----n who has the ships in the end so long as I get my money!" "But you would not get your money," Peter pointed out, "because there will be no ships. I have had the shrewdest lawyers in the world at work upon the charter, and there is not the slightest doubt that these vessels are, or rather were, the entire property of Messrs. Shepherd and Hargreaves. To-day they belong to me. I have bought them and paid £200,000 deposit. I can show you the receipt and all the papers." Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge said only one word, but that word was profane. "I am sorry, of course, that you have lost the business," Peter concluded; "but surely it's better than losing your money?" Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge struck the table fiercely with his fist. There was a grey and unfamiliar look about his face. "D----n it, the money's gone!" he declared hoarsely: "They changed the day. Kosuth had to go back. I paid it twenty-four hours ago." Peter whistled softly. "If only you had trusted me a little more!" he murmured. "I tried to warn you." Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge snatched up his hat. "They don't leave till the two-twenty," he shouted. "We'll catch them at the Milan. If we don't, I'm ruined! By Heaven, I'm ruined!" They found Major Kosuth in the hall of the hotel. He was wearing a fur coat and otherwise attired for travelling. His luggage was already being piled upon a cab. Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge wasted no words upon him. "You and I have got to have a talk, right here and now," he declared. "Where's the Count?" Major Kosuth frowned gloomily. "I do not understand you," he said shortly. "Our business is concluded, and I am leaving by the two-twenty train." "You are doing nothing of the sort," the American answered, standing before him, grim and threatening. The Turk showed no sign of terror. He gripped his silver-headed cane firmly. "I think," he said, "that there is no one here who will prevent me." Peter, who saw a fracas imminent, hastily intervened. "If you will permit me for a moment," he said, "there is a little explanation I should perhaps make to Major Kosuth." The Turk took a step towards the door. "I have no time to listen to explanations from you or anyone," he replied. "My cab is waiting. I depart. If Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge is not satisfied with our transaction, I am sorry, but it is too late to alter anything." For a moment it seemed as though a struggle between the two men was inevitable. Already people were glancing at them curiously, for Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge came of a primitive school, and he had no intention whatever of letting his man escape. Fortunately at that moment the Count von Hern came up, and Peter at once appealed to him. "Count," he said, "may I beg for your good offices? My friend Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge here is determined to have a few words with Major Kosuth before he leaves. Surely this is not an unreasonable request when you consider the magnitude of the transaction which has taken place between them! Let me beg of you to persuade Major Kosuth to give us ten minutes. There is plenty of time for the train, and this is not the place for a brawl." Bernadine smiled. He was not conscious of the slightest feeling of uneasiness. He could conceive many reasons for Peter's intervention, but in his pocket lay the agreement, signed by Kosuth, an accredited envoy of the Turkish Government, besides which he had a further document signed by Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge, witnessed and stamped, handing over to him the whole of the security for this very complicated loan, on the sole condition that the million and a half, with interest, was forthcoming. His position was completely secure. A little discussion with his old enemy might not be altogether unpleasant! "It will not take us long, Kosuth, to hear what our friend has to say," he remarked. "We shall be quite quiet in the smoking-room. Let us go in there and dispose of the affair." The Turk turned unwillingly in the direction indicated. All four men passed through the café, up some stair's, and into the small smoking-room. The room was deserted. Peter led the way to the far corner, and, standing with his elbow leaning upon the mantelpiece, addressed them. "The position is this," he said. "Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge has parted with a million and a half of his own money, a loan to the Turkish Government, on security which is not worth a snap of the fingers." "It is a lie!" Major Kosuth exclaimed. "My dear Baron, you are woefully misinformed," the Count declared. Peter shook his head slowly. "No," he said, "I am not misinformed. My friend here has parted with the money on the security of two battleships and a cruiser, now building in Shepherd and Hargreaves' yard at Belfast. The two battleships and cruiser in question belong to me. I have paid two hundred thousand pounds on account of them, and hold the shipbuilders' receipt." "You are mad!" Bernadine cried, contemptuously. Peter shook his head, and continued. "The battleships were laid down for the Turkish Government, and the money with which to start them was supplied by the Secret Service of Germany. The second instalment was due ten months ago, and has not been paid. The time of grace provided for has expired. The shipbuilders, in accordance with their charter, were consequently at liberty to dispose of the vessels as they thought fit. On the statement of the whole of the facts to the head of the firm, he has parted with these ships to me. I need not say that I have a purchaser within a mile from here. It is a fancy of mine, Count von Hern, that those ships will sail better under the British flag." There was a moment's tense silence. The face of the Turk was black with anger. Bernadine was trembling with rage. "This is a tissue of lies!" he exclaimed. Peter shrugged his shoulders. "The facts are easy enough for you to prove," he said, "and I have here," he added, producing a roll of papers, "copies of the various documents for your inspection. Your scheme, of course, was simple enough. It fell through for this one reason only. A final notice, pressing for the second instalment, and stating the days of grace, was forwarded to Constantinople about the time of the recent political troubles. The late government ignored it. In fairness to Major Kosuth, we will believe that the present government was ignorant of it. But the fact remains that Messrs. Shepherd and Hargreaves became at liberty to sell those vessels, and that I have bought them. You will have to give up that money, Major Kosuth." "You bet he shall!" the American muttered. Bernadine leaned a little towards his enemy. "You must give us a minute or two," he insisted. "We shall not go away, I promise you. Within five minutes you shall hear our decision." Peter sat down at the writing-table and commenced a letter. Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge mounted guard over the door, and stood there, a grim figure of impatience. Before the five minutes was up, Bernadine crossed the room. "I congratulate you, Baron," he said, dryly. "You are either an exceedingly lucky person or you are more of a genius than I believed. Kosuth is even now returning his letters of credit to your friend. You are quite right. The loan cannot stand." "I was sure," Peter answered, "that you would see the matter correctly." "You and I," Bernadine continued, "know very well that I don't care a fig about Turkey, new or old. The ships, I will admit, I intended to have for my own country. As it is, I wish you joy of them. Before they are completed we may be fighting in the air." Peter smiled, and, side by side with Bernadine, strolled across to Heseltine-Wrigge, who was buttoning up a pocket-book with trembling fingers. "Personally," Peter said, "I believe that the days of wars are over." "That may or may not be," Bernadine answered. "One thing is very certain. Even if the nations remain at peace, there are enmities which strike only deeper as the years pass. I am going to take a drink now with my disappointed friend Kosuth. If I raise my glass 'To the Day!' you will understand." Peter smiled. "My friend Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge and I are for the same destination," he replied, pushing open the swing door which led to the bar. "I return your good wishes, Count. I, too, drink 'To the Day!'" Bernadine and Kosuth left a few minutes afterwards. Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge, who was feeling himself again, watched them depart with ill-concealed triumph. "Say, you had those fellows on toast, Baron," he declared, admiringly. "I couldn't follow the whole affair, but I can see that you're in for big things sometimes. Remember this. If money counts at any time, I'm with you." Peter clasped his hand. "Money always counts," he said--"and friends!" CHAPTER VII THE GHOSTS OF HAVANA HARBOUR "We may now," Sogrange remarked, buttoning up his ulster, and stretching himself out to the full extent of his steamer chair, "consider ourselves at sea. I trust, my friend, that you are feeling quite comfortable." Peter, Baron de Grost, lying at his ease upon a neighbouring chair, with a pillow behind his head, a huge fur coat around his body, and a rug over his feet, had all the appearance of being very comfortable indeed. His reply, however, was a little short--almost peevish. "I am comfortable enough for the present, thank you. Heaven knows how long it will last!" Sogrange waved his arm towards the great uneasy plain of blue sea, the showers of foam leaping into the sunlight, away beyond the disappearing coasts of France. "Last," he repeated. "For eight days, I hope. Consider, my dear Baron! What could be more refreshing, more stimulating to our jaded nerves than this? Think of the December fogs you have left behind, the cold, driving rain, the puddles in the street, the grey skies--London, in short, at her ugliest and worst." "That is all very well," Peter protested; "but I have left several other things behind, too." "As, for instance?" Sogrange inquired genially. "My wife," Peter informed him. "Violet objects very much to these abrupt separations. This week, too, I was shooting at Saxthorpe, and I had also several other engagements of a pleasant nature. Besides, I have reached that age when I find it disconcerting to be called out of bed in the middle of the night to answer a long-distance telephone call, and told to embark on an American liner leaving Southampton early the next morning. It may be your idea of a pleasure-trip. It isn't mine." Sogrange was amused. His smile, however, was hidden. Only the tip of his cigarette was visible. "Anything else?" "Nothing much, except that I am always seasick," Peter replied deliberately. "I can feel it coming on now. I wish that fellow would keep away with his beastly mutton broth. The whole ship seems to smell of it." Sogrange laughed, softly but without disguise. "Who said anything about a pleasure-trip?" he demanded. Peter turned his head. "You did. You told me when you came on at Cherbourg that you had to go to New York to look after some property there, that things were very quiet in London, and that you hated travelling alone. Therefore you sent for me at a few hours' notice." "Is that what I told you?" Sogrange murmured. "Yes! Wasn't it true?" Peter asked, suddenly alert. "Not a word of it," Sogrange admitted. "It is quite amazing that you should have believed it for a moment." "I was a fool," Peter confessed. "You see, I was tired and a little cross. Besides, somehow or other, I never associated a trip to America with----" Sogrange interrupted him, quietly but ruthlessly. "Lift up the label attached to the chair next to yours. Read it out to me." Peter took it into his hand and turned it over. A quick exclamation escaped him. "Great heavens! 'The Count von Hern'--Bernadine!" "Just so," Sogrange assented. "Nice, clear writing, isn't it?" Peter sat bolt upright in his chair. "Do you mean to say that Bernadine is on board?" Sogrange shook his head. "By the exercise, my dear Baron," he said, "of a superlative amount of ingenuity, I was able to prevent that misfortune. Now lean over and read the label on the next chair." Peter obeyed. His manner had acquired a new briskness. "'La Duchesse della Nermino,'" he announced. Sogrange nodded. "Everything just as it should be," he declared. "Change those labels, my friend, as quickly as you can." Peter's fingers were nimble, and the thing was done in a few seconds. "So I am to sit next the Spanish lady," he remarked, feeling for his tie. "Not only that, but you are to make friends with her," Sogrange replied. "You are to be your captivating self, Baron. The Duchesse is to forget her weakness for hot rooms. She is to develop a taste for sea air and your society." "Is she," Peter asked anxiously, "old or young?" Sogrange showed a disposition to fence with the question. "Not old," he answered; "certainly not old. Fifteen years ago she was considered to be one of the most beautiful women in the world." "The ladies of Spain," Peter remarked, with a sigh, "are inclined to mature early." "In some cases," Sogrange assured him, "there are no women in the world who preserve their good looks longer. You shall judge, my friend. Madame comes! How about that sea-sickness now?" "Gone," Peter declared briskly. "Absolutely a fancy of mine. Never felt better in my life." An imposing little procession approached along the deck. There was the deck steward leading the way; a very smart French maid carrying a wonderful collection of wraps, cushions, and books; a black-browed, pallid man-servant, holding a hot-water bottle in his hand and leading a tiny Pekinese spaniel wrapped in a sealskin coat; and finally Madame la Duchesse. It was so obviously a procession intended to impress, that neither Peter nor Sogrange thought it worth while to conceal their interest. The Duchesse, save that she was tall and wrapped in magnificent furs, presented a somewhat mysterious appearance. Her features were entirely obscured by an unusually thick veil of black lace, and the voluminous nature of her outer garments only permitted a suspicion as to her figure, which was, at that time, at once the despair and the triumph of her _corsetière_. With both hands she was holding her fur-lined skirts from contact with the deck, disclosing at the same time remarkably shapely feet encased in trim patent shoes, with plain silver buckles, and a little more black silk stocking than seemed absolutely necessary. The deck steward, after a half-puzzled scrutiny of the labels, let down the chair next to the two men. The Duchesse contemplated her prospective neighbours with some curiosity, mingled with a certain amount of hesitation. It was at that moment that Sogrange, shaking away his rug, rose to his feet. "Madame la Duchesse permits me to remind her of my existence," he said, bowing low. "It is some years since we met, but I had the honour of a dance at the Palace in Madrid." She held out her hand at once, yet somehow Peter felt sure that she was thankful for her veil. Her voice was pleasant, and her air the air of a great lady. She spoke French with the soft, sibilant intonation of the Spaniard. "I remember the occasion perfectly, Marquis," she admitted. "Your sister and I once shared a villa in Mentone." "I am flattered by your recollection, Duchesse," Sogrange murmured. "It is a great surprise to meet with you here, though," she continued. "I did not see you at Cherbourg or on the train." "I motored from Paris," Sogrange explained, "and arrived, contrary to my custom, I must confess, somewhat early. Will you permit that I introduce an acquaintance whom I have been fortunate enough to find on board: Monsieur le Baron de Grost--Madame la Duchesse della Nermino." Peter was graciously received, and the conversation dealt, for a few moments, with the usual banalities of the voyage. Then followed the business of settling the Duchesse in her place. When she was really installed, and surrounded with all the paraphernalia of a great and fanciful lady, including a handful of long cigarettes, she raised her veil. Peter, who was at the moment engaged in conversation with her, was a little shocked with the result. Her features were worn, her face dead white, with many signs of the ravages wrought by the constant use of cosmetics. Only her eyes had retained something of their former splendour. These latter were almost violet in colour, deep-set, with dark rims, and were sufficient almost in themselves to make one forget for a moment the less prepossessing details of her appearance. A small library of books was by her side, but after a while she no longer pretended any interest in them. She was a born conversationalist, a creature of her country, entirely and absolutely feminine, to whom the subtle and flattering deference of the other sex was as the breath of life itself. Peter burned his homage upon her altar with a craft which amounted to genius. In less than half an hour Madame la Duchesse was looking many years younger. The vague look of apprehension had passed from her face. Their voices had sunk to a confidential undertone, punctuated often by the music of her laughter. Sogrange, with a murmured word of apology, had slipped away long ago. Decidedly, for an Englishman, Peter was something of a marvel! Madame la Duchesse moved her head towards the empty chair. "He is a great friend of yours--the Marquis de Sogrange?" she asked, with a certain inflection in her tone which Peter was not slow to notice. "Indeed, no!" he answered. "A few years ago I was frequently in Paris. I made his acquaintance then, but we have met very seldom since." "You are not travelling together, then?" she inquired. "By no means," Peter assured her. "I recognised him only as he boarded the steamer at Cherbourg." "He is not a popular man in our world," she remarked. "One speaks of him as a schemer." "Is there anything left to scheme for in France?" Peter asked carelessly. "He is, perhaps, a Monarchist?" "His ancestry alone would compel a devoted allegiance to Royalism," the Duchesse declared; "but I do not think that he is interested in any of these futile plots to reinstate the House of Orleans. I, Monsieur le Baron, am Spanish." "I have scarcely lived so far out of the world as to have heard nothing of the Duchesse della Nermino," Peter replied with _empressement_. "The last time I saw you, Duchesse, you were in the suite of the Infanta." "Like all Englishmen, I see you possess a memory," she said, smiling. "Duchesse," Peter answered, lowering his voice, "without the memories which one is fortunate enough to collect as one passes along, life would be a dreary place. The most beautiful things in the world cannot remain always with us. It is well, then, that the shadow of them can be recalled to us in the shape of dreams." Her eyes rewarded him for his gallantry. Peter felt that he was doing very well indeed. He indulged himself in a brief silence. Presently she returned to the subject of Sogrange. "I think," she remarked, "that of all the men in the world I expected least to see the Marquis de Sogrange on board a steamer bound for New York. What can a man of his type find to amuse him in the New World?" "One wonders, indeed," Peter assented. "As a matter of fact, I did read in a newspaper a few days ago that he was going to Mexico in connection with some excavations there. He spoke to me of it just now. They seem to have discovered a ruined temple of the Incas, or something of the sort." The Duchesse breathed what sounded very much like a sigh of relief. "I had forgotten," she admitted, "that New York itself need not necessarily be his destination." "For my own part," Peter continued, "it is quite amazing the interest which the evening papers always take in the movements of one connected ever so slightly with their world. I think that a dozen newspapers have told their readers the exact amount of money I am going to lend or borrow in New York, the stocks I am going to bull or bear, the mines I am going to purchase. My presence on an American steamer is accounted for by the journalists a dozen times over. Yours, Duchesse, if one might say so without appearing over-curious, seems the most inexplicable. What attraction can America possibly have for you?" She glanced at him covertly from under her sleepy eyelids. Peter's face was like the face of a child. "You do not, perhaps, know," she said, "that I was born in Cuba. I lived there, in fact, for many years. I still have estates in the country." "Indeed?" he answered. "Are you interested, then, in this reported salvage of the _Maine_?" There was a short silence. Peter, who had not been looking at her when he had asked his question, turned his head, surprised at her lack of response. His heart gave a little jump. The Duchesse had all the appearance of a woman on the point of fainting. One hand was holding a scent bottle to her nose, the other, thin and white, ablaze with emeralds and diamonds, was gripping the side of her chair. Her expression was one of blank terror. Peter felt a shiver chill his own blood at the things he saw in her face. He himself was confused, apologetic, yet absolutely without understanding. His thoughts reverted at first to his own commonplace malady. "You are ill, Duchesse!" he exclaimed. "You will allow me to call the deck steward? Or perhaps you would prefer your own maid? I have some brandy in this flask." He had thrown off his rug, but her imperious gesture kept him seated. She was looking at him with an intentness which was almost tragical. "What made you ask me that question?" she demanded. His innocence was entirely apparent. Not even Peter could have dissembled so naturally. "That question?" he repeated, vaguely. "You mean about the _Maine_? It was the idlest chance, Duchesse, I assure you. I saw something about it in the paper yesterday, and it seemed interesting. But if I had had the slightest idea that the subject was distasteful to you I would not have dreamed of mentioning it. Even now--I do not understand----" She interrupted him. All the time he had been speaking she had shown signs of recovery. She was smiling now, faintly and with obvious effort, but still smiling. "It is altogether my own fault, Baron," she admitted graciously. "Please forgive my little fit of emotion. The subject is a very sore one amongst my country-people, you know, and your sudden mention of it upset me. It was very foolish." "Duchesse, I was a clumsy idiot!" Peter declared penitently. "I deserve that you should be unkind to me for the rest of the voyage." "I could not afford that," she answered, forcing another smile. "I am relying too much upon you for companionship. Ah! could I trouble you?" she added. "For the moment I need my maid. She passes there." Peter sprang up and called the young woman, who was slowly pacing the deck. He himself did not at once return to his place. He went instead in search of Sogrange, and found him in his state-room. Sogrange was lying upon a couch, in a silk smoking suit, with a French novel in his hand and an air of contentment which was almost fatuous. He laid down the volume at Peter's entrance. "Dear Baron," he murmured, "why this haste? No one is ever in a hurry upon a steamer. Remember that we can't possibly get anywhere in less than eight days, and there is no task in the world, nowadays, which cannot be accomplished in that time. To hurry is a needless waste of tissue, and, to a person of my nervous temperament, exceedingly unpleasant." Peter sat down on the edge of the bunk. "I presume you have quite finished?" he said. "If so, listen to me. I am moving in the dark. Is it my fault that I blunder? By the merest accident I have already committed a hideous _faux pas_. You ought to have warned me." "What do you mean?" "I have spoken to the Duchesse of the _Maine_ disaster." The eyes of Sogrange gleamed for a moment, but he lay perfectly still. "Why not?" he asked. "A good many people are talking about it. It is one of the strangest things I have ever heard of, that after all these years they should be trying to salve the wreck." "It seems worse than strange," Peter declared. "What can be the use of trying to stir up bitter feelings between two nations who have fought their battles and buried the hatchet? I call it an an act of insanity." A bugle rang. Sogrange yawned and sat up. "Would you mind touching the bell for my servant, Baron," he asked. "Dinner will be served in half an hour. Afterwards, we will talk, you and I." Peter turned away, not wholly pleased. "The sooner the better," he grumbled, "or I shall be putting my foot into it again." After dinner the two men walked on deck together. The night was dark, but fine, with a strong wind blowing from the north-west. The deck steward called their attention to a long line of lights stealing up from the horizon on their starboard side. "That's the _Lusitania_, sir. She'll be up to us in half an hour." They leaned over the rail. Soon the blue fires began to play about their masthead. Sogrange watched them thoughtfully. "If one could only read those messages," he remarked, with a sigh, "it might help us." Peter knocked the ash from his cigar, and was silent for a time. He was beginning to understand the situation. "My friend," he said at last, "I have been doing you an injustice. I have come to the conclusion that you are not keeping me in ignorance of the vital facts connected with our visit to America wilfully. At the present moment you know just a little more, but a very little more, than I do." "What perception!" Sogrange murmured. "My dear Baron, sometimes you amaze me. You are absolutely right. I have some pieces, and I am convinced that they would form a puzzle the solution of which would be interesting to us; but how or where they fit in I frankly don't know. You have the facts so far." "Certainly," Peter replied. "You have heard of Sirdeller?" "Do you mean _the_ Sirdeller?" Peter asked. "Naturally. I mean the man whose very movements sway the money markets of the world; the man who could, if he chose, ruin any nation, make war impossible; who could, if he had ten more years of life and was allowed to live, draw to himself and his own following the entire wealth of the universe." "Very eloquent," Peter remarked. "We'll take the rest for granted." "Then," Sogrange continued, "you have probably also heard of Don Pedro, Prince of Marsine, one-time Pretender to the throne of Spain?" "Quite a striking figure in European politics," Peter assented, quickly. "He is suspected of radical proclivities, and is still, it is rumoured, an active plotter against the existing monarchy." "Very well," Sogrange said. "Now listen carefully. Four months ago Sirdeller was living at the Golden Villa, near Nice. He was visited more than once by Marsine, introduced by the Count von Hern. The result of those visits was a long series of cablegrams to certain great engineering firms in America. Almost immediately the salvage of the _Maine_ was started. It is a matter of common report that the entire cost of these works is being undertaken by Sirdeller." "Now," Peter murmured, "you are really beginning to interest me." "This week," Sogrange went on, "it is expected that the result of the salvage works will be made known. That is to say, it is highly possible that the question of whether the _Maine_ was blown up from outside or inside will be settled once and for all. This week, mind, Baron. Now see what happens. Sirdeller returns to America. The Count von Hern and Prince Marsine come to America. The Duchesse della Nermino comes to America. The Duchesse, Sirdeller, and Marsine are upon this steamer. The Count von Hern travels by the _Lusitania_ only because it was reported that Sirdeller at the last minute changed his mind, and was travelling by that boat. Mix these things up in your brain--the conjurer's hat, let us call it," Sogrange concluded, laying his hand upon Peter's arm. "Sirdeller, the Duchesse, Von Hern, Marsine, the raising of the _Maine_--mix them up, and what sort of an omelette appears?" Peter whistled softly. "No wonder," he said, "that you couldn't make the pieces of the puzzle fit. Tell me more about the Duchesse." Sogrange considered for a moment. "The principal thing about her which links her with the present situation," he explained, "is that she was living in Cuba at the time of the _Maine_ disaster, married to a rich Cuban." The affair was suddenly illuminated by the searchlight of romance. Peter, for the first time, saw not the light, but the possibility of it. "Marsine has been living in Germany, has he not?" he asked. "He is a personal friend of the Kaiser," Sogrange replied. They both looked up and listened to the crackling of the electricity above their heads. "I expect Bernadine is a little annoyed," Peter remarked. "It isn't pleasant to be out of the party," Sogrange agreed. "Nearly everybody, however, believed at the last moment that Sirdeller had transferred his passage to the _Lusitania_." "It's going to cost him an awful lot in marconigrams," Peter said. "By the by, wouldn't it have been better for us to have travelled separately, and incognito?" Sogrange shrugged his shoulders slightly. "Von Hern has at least one man on board," he replied. "I do not think that we could possibly have escaped observation. Besides, I rather imagine that any move we are able to make in this matter must come before we reach Fire Island." "Have you any theory at all?" Peter asked. "Not the ghost of a one," Sogrange admitted. "One more fact, though, I forgot to mention. You may find it important. The Duchesse comes entirely against von Hern's wishes. They have been on intimate terms for years, but for some reason or other he was exceedingly anxious that she should not take this voyage. She, on the other hand, seemed to have some equally strong reason for coming. The most useful piece of advice I could give you would be to cultivate her acquaintance." "The Duchesse----" Peter never finished his sentence. His companion drew him suddenly back into the shadow of a lifeboat. "Look!" A door had opened from lower down the deck, and a curious little procession was coming towards them. A man, burly and broad-shouldered, who had the air of a professional bully, walked by himself ahead. Two others of similar build walked a few steps behind. And between them a thin, insignificant figure, wrapped in an immense fur coat and using a strong walking-stick, came slowly along the deck. It was like a procession of prison warders guarding a murderer, or perhaps a nerve-wrecked royal personage moving towards the end of his days in the midst of enemies. With halting steps the little old man came shambling along. He looked neither to the left nor to the right. His eyes were fixed and yet unseeing, his features were pale and bony. There was no gleam of life, not even in his stone-cold eyes. Like some machine-made man of a new and physically degenerate age, he took his exercise under the eye of his doctor--a strange and miserable-looking object. "There goes Sirdeller," Sogrange whispered. "Look at him--the man whose might is greater than any emperor's. There is no haven in the universe to which he does not hold the key. Look at him--master of the world!" Peter shivered. There was something depressing in the sight of that mournful procession. "He neither smokes nor drinks," Sogrange continued. "Women, as a sex, do not exist for him. His religion is a doubting Calvinism. He has a doctor and a clergyman always by his side to inject life and hope if they can. Look at him well, my friend. He represents a great moral lesson." "Thanks!" Peter replied. "I am going to take the taste of him out of my mouth with a whisky and soda. Afterwards, I'm for the Duchesse." But the Duchesse, apparently, was not for Peter. He found her in the music-room, with several of the little Marconi missives spread out before her, and she cut him dead. Peter, however, was a brave man and skilled at the game of bluff. So he stopped by her side and, without any preamble, addressed her. "Duchesse," he said, "you are a woman of perception. Which do you believe, then, in your heart, to be the more trustworthy--the Count von Hern or I?" She simply stared at him. He continued promptly: "You have received your warning, I see." "From whom?" "From the Count von Hern. Why believe what he says? He may be a friend of yours--he may be a dear friend--but in your heart you know that he is both unscrupulous and selfish. Why accept his word and distrust me? I, at least, am honest." She raised her eyebrows. "Honest?" she repeated. "Whose word have I for that save your own? And what concern is it of mine if you possess every one of the _bourgeois_ qualities in the world? You are presuming, sir." "My friend Sogrange will tell you that I am to be trusted," Peter persisted. "I see no reason why I should trouble myself about your personal characteristics," she replied coldly. "They do not interest me." "On the contrary, Duchesse," Peter continued, fencing wildly, "you have never in your life been more in need of anyone's services than you are of mine." The conflict was uneven. The Duchesse was a nervous, highly strung woman. The calm assurance of Peter's manner oppressed her with a sense of his mastery. She sank back upon the couch from which she had arisen. "I wish you would tell me what you mean," she said. "You have no right to talk to me in this fashion. What have you to do with my affairs?" "I have as much to do with them as the Count von Hern," Peter insisted boldly. "I have known the Count von Hern," she answered, "for very many years. You have been a shipboard acquaintance of mine for a few hours." "If you have known the Count von Hern for many years," Peter asserted, "you have found out by this time that he is an absolutely untrustworthy person." "Supposing he is," she said, "will you tell me what concern it is of yours? Do you suppose for one moment that I am likely to discuss my private affairs with a perfect stranger?" "You have no private affairs," Peter declared sternly. "They are the affairs of a nation." She glanced at him with a little shiver. From that moment he felt that he was gaining ground. She looked around the room. It was well filled, but in their corner they were almost unobserved. "How much do you know?" she asked in a low tone which shook with passion. Peter smiled enigmatically. "Perhaps more even than you, Duchesse," he replied. "I should like to be your friend. You need one--you know that." She rose abruptly to her feet. "For to-night it is enough," she declared, wrapping her fur cloak around her. "You may talk to me to-morrow, Baron. I must think. If you desire really to be my friend there is, perhaps, one service which I may require of you. But to-night, no!" Peter stood aside and allowed her to step past him. He was perfectly content with the progress he had made. Her farewell salute was by no means ungracious. As soon as she was out of sight he returned to the couch where she had been sitting. She had taken away the marconigrams, but she had left upon the floor several copies of the _New York Herald_. He took them up and read them carefully through. The last one he found particularly interesting, so much so that he folded it up, placed it in his coat pocket, and went off to look for Sogrange, whom he found at last in the saloon, watching a noisy game of "Up, Jenkins!" Peter sank upon the cushioned seat by his side. "You were right," he remarked. "Bernadine has been busy." Sogrange smiled. "I trust," he said, "that the Duchesse is not proving faithless?" "So far," Peter replied, "I have kept my end up. To-morrow will be the test. Bernadine has filled her with caution. She thinks that I know everything--whatever everything may be. Unless I can discover a little more than I do now, to-morrow is going to be an exceedingly awkward day for me." "There is every prospect of your acquiring a great deal of valuable information before then," Sogrange declared. "Sit tight, my friend. Something is going to happen." On the threshold of the saloon, ushered in by one of the stewards, a tall, powerful-looking man, with a square, well-trimmed black beard, was standing looking around as though in search of someone. The steward pointed out, with an unmistakable movement of his head, Peter and Sogrange. The man approached and took the next table. "Steward," he directed, "bring me a glass of vermouth and some dominoes." Peter's eyes were suddenly bright. Sogrange touched his foot under the table and whispered a word of warning. The dominoes were brought. The new-comer arranged them as though for a game. Then he calmly withdrew the double-four and laid it before Sogrange. "It has been my misfortune, Marquis," he said, "never to have made your acquaintance, although our mutual friends are many, and I think I may say that I have the right to claim a certain amount of consideration from you and your associates. You know me?" "Certainly, Prince," Sogrange replied. "I am charmed. Permit me to present my friend, the Baron de Grost." The new-comer bowed, and glanced a little nervously around. "You will permit me," he begged. "I travel incognito. I have lived so long in England that I have permitted myself the name of an Englishman. I am travelling under the name of Mr. James Fanshawe." "Mr. Fanshawe, by all means," Sogrange agreed. "In the meantime----" "I claim my rights as a corresponding member of the Double Four," the new-comer declared. "My friend the Count von Hern finds menace to certain plans of ours in your presence upon this steamer. Unknown to him, I come to you openly. I claim your aid, not your enmity." "Let us understand one another clearly," Sogrange said. "You claim our aid in what?" Mr. Fanshawe glanced around the saloon and lowered his voice. "I claim your aid towards the overthrowing of the usurping House of Asturias, and the restoration to power in Spain of my own line." Sogrange was silent for several moments. Peter was leaning forward in his place, deeply interested. Decidedly, this American trip seemed destined to lead toward events! "Our active aid towards such an end," Sogrange said at last, "is impossible. The society of the Double Four does not interfere in the domestic policy of other nations for the sake of individual members." "Then let me ask you why I find you upon this steamer?" Mr. Fanshawe demanded in a tone of suppressed excitement. "Is it for the sea voyage that you and your friend the Baron de Grost cross the Atlantic this particular week, on the same steamer as myself, as Mr. Sirdeller, and--and the Duchesse? One does not believe in such coincidences! One is driven to conclude that it is your intention to interfere." "The affair almost demands our interference," Sogrange replied smoothly. "With every due respect to you, Prince, there are great interests involved in this move of yours." The Prince was a big man, but, for all his large features and bearded face, his expression was the expression of a peevish and passionate child. He controlled himself with an effort. "Marquis," he said, "it is necessary--I say that it is necessary that we conclude an alliance." Sogrange nodded approvingly. "It is well spoken," he said; "but remember--the Baron de Grost represents England, and the English interests of our society." The Prince of Marsine's face was not pleasant to look upon. "Forgive me if you are an Englishman by birth, Baron," he said, turning towards him, "but a more interfering nation in other people's affairs than England has never existed in the pages of history. She must have a finger in every pie. Bah!" Peter leaned over from his place. "What about Germany, Mr. Fanshawe?" he asked with emphasis. The Prince tugged at his beard. He was a little nonplussed. "The Count von Hern," he confessed, "has been a good friend to me. The rulers of his country have always been hospitable and favourably inclined towards my family. The whole affair is of his design. I myself could scarcely have moved in it alone. One must reward one's helpers. There is no reason, however," he added, with a meaning glance at Peter, "why other helpers should not be admitted." "The reward which you offer to the Count von Hern," Peter remarked, "is of itself absolutely inimical to the interests of my country." "Listen!" the Prince demanded, tapping the table before him. "It is true that within a year I am pledged to reward the Count von Hern in certain fashion. It is not possible that you know the terms of our compact, but from your words it is possible that you have guessed. Very well. Accept this from me. Remain neutral now, allow this matter to proceed to its natural conclusion, let your Government address representations to me when the time comes, adopting a bold front, and I promise that I will obey them. It will not be my fault that I am compelled to disappoint the Count von Hern. My seaboard would be at the mercy of your fleet. Superior force must be obeyed." "It is a matter, this," Sogrange said, "for discussion between my friend and me. I think you will find that we are neither of us unreasonable. In short, Prince, I see no insuperable reason why we should not come to terms." "You encourage me," the Prince declared, in a gratified tone. "Do not believe, Marquis, that I am actuated in this matter wholly by motives of personal ambition. No, it is not so. A great desire has burned always in my heart, but it is not that alone which moves me. I assure you that of my certain knowledge Spain is honeycombed--is rotten with treason. A revolution is a certainty. How much better that that revolution should be conducted in a dignified manner; that I, with my reputation for democracy which I have carefully kept before the eyes of my people, should be elected President of the new Spanish Republic, even if it is the gold of the American who places me there. In a year or two's time, what may happen who can say? This craving for a republic is but a passing dream. Spain, at heart, is monarchical. She will be led back to the light. It is but a short step from the President's chair to the throne." Sogrange and his companion sat quite still. They avoided looking at each other. "There is one thing more," the Prince continued, dropping his voice as if, even at that distance, he feared the man of whom he spoke. "I shall not inform the Count von Hern of our conversation. It is not necessary, and, between ourselves, the Count is jealous. He sends me message after message that I remain in my state-room, that I seek no interview with Sirdeller, that I watch only. He is too much of the spy--the Count von Hern. He does not understand that code of honour, relying upon which I open my heart to you." "You have done your cause no harm," Sogrange assured him, with subtle sarcasm. "We come now to the Duchesse." The Prince leaned towards him. It was just at this moment that a steward entered with a marconigram, which he presented to the Prince. The latter tore it open, glanced it through, and gave vent to a little exclamation. The fingers which held the missive, trembled. His eyes blazed with excitement. He was absolutely unable to control his feelings. "My two friends," he cried, in a tone broken with emotion, "it is you first who shall hear the news! This message has just arrived. Sirdeller will have received its duplicate. The final report of the works in Havana Harbour will await us on our arrival in New York, but the substance of it is this. The _Maine_ was sunk by a torpedo, discharged at close quarters underneath her magazine. Gentlemen, the House of Asturias is ruined!" There was a breathless silence. "Your information is genuine?" Sogrange asked softly. "Without a doubt," the Prince replied. "I have been expecting this message. I shall cable to von Hern. We are still in communication. He may not have heard." "We were about to speak of the Duchesse," Peter reminded him. The Prince shook his head. "Another time," he declared. "Another time." He hurried away. It was already half-past ten and the saloon was almost empty. The steward came up to them. "The saloon is being closed for the night, sir," he announced. "Let us go on deck," Peter suggested. They found their way up on to the windward side of the promenade, which was absolutely deserted. Far away in front of them now were the disappearing lights of the _Lusitania_. The wind roared by as the great steamer rose and fell on the black stretch of waters. Peter stood very near to his companion. "Listen, Sogrange," he said, "the affair is clear now save for one thing." "You mean Sirdeller's motives?" "Not at all," Peter answered. "An hour ago I came across the explanation of these. The one thing I will tell you afterwards. Now listen. Sirdeller came abroad last year for twelve months' travel. He took a great house in San Sebastian." "Where did you hear this?" Sogrange asked. "I read the story in the _New York Herald_," Peter continued. "It is grossly exaggerated, of course, but this is the substance of it. Sirdeller and his suite were stopped upon the Spanish frontier and treated in an abominable fashion by the Customs officers. He was forced to pay a very large sum, unjustly, I should think. He paid under protest, appealed to the authorities, with no result. At San Sebastian he was robbed right and left, his privacy intruded upon. In short, he took a violent dislike and hatred to the country and everyone concerned in it. He moved with his entire suite to Nice, to the Golden Villa. There he expressed himself freely concerning Spain and her Government. Count von Hern heard of it and presented Marsine. The plot was, without doubt, Bernadine's. Can't you imagine how he would put it? 'A revolution,' he would tell Sirdeller, 'is imminent in Spain. Here is the new President of the Republic. Money is no more to you than water. You are a patriotic American. Have you forgotten that the finest warship your country ever built, with six hundred of her devoted citizens, was sent to the bottom by the treachery of one of this effete race? The war was an inefficient revenge. The country still flourishes. It is for you to avenge America. With money Marsine can establish a republic in Spain within twenty-four hours!' Sirdeller hesitates. He would point out that it had never been proved that the destruction of the _Maine_ was really due to Spanish treachery. It is the idea of a business man which followed. He, at his own expense, would raise the _Maine_. If it were true that the explosion occurred from outside, he would find the money. You see, the message has arrived. After all these years, the sea has given up its secret. Marsine will return to Spain with an unlimited credit behind him. The House of Asturias will crumble up like a pack of cards." Sogrange looked out into the darkness. Perhaps he saw in that great black gulf the pictures of these happenings, which his companion had prophesied. Perhaps, for a moment, he saw the panorama of a city in flames, the passing of a great country under the thrall of these new ideas. At any rate, he turned abruptly away from the side of the vessel and, taking Peter's arm, walked slowly down the deck. "You have solved the puzzle, Baron," he said, gravely. "Now tell me one thing. Your story seems to dovetail everywhere." "The one thing," Peter said, "is connected with the Duchesse. It was she, of her own will, who decided to come to America. I believe that but for her coming Bernadine and the Prince would have waited in their own country. Money can flash from America to England over the wires. It does not need to be fetched. They have still one fear. It is connected with the Duchesse. Let me think." They walked up and down the deck. The lights were extinguished one by one, except in the smoke-room. A strange breed of sailors from the lower deck came up, with mops and buckets. The wind changed its quarter and the great ship began to roll. Peter stopped abruptly. "I find this motion most unpleasant," he said. "I am going to bed. To-night I cannot think. To-morrow, I promise you, we will solve this. Hush!" He held out his hand and drew his companion back into the shadow of a lifeboat. A tall figure was approaching them along the deck. As he passed the little ray of light thrown out from the smoking-room, the man's features were clearly visible. It was the Prince. He was walking like one absorbed in thought. His eyes were set like a sleep-walker's. With one hand he gesticulated. The fingers of the other were twitching all the time. His head was lifted to the skies. There was something in his face which redeemed it from its disfiguring petulance. "It is the man who dreams of power," Peter whispered. "It is one of the best moments, this. He forgets the vulgar means by which he intends to rise. He thinks only of himself, the dictator, king, perhaps emperor. He is of the breed of egoists." Again and again the Prince passed, manifestly unconscious even of his whereabouts. Peter and Sogrange crept away unseen to their state-rooms. * * * * * In many respects the room resembled a miniature court of justice. The principal sitting-room of the royal suite, which was the chief glory of the _Adriatic_, had been stripped of every superfluous article of furniture or embellishment. Curtains had been removed, all evidences of luxury disposed of. Temporarily the apartment had been transformed into a bare, cheerless place. Seated on a high chair, with his back to the wall, was Sirdeller. At his right hand was a small table, on which stood a glass of milk, a phial, a stethoscope. Behind, his doctor. At his left hand, a smooth-faced, silent young man--his secretary. Before him stood the Duchesse, Peter and Sogrange. Guarding the door was one of the watchmen, who, from his great physique, might well have been a policeman out of livery. Sirdeller himself, in the clear light which streamed through the large window, seemed more aged and shrunken than ever. His eyes were deep-set. No tinge of colour was visible in his cheeks. His chin protruded, his shaggy grey eyebrows gave him an unkempt appearance. He wore a black velvet cap, a strangely cut black morning coat and trousers, felt slippers, and his hands were clasped upon a stout ash walking-stick. He eyed the new-comers keenly but without expression. "The lady may sit," he said. He spoke almost in an undertone, as though anxious to avoid the fatigue of words. The guardian of the door placed a chair, into which the Duchesse subsided. Sirdeller held his right hand towards his doctor, who felt his pulse. All the time Sirdeller watched him, his lips a little parted, a world of hungry excitement in his eyes. The doctor closed his watch with a snap and whispered something in Sirdeller's ear, apparently reassuring. "I will hear this story," Sirdeller announced. "In two minutes every one must leave. If it takes longer it must remain unfinished." Peter spoke up briskly. "The story is this," he began. "You have promised to assist the Prince of Marsine to transform Spain into a republic, providing the salvage operations on the _Maine_ prove that that ship was destroyed from outside. The salvage operations have been conducted at your expense, and finished. It has been proved that the _Maine_ was destroyed by a mine or torpedo from the outside. Therefore, on the assumption that it was the treacherous deed of a Spaniard or Cuban imagining himself to be a patriot, you are prepared to carry out your undertaking and supply the Prince of Marsine with means to overthrow the kingdom of Spain." Peter paused. The figure on the chair remained motionless. No flicker of intelligence or interest disturbed the calm of his features. It was a silence almost unnatural. "I have brought the Duchesse here," Peter continued, "to tell you the truth as to the _Maine_ disaster." Not even then was there the slightest alteration in those ashen grey features. The Duchesse looked up. She had the air of one only too eager to speak and finish. "In those days," she said, "I was the wife of a rich Cuban gentleman whose name I withhold. The American officers on board the _Maine_ used to visit at our house. My husband was jealous; perhaps he had cause." The Duchesse paused. Even though the light of tragedy and romance side by side seemed suddenly to creep into the room, Sirdeller listened as one come back from a dead world. "One night," the Duchesse went on, "my husband's suspicions were changed into knowledge. He came home unexpectedly. The American--the officer--I loved him--was there on the balcony with me. My husband said nothing. The officer returned to his ship. That night my husband came into my room. He bent over my bed. 'It is not you,' he whispered, 'whom I shall destroy, for the pain of death is short. Anguish of mind may live. To-night, six hundred ghosts may hang about your pillow!'" Her voice broke. There was something grim and unnatural in that curious stillness. Even the secretary was at last breathing a little faster. The watchman at the door was leaning forward. Sirdeller simply moved his hand to the doctor, who held up his finger while he felt the pulse. The beat of his watch seemed to sound through the unnatural silence. In a minute he spoke. "The lady may proceed," he announced. "My husband," the Duchesse continued, "was an officer in charge of the Mines and Ordnance Department. He went out that night in a small boat, after a visit to the strong house. No soul has ever seen or heard of him since, or his boat. It is only I who know." Her voice died away. Sirdeller stretched out his hand and very deliberately drank a table-spoonful or two of his milk. "I believe the lady's story," he declared. "The Marsine affair is finished. Let no one be admitted to have speech with me again upon this subject." He had half turned towards his secretary. The young man bowed. The doctor pointed towards the door. The Duchesse, Peter, and Sogrange filed slowly out. In the bright sunlight the Duchesse burst into a peal of hysterical laughter. Even Peter felt, for a moment, unnerved. Suddenly he, too, laughed. "I think," he said, "that you and I had better get out of the way, Sogrange, when the Count von Hern meets us at New York!" CHAPTER VIII AN ALIEN SOCIETY Sogrange and Peter, Baron de Grost, standing upon the threshold of their hotel, gazed out upon New York and liked the look of it. They had landed from the steamer a few hours before, had already enjoyed the luxury of a bath, a visit to an American barber's, and a genuine cocktail. "I see no reason," Sogrange declared, "why we should not take a week's holiday." Peter, glancing up into the blue sky and down into the faces of the well-dressed and beautiful women who were streaming up Fifth Avenue, was wholly of the same mind. "If we return by this afternoon's steamer," he remarked, "we shall have Bernadine for a fellow-passenger. Bernadine is annoyed with us just now. I must confess that I should feel more at my ease with a few thousand miles of the Atlantic between us." "Let it be so," Sogrange assented. "We will explore this marvellous city. Never," he added, taking his companion's arm, "did I expect to see such women save in my own, the mistress of all cities. So _chic_, my dear Baron, and such a carriage! We will lunch at one of the fashionable restaurants and drive in the Park afterwards. First of all, however, we must take a stroll along this wonderful Fifth Avenue." The two men spent a morning after their own hearts. They lunched astonishingly well at Sherry's and drove afterwards in the Central Park. When they returned to the hotel Sogrange was in excellent spirits. "I feel, my friend," he announced, "that we are going to have a very pleasant and, in some respects, a unique week. To meet friends and acquaintances everywhere, as one must do in every capital in Europe, is, of course, pleasant, but there is a monotony about it from which one is glad sometimes to escape. We lunch here and we promenade in the places frequented by those of a similar station to our own, and behold! we know no one. We are lookers on. Perhaps, for a long time, it might gall. For a brief period there is a restfulness about it which pleases me." "I should have liked," Peter murmured, "an introduction to the lady in the blue hat." "You are a gregarious animal," Sogrange declared. "You do not understand the pleasure of a little comparative isolation with an intellectual companion such as myself. What the devil is the meaning of this?" They had reached their sitting-room, and upon a small round table stood a great collection of cards and notes. Sogrange took them up helplessly, one after the other, reading the names aloud and letting them fall through his fingers. Some were known to him, some were not. He began to open the notes. In effect they were all the same--On what day would the Marquis de Sogrange and his distinguished friend care to dine, lunch, yacht, golf, shoot, go to the opera, join a theatre party? Of what clubs would they care to become members? What kind of hospitality would be most acceptable? Sogrange sank into a chair. "My friend," he exclaimed, "they all have to be answered--that collection there! The visits have to be returned. It is magnificent, this hospitality, but what can one do?" Peter looked at the pile of correspondence upon which Sogrange's inroad, indeed, seemed to have had but little effect. "One could engage a secretary, of course," he suggested, doubtfully. "But the visits! Our week's holiday is gone." "Not at all," Sogrange replied. "I have an idea." The telephone bell rang. Peter took up the receiver and listened for a moment. He turned to Sogrange, still holding it in his hand. "You will be pleased, also, to hear," he announced, "that there are half a dozen reporters downstairs waiting to interview us." Sogrange received the information with interest. "Have them sent up at once," he directed, "every one of them." "What, all at the same time?" Peter asked. "All at the same time it must be," Sogrange answered. "Give them to understand that it is an affair of five minutes only." They came trooping in. Sogrange welcomed them cordially. "My friend the Baron de Grost," he explained, indicating Peter. "I am the Marquis de Sogrange. Let us know what we can do to serve you." One of the men stepped forward. "Very glad to meet you, Marquis, and you, Baron," he said. "I won't bother you with any introductions, but I and the company here represent the Press of New York. We should like some information for our papers as to the object of your visit here and the probable length of your stay." Sogrange extended his hands. "My dear friend," he exclaimed, "the object of our visit was, I thought, already well known. We are on our way to Mexico. We leave to-night. My friend, the Baron is, as you know, a financier. I, too, have a little money to invest. We are going to meet some business acquaintances with a view to inspecting some mining properties. That is absolutely all I can tell you. You can understand, of course, that fuller information would be impossible." "Why, that's quite natural, Marquis," the spokesman of the reporters replied. "We don't like the idea of your hustling out of New York like this, though." Sogrange looked at the clock. "It is unavoidable," he declared. "We are relying upon you, gentlemen, to publish the fact, because you will see," he added, pointing to the table, "that we have been the recipients of a great many civilities which it is impossible for us to acknowledge properly. If it will give you any pleasure to see us upon our return, you will be very welcome. In the meantime, you will understand our haste." There were a few more civilities and the representatives of the Press took their departure. Peter looked at his companion doubtfully as Sogrange returned from showing them out. "I suppose this means that we have to catch to-day's steamer after all?" he remarked. "Not necessarily," Sogrange answered. "I have a plan. We will leave for the Southern Depot, wherever it may be. Afterwards, you shall use that wonderful skill of yours, of which I have heard so much, to effect some slight change in our appearance. We will then go to another hotel, in another quarter of New York, and take our week's holiday incognito. What do you think of that for an idea?" "Not much," Peter replied. "It isn't so easy to dodge the newspapers and the Press in this country. Besides, although I could manage myself very well, you would be an exceedingly awkward subject. Your tall and elegant figure, your aquiline nose, the shapeliness of your hands and feet, give you a distinction which I should find it hard to conceal." Sogrange smiled. "You are a remarkably observant fellow, Baron. I quite appreciate your difficulty. Still, with a club foot, eh?--and spectacles instead of my eyeglasses----" "Oh, no doubt something could be managed," Peter interrupted. "You're really in earnest about this, are you?" "Absolutely," Sogrange declared. "Come here." He drew Peter to the window. They were on the twelfth story, and to a European there was something magnificent in that tangled mass of buildings threaded by the elevated railway, with its screaming trains, the clearness of the atmosphere, and in the white streets below, like polished belts through which the swarms of people streamed like insects. "Imagine it all lit up!" Sogrange exclaimed. "The sky-signs all ablaze, the flashing of fire from those cable wires, the lights glittering from those tall buildings! This is a wonderful place, Baron. We must see it. Ring for the bill. Order one of those magnificent omnibuses. Press the button, too, for the personage whom they call the valet. Perhaps, with a little gentle persuasion, he could be induced to pack our clothes." With his finger upon the bell, Peter hesitated. He, too, loved adventures, but the gloom of a presentiment had momentarily depressed him. "We are marked men, remember, Sogrange," he said. "An escapade of this sort means a certain amount of risk, even in New York." Sogrange laughed. "Bernadine caught the midday steamer. We have no enemies here that I know of." Peter pressed the button. An hour or so later the Marquis de Sogrange and Peter, Baron de Grost, took their leave of New York. They chose an hotel some distance down Broadway, within a stone's throw of Rector's Restaurant. Peter, with whitened hair, gold-rimmed spectacles, a slouch hat and a fur coat, passed easily enough for an English maker of electrical instruments; while Sogrange, shabbier, and in ready-made American clothes, was transformed into a Canadian having some connection with theatrical business. They plunged into the heart of New York life, and found the whole thing like a tonic. The intense vitality of the people, the pandemonium of Broadway at midnight, with its flaming illuminations, its eager crowd, its inimitable restlessness, fascinated them both. Sogrange, indeed, remembering the decadent languor of the crowds of pleasure-seekers thronging his own boulevards, was never weary of watching these men and women. They passed from the streets to the restaurants, from the restaurants to the theatre, out into the streets again, back to the restaurants, and once more into the streets. Sogrange was like a glutton. The mention of bed was hateful to him. For three days they existed without a moment's boredom. On the fourth evening Peter found Sogrange deep in conversation with the head porter. In a few minutes he led Peter away to one of the bars where they usually took their cocktail. "My friend," he announced, "to-night I have a treat for you. So far we have looked on at the external night life of New York. Wonderful and thrilling it has been, too. But there is the underneath also. Why not? There is a vast polyglot population here, full of energy and life. A criminal class exists as a matter of course. To-night we make our bow to it." "And by what means?" Peter inquired. "Our friend the hall porter," Sogrange continued, "has given me the card of an ex-detective who will be our escort. He calls for us to-night, or rather, to-morrow morning, at one o'clock. Then, behold! the wand is waved, the land of adventures opens before us." Peter grunted. "I don't want to damp your enthusiasm, my Canadian friend," he said, "but the sort of adventures you may meet with to-night are scarcely likely to fire your romantic nature. I know a little about what they call this underneath world in New York. It will probably resolve itself into a visit to Chinatown, where we shall find the usual dummies taking opium, and quite prepared to talk about it for the usual tip. After that we shall visit a few low dancing halls, be shown the scene of several murders, and the thing is done." "You are a cynic," Sogrange declared. "You would throw cold water upon any enterprise. Anyway, our detective is coming. We must make use of him, for I have engaged to pay him five dollars." "We'll go where you like," Peter assented, "so long as we dine on a roof garden. This beastly fur coat keeps me in a chronic state of perspiration." "Never mind," Sogrange said consolingly, "it's most effective. A roof garden, by all means." "And recollect," Peter insisted, "I bar Chinatown. We've both of us seen the real thing, and there's nothing real about what they show you here." "Chinatown is erased from our programme," Sogrange agreed. "We go now to dine. Remind me, Baron, that I inquire for these strange dishes of which one hears--terrapin, canvas-backed duck, green corn, and strawberry shortcake." Peter smiled grimly. "How like a Frenchman," he exclaimed, "to take no account of seasons! Never mind, Marquis, you shall give your order and I will sketch the waiter's face. By the by, if you're in earnest about this expedition to-night, put your revolver into your pocket." "But we're going with an ex-detective," Sogrange replied. "One never knows," Peter said carelessly. They dined close to the stone palisading of one of New York's most famous roof gardens. Sogrange ordered an immense dinner, but spent most of his time gazing downwards. They were higher up than at the hotel, and they could see across the tangled maze of lights even to the river, across which the great ferry boats were speeding all the while--huge creatures of streaming fire and whistling sirens. The air where they sat was pure and crisp. There was no fog, no smoke, to cloud the almost crystalline clearness of the night. "Baron," Sogrange declared, "if I had lived in this city I should have been a different man. No wonder the people are all-conquering." "Too much electricity in the air for me," Peter answered. "I like a little repose. I can't think where these people find it." "One hopes," Sogrange murmured, "that before they progress any further in utilitarianism they will find some artist, one of themselves, to express all this." "In the meantime," Peter interrupted, "the waiter would like to know what we are going to drink. I've eaten such a confounded jumble of things of your ordering that I should like some champagne." "Who shall say that I am not generous!" Sogrange replied, taking up the wine carte. "Champagne it shall be. We need something to nerve us for our adventures." Peter leaned across the table. "Sogrange," he whispered, "for the last twenty-four hours I have had some doubts as to the success of our little enterprise. It has occurred to me more than once that we are being shadowed." Sogrange frowned. "I sometimes wonder," he remarked, "how a man of your suspicious nature ever acquired the reputation you undoubtedly enjoy." "Perhaps it is because of my suspicious nature," Peter said. "There is a man staying in our hotel whom we are beginning to see quite a great deal of. He was talking to the head porter a few minutes before you this afternoon. He supped at the same restaurant last night. He is dining now, three places behind you to the right, with a young lady who has been making flagrant attempts to flirtation with me, notwithstanding my grey hairs." "Your reputation, my dear Peter," Sogrange murmured. "As a decoy," Peter interrupted, "the young lady's methods are too vigorous. She pretends to be terribly afraid of her companion, but it is entirely obvious that she is acting on his instructions. Of course, this may be a ruse of the reporters. On the other hand, I think it would be wise to abandon our little expedition to-night." Sogrange shook his head. "So far as I am concerned," he said, "I am committed to it." "In which case," Peter replied, "I am certainly committed to being your companion. The only question is whether one shall fall to the decoy and suffer oneself to be led in the direction her companion desires, or whether we shall go blundering into trouble on our own account with your friend the ex-detective." Sogrange glanced over his shoulder, leaned back in his chair, for a moment, as though to look at the stars, and finally lit a cigarette. "There is a lack of subtlety about that young person, Baron," he declared, "which stifles one's suspicions. I suspect her to be merely one more victim to your undoubted charms. In the interests of madame your wife I shall take you away. The decoy shall weave her spells in vain." They paid their bill and departed a few minutes later. The man and the girl were also in the act of leaving. The former seemed to be having some dispute about the bill. The girl, standing with her back to him, scribbled a line upon a piece of paper, and, as Peter went by, pushed it into his hand with a little warning gesture. In the lift he opened it. The few pencilled words contained nothing but an address: Number 15, 100th Street, East. "Lucky man!" Sogrange sighed. Peter made no remark, but he was thoughtful for the next hour or so. The ex-detective proved to be an individual of fairly obvious appearance, whose complexion and thirst indicated a very possible reason for his life of leisure. He heard with surprise that his patrons were not inclined to visit Chinatown, but he showed a laudable desire to fall in with their schemes, provided always that they included a reasonable number of visits to places where refreshments could be obtained. From first to last the expedition was a disappointment. They visited various smoke-hung dancing halls, decorated for the most part with oleographs and cracked mirrors, in which sickly-looking young men of unwholesome aspect were dancing with their feminine counterparts. The attitude of their guide was alone amusing. "Say, you want to be careful in here!" he would declare, in an awed tone, on entering one of these tawdry palaces. "Guess this is one of the toughest spots in New York City. You stick close to me and I'll make things all right." His method of making things all right was the same in every case. He would form a circle of disreputable youths, for whose drinks Sogrange was called upon to pay. The attitude of the young men was more dejected than positively vicious. They showed not the slightest signs of any desire to make themselves unpleasant. Only once, when Sogrange incautiously displayed a gold watch, did the eyes of one or two of their number glisten. The ex-detective changed his place and whispered hoarsely in his patron's ear: "Say, don't you flash anything of that sort about here! That young cove right opposite to you is one of the best-known sneak-thieves in the city. You're asking for trouble that way." "If he or any other of them want my watch," Sogrange answered, calmly, "let them come and fetch it. However," he added, buttoning up his coat, "no doubt you are right. Is there anywhere else to take us?" The man hesitated. "There ain't much that you haven't seen," he remarked. Sogrange laughed softly as he rose to his feet. "A sell, my dear friend," he said to Peter. "This terrible city keeps its real criminal class somewhere else rather than in the show places." A man who had been standing in the doorway, looking in for several moments, strolled up to them. Peter recognised him at once and touched Sogrange on the arm. The new-comer accosted them pleasantly. "Say, you'll excuse my butting in," he began, "but I can see you are kind of disappointed. These suckers"--indicating the ex-detective--"talk a lot about what they're going to show you, and when they get you round, it all amounts to nothing. This is the sort of thing they bring you to as representing the wickedness of New York! That's so, Rastall, isn't it?" The ex-detective looked a little sheepish. "Yes, there ain't much more to be seen," he admitted. "Perhaps you'll take the job on if you think there is." "Well, I'd engage to show the gentlemen something a sight more interesting than this," the new-comer continued. "They don't want to sit down and drink with the scum of the earth." "Perhaps," Sogrange suggested, "this gentleman has something in his mind which he thinks would appeal to us. We have a motor-car outside, and we are out for adventures." "What sort of adventures?" the new-comer asked bluntly. Sogrange shrugged his shoulders lightly. "We are lookers-on merely," he explained. "My friend and I have travelled a good deal. We have seen something of criminal life in Paris and London, Vienna, and Budapest. I shall not break any confidence if I tell you that my friend is a writer, and material such as this is useful." The new-comer smiled. "Say," he exclaimed, "in a way, it's fortunate for you that I happened along! You come right with me and I'll show you something that very few other people in this city know of. Guess you'd better pay this fellow off," he added, indicating the ex-detective. "He's no more use to you." Sogrange and Peter exchanged questioning glances. "It is very kind of you, sir," Peter decided, "but for my part I have had enough for one evening." "Just as you like, of course," the other remarked, with studied unconcern. "What kind of place would it be?" Sogrange asked. The new-comer drew them on one side, although, as a matter of fact, everyone else had melted away. "Have you ever heard of the secret societies of New York?" he inquired. "Well, I guess you haven't, anyway--not to know anything about them. Well, then, listen. There's a society meets within a few steps of here, which has more to do with regulating the criminal classes of the city than any police establishment. There'll be a man there within an hour or so who, to my knowledge, has committed seven murders. The police can't get him. They never will. He's under our protection." "May we visit such a place as you describe without danger?" Peter asked calmly. "No!" the man answered. "There's danger in going anywhere, it seems to me, if it's worth while. So long as you keep a still tongue in your head and don't look about you too much, there's nothing will happen to you. If you get gassing a lot, you might tumble in for almost anything. Don't come unless you like. It's a chance for you, as you're a writer, but you'd best keep out of it if you're in any way nervous." "You said it was quite close?" Sogrange inquired. "Within a yard or two," the man replied. "It's right this way." They left the hall with their new escort. When they looked for their motor-car, they found it had gone. "It don't do to keep them things waiting about round here," their new friend remarked, carelessly. "I guess I'll send you back to your hotel all right. Step this way." "By the by, what street is this we are in?" Peter asked. "100th Street," the man answered. Peter shook his head. "I'm a little superstitious about that number," he declared. "Is that an elevated railway there? I think we've had enough, Sogrange." Sogrange hesitated. They were standing now in front of a tall, gloomy house, unkempt, with broken gate--a large but miserable-looking abode. The passers-by in the street were few. The whole character of the surroundings was squalid. The man pushed open the broken gate. "You cross the road right there to the elevated," he directed. "If you ain't coming, I'll bid you good-night." Once more they hesitated. Peter, perhaps, saw more than his companion. He saw the dark shapes lurking under the railway arch. He knew instinctively that they were in some sort of danger. And yet the love of adventure was on fire in his blood. His belief in himself was immense. He whispered to Sogrange. "I do not trust our guide," he said. "If you care to risk it, I am with you." "Mind the broken pavement," the man called out. "This ain't exactly an abode of luxury." They climbed some broken steps. Their guide opened a door with a Yale key. The door swung to after them and they found themselves in darkness. There had been no light in the windows. There was no light, apparently, in the house. Their companion produced an electric torch from his pocket. "You had best follow me," he advised. "Our quarters face out the other way. We keep this end looking a little deserted." They passed through a swing door and everything was at once changed. A multitude of lamps hung from the ceiling, the floor was carpeted, the walls clean. "We don't go in for electric light," their guide explained, "as we try not to give the place away. We manage to keep it fairly comfortable, though." He pushed open the door and entered a somewhat gorgeously furnished salon. There were signs here of feminine occupation, an open piano, and the smell of cigarettes. Once more Peter hesitated. "Your friends seem to be in hiding," he remarked. "Personally, I am losing my curiosity." "Guess you won't have to wait very long," the man replied, with meaning. The room was suddenly invaded on all sides. Four doors, which were quite hidden by the pattern of the wall, had opened almost simultaneously, and at least a dozen men had entered. This time both Sogrange and Peter knew that they were face to face with the real thing. These were men who came silently in, not cigarette-stunted youths. Two of them were in evening dress; three or four had the appearance of prize-fighters. In their countenances was one expression common to all--an air of quiet and conscious strength. A fair-headed man, in a dinner jacket and black tie, became at once their spokesman. He was possessed of a very slight American accent, and he beamed at them through a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. "Gentlemen," he said, "I am very glad to meet you both." "Very kind of you, I'm sure," Sogrange answered. "Our friend here," he added, indicating their guide, "found us trying to gain a little insight into the more interesting part of New York life. He was kind enough to express a wish to introduce us to you." The man smiled. He looked very much like some studious clerk, except that his voice seemed to ring with some latent power. "I am afraid," he said, "that your friend's interest in you was not entirely unselfish. For three days he has carried in his pocket an order instructing him to produce you here." "I knew it!" Peter whispered, under his breath. "You interest me," Sogrange replied. "May I know whom I have the honour of addressing?" "You can call me Burr," the man announced; "Philip Burr. Your names it is not our wish to know." "I am afraid I do not quite understand," Sogrange said. "It was scarcely to be expected that you should," Mr. Philip Burr admitted. "All I can tell you is that, in cases like yours, I really prefer not to know with whom I have to deal." "You speak as though you had business with us," Peter remarked. "Without doubt, I have," the other replied, grimly. "It is my business to see that you do not leave these premises alive." Sogrange drew up a chair against which he had been leaning, and sat down. "Really," he said, "that would be most inconvenient." Peter, too, shook his head, sitting upon the end of a sofa and folding his arms. Something told him that the moment for fighting was not yet. "Inconvenient or not," Mr. Philip Burr continued, "I have orders to carry out which I can assure you have never yet been disobeyed since the formation of our society. From what I can see of you, you appear to be very amiable gentlemen, and if it would interest you to choose the method--say, of your release--why, I can assure you we'll do all we can to meet your views." "I am beginning," Sogrange remarked, "to feel quite at home." "You see, we've been through this sort of thing before," Peter added, blandly. Mr. Philip Burr took a cigar from his case and lit it. At a motion of his hand one of the company passed the box to his two guests. "You're not counting upon a visit from the police, or anything of that sort, I hope?" Mr. Philip Burr asked. Sogrange shook his head. "Certainly not," he replied. "I may say that much of the earlier portion of my life was spent in frustrating the well-meant but impossible schemes of that body of men." "If only we had a little more time," Mr. Burr declared, "it seems to me I should like to make the acquaintance of you two gentlemen." "The matter is entirely in your own hands," Peter reminded him. "We are in no hurry." Mr. Burr smiled genially. "You make me think better of humanity," he confessed. "A month ago we had a man here--got him along somehow or other--and I had to tell him that he was up against it like you two are. My! the fuss he made! Kind of saddened me to think a man should be such a coward." "Some people are like that," Sogrange remarked. "By the by, Mr. Burr, you'll pardon my curiosity. Whom have we to thank for our introduction here to-night?" "I don't know as there's any particular harm in telling you," Mr. Burr replied. "Nor any particular good," a man who was standing by his side interrupted. "Say, Phil, you drag these things out too much. Are there any questions you've got to ask 'em, or any property to collect?" "Nothing of the sort," Mr. Burr admitted. "Then let the gang get to work," the other declared. The two men were suddenly conscious that they were being surrounded. Peter's hand stole on to the butt of his revolver. Sogrange rose slowly to his feet. His hands were thrust out in front of him with the thumbs turned down. The four fingers of each hand flashed for a minute through the air. Mr. Philip Burr lost all his self-control. "Say, where the devil did you learn that trick?" he cried. Sogrange laughed scornfully. "Trick!" he exclaimed. "Philip Burr, you are unworthy of your position. I am the Marquis de Sogrange, and my friend here is the Baron de Grost." Mr. Philip Burr had no words. His cigar had dropped on to the carpet. He was simply staring. "If you need proof," Sogrange continued, "further than any I have given you, I have in my pocket, at the present moment, a letter, signed by you yourself, pleading for formal reinstatement. This is how you would qualify for it! You make use of your power to run a common decoy house, to do away with men for money. What fool gave you our names, pray?" Mr. Philip Burr was only the wreck of a man. He could not even control his voice. "It was some German or Belgian nobleman," he faltered. "He brought us excellent letters, and he made a large contribution. It was the Count von Hern." The anger of Sogrange seemed suddenly to fade away. He threw himself into a chair by the side of his companion. "My dear Baron," he exclaimed, "Bernadine has scored, indeed! Your friend has a sense of humour which overwhelms me. Imagine it. He has delivered the two heads of our great society into the hands of one of its cast-off branches! Bernadine is a genius, indeed!" Mr. Philip Burr began slowly to recover himself. He waved his hand. Nine out of the twelve men left the room. "Marquis," he said, "for ten years there has been no one whom I have desired to meet so much as you. I came to Europe, but you declined to receive me. I know very well we can't keep our end up like you over there, because we haven't politics and those sort of things to play with, but we've done our best. We've encouraged only criminology of the highest order. We've tried all we can to keep the profession select. The gaol-bird pure and simple we have cast out. The men who have suffered at our hands have been men who have met with their deserts." "What about us?" Peter demanded. "It seems to me that you had most unpleasant plans for our future." Philip Burr held up his hands. "As I live," he declared, "this is the first time that any money consideration has induced me to break away from our principles. Count von Hern had powerful friends who were our friends, and he gave me the word, straight, that you two had an appointment down below which was considerably overdue. I don't know, even now, why I consented. I guess it isn't much use apologising." Sogrange rose to his feet. "Well," he said, "I am not inclined to bear malice, but you must understand this from me, Philip Burr. As a society I dissolve you. I deprive you of your title and of your signs. Call yourself what you will, but never again mention the name of the 'Double Four.' With us in Europe another era has dawned. We are on the side of law and order. We protect only criminals of a certain class, in whose operations we have faith. There is no future for such a society in this country. Therefore, as I say, I dissolve it. Now, if you are ready, perhaps you will be so good as to provide us with the means of reaching our hotel." Philip Burr led them into a back street, where his own handsome automobile was placed at their service. "This kind of breaks me all up," he declared, as he gave the instructions to the chauffeur. "If there were two men on the face of this earth whom I'd have been proud to meet in a friendly sort of way, it's you two." "We bear no malice, Mr. Burr," Sogrange assured him. "You can, if you will do us the honour, lunch with us to-morrow at one o'clock at Rector's. My friend here is very interested in the Count von Hern, and he would probably like to hear exactly how this affair was arranged." "I'll be there, sure," Philip Burr promised with a farewell wave of the hand. Sogrange and Peter drove towards their hotel in silence. It was only when they emerged into the civilised part of the city that Sogrange began to laugh softly. "My friend," he murmured, "you bluffed fairly well, but you were afraid. Oh, how I smiled to see your fingers close round the butt of that revolver!" "What about you?" Peter asked gruffly. "You don't suppose you took me in, do you?" Sogrange smiled. "I had two reasons for coming to New York," he said. "One we accomplished upon the steamer. The other was----" "Well?" "To reply personally to this letter of Mr. Philip Burr," Sogrange replied, "which letter, by the by, was dated from 15, 100th Street, New York. An ordinary visit there would have been useless to me. Something of this sort was necessary." "Then you knew!" Peter gasped. "Notwithstanding all your bravado, you knew." "I had a very fair idea," Sogrange admitted. "Don't be annoyed with me, my friend. You have had a little experience. It is all useful. It isn't the first time you've looked death in the face. Adventures come to some men unasked. You, I think, were born with the habit of them." Peter smiled. They had reached the hotel courtyard, and he raised himself stiffly. "There's a fable about the pitcher that went once too often to the well," he remarked. "I have had my share of luck--more than my share. The end must come some time, you know." "Is this superstition?" Sogrange asked. "Superstition pure and simple," Peter confessed, taking his key from the office. "It doesn't alter anything. I am fatalist enough to shrug my shoulders and move on. But I tell you, Sogrange," he added, after a moment's pause, "I wouldn't admit it to anyone else in the world, but I am afraid of Bernadine. I have had the best of it so often. It can't last. In all we've had twelve encounters. The next will be the thirteenth." Sogrange shrugged his shoulders slightly as he rang for the lift. "I'd propose you for the Thirteen Club, only there's some uncomfortable clause about yearly suicides which might not suit you," he remarked. "Good night, and don't dream of Bernadine and your thirteenth encounter." "I only hope," Peter murmured, "that I may be in a position to dream after it!" CHAPTER IX THE MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN Baron de Grost glanced at the card which his butler had brought in to him, carelessly at first, afterwards with that curious rigidity of attention which usually denotes the setting free of a flood of memories. "The gentleman would like to see you, sir," the man announced. "You can show him in at once," Peter replied. The servant withdrew. Peter, during those few minutes of waiting, stood with his back to the room and his face to the window, looking out across the square, in reality seeing nothing, completely immersed in this strange flood of memories. John Dory--Sir John Dory now--a quondam enemy, whom he had met but seldom during these later years. The figure of this man, who had once loomed so largely in his life, had gradually shrunk away into the background. Their avoidance of each other arose, perhaps, from a sort of instinct which was certainly no matter of ill-will. Still, the fact remained that they had scarcely exchanged a word for years, and Peter turned to receive his unexpected guest with a curiosity which he did not trouble wholly to conceal. Sir John Dory--Chief Commissioner of Scotland Yard, a person of weight and importance--had changed a great deal during the last few years. His hair had become grey, his walk more dignified. There was the briskness, however, of his best days in his carriage, and in the flash of his brown eyes. He held out his hand to his ancient foe with a smile. "My dear Baron," he said, "I hope you are going to say that you are glad to see me." "Unless," Peter replied, with a good-humoured grimace, "your visit is official, I am more than glad--I am charmed. Sit down. I was just going to take my morning cigar. You will join me? Good! Now I am ready for the worst that can happen." The two men seated themselves. John Dory pulled at his cigar appreciatively, sniffed its flavour for a moment, and then leaned forward in his chair. "My visit, Baron," he announced, "is semi-official. I am here to ask you a favour." "An official favour?" Peter demanded quickly. His visitor hesitated, as though he found the question hard to answer. "To tell you the truth," he declared, "this call of mine is wholly an inspiration. It does not in any way concern you personally, or your position in this country. What that may be I do not know, except that I am sure it is above any suspicion." "Quite so," Peter murmured. "How diplomatic you have become, my dear friend!" John Dory smiled. "Perhaps I am fencing about too much," he said. "I know, of course, that you are a member of a very powerful and wealthy French society, whose object and aims, so far as I know, are entirely harmless." "I am delighted to be assured that you recognise that fact," Peter admitted. "I might add," John Dory continued, "that this harmlessness is of recent date." "Really, you do seem to know a good deal," Peter confessed. "I find myself still fencing," Dory declared. "A matter of habit, I suppose. I didn't mean to when I came. I made up my mind to tell you simply that Guillot was in London, and to ask you if you could help me to get rid of him." Peter looked thoughtfully into his companion's face, but he did not speak. He understood at such moments the value of silence. "We speak together," Dory continued softly, "as men who understand one another. Guillot is the one criminal in Europe whom we all fear; not I alone, mind you--it is the same in Berlin, in Petersburg, in Vienna. He has never been caught. It is my honest belief that he never will be caught. At the same time, wherever he arrives the thunderclouds gather. He leaves behind him always a trail of evil deeds." "Very well put," Peter murmured. "Quite picturesque." "Can you help me to get rid of him?" Dory inquired. "I have my hands full just now, as you can imagine, what with the political crisis and these constant mass meetings. I want Guillot out of the country. If you can manage this for me I shall be your eternal debtor." "Why do you imagine," Peter asked, "that I can help you in this matter?" There was a brief silence. John Dory knocked the ash from his cigar. "Times have changed," he said. "The harmlessness of your great society, my dear Baron, is at present admitted. But there were days----" "Exactly," Peter interrupted. "As shrewd as ever, I perceive. Do you know anything of the object of his coming?" "Nothing." "Anything of his plans?" "Nothing." "You know where he is staying?" "Naturally," Dory answered. "He has taken a second-floor flat in Crayshaw Mansions, Shaftesbury Avenue. As usual, he is above all petty artifices. He has taken it under the name of Monsieur Guillot." "I really don't know whether there is anything I can do," Peter decided, "but I will look into the matter for you with pleasure. Perhaps I may be able to bring a little influence to bear--indirectly, of course. If so, it is at your service. Lady Dory is well, I trust?" "In the best of health," Sir John replied, accepting the hint and rising to his feet. "I shall hear from you soon?" "Without a doubt," Peter answered. "I must certainly call upon Monsieur Guillot." Peter wasted no time in paying his promised visit. That same afternoon he rang the bell at the flat in Crayshaw Mansions. A typical French butler showed him into the room where the great man sat. Monsieur Guillot, slight, elegant, preeminently a dandy, was lounging upon a sofa, being manicured by a young lady. He threw down his _Petit Journal_ and rose to his feet, however, at his visitor's entrance. "My dear Baron," he exclaimed, "but this is charming of you! Mademoiselle," he added, turning to the manicurist, "you will do me the favour of retiring for a short time. Permit me." He opened the door and showed her out. Then he came back to Peter. "A visit of courtesy, Monsieur le Baron?" he asked. "Without a doubt," Peter replied. "It is beyond all measure charming of you," Guillot declared, "but let me ask you a question. Is it peace or war?" "It is what you choose to make it," Peter answered. The man threw out his hands. There was the shadow of a frown upon his pale forehead. It was a matter for protest, this. "Why do you come?" he demanded. "What have we in common? The society has expelled me. Very well, I go my own way. Why not? I am free of your control to-day. You have no more right to interfere with my schemes than I with yours." "We have the ancient right of power," Peter said grimly. "You were once a prominent member of our organisation, the spoilt protégé of madame, a splendid maker, if you will, of criminal history. Those days have passed. We offered you a pension which you have refused. It is now our turn to speak. We require you to leave this city in twenty-four hours." The man's face was livid with anger. He was of the fair type of Frenchman, with deep-set eyes, and a straight, cruel mouth only partly concealed by his golden moustache. Just now, notwithstanding the veneer of his too perfect clothes and civilised air, the beast had leapt out. His face was like the face of a snarling animal. "I refuse!" he cried. "It is I who refuse! I am here on my own affairs. What they may be is no business of yours or of anyone else's. That is my answer to you, Baron de Grost, whether you come to me for yourself or on behalf of the society to which I no longer belong. That is my answer--that and the door," he added, pressing the bell. "If you will, we fight. If you are wise, forget this visit as quickly as you can." Peter took up his hat. The man-servant was already in the room. "We shall probably meet again before your return, Monsieur Guillot," he remarked. Guillot had recovered himself. His smile was wicked, but his bow perfection. "To the fortunate hour, Monsieur le Baron!" he replied. Peter drove back to Berkeley Square, and without a moment's hesitation pressed the levers which set in work the whole underground machinery of the great power which he controlled. Thence-forward Monsieur Guillot was surrounded with a vague army of silent watchers. They passed in and out even of his flat, their motor-cars were as fast as his in the streets, their fancy in restaurants identical with his. Guillot moved through it all like a man wholly unconscious of espionage, showing nothing of the murderous anger which burned in his blood. The reports came to Peter every hour, although there was, indeed, nothing worth chronicling. Monsieur Guillot's visit to London would seem, indeed, to be a visit of gallantry. He spent most of his time with Mademoiselle Louise, the famous dancer. He was prominent at the Empire to watch her nightly performance; they were a noticeable couple supping together at the Milan afterwards. Peter smiled as he read the reports. Monsieur Guillot was indeed a man of gallantry, but he had the reputation of using these affairs to cloak his real purpose. Those who watched him watched only the more closely. Monsieur Guillot, who stood it very well at first, unfortunately lost his temper. He drove to Berkeley Square in the great motor-car which he had brought with him from Paris, and confronted Peter. "My friend," he exclaimed, though, indeed, the glitter in his eyes knew nothing of friendship, "it is intolerable, this! Do you think that I do not see through these dummy waiters, these obsequious shopmen, these ladies who drop their eyes when I pass, these commissionaires, these would-be acquaintances? I tell you that they irritate me, this incompetent, futile crowd. You pit them against me! Bah! You should know better. When I choose to disappear, I shall disappear, and no one will follow me. When I strike, I shall strike, and no one will discover what my will may be. You are out of date, dear Baron, with your third-rate army of stupid spies. You succeed in one thing only--you succeed in making me angry." "It is at least an achievement, that," Peter declared. "Perhaps," Monsieur Guillot admitted fiercely. "Yet mark now the result. I defy you, you and all of them. Look at your clock. It is five minutes to seven. It goes well, that clock, eh?" "It is the correct time," Peter said. "Then by midnight," Guillot continued, shaking his fist in the other's face, "I shall have done that thing which brought me to England, and I shall have disappeared. I shall have done it in spite of your watchers, in spite of your spies, in spite, even, of you, Monsieur le Baron de Grost. There is my challenge. _Voilà._ Take it up if you will. At midnight you shall hear me laugh. I have the honour to wish you good night!" Peter opened the door with his own hands. "This is excellent," he declared. "You are now, indeed, the Monsieur Guillot of old. Almost you persuade me to take up your challenge." Guillot laughed derisively. "As you please!" he exclaimed. "By midnight to-night!" * * * * * The challenge of Monsieur Guillot was issued precisely at four minutes before seven. On his departure, Peter spent the next half-hour studying certain notes and sending various telephone messages. Afterwards he changed his clothes at the usual time and sat down to a _tête-à-tête_ dinner with his wife. Three times during the course of the meal he was summoned to the telephone, and from each visit he returned more perplexed. Finally, when the servants had left the room, he took his chair round to his wife's side. "Violet," he said, "you were asking me just now about the telephone. You were quite right. These were not ordinary messages which I have been receiving. I am engaged in a little matter which, I must confess, perplexes me. I want your advice--perhaps your help." Violet smiled. "I am quite ready," she announced. "It is a long time since you gave me anything to do." "You have heard of Guillot?" She reflected a moment. "You mean the wonderful Frenchman," she asked, "the head of the criminal department of the Double Four?" "The man who was at its head when it existed," Peter replied. "The criminal department, as you know, has all been done away with. The Double Four has now no more concern with those who break the law, save in those few instances where great issues demand it." "But Monsieur Guillot still exists?" "He not only exists," Peter answered, "but he is here in London, a rebel and a defiant one. Do you know who came to see me the other morning?" She shook her head. "Sir John Dory," Peter continued. "He came here with a request. He begged for my help. Guillot is here, committed to some enterprise which no man can wholly fathom. Dory has enough to do with other things, as you can imagine, just now. Besides, I think he recognises that Monsieur Guillot is rather a hard nut for the ordinary English detective to crack." "And you?" she demanded, breathlessly. "I join forces with Dory," Peter admitted. "Sogrange agrees with me. Guillot was associated with the Double Four too long for us to have him make scandalous history, either here or in Paris." "You have seen him?" "I have not only seen him," Peter said, "I have declared war against him." "And he?" "Guillot is defiant," Peter replied. "He has been here only this evening. He mocks at me. He swears that he will bring off this enterprise, whatever it may be, before midnight to-night, and he has defied me to stop him." "But you will," she murmured softly. Peter smiled. The conviction in his wife's tone was a subtle compliment which he did not fail to appreciate. "I have hopes," he confessed, "and yet, let me tell you this, Violet, I have never been more puzzled. Ask yourself, now. What enterprise is there worthy of a man like Guillot, in which he could engage himself here in London between now and midnight? Any ordinary theft is beneath him. The purloining of the Crown jewels, perhaps, he might consider, but I don't think that anything less in the way of robbery would bring him here. He has his code and he is as vain as a peacock. Yet money is at the root of everything he does." "How does he spend his time here?" Violet asked. "He has a handsome flat in Shaftesbury Avenue," Peter answered, "where he lives, to all appearance, the life of an idle man of fashion. The whole of his spare time is spent with Mademoiselle Louise, the danseuse at the Empire. You see, it is half-past eight now. I have eleven men altogether at work, and according to my last report he was dining with her in the grillroom at the Milan. They ordered their coffee just ten minutes ago, and the car is waiting outside to take Mademoiselle to the Empire. Guillot's box is engaged there, as usual. If he proposes to occupy it, he is leaving himself a very narrow margin of time to carry out any enterprise worth speaking of." Violet was thoughtful for several moments. Then she crossed the room, took up a copy of an illustrated paper, and brought it across to Peter. He smiled as he glanced at the picture to which she pointed, and the few lines underneath. "It has struck you, too, then!" he exclaimed. "Good! You have answered me exactly as I hoped. Somehow, I scarcely trusted myself. I have both cars waiting outside. We may need them. You won't mind coming to the Empire with me?" "Mind?" she laughed. "I only hope I may be in at the finish." "If the finish," Peter remarked, "is of the nature which I anticipate, I shall take particularly good care that you are not." The curtain was rising upon the first act of the ballet as they entered the music-hall and were shown to the box which Peter had engaged. The house was full--crowded, in fact, almost to excess. They had scarcely taken their seats when a roar of applause announced the coming of Mademoiselle Louise. She stood for a moment to receive her nightly ovation, a slim, beautiful creature, looking out upon the great house with that faint, bewitching smile at the corners of her lips which every photographer in Europe had striven to reproduce. Then she moved away to the music, an exquisite figure, the personification of all that was alluring in her sex. Violet leaned forward to watch her movements as she plunged into the first dance. Peter was occupied looking round the house. Monsieur Guillot was there, sitting insolently forward in his box, sleek and immaculate. He even waved his hand and bowed as he met Peter's eye. Somehow or other, his confidence had its effect. Peter began to feel vaguely troubled. After all, his plans were built upon a surmise. It was so easy for him to be wrong. No man would show his hand so openly who was not sure of the game. Then his face cleared a little. In the adjoining box to Guillot's the figure of a solitary man was just visible, a man who had leaned over to applaud Louise, but who was now sitting back in the shadows. Peter recognised him at once, notwithstanding the obscurity. This was so much to the good, at any rate. He took up his hat. "For a quarter of an hour you will excuse me, Violet," he said. "Watch Guillot. If he leaves his place, knock at the door of your box, and one of my men, who is outside, will come to you at once. He will know where to find me." Peter hurried away, pausing for a moment in the promenade to scribble a line or two at the back of one of his own cards. Presently he knocked at the door of the box adjoining Guillot's and was instantly admitted. Violet continued her watch. She remained alone until the curtain fell upon the first act of the ballet. A few minutes later Peter returned. She knew at once that things were going well. He sank into a chair by her side. "I have messages every five minutes," he whispered in her ear, "and I am venturing upon a bold stroke. There is still something about the affair, though, which I cannot understand. You are absolutely sure that Guillot has not moved?" Violet pointed with her programme across the house. "There he sits," she remarked. "He left his chair as the curtain went down, but he could scarcely have gone out of the box, for he was back within ten seconds." Peter looked steadily across at the opposite box. Guillot was sitting a little farther back now, as though he no longer courted observation. Something about his attitude puzzled the man who watched him. With a quick movement he caught up the glasses which stood by his wife's side. The curtain was going up for the second act, and Guillot had turned his head. Peter held the glasses only for a moment to his eyes, and then glanced down at the stage. "My God!" he muttered. "The man's a genius! Violet, the small motor is coming for you." He was out of the box in a single step. Violet looked after him, looked down upon the stage and across at Guillot's box. It was hard to understand. The curtain had scarcely rung up upon the second act of the ballet when a young lady, who met from all the loungers, and even from the door-keeper himself, the most respectful attention, issued from the stage-door at the Empire and stepped into the large motor-car which was waiting, drawn up against the kerb. The door was opened from inside and closed at once. She held out her hands, as yet ungloved, to the man who sat back in the corner. "At last!" she murmured. "And I thought that you had forsaken me. It seemed, indeed, dear one, that you had forsaken me." He took her hands and held them tightly, but he answered only in a whisper. He wore a sombre black cloak and a broad-brimmed hat. A muffler concealed the lower part of his face. She put her finger upon the electric light, but he stopped her. "I must not be recognised," he said thickly. "Forgive me, Louise, if I seem strange at first, but there is more in it than I can tell you. No one must know that I am in London to-night. When we reach this place to which you are taking me, and we are really alone, then we can talk. I have so much to say." She looked at him doubtfully. It was indeed a moment of indecision with her. Then she began to laugh softly. "Little one, but you have changed!" she exclaimed compassionately. "After all, why not? I must not forget that things have gone so hardly with you. It seems odd, indeed, to see you sitting there, muffled up like an old man, afraid to show yourself. You know how foolish you are? With your black cape and that queer hat, you are so different from all the others. If you seek to remain unrecognised, why do you not dress as all the men do? Anyone who was suspicious would recognise you from your clothes." "It is true," he muttered. "I did not think of it." She leaned towards him. "You will not even kiss me?" she murmured. "Not yet," he answered. She made a little grimace. "But you are cold!" "You do not understand," he answered. "They are watching me--even to-night they are watching me. Oh, if you only knew, Louise, how I have longed for this hour that is to come!" Her vanity was assuaged. She patted his hand, but came no nearer. "You are a foolish little one," she said, "very foolish." "It is not for you to say that," he replied. "If I have been foolish, were not you often the cause of my folly." Again she laughed. "Oh, la, la! It is always the same! It is always you men who accuse! For that presently I shall reprove you. But now--as for now, behold, we have arrived!" "It is a crowded thoroughfare," the man remarked nervously, looking up and down Shaftesbury Avenue. "Stupid!" she cried, stepping out. "I do not recognise you to-night, little one. Even your voice is different. Follow me quickly across the pavement and up the stairs. There is only one flight. The flat I have borrowed is on the second floor. I do not care very much that people should recognise me either, under the circumstances. There is nothing they love so much," she added, with a toss of the head, "as finding an excuse to have my picture in the paper." He followed her down the dim hall and up the broad, flat stairs, keeping always some distance behind. On the first landing she drew a key from her pocket and opened a door. It was the door of Monsieur Guillot's sitting-room. A round table in the middle was laid for supper. One light alone, and that heavily shaded, was burning. "Oh, la, la," she exclaimed. "How I hate this darkness! Wait till I can turn on the lights, dear friend, and then you must embrace me. It is from outside, I believe. No, do not follow. I can find the switch for myself. Remain where you are. I return instantly." She left him alone in the room, closing the door softly. In the passage she reeled for a moment and caught at her side. She was very pale. Guillot, coming swiftly up the steps, frowned as he saw her. "He is there?" he demanded harshly. "He is there," Louise replied; "but, indeed, I am angry with myself. See, I am faint. It is a terrible thing, this, which I have done. He did me no harm, that young man, except that he was stupid and heavy, and that I never loved him. Who could love him, indeed? But, Guillot----" He passed on, scarcely heeding her words, but she clung to his arm. "Dear one," she begged, "promise that you will not really hurt him. Promise me that, or I will shriek out and call the people from the streets here. You will not make an assassin of me? Promise!" Guillot turned suddenly towards her, and there were strange things in his face. He pointed down the stairs. "Go back, Louise," he ordered, "back to your rooms, for your own sake. Remember that you left the theatre, too ill to finish your performance. You have had plenty of time already to get home. Quick! Leave me to deal with this young man. I tell you to go." She retreated down the stairs, dumb, her knees shaking still as though with fear. Guillot entered the room, closing the door behind him. Even as he bowed to that dark figure standing in the corner, his left hand shot forward the bolt. "Monsieur," he said. "What is the meaning of this?" the visitor interrupted haughtily. "I am expecting Mademoiselle Louise. I did not understand that strangers had the right of entry into this room." Guillot bowed low. "Monsieur," he said once more, "it is a matter for my eternal regret that I am forced to intrude even for a moment upon an assignation so romantic. But there is a little matter which must first be settled. I have some friends here who have a thing to say to you." He walked softly, with catlike tread, along by the wall to where the thick curtains shut out the inner apartment. He caught at the thick velvet, dragged it back, and the two rooms were suddenly flooded with light. In the recently discovered one, two stalwart-looking men in plain clothes, but of very unmistakable appearance, were standing waiting. Guillot staggered back. They were strangers to him. He was like a man who looks upon a nightmare. His eyes protruded. The words which he tried to utter failed him. Then, with a swift, nervous presentiment, he turned quickly around towards the man who had been standing in the shadows. Here, too, the unexpected had happened. It was Peter, Baron de Grost, who threw his muffler and broad-brimmed hat upon the table. "Five minutes to eleven, I believe, Monsieur Guillot," Peter declared. "I win by an hour and five minutes." Guillot said nothing for several seconds. After all, though, he had great gifts. He recovered alike his power of speech and his composure. "These gentlemen," he said, pointing with his left hand towards the inner room. "I do not understand their presence in my apartments." Peter shrugged his shoulders. "They represent, I am afraid, the obvious end of things," he explained. "You have given me a run for my money, I confess. A Monsieur Guillot who is remarkably like you still occupies your box at the Empire, and Mademoiselle Jeanne Lemère, the accomplished understudy of the lady who has just left us, is sufficiently like the incomparable Louise to escape, perhaps, detection for the first few minutes. But you gave the game away a little, my dear Guillot, when you allowed your quarry to come and gaze even from the shadows of his box at the woman he adored." "Where is--he?" Guillot faltered. "He is on his way back to his country home," Peter replied. "I think that he will be cured of his infatuation for Mademoiselle. The assassins whom you planted in that room are by this time in Bow Street. The price which others beside you knew, my dear Guillot, was placed upon that unfortunate young man's head will not pass this time into your pocket. For the rest----" "The rest is of no consequence," Guillot interrupted, bowing. "I admit that I am vanquished. As for those gentlemen there," he added, waving his hand towards the two men, who had taken a step forward, "I have a little oath which is sacred to me concerning them. I take the liberty, therefore, to admit myself defeated, Monsieur le Baron, and to take my leave." No one was quick enough to interfere. They had only a glimpse of him as he stood there with the revolver pressed to his temple, an impression of a sharp report, of Guillot staggering back as the revolver slipped from his fingers on to the floor. Even his death cry was stifled. They carried him away without any fuss, and Peter was just in time, after all, to see the finish of the second act of the ballet. The sham Monsieur Guillot still smirked at the sham Louise, but the box by his side was empty. "Is it over?" Violet asked breathlessly. "It is over," Peter answered. It was, after all, an unrecorded tragedy. In an obscure corner of the morning papers one learned the next day that a Frenchman, who had apparently come to the end of his means, had committed suicide in a furnished flat in Shaftesbury Avenue. Two foreigners were deported without having been brought up for trial, for being suspected persons. A little languid interest was aroused at the inquest when one of the witnesses deposed to the deceased having been a famous French criminal. Nothing further transpired, however, and the readers of the halfpenny press for once were deprived of their sensation. For the rest, Peter received, with much satisfaction, a remarkably handsome signet ring, bearing some famous arms, and a telegram from Sogrange: "_Well done, Baron! May the successful termination of your enterprise nerve you for the greater undertaking which is close at hand. I leave for London by the night train._--SOGRANGE." CHAPTER X THE THIRTEENTH ENCOUNTER The Marquis de Sogrange arrived in Berkeley Square with the grey dawn of an October morning, showing in his appearance and dress few enough signs of his night journey. Yet he had travelled without stopping from Paris by fast motor car and the mail boat. "They telephoned me from Charing Cross," Peter said, "that you could not possibly arrive until midday. The clerk assured me that no train had yet reached Calais." "They had reason in what they told you," Sogrange remarked, as he leaned back in a chair and sipped the coffee which had been waiting for him in the Baron de Grost's study. "The train itself never got more than a mile away from the Gare du Nord. The engine-driver was shot through the head, and the metals were torn from the way. Paris is within a year now of a second and more terrible revolution." "You really believe this?" Peter asked gravely. "It is a certainty," Sogrange replied. "Not I alone, but many others can see this clearly. Everywhere the Socialists have wormed themselves into places of trust. They are to be met with in every rank of life, under every form of disguise. The post-office strike has already shown us what deplorable disasters even a skirmish can bring about. To-day the railway strike has paralysed France. Our country lies to-day absolutely at the mercy of any invader. As it happens, no one is, for the moment, prepared. Who can tell how it may be next time?" "This is bad news," Peter declared. "If this is really the position of affairs, the matter is much more serious than the newspapers would have us believe." "The newspapers," Sogrange muttered, "ignore what lies behind. Some of them, I think, are paid to do it. As for the rest, our Press had always an ostrich-like tendency. The Frenchman of the café does not buy his journal to be made sad." "You believe, then," Peter asked, "that these strikes have some definite tendency?" Sogrange set down his cup and smiled bitterly. In the early sunlight, still a little cold and unloving, Peter could see that there was a change in the man. He was no longer the debonair aristocrat of the racecourses and the boulevards. The shadows under his eyes were deeper, his cheeks more sunken. He had lost something of the sprightliness of his bearing. His attitude, indeed, was almost dejected. He was like a man who sees into the future and finds there strange and gruesome things. "I do more than believe that," he declared. "I know it. It has fallen to my lot to make a very definite discovery concerning them. Listen, my friend. For more than six months the Government has been trying to discover the source of this stream of vile socialistic literature which has contaminated the French working classes. The pamphlets have been distributed with devilish ingenuity amongst all national operatives, the army and the navy. The Government has failed. The Double Four has succeeded." "You have really discovered their source?" Peter exclaimed. "Without a doubt," Sogrange assented. "The Government appealed to us first some months ago when I was in America. For a time we had no success. Then a clue, and the rest was easy. The navy, the army, the post-office employees, the telegraph and telephone operators, and the railway men, have been the chief recipients of this incessant stream of foul literature. To-day one cannot tell how much mischief has been actually done. The strikes which have already occurred are only the mutterings of the coming storm. But mark you, wherever those pamphlets have gone, trouble has followed. What men may do the Government is doing, but all the time the poison is at work, the seed has been sown. Two millions of money have been spent to corrupt that very class which should be the backbone of France. Through the fingers of one man has come this shower of gold, one man alone has stood at the head of the great organisation which has disseminated this loathsome disease. Behind him--well, we know." "The man?" "It is fitting that you should ask that question," Sogrange replied. "The name of that man is Bernadine, Count von Hern." Peter remained speechless. There was something almost terrible in the slow preciseness with which Sogrange had uttered the name of his enemy, something unspeakably threatening in the cold glitter of his angry eyes. "Up to the present," Sogrange continued, "I have watched--sympathetically, of course, but with a certain amount of amusement--the duel between you and Bernadine. It has been against your country and your country's welfare that most of his efforts have been directed, which perhaps accounts for the equanimity with which I have been contented to remain a looker-on. It is apparent, my dear Baron, that in most of your encounters the honours have remained with you. Yet, as it has chanced, never once has Bernadine been struck a real and crushing blow. The time has come when this and more must happen. It is no longer a matter of polite exchanges. It is a _duel à outrance_." "You mean----" Peter began. "I mean that Bernadine must die," Sogrange declared. There was a brief silence. Outside, the early morning street noises were increasing in volume as the great army of workers, streaming towards the heart of the city from a hundred suburbs, passed on to their tasks. A streak of sunshine had found its way into the room, lay across the carpet, and touched Sogrange's still, waxen features. Peter glanced half fearfully at his friend and visitor. He himself was no coward, no shrinker from the great issues. He, too, had dealt in life and death. Yet there was something in the deliberate preciseness of Sogrange's words, as he sat there only a few feet away, which was unspeakably thrilling. It was like a death sentence pronounced in all solemnity upon some shivering criminal. There was something inevitable and tragical about the whole affair. A pronouncement had been made from which there was no appeal. Bernadine was to die! "Isn't this a little exceeding the usual exercise of our powers?" Peter asked slowly. "No such occasion as this has ever yet arisen," Sogrange reminded him. "Bernadine has fled to this country with barely an hour to spare. His offence is extraditable by a law of the last century which has never been repealed. He is guilty of treason against the Republic of France. Yet they do not want him back, they do not want a trial. I have papers upon my person which, if I took them into an English court, would procure for me a warrant for Bernadine's arrest. It is not this we desire. Bernadine must die. No fate could be too terrible for a man who has striven to corrupt the soul of a nation. It is not war, this. It is not honest conspiracy. Is it war, I ask you, to seek to poison the drinking water of an enemy, to send stalking into their midst some loathsome disease? Such things belong to the ages of barbarity. Bernadine has striven to revive them, and Bernadine shall die." "It is justice," Peter admitted. "The question remains," Sogrange continued, "by whose hand--yours or mine?" Peter started uneasily. "Is that necessary?" he asked. "I fear that it is," Sogrange replied. "We had a brief meeting of the executive council last night, and it was decided, for certain reasons, to entrust this task into no other hands. You will smile when I tell you that these accursed pamphlets have found their way into the possession of many of the rank and file of our own order. There is a marked disinclination on the part of those who have been our slaves to accept orders from anyone. Espionage we can still command--the best, perhaps, in Europe--because here we use a different class of material. But of those underneath we are, for the moment, doubtful. Paris is all in a ferment. Under its outward seemliness a million throats are ready to take up the brazen cry of revolution. One trusts nobody. One fears all the time." "You or I!" Peter repeated slowly. "It will not be sufficient, then, that we find Bernadine and deliver him over to your country's laws?" "It will not be sufficient," Sogrange answered sternly. "From those he may escape. For him there must be no escape." "Sogrange," Peter said, speaking in a low tone, "I have never yet killed a human being." "Nor I," Sogrange admitted. "Nor have I yet set my heel upon its head and stamped the life from a rat upon the pavement. But one lives and one moves on. Bernadine is the enemy of your country and mine. He makes war after the fashion of vermin. No ordinary cut-throat would succeed against him. It must be you or I." "How shall we decide?" Peter asked. "The spin of a coin," Sogrange replied. "It is best that way. It is best, too, done quickly." Peter produced a sovereign from his pocket and balanced it on the palm of his hand. "Let it be understood," Sogrange continued, "that this is a dual undertaking. We toss only for the final honour--for the last stroke. If the choice falls upon me, I shall count upon you to help me to the end. If it falls upon you, I shall be at your right hand even when you strike the blow." "It is agreed," Peter said. "See, it is for you to call." He threw the coin high into the air. "I call heads," Sogrange decided. It fell upon the table. Peter covered it with his hand, and then slowly withdrew the fingers. A little shiver ran through his veins. The harmless head that looked up at him was like the figure of death. It was for him to strike the blow! "Where is Bernadine now?" he asked. "Get me a morning paper and I will tell you," Sogrange declared, rising. "He was in the train which was stopped outside the Gare du Nord, on his way to England. What became of the passengers I have not heard. I knew what was likely to happen, and I left an hour before in a 100 h.p. Charron." Peter rang the bell, and ordered the servant who answered it to procure the _Daily Telegraph_. As soon as it arrived, he spread it open upon the table, and Sogrange looked over his shoulder. These are the headings which they saw in large black characters: RENEWED RIOTS IN PARIS THE GARE DU NORD IN FLAMES TERRIBLE ACCIDENT TO THE CALAIS-DOUVRES EXPRESS MANY DEATHS Peter's forefinger travelled down the page swiftly. It paused at the following paragraph:-- "The 8.55 train from the Gare du Nord, carrying many passengers for London, after being detained within a mile of Paris for over an hour owing to the murder of the engine-driver, made an attempt last night to proceed, with terrible results. Near Chantilly, whilst travelling at over fifty miles an hour, the points were tampered with, and the express dashed into a goods train laden with minerals. Very few particulars are yet to hand, but the express was completely wrecked, and many lives have been lost. Amongst the dead are the following:" One by one Peter read out the names. Then he stopped short. A little exclamation broke from Sogrange's lips. The thirteenth name upon that list of dead was the name of Bernadine, Count von Hern. "Bernadine!" Peter faltered. "Bernadine is dead!" "Killed by the strikers!" Sogrange echoed. "It is a just thing, this." The two men looked down at the paper and then up at each other. A strange silence seemed to have found its way into the room. The shadow of death lay between them. Peter touched his forehead and found it wet. "It is a just thing, indeed," he repeated, "but justice and death are alike terrible." Late in the afternoon of the same day a motor car, splashed with mud, drew up before the door of the house in Berkeley Square. Sogrange, who was standing talking to Peter before the library window, suddenly broke off in the middle of a sentence. He stepped back into the room and gripped his friend's shoulder. "It is the Baroness," he exclaimed quickly. "What does she want here?" "The Baroness who?" Peter demanded. "The Baroness von Ratten. You must have heard of her--she is the friend of Bernadine." The two men had been out to lunch at the Ritz with Violet, and had walked across the Park home. Sogrange had been drawing on his gloves in the act of starting out for a call at the Embassy. "Does your wife know this woman?" he asked. Peter shook his head. "I think not," he replied. "We shall know in a minute." "Then she has come to see you," Sogrange continued. "What does it mean, I wonder?" Peter shrugged his shoulders. There was a knock at the door, and his servant entered, bearing a card. "This lady would like to see you, sir, on important business," he said. "You can show her in here," Peter directed. There was a very short delay. The two men had no time to exchange a word. They heard the rustling of a woman's gown, and immediately afterward the perfume of violets seemed to fill the room. "The Baroness von Ratten," the butler announced. The door closed behind her. The servant had disappeared. Peter advanced to meet his guest. She was a little above medium height, very slim, with extraordinarily fair hair, colourless face, and strange eyes. She was not strictly beautiful, and yet there was no man upon whom her presence was without its effect. Her voice was like her movements, slow, and with a grace of its own. "You do not mind that I have come to see you?" she asked, raising her eyes to Peter's. "I believe before I go that you will think terrible things of me, but you must not begin before I have told you my errand. It has been a great struggle with me before I made up my mind to come here." "Won't you sit down, Baroness?" Peter invited. She saw Sogrange, and hesitated. "You are not alone," she said softly. "I wish to speak with you alone." "Permit me to present to you the Marquis de Sogrange," Peter begged. "He is my oldest friend, Baroness. I think that whatever you might have to say to me you might very well say before him." "It is--of a private nature," she murmured. "The Marquis and I have no secrets," Peter declared, "either political or private." She sat down and motioned Peter to take a place by her side upon the sofa. "You will forgive me if I am a little incoherent," she implored. "To-day I have had a shock. You, too, have read the news? You must know that the Count von Hern is dead--killed in the railway accident last night?" "We read it in the _Daily Telegraph_," Peter replied. "It is in all the papers," she continued. "You know that he was a very dear friend of mine?" "I have heard so," Peter admitted. "Yet there was one subject," she insisted, earnestly, "upon which we never agreed. He hated England. I have always loved it. England was kind to me when my own country drove me out. I have always felt grateful. It has been a sorrow to me that in so many of his schemes, in so much of his work, Bernadine should consider his own country at the expense of yours." Sogrange drew a little nearer. It began to be interesting, this. "I heard the news early this morning by telegram," she went on. "For a long time I was prostrate. Then early this afternoon I began to think--one must always think. Bernadine was a dear friend, but things between us lately have been different, a little strained. Was it his fault or mine--who can say? Does one tire with the years, I wonder? I wonder!" Her eyes were lifted to his, and Peter was conscious of the fact that she wished him to know that they were beautiful. She looked slowly away again. "This afternoon, as I sat alone," she proceeded, "I remembered that in my keeping were many boxes of papers and many letters which have recently arrived, all belonging to Bernadine. I reflected that there were certainly some who were in his confidence, and that very soon they would come from his country and take them all away. And then I remembered what I owed to England, and how opposed I always was to Bernadine's schemes, and I thought that the best thing I could do to show my gratitude would be to place his papers all in the hands of some Englishman, so that they might do no more harm to the country which has been kind to me. So I came to you." Again her eyes were lifted to his, and Peter was very sure indeed that they were wonderfully beautiful. He began to realise the fascination of this woman, of whom he had heard so much. Her very absence of colouring was a charm. "You mean that you have brought me these papers?" he asked. She shook her head slowly. "No," she said, "I could not do that. There were too many of them--they are too heavy, and there are piles of pamphlets--revolutionary pamphlets, I am afraid--all in French, which I do not understand. No, I could not bring them to you. But I ordered my motor-car and I drove up here to tell you that if you like to come down to the house in the country where I have been living--to which Bernadine was to have come to-night--yes, and bring your friend, too, if you will--you shall look through them before anyone else can arrive." "You are very kind," Peter murmured. "Tell me where it is that you live?" "It is beyond Hitchin," she told him, "up the Great North Road. I tell you at once, it is a horrible house, in a horrible, lonely spot. Within a day or two I shall leave it myself for ever. I hate it--it gets on my nerves. I dream of all the terrible things which perhaps have taken place there. Who can tell? It was Bernadine's long before I came to England." "When are we to come?" Peter asked. "You must come back with me now, at once," the Baroness insisted. "I cannot tell how soon someone in his confidence may arrive." "I will order my car," Peter declared. She laid her hand upon his arm. "Do you mind coming in mine?" she begged. "It is of no consequence, if you object, but every servant in Bernadine's house is German and a spy. There are no women except my own maid. Your car is likely enough known to them, and there might be trouble. If you will come with me now, you and your friend, if you like, I will send you to the station to-night in time to catch the train home. I feel that I must have this thing off my mind. You will come? Yes?" Peter rang the bell and ordered his coat. "Without a doubt," he answered. "May we not offer you some tea first?" She shook her head. "To-day I cannot think of eating or drinking," she replied. "Bernadine and I were no longer what we had been, but the shock of his death seems none the less terrible. I feel like a traitor to him for coming here, yet I believe that I am doing what is right," she added softly. "If you will excuse me for one moment," Peter said, "while I take leave of my wife, I will rejoin you presently." Peter was absent for only a few minutes. Sogrange and the Baroness exchanged the merest commonplaces. As they all passed down the hall Sogrange lingered behind. "If you will take the Baroness out to the car," he suggested, "I will telephone to the Embassy and tell them not to expect me." Peter offered his arm to his companion. She seemed, indeed, to need support. Her fingers clutched at his coat-sleeve as they passed on to the pavement. "I am so glad to be no longer quite alone," she whispered. "Almost I wish that your friend were not coming. I know that Bernadine and you were enemies, but then you were enemies not personally but politically. After all, it is you who stand for the things which have become so dear to me." "It is true that Bernadine and I were bitter antagonists," Peter admitted gravely. "Death, however, ends all that. I wish him no further harm." She sighed. "As for me," she said, "I am growing used to being friendless. I was friendless before Bernadine came, and latterly we have been nothing to one another. Now, I suppose, I shall know what it is to be an outcast once more. Did you ever hear my history, I wonder?" Peter shook his head. "Never, Baroness," he replied. "I understood, I believe, that your marriage----" "My husband divorced me," she confessed, simply. "He was quite within his rights. He was impossible. I was very young and very sentimental. They say that Englishwomen are cold," she added. "Perhaps that is so. People think that I look cold. Do you?" Sogrange suddenly opened the door of the car, in which they were already seated. She leaned back and half closed her eyes. "It is rather a long ride," she said, "and I am worn out. I hope you will not mind, but for myself I cannot talk when motoring. Smoke, if it pleases you." "Might one inquire as to our exact destination?" Sogrange asked. "We go beyond Hitchin, up the Great North Road," she told him again. "The house is called the High House. It stands in the middle of a heath, and I think it is the loneliest and most miserable place that was ever built. I hate it and am frightened in it. For some reason or other it suited Bernadine, but that is all over now." The little party of three lapsed into silence. The car, driven carefully enough through the busy streets, gradually increased its pace as they drew clear of the suburbs. Peter leaned back in his place, thinking. Bernadine was dead! Nothing else would have convinced him so utterly of the fact as that simple sentence in the _Daily Telegraph_, which had been followed up by a confirmation and a brief obituary notice in all the evening papers. Curiously enough, the fact seemed to have drawn a certain spice out of even this adventure; to point, indeed, to a certain monotony in the future. Their present enterprise, important though it might turn out to be, was nothing to be proud of. A woman, greedy for gold, was selling her lover's secrets before the breath was out of his body. Peter turned in his cushioned seat to look at her. Without doubt she was beautiful to one who understood, beautiful in a strange, colourless, feline fashion, the beauty of soft limbs, soft movements, a caressing voice with always the promise beyond of more than the actual words. Her eyes now were closed, her face was a little weary. Did she really rest, Peter wondered. He watched the rising and falling of her bosom, the quivering now and then of her eyelids. She had indeed the appearance of a woman who had suffered. The car rushed on into the darkness. Behind them lay that restless phantasmagoria of lights streaming to the sky. In front, blank space. Peter, through half-closed eyes, watched the woman by his side. From the moment of her entrance into his library, he had summed her up in his mind with a single word. She was, beyond a doubt, an adventuress. No woman could have proposed the things which she had proposed who was not of that ilk. Yet for that reason it behoved them to have a care in their dealings with her. At her instigation they had set out upon this adventure, which might well turn out according to any fashion that she chose. Yet without Bernadine what could she do? She was not the woman to carry on the work which he had left behind for the love of him. Her words had been frank, her action shameful, but natural. Bernadine was dead, and she had realised quickly enough the best market for his secrets. In a few days' time his friends would have come and she would have received nothing. He told himself that he was foolish to doubt her. There was not a flaw in the sequence of events, no possible reason for the suspicions which yet lingered at the back of his brain. Intrigue, it was certain, was to her as the breath of her body. He was perfectly willing to believe that the death of Bernadine would have affected her little more than the sweeping aside of a fly. His very common sense bade him accept her story. By degrees he became drowsy. Suddenly he was startled into a very wideawake state. Through half-closed eyes he had seen Sogrange draw a sheet of paper from his pocket, a gold pencil from his chain, and commence to write. In the middle of a sentence his eyes were abruptly lifted. He was looking at the Baroness. Peter, too, turned his head; he also looked at the Baroness. Without a doubt she had been watching both of them. Sogrange's pencil continued its task, only he traced no more characters. Instead, he seemed to be sketching a face, which presently he tore carefully up into small pieces and destroyed. He did not even glance towards Peter, but Peter understood very well what had happened. He had been about to send him a message, but had found the Baroness watching. Peter was fully awake now. His faint sense of suspicion had deepened into a positive foreboding. He had a reckless desire to stop the car, to descend upon the road, and let the secrets of Bernadine go where they would. Then his natural love of adventure blazed up once more. His moment of weakness had passed. The thrill was in his blood, his nerves were tightened. He was ready for what might come, seemingly still half asleep, yet indeed with every sense of intuition and observation keenly alert. Sogrange leaned over from his place. "It is a lonely country, this, into which we are coming, madame," he remarked. She shrugged her shoulders. "Indeed, it is not so lonely here as you will think it when we arrive at our destination," she replied. "There are houses here, but they are hidden by the trees. There are no houses near us." She rubbed the pane with her hand. "We are, I believe, very nearly there," she said. "This is the nearest village. Afterwards we just climb a hill, and about half a mile along the top of it is the High House." "And the name of the village?" Sogrange inquired. "St. Mary's," she told him. "In the summer people call it beautiful around here. To me it is the most melancholy spot I ever saw. There is so much rain, and one hears the drip, drip in the trees all the day long. Alone I could not bear it. To-morrow or the next day I shall pack up my belongings and come to London. I am, unfortunately," she added, with a little sigh, "very, very poor, but it is my hope that you may find the papers of which I have spoken to you valuable." Sogrange smiled faintly. Peter and he could scarcely forbear to exchange a single glance. The woman's candour was almost brutal. She read their thoughts. "We ascend the hill," she continued. "We draw now very near to the end of our journey. There is still one thing I would say to you. Do not think too badly of me for what I am about to do. To Bernadine, whilst he lived, I was faithful. Many a time I could have told you of his plans and demanded a great sum of money, and you would have given it me willingly, but my lips were sealed because, in a way, I loved him. While he lived I gave him what I owed. To-day he is dead, and whatever I do it cannot concern him any more. To-day I am a free woman, and I take the side I choose." Sogrange smiled suavely. "Dear Madame," he replied, "what you have proposed to us is, after all, quite natural and very gracious. If one has a fear at all about the matter, it is as to the importance of these documents you speak of. Bernadine, I know, has dealt in great affairs, but he was a diplomat by instinct, experienced and calculating. One does not keep incriminating papers." She leaned a little forward. The car had swung round a corner now and was making its way up an avenue as dark as pitch. "The wisest of us, Monsieur le Marquis," she whispered, "reckon sometimes without that one element of sudden death. What should you say, I wonder, to a list of agents in France pledged to circulate in certain places literature of an infamous sort? What should you say, monsieur, to a copy of a secret report of your late man[oe]uvres, franked with the name of one of your own staff officers? What should you say," she went on, "to a list of Socialist deputies with amounts against their names, amounts paid in hard cash? Are these of no importance to you?" "Madame," Sogrange answered simply, "for such information, if it were genuine, it would be hard to mention a price which we should not be prepared to pay." The car came to a sudden standstill. The first impression of the two men was that the Baroness had exaggerated the loneliness and desolation of the place. There was nothing mysterious or forbidding about the plain brown stone house before which they had stopped. The windows were streaming with light; the hall door, already thrown open, disclosed a very comfortable hall, brilliantly illuminated. A man-servant assisted his mistress to alight, another ushered them in. In the background were other servants. The Baroness glanced at the clock. "About dinner, Carl?" she asked. "It waits for Madame," the man answered. She nodded. "Take care of these gentlemen till I descend," she ordered. "You will not mind?" she added, turning pleadingly to Sogrange. "To-day I have eaten nothing. I am faint with hunger. Afterwards, it will be a matter of but half an hour. You can be in London again by ten o'clock." "As you will, madame," Sogrange replied. "We are greatly indebted to you for your hospitality. But for costume, you understand that we are as we are?" "It is perfectly understood," she assured him. "For myself, I rejoin you in ten minutes. A loose gown, that is all." Sogrange and Peter were shown into a modern bathroom by a servant who was so anxious to wait upon them that they had difficulty in sending him away. As soon as he was gone and the door closed behind him, Peter put his foot against it and turned the key. "You were going to write something to me in the car?" Sogrange nodded. "There was a moment," he admitted, "when I had a suspicion. It has passed. This woman is no Roman. She sells the secrets of Bernadine as she would sell herself. Nevertheless, it is well always to be prepared. There were probably others beside Bernadine who had the entrée here." "The only suspicious circumstance which I have noticed," Peter remarked, "is the number of men-servants. I have seen five already." "It is only fair to remember," Sogrange reminded him, "that the Baroness herself told us that there were no other save men-servants here and that they were all spies. Without a master, I cannot see that they are dangerous. One needs, however, to watch all the time." "If you see anything suspicious," Peter said, "tap the table with your forefinger. Personally, I will admit that I have had my doubts of the Baroness, but, on the whole, I have come to the conclusion that they were groundless. She is not the sort of woman to take up a vendetta, especially an unprofitable one." "She is an exceedingly dangerous person for an impressionable man like myself," Sogrange remarked, arranging his tie. The butler fetched them in a very few moments and showed them into a pleasantly furnished library, where he mixed cocktails for them from a collection of bottles upon the sideboard. He was quite friendly, and inclined to be loquacious, although he spoke with a slight foreign accent. The house belonged to an English gentleman, from whom the honoured Count had taken it, furnished. They were two miles from a station and a mile from the village. It was a lonely part, but there were always people coming or going. With one's work one scarcely noticed it. He was gratified that the gentlemen found his cocktails so excellent. Perhaps he might be permitted the high honour of mixing them another? It was a day, this, of deep sadness and gloom. One needed to drink something, indeed, to forget the terrible thing which had happened. The Count had been a good master, a little impatient sometimes, but kind-hearted. The news had been a shock to them all. Then, before they had expected her, the Baroness reappeared. She wore a wonderful grey gown which seemed to be made in a single piece, a gown which fitted her tightly, and yet gave her the curious appearance of a woman walking without the burden of clothes. Sogrange, Parisian to the finger-tips, watched her with admiring approval. She laid her fingers upon his arm, although it was towards Peter that her eyes travelled. "Will you take me in, Marquis?" she begged. "It is the only formality we will allow ourselves." They entered a long, low dining-room, panelled with oak, and with the family portraits of the owner of the house still left upon the walls. Dinner was served upon a round table, and was laid for four. There was a profusion of silver, very beautiful glass, and a wonderful cluster of orchids. The Marquis, as he handed his hostess to her chair, glanced towards the vacant place. "It is for my companion, an Austrian lady," she explained. "To-night, however, I think that she will not come. She was a distant connection of Bernadine's, and she is much upset. We leave her place and see. You will sit on my other side, Baron." The fingers which touched Peter's arm brushed his hand, and were withdrawn as though with reluctance. She sank into her chair with a little sigh. "It is charming of you two, this," she declared softly. "You help me through this night of solitude and sadness. What I should do if I were alone, I cannot tell. You must drink with me a toast, if you will. Will you make it to our better acquaintance?" No soup had been offered, and champagne was served with the _hors d'[oe]uvres_. Peter raised his glass, and looked into the eyes of the woman who was leaning so closely towards him that her soft breath fell upon his cheek. She whispered something in his ear. For a moment, perhaps, he was carried away, but for a moment only. Then Sogrange's voice and the beat of his forefinger upon the table stiffened him into sudden alertness. They heard a motor-car draw up outside. "Who can it be?" the Baroness exclaimed, setting her glass down abruptly. "It is, perhaps, the other guest who arrives," Sogrange remarked. They all three listened, Peter and Sogrange with their glasses still suspended in the air. "The other guest?" the Baroness repeated. "Madame von Estenier is upstairs, lying down. I cannot tell who this may be." Her lips were parted. The lines of her forehead had suddenly appeared. Her eyes were turned toward the door, hard and bright. Then the glass which she had nervously picked up again and was holding between her fingers, fell on to the tablecloth with a little crash, and the yellow wine ran bubbling on to her plate. Her scream echoed to the roof and rang through the room. It was Bernadine who stood there in the doorway, Bernadine in a long travelling ulster and the air of one newly arrived from a journey. They all three looked at him, but there was not one who spoke. The Baroness, after her one wild cry, was dumb. "I am indeed fortunate," Bernadine said. "You have as yet, I see, scarcely commenced. You probably expected me. I am charmed to find so agreeable a party awaiting my arrival." He divested himself of his ulster and threw it across the arm of the butler who stood behind him. "Come," he continued, "for a man who has just been killed in a railway accident, I find myself with an appetite. A glass of wine, Carl. I do not know what that toast was the drinking of which my coming interrupted, but let us all drink it together. Aimée, my love to you, dear. Let me congratulate you upon the fortitude and courage with which you have ignored those lying reports of my death. I had fears that I might find you alone in a darkened room, with tear-stained eyes and sal-volatile by your side. This is infinitely better. Gentlemen, you are welcome." Sogrange lifted his glass and bowed courteously. Peter followed suit. "Really," Sogrange murmured, "the Press nowadays, becomes more unreliable every day. It is apparent, my dear von Hern, that this account of your death was, to say the least of it, exaggerated." Peter said nothing. His eyes were fixed upon the Baroness. She sat in her chair quite motionless, but her face had become like the face of some graven image. She looked at Bernadine, but her eyes said nothing. Every glint of expression seemed to have left her features. Since that one wild shriek she had remained voiceless. Encompassed by danger though he knew that they now must be, Peter found himself possessed by one thought and one thought only. Was this a trap into which they had fallen, or was the woman, too, deceived? "You bring later news from Paris than I myself," Sogrange proceeded, helping himself to one of the dishes which a footman was passing round. "How did you reach the coast? The evening papers stated distinctly that since the accident no attempt had been made to run trains." "By motor-car from Chantilly," Bernadine replied. "I had the misfortune to lose my servant, who was wearing my coat, and who, I gather from the newspaper reports, was mistaken for me. I myself was unhurt. I hired a motor-car and drove to Boulogne--not the best of journeys, let me tell you, for we broke down three times. There was no steamer there, but I hired a fishing boat, which brought me across the Channel in something under eight hours. From the coast I motored direct here. I was so anxious," he added, raising his eyes, "to see how my dear friend--my dear Aimée--was bearing the terrible news." She fluttered for a moment like a bird in a trap. Peter drew a little sigh of relief. His self-respect was reinstated. He had decided that she was innocent. Upon them, at least, would not fall the ignominy of having been led into the simplest of traps by this white-faced Delilah. The butler had brought her another glass, which she raised to her lips. She drained its contents, but the ghastliness of her appearance remained unchanged. Peter, watching her, knew the signs. She was sick with terror. "The conditions throughout France are indeed awful," Sogrange remarked. "They say, too, that this railway strike is only the beginning of worse things." Bernadine smiled. "Your country, my dear Marquis," he said, "is on its last legs. No one knows better than I that it is, at the present moment, honeycombed with sedition and anarchical impulses. The people are rotten. For years the whole tone of France has been decadent. Its fall must even now be close at hand." "You take a gloomy view of my country's future," Sogrange declared. "Why should one refuse to face facts?" Bernadine replied. "One does not often talk so frankly, but we three are met together this evening under somewhat peculiar circumstances. The days of the glory of France are past. England has laid out her neck for the yoke of the conqueror. Both are doomed to fall. Both are ripe for the great humiliation. You two gentlemen whom I have the honour to receive as my guests," he concluded, filling his glass and bowing towards them, "in your present unfortunate predicament represent precisely the position of your two countries." "_Ave Cæsar!_" Peter muttered grimly, raising his glass to his lips. Bernadine accepted the challenge. "It is not I, alas! who may call myself Cæsar," he replied, "although it is certainly you who are about to die." Sogrange turned to the man who stood behind his chair. "If I might trouble you for a little dry toast?" he inquired. "A modern, but very uncomfortable, ailment," he added, with a sigh. "One's digestion must march with the years, I suppose." Bernadine smiled. "Your toast you shall have, with pleasure, Marquis," he said, "but as for your indigestion, do not let that trouble you any longer. I think that I can promise you immunity from that annoying complaint for the rest of your life." "You are doing your best," Peter declared, leaning back in his chair, "to take away my appetite." Bernadine looked searchingly from one to the other of his two guests. "Yes," he admitted, "you are brave men. I do not know why I should ever have doubted it. Your pose is excellent. I have no wish, however, to see you buoyed up by a baseless optimism. A somewhat remarkable chance has delivered you into my hands. You are my prisoners. You, Peter Baron de Grost, I have hated all my days. You have stood between me and the achievement of some of my most dearly cherished tasks. Always I have said to myself that the day of reckoning must come. It has arrived. As for you, Marquis de Sogrange, if my personal feelings towards you are less violent, you still represent the things absolutely inimical to me and my interests. The departure of you two men was the one thing necessary for the successful completion of certain tasks which I have in hand at the present moment." Peter pushed away his plate. "You have succeeded in destroying my appetite, Count," he declared. "Now that you have gone so far in expounding your amiable resolutions towards us, perhaps you will go a little farther and explain exactly how, in this eminently respectable house, situated, I understand, in an eminently respectable neighbourhood, with a police station within a mile, and a dozen or so witnesses as to our present whereabouts, you intend to expedite our removal?" Bernadine pointed towards the woman who sat facing him. "Ask the Baroness how these things are arranged." They turned towards her. She fell back in her chair with a little gasp. She had fainted. Bernadine shrugged his shoulders. The butler and one of the footmen, who during the whole of the conversation had stolidly proceeded with their duties, in obedience to a gesture from their master, took her up in their arms and carried her from the room. "The fear has come to her, too," Bernadine murmured softly. "It may come to you, my brave friends, before morning." "It is possible," Peter answered, his hand stealing round to his hip pocket, "but in the meantime, what is to prevent----" The hip pocket was empty. Peter's sentence ended abruptly. Bernadine mocked him. "To prevent your shooting me in cold blood, I suppose," he remarked. "Nothing except that my servants are too clever. No one save myself is allowed to remain under this roof with arms in their possession. Your pocket was probably picked before you had been in the place five minutes. No, my dear Baron, let me assure you that escape will not be so easy. You were always just a little inclined to be led away by the fair sex. The best men in the world, you know, have shared that failing, and the Baroness, alone and unprotected, had her attractions, eh?" Then something happened to Peter which had happened to him barely a dozen times in his life. He lost his temper, and lost it rather badly. Without an instant's hesitation, he caught up the decanter which stood by his side and flung it in his host's face. Bernadine only partly avoided it by thrusting out his arms. The neck caught his forehead and the blood came streaming over his tie and collar. Peter had followed the decanter with a sudden spring. His fingers were upon Bernadine's throat, and he thrust his head back. Sogrange sprang to the door to lock it, but he was too late. The room seemed full of men-servants. Peter was dragged away, still struggling fiercely. "Tie them up!" Bernadine gasped, swaying in his chair. "Tie them up, do you hear? Carl, give me brandy." He swallowed half a wineglassful of the raw spirit. His eyes were red with fury. "Take them to the gun-room," he ordered, "three of you to each of them, mind. I'll shoot the man who lets either escape." But Peter and Sogrange were both of them too wise to expend any more of their strength in a useless struggle. They suffered themselves to be conducted without resistance across the white stone hall, down a long passage, and into a room at the end, the window and fireplace of which were both blocked up. The floor was of red flags and the walls whitewashed. The only furniture was a couple of kitchen chairs and a long table. The door was of stout oak and fitted with a double lock. The sole outlet, so far as they could see, was a small round hole at the top of the roof. The door was locked behind them. They were alone. "The odd trick to Bernadine!" Peter exclaimed hoarsely, wiping a spot of blood from his forehead. "My dear Marquis, I scarcely know how to apologise. It is not often that I lose my temper so completely." "The matter seems to be of very little consequence," Sogrange answered. "This was probably our intended destination in any case. Seems to be rather an unfortunate expedition of ours, I am afraid." "One cannot reckon upon men coming back from the dead," Peter declared. "It isn't often that you find every morning and every evening paper mistaken. As for the woman, I believe in her. She honestly meant to sell us those papers of Bernadine's. I believe that she, too, will have to face a day of reckoning." Sogrange strolled around the room, subjecting it everywhere to a close scrutiny. The result was hopeless. There was no method of escape save through the door. "There is certainly something strange about this apartment," Peter remarked. "It is, to say the least of it, unusual to have windows in the roof and a door of such proportions. All the same, I think that those threats of Bernadine's were a little strained. One cannot get rid of one's enemies nowadays in the old-fashioned, melodramatic way. Bernadine must know quite well that you and I are not the sort of men to walk into a trap of anyone's setting, just as I am quite sure that he is not the man to risk even a scandal by breaking the law openly." "You interest me," Sogrange said. "I begin to suspect that you, too, have made some plans." "But naturally," Peter replied. "Once before Bernadine set a trap for me, and he nearly had a chance of sending me for a swim in the Thames. Since then one takes precautions as a matter of course. We were followed down here, and by this time I should imagine that the alarm is given. If all was well I was to have telephoned an hour ago." "You are really," Sogrange declared, "quite an agreeable companion, my dear Baron. You think of everything." The door was suddenly opened. Bernadine stood upon the threshold and behind him several of the servants. "You will oblige me by stepping back into the study, my friends," he ordered. "With great pleasure," Sogrange answered with alacrity. "We have no fancy for this room, I can assure you." Once more they crossed the stone hall and entered the room into which they had first been shown. On the threshold Peter stopped short and listened. It seemed to him that from somewhere upstairs he could hear the sound of a woman's sobs. He turned to Bernadine. "The Baroness is not unwell, I trust?" he asked. "The Baroness is as well as she is likely to be for some time," Bernadine replied grimly. They were all in the study now. Upon a table stood a telephone instrument. Bernadine drew a small revolver from his pocket. "Baron de Grost," he said, "I find that you are not quite such a fool as I thought you. Some one is ringing up for you on the telephone. You will reply that you are well and safe, and that you will be home as soon as your business here is finished. Your wife is at the other end. If you breathe a single word to her of your approaching end, she shall hear through the telephone the sound of the revolver shot that sends you to hell." "Dear me," Peter protested, "I find this most unpleasant. If you'll excuse me, I don't think I'll answer the call at all." "You will answer it as I have directed," Bernadine insisted. "Only remember this, if you speak a single ill-advised word, the end will be as I have said." Peter picked up the receiver and held it to his ear. "Who is there?" he asked. It was Violet whose voice he heard. He listened for a moment to her anxious flood of questions. "There is not the slightest cause to be alarmed, dear," he said. "Yes, I am down at the High House, near St. Mary's. Bernadine is here. It seems that those reports of his death were absolutely unfounded. Danger? Unprotected? Why, my dear Violet, you know how careful I always am. Simply because Bernadine used once to live here, and because the Baroness was his friend, I spoke to Sir John Dory over the telephone before we left, and an escort of half a dozen police followed us. They are about the place now, I have no doubt, but their presence is quite unnecessary. I shall be home before long, dear. Yes, perhaps it would be as well to send the car down. Anyone will direct him to the house--the High House, St. Mary's, remember. Good-bye!" Peter replaced the receiver and turned slowly round. Bernadine was smiling. "You did well to reassure your wife, even though it was a pack of lies you told her," he remarked. Peter shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. "My dear Bernadine," he said, "up till now I have tried to take you seriously. You are really passing the limit. I must positively ask you to reflect a little. Do men who live the life that you and I live trust anyone? Am I, is the Marquis de Sogrange here, after a lifetime of experience, likely to leave the safety of our homes in company with a lady of whom we knew nothing except that she was your companion, without precautions? I do you the justice to believe you are a person of common sense. I know that we are as safe in this house as we should be in our own. War cannot be made in this fashion in an over-policed country like England." "Do not be too sure," Bernadine replied. "There are secrets about this house which have not yet been disclosed to you. There are means, my dear Baron, of transporting you into a world where you are likely to do much less harm than here, means ready at hand which would leave no more trace behind than those crumbling ashes can tell of the coal-mine from which they came." Peter preserved his attitude of bland incredulity. "Listen," he said, drawing a whistle from his pocket, "it is just possible that you are in earnest. I will bet you, then, if you like, a hundred pounds, that if I blow this whistle you will either have to open your door within five minutes or find your house invaded by the police." No one spoke for several moments. The veins were standing out upon Bernadine's forehead. "We have had enough of this folly," he cried. "If you refuse to realise your position, so much the worse for you. Blow your whistle, if you will. I am content." Peter waited for no second bidding. He raised the whistle to his lips and blew it, loudly and persistently. Again there was silence. Bernadine mocked him. "Try once more, dear Baron," he advised. "Your friends are perhaps a little hard of hearing. Try once more, and when you have finished, you and I and the Marquis de Sogrange will find our way once more to the gun-room and conclude that trifling matter of business which brought you here." Again Peter blew his whistle and again the silence was broken only by Bernadine's laugh. Suddenly, however, that laugh was checked. Everyone had turned toward the door, listening. A bell was ringing throughout the house. "It is the front door," one of the servants exclaimed. No one moved. As though to put the matter beyond doubt, there was a steady knocking to be heard from the same direction. "It is a telegram or some late caller," Bernadine declared, hoarsely. "Answer it, Carl. If anyone would speak with the Baroness, she is indisposed and unable to receive. If anyone desires me, I am here." The man left the room. They heard him withdraw the chain from the door. Bernadine wiped the sweat from his forehead as he listened. He still gripped the revolver in his hand. Peter had changed his position a little, and was standing now behind a high-backed chair. They heard the door creak open, a voice outside, and presently the tramp of heavy footsteps. Peter nodded understandingly. "It is exactly as I told you," he said. "You were wise not to bet, my friend." Again the tramp of feet in the hall. There was something unmistakable about the sound, something final and terrifying. Bernadine saw his triumph slipping away. Once more this man, who had defied him so persistently, was to taste the sweets of victory. With a roar of fury he sprang across the room. He fired his revolver twice before Sogrange, with a terrible blow, knocked his arm upwards and sent the weapon spinning to the ceiling. Peter struck his assailant in the mouth, but the blow seemed scarcely to check him. They rolled on the floor together, their arms around one another's necks. It was an affair, that, but of a moment. Peter, as lithe as a cat, was on his feet again almost at once, with a torn collar and an ugly mark on his face. There were strangers in the room now, and the servants had mostly slipped away during the confusion. It was Sir John Dory himself who locked the door. Bernadine struggled slowly to his feet. He was face to face with half a dozen police-constables in plain clothes. "You have a charge against this man, Baron?" the police commissioner asked. Peter shook his head. "The quarrel between us," he replied, "is not for the police courts, although I will confess, Sir John, that your intervention was opportune." "I, on the other hand," Sogrange put in, "demand the arrest of the Count von Hern and the seizure of all papers in this house. I am the bearer of an autograph letter from the President of France in connection with this matter. The Count von Hern has committed extraditable offences against my country. I am prepared to swear an information to that effect." The police commissioner turned to Peter. "Your friend's name?" he demanded. "The Marquis de Sogrange," Peter told him. "He is a person of authority?" "To my certain knowledge," Peter replied, "he has the implicit confidence of the French Government." Sir John Dory made a sign. In another moment Bernadine would have been arrested. It seemed, indeed, as though nothing could save him now from this crowning humiliation. He himself, white and furious, was at a loss how to deal with an unexpected situation. Suddenly a thing happened stranger than any one of them there had ever known or dreamed of, so strange that even men such as Peter, Sogrange and Dory, whose nerves were of iron, faced one another, doubting and amazed. The floor beneath them rocked and billowed like the waves of a canvas sea. The windows were filled with flashes of red light, a great fissure parted the wall, the pictures and bookcases came crashing down beneath a shower of masonry. It was the affair of a second. Above them shone the stars and around them a noise like thunder. Bernadine, who alone understood, was the first to recover himself. He stood in the midst of them, his hands above his head, laughing as he looked around at the strange storm--laughing like a madman. "The wonderful Carl!" he cried. "Oh, matchless servant! Arrest me now, if you will, you dogs of the police. Rout out my secrets, dear Baron de Grost. Tuck them under your arm and hurry to Downing Street. This is the hospitality of the High House, my friends. It loves you so well that only your ashes shall leave it." His mouth was open for another sentence when he was struck. A whole pillar of marble from one of the rooms above came crashing through and buried him underneath a falling shower of masonry. Peter escaped by a few inches. Those who were left unhurt sprang through the yawning wall out into the garden. Sir John, Sogrange, Peter, and three of the men--one limping badly, came to a standstill in the middle of the lawn. Before them the house was crumbling like a pack of cards, and louder even than the thunder of the falling structures was the roar of the red flames. "The Baroness!" Peter cried, and took one leap forward. "I am here," she sobbed, running to them from out of the shadows. "I have lost everything--my jewels, my clothes, all except what I have on. They gave me but a moment's warning." "Is there anyone else in the house?" Peter demanded. "No one but you who were in that room," she answered. "Your companion?" She shook her head. "There was no companion," she faltered. "I thought it sounded better to speak of her. I had her place laid at table, but she never even existed." Peter tore off his coat. "There are the others in the room!" he exclaimed. "We must go back." Sogrange caught him by the shoulder and pointed to a shadowy group some distance away. "We are all out but Bernadine," he said. "For him there is no hope. Quick!" They sprang back only just in time. The outside wall of the house fell with a terrible crash. The room which they had quitted was now blotted out of existence. It was not long before, from right and left, in all directions along the country road, came the flashing of lights and little knots of hurrying people. "It is the end!" Peter muttered. "Yesterday I should have regretted the passing of a brave enemy. To-day I hail with joy the death of a brute." The Baroness, who had been sitting upon a garden seat, sobbing, came softly up to them. She laid her fingers upon Peter's arm imploringly. "You will not leave me friendless?" she begged. "The papers I promised you are destroyed, but many of his secrets are here." She tapped her forehead. "Madame," Peter answered, "I have no wish to know them. Years ago I swore that the passing of Bernadine should mark my own retirement from the world in which we both lived. I shall keep my word. To-night Bernadine is dead. To-night, Sogrange, my work is finished." The Baroness began to sob again. "And I thought that you were a man," she moaned, "so gallant, so honourable----" "Madame," Sogrange intervened, "I shall commend you to the pension list of the Double Four." She dried her eyes. "It is not money only I want," she whispered, her eyes following Peter. Sogrange shook his head. "You have never seen the Baroness de Grost?" he asked her. "But no!" "Ah!" Sogrange murmured. "Our escort, madame, is at your service--so far as London." 
22314	----	Transcriber's note: A few typographical errors have been corrected: they are listed at the end of the text. * * * * * MYSTICISM AND ITS RESULTS; BEING AN INQUIRY INTO THE USES AND ABUSES OF SECRECY, AS DEVELOPED IN THE INSTRUCTION AND ACTS OF SECRET SOCIETIES, ASSOCIATIONS, OR CONFRATERNITIES, WHETHER SOCIAL, RELIGIOUS, OR POLITICAL, FROM THE BEGINNING OF HISTORY TO THE PRESENT DAY, AND THEIR EFFECTS ON THE MASSES OF MANKIND, THEN AND NOW. BY JOHN DELAFIELD, ESQ., OF MISSOURI, AUTHOR OF "AN INQUIRY INTO THE ORIGIN OF THE ANTIQUITIES OF AMERICA." SAINT LOUIS: PUBLISHED BY EDWARDS & BUSHNELL, NO. 97 FOURTH STREET, TEN BUILDINGS. * * * * * 1857. * * * * * Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1857, BY JOHN DELAFIELD, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, in and for the District of Missouri. * * * * * SAVAGE & McCREA, STEREOTYPERS, 13 Chambers Street, N.Y. * * * * * TO MY ALMA MATER, COLUMBIA COLLEGE, NEW YORK, This Essay is respectfully Inscribed, BY THE WRITER. * * * * * {5} PREFACE. "THE WORD WAS GOD." That "WORD IS TRUTH." Truth can never change, or it would contradict itself. Past, present, and future, must be governed by immutable laws. Experience is acquired by the careful study of history, and the present condition of all things. All is governed now by that same law of truth, which was from the beginning of the world, and ever shall be. What serious lessons, then, may be learned by a careful examination of past ages; and how useful may they not be to us and our children for future ages? We can only judge of that which is to come hereafter, by studying the past, and carefully noting the present. This little book has collated some facts, perhaps, somewhat out of the usual range of reading; but which it is sincerely trusted may be of practical {6} utility. If it only induces thought, study, or research, by intellectual and honest minds, its object will have been attained. The writer can only claim the indulgence of the reader to consider the essay suggestive--not didactic. Many a far abler pen may enlarge upon and carry out the ideas presented. May it be J. D. * * * * * {7} CONTENTS. * * * * * CHAPTER I. Secrecy; its Uses and Abuses.--Mystery; its Definition.--Mysticism, and its Definition. ... PAGE 9 CHAPTER II. The Distinction between the Early Elohistic and Jehovahstic Ages of Primeval Patriarchal Times.--The Secrecy of Original Worship on Mountain Tops.--The Collation and Reconciliation of the Patriarchal Traditions brought together by Moses.--The Commencement of the Jehovahstic Age.--The Origin of Mythology.--The Magi; their Organization and Modes of Worship.--The Deification of Nimrod, and the Source of Political Power at its Beginning.--The Secret Writings they adopted.--The Dead Invokers.--The Mysteries of Egypt, Greece, and Rome. ... 16 CHAPTER III. The Origin of the Cabbalistæ; the Chaldeans, and their Antagonism to Patriarchal Tradition.--The Hand-Writing on Belshazzar's Wall.--The Secret Writings of the Cabbalistæ.--How Daniel read the Same.--Ezra.--The Origin of the Masoretic Text.--Zoroaster.--His Reformation and Reconstruction of the Religion of the Magi.--Pythagoras, and his "League."--The Thugs.--The Druids. ... 41 {8} CHAPTER IV. The Discipline of the Secret in the Origin of the Christian Church.--The Inquisition.--The Mystics.--The Rise of Monachism.--The Mendicant Orders.--The Orders of Knighthood.--The Jesuits, their Organization and History.--The Rosicrucians, &c. ... 71 CHAPTER V. The Struggle between an alleged _Jus Divinum Regum_, and Popular Sovereignty.--And the Efforts now attempted to destroy our Grand Experiment of Self-Government.--Practical Results. ... 104 * * * * * {9} MYSTICISM, AND ITS RESULTS. * * * * * CHAPTER I. Secrecy; its Uses and Abuses.--Mystery; its Definition.--Mysticism, and its Definition. It is not true, as has been sometimes said, that wherever there is secrecy there is error. Secrecy, like most all else, hath its uses and abuses: its uses, as developed in modesty and domestic virtue, in religious meditation, self-examination, and prayer, and in prudence in the affairs of life: its abuses, in prudery, asceticism, superstitious awe, undue veneration of power, and when used as a cloud to conceal crime so hideous that nothing but the truth of God, vindicated by human laws founded thereon, directed by wisdom, can dispel it. Virtue and modesty shrink from public gaze. Each looks alone to its innate sense, the gift of God, and to the sole approval of the great "I AM." The hidden sincere aspirations of the heart are known only to Him who "breathed into man the {10} breath of life, and he became a living soul." These are a secret between the created being and its Almighty Father. At the lonely hour, when the burdened soul, knowing no earthly refuge from overwhelming troubles, but a mightier Hand than that of man, seeks on bended knee and with penitential tear, a blessing from on high, no word is spoken, no sound uttered save the sob from a contrite heart. The aspiration has gone forth inaudibly to Him who said to all mankind, then and for future ages, "Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden and I will give you rest."[1] "Prayer is the soul's sincere desire, Uttered or unexpressed, The motion of a hidden fire That trembles in the breast. It is the burden of a sigh, The falling of a tear, The upward glancing of an eye When none but God is near."[2] What knoweth the outer world of this? Yet wrong can not exist in such secret communion between a penitent heart and its Maker. Pure religious meditation, leading us from earth to heaven, is only promoted by secret study and reflection in solitude. Neither philosophy nor religion can be cultivated in the midst of the vortices of commerce or other business requiring constant intercourse with hundreds of {11} men during the day, nor in the whirl of fashion in the evening. Thus, then, do we trace one of the uses of secrecy. Both its use and its abuse we shall hereinafter find exemplified in marked effects not only on individual minds, but also on the masses of mankind in past history: its use, in the development of true piety: its abuse, in asceticism, superstition, and overweening spiritual power resulting in crimes, which were "a sin unto death." Another abuse of secrecy has been manifested in means heretofore employed in the constant effort to obtain and maintain worldly power. This was by affecting the imagination and blinding the reason of the masses. Some time ago, an ephemeral work was published, even the name of which is not recollected by this writer, wherein was a picture showing the section of a handsome tent with curtains closely drawn. Within, is a man eating and feasting like other mortals. Without, is a stand on which are exposed to view the usual emblems and insignia of royalty, before which there is a kneeling crowd. An admirable illustration! True it is, that "no man is a hero to his valet-de-chambre." Fashionable wealth and power depend upon exclusiveness to accomplish their usual attendant influences. Royalty hides every hour in secrecy from public gaze, except when it occasionally becomes necessary to treat the subjects to a mere pageant or show of military costume and outside appearances. When Lola Montes displayed to {12} the world the mere humanity of the old king of Bavaria, where had he any _prestige_ left? Schamyl has attained his extraordinary influence and power by his seclusion, asceticism, and pretended revelations; and bravery having crowned his efforts, he is a favorite of fortune, and the idol of a superstitious veneration. What did not Mohammed accomplish in the same manner? But, in illustration of the opposite effect, so well known to the sad experience of all, hath not a mightier One testified that, "a prophet hath no honor in his own country?"[3] But doth not also common prudence in worldly affairs demand the use of secrecy? What good general will detail, even to his own forces, and still less make public for the use of his adversary, his plans and intentions for an ensuing campaign?--what business man communicate to the public or to his rivals his hard thought and well-planned speculation?--what inventor publish his new machine or discovery until he has secured his patent-right? In what follows, then, let us discriminate between the use and abuse of secrecy; so that, by the lessons of the past and the present, we may be safely guided in our course through the future. Before going into matters of historic detail, it were well to understand the definition of the word "mystery." {13} Many suppose it to mean "something which is incomprehensible." This is all a mistake. "[Greek: Mustêrion]" means simply "a revealed secret." In other words, "mystery," which we derive from the Greek word quoted, means neither more nor less than a secret revealed and explained to us. A man of mature years and finished education knows that which no school-boy can comprehend. To the elder a secret has been revealed. He is in possession of the mystery. To the younger it is yet a secret, not incomprehensible, but which can only be attained in the progress of learning. To the scientific many of the mysteries of nature are unfolded, but they are a secret to the world at large. To those Christians in the earlier days of the church, who had attained its highest instruction, and after the "Ite, missa est" had dismissed the rest of the congregation, remained to participate in the "pure offering" (or "clean oblation") prophesied by Malachi[4] to be thereafter offered in every place to Him whose name thenceforth should be great among the Gentiles--to them "it was given to know the mysteries of God:"[5] not to understand things incomprehensible. That would be a contradiction in terms: a thing impossible. How can a person comprehend that which passeth all understanding? But it may be said, there are things which are incomprehensible. Not so. They may be a secret to us while, in this school-house, the earth, the {14} pedagogue Necessity is teaching us only the rudiments of the laws of God as developed in nature or in mind; but, when the _scintilla divinitatis_, hidden in these "earthen vessels,"[6] shall have been set free, and (while "the dust returns to the earth as it was") rises unto Him that breathed into us that "spiritus" or "breath of life"--when we shall hereafter have been "newly born" into a spiritual state of higher existence--then may we hope that what is secret to us now, may become a mystery or revealed secret to us hereafter. It is not all of life to terminate our existence on this earth. This is but the school-house in the commencement of eternity. These mysteries, now secrets to us, are created and maintained by the fixed laws of Him "who is without variableness or shadow of turning." The revelations thereof belong to a higher kingdom, which "flesh and blood can not inherit," yet in which every soul "shall be made alive."[7] Then shall these secrets be unfolded in proportion to the cultivation of the mind and talents here: for the unchangeable laws of God have placed all matter in constant and regular mutation; and whether of matter or of mind, all is governed by a certain law of progress, compelling us to attain excellence and strength only by constant endeavors to surmount difficulties: and it is thus alone we can, by severe study and deep meditation, in investigating these laws of mutation and progress in things physical and {15} moral, bring the mind, even in this life, to a nearer approximation to, and capability of, appreciating the wonderful truths we must hereafter learn. As in all other laws of God, the cultivation of our talents must then carry its proportionate reward hereafter.[8] Let us then examine into the uses and abuses of secrecy in past history, and at the present day--but more particularly will these be manifested by "MYSTICISM;" by which is meant, _the revelation of learning, social, religious, and political, the teaching of which has been, and is, preserved secret from the world, by societies, associations, and confraternities_.[9] * * * * * {16} CHAPTER II. The Distinction between the Early Elohistic and Jehovahstic Ages of Primeval Patriarchal Times.--The Secrecy of Original Worship on Mountain Tops.--The Collation and Reconciliation of the patriarchal Traditions brought together by Moses.--The Commencement of the Jehovahstic Age.--The Origin of Mythology.--The Magi; their Organization and Modes of Worship.--The Deification of Nimrod, and the Source of Political Power at its Beginning.--The Secret Writings they adopted.--The Dead Invokers.--The Mysteries of Egypt, Greece, and Rome. In a critical study of the books of Moses two eras seem to be discernible. The earlier, the Elohistic, when God was only known by the name, "Elohim." The latter, the "Jehovahstic," beginning at a later period.[10] Though not altogether germain to our subject, may we here be permitted to inquire--_par parenthese_--whether this simple rule does not furnish to us the means of reconciliation of apparent contradictions? All instruction originally was traditional alone. The patriarch was priest and teacher, as well as ruler of his tribe. Each handed down to his successor the {17} traditions he had received from his ancestors orally. As tribes became nomadic, or else sought permanently new settlements and homes, traditions in course of time necessarily became variant. Moses seems honestly to have collated these traditions, and has, no doubt, given them in their respective versions as he received them from Jethro, his father-in-law, and from the patriarchal instruction among the elders of his people in Egypt. Thus we can recognize those in which the name Elohim is used as being of much earlier date than the same tradition differently told, where the word Jehovah indicates the name of Deity. For instance, we find in one place[11] the command of God to Noah to take the beasts and fowls, &c., into the ark by sevens. But again, in the same chapter,[12] we find them taken only by pairs. Are these not variant traditions of one event? So, of the story of Abraham passing off his wife for his sister before Pharaoh, king of Egypt,[13] and also before Abimelech, king of Gerar,[14] and the farther tradition of Isaac and Rebecca having done the same thing before Abimelech, king of Gerar.[15] Are not these variant traditions of one fact? The legal experience of the writer for many years, convinces him that no two persons without collusion view a transaction generally exactly alike. Frequently--and each equally sincere and honest--they widely vary in their testimony. {18} Collusion may produce a story without contradiction. Slight discrepancies show there is no fraud, only that the witnesses occupied different stand points, or gave more or less attention to what was the subject matter. But, asking pardon for this digression, let us return to our theme. We know little or nothing about the teaching of the patriarchs in the Elohistic age. Neither writing nor sculpture thereof existed in the time of Moses, except, perhaps, the lost book of Enoch, or, unless--which we are inclined to doubt--the book of Job had just before his era been reduced to writing by the Idumean, Assyrian, or Chaldean priesthood. We find at that period that sacrifices were offered on mountain tops. Why? Abraham went to such a place to offer up his son. Was it not for secrecy in the religious rite? If the earliest instruction was from God, whose truth is unchangeable and eternal, were not the earliest sacrifices offered in secret by reason of the same command which subsequently obliged the high priest of his chosen people to offer the great sacrifice in secret within the veils, first of the Tabernacle, afterward of the Temple? The Elohistic age ended with the first official act of Moses, after he, also, had met with Aaron on "the mount of God."[16] A new era then commenced. As men dispersed {19} themselves over the earth, the original belief in the one true God (Monotheism) was lost, and people fell into the worship of many deities (Polytheism), adoring the visible works of creation, more particularly the sun and the stars of heaven, or else reverencing the operative powers of nature as divine beings. Faith in the one Great JEHOVAH was preserved by the children of Israel alone. Idols were erected within gorgeous temples. With the Chaldean, Phoenician, and Assyrian, Moloch began the dreadful cruelty of human sacrifices, chiefly of children. If, at first, the image of the idol was only a visible symbol of a spiritual conception, or of an invisible power, this higher meaning was lost in progress of time in the minds of most nations, and they came at length to pay worship to the lifeless image itself. The priests alone were acquainted with any deeper meaning, but refused to share it with the people; they reserved it under the veil of esoteric (secret) doctrines, as the peculiar appanage of their own class. They invented endless fables which gave rise to Mythology. They ruled the people by the might of superstition, and acquired wealth, honor, and power, for themselves.[17] We arrive then at nearly the culminating point of Egyptian priestcraft, the days of "wise men," "sorcerers," and "magicians."[18] Such men ever {20} have, and we presume ever will employ secrecy as the chief element of their clever jugglery. Mankind love to be deceived. Let an Adrian, Blitz, or Alexander--while they tell you, and you well know it, that their tricks are a deception--put forth notices of an exhibition, and they will attract crowds, where an Arago, or a Faraday, would not be listened to. Maelzel's automata, or Vaucanson's duck, will attract the world, when Bacon's, or Newton's, or Laplace's works may remain in dust on the book-shelves. Human nature is always the same, and thus it was in the days of Moses and Pharaoh. The wise men, sorcerers, and magicians, held undisputed sway, not only over the superstitions of the people, but over their educated monarchs and princes. Egypt possessed, at an inconceivably early period, numberless towns and villages, and a high amount of civilization. Arts, sciences, and civil professions, were cherished there, so that the Nile-land has generally been regarded as the mysterious cradle of human culture; but the system of castes checked free development and continuous improvement. Everything subserved a gloomy religion and a powerful priesthood, who held the people in terror and superstition. Their doctrine, that, after the death of man, the soul could not enter into her everlasting repose unless the body were preserved, occasioned the singular custom of embalming the corpses of the departed to preserve them from decay, and of treasuring them up in the shape of {21} mummies in shaft-like passages and mortuary chambers. Through this belief, the priests, who, as judges of the dead, possessed the power of giving up the bodies of the sinful to corruption, and by this means occasioning the transmigration of their souls into the bodies of animals, obtained immense authority. Notwithstanding the magnificence of their architectural productions, and the vast technical skill and dexterity in sculpture and mechanical appliances which they display, the Egyptians have produced but little in literature or the sciences; and even this little was locked up from the people in the mysterious hieroglyphical writing, which was understood by the priests alone.[19] The following translation is a quotation from a Latin work: "Among the ancient Egyptians, from whom we learn the rudiments of speech, besides the three common kinds of letters, other descriptions of characters are used which have been generally consecrated to their peculiar mysteries. In a dissertation on this subject, that celebrated antiquarian (_conditor stromatum_), Clement, of Alexandria, teaches in his writings, thus: 'Those who are taught Egyptian, first, indeed, learn the grammar and chirography called letter-writing, that is, which is apt for ordinary correspondence; secondly, however, that used by the priests, called sacred writing, to commemorate sacred things; the last also, hieroglyphic, meaning sacred sculpture, one of the first elements of which is {22} cyriologism, meaning, properly speaking, enunciating truth by one or another symbol, or in other words, portraying the meaning by significant emblems.' With Clement agrees the Arabian, Abenephi, who uses this language: (This Arabic writing is preserved in the Vatican library, but not as yet printed: it is often quoted by Athanasius Kircher, in his Treatise on the Pamphilian Obelisk, whence these and other matters stated by us have been taken.) 'But there were four kinds of writing among the Egyptians: First, that in use among the populace and the ignorant; secondly, that in vogue among the philosophers and the educated; thirdly, one compounded of letters and symbols, without drawn figures or representations of things; the fourth was confined solely to the priesthood, the figures or letters of which were those of birds, by which they represented the sacred things of Deity.' From which last testimony we learn that erudite Egyptians used a peculiar and different system of writing from that of the populace, and it was for the purpose of teaching their peculiar doctrines. For example, they show that this writing consisted of symbols, partly of opinions and ideas, partly of historic fables accommodated to a more secret method of teaching. But Clement, of Alexandria, went further. In book v. of Antiquities (_stromata_, 'foundation of things'), he says: 'All who controlled theological matters, Barbarian as well as Greek, have concealed their principles, hiding the truth in enigmas, signs, symbols, as {23} well as allegories, and also in tropes, and have handed them down in various symbols and methods.'"[20] This passage led subsequently to the brilliant discoveries of Champollion. Who, then, were the "erudite Egyptians" who used a peculiar system of writing" for the purpose of teaching their peculiar doctrines?" Who were {24} these "magi," "wise men," "sorcerers," and "magicians"? Nowhere do we find Pharaoh in the midst of his troubles calling for a priest. It is always for the wise men, magicians, and sorcerers. Were they not the priests?--were they not those who controlled the mysteries--who practised divination? When Moses and Aaron cast down their rods, the magicians of Egypt "also did in like manner with their enchantments," and the result was the same.[21] When Moses smote the waters that they became blood, the acuteness of the priests, or magi, in their mysteries taught them a lesson whereby they were able to do the same.[22] When the frogs came up on Pharaoh and on all his people, and on all his servants, and covered the land of Egypt, we learn "the magicians did so with their enchantments, and brought up frogs upon the land of Egypt."[23] If the ancient Egyptians were like their descendants, it is singular the magi could not accomplish the next plague, that is, of lice. But here their power ended. The magi originated in Media. According to oriental custom, to them was intrusted the preservation of scientific knowledge, and the performance of the holy exercises of Religion. Afterward, in a special sense, the magi were a caste of priests of the Medes and Persians, deriving the name of Pehlvi; Mag, or Mog, generally signifies in that language, _a priest_. They are expressly mentioned by Herodotus as a Median tribe. Zoroaster was not their founder, {25} but was their reformer, and the purifier of their doctrines. The Magi of his time were opposed to his innovations; and they, therefore, were condemned by him. When afterward, however, they adopted his reforms, he effected their thorough organization, dividing them into APPRENTICES, MASTERS, and PERFECT MASTERS. Their study and science consisted in observation of their holy rites, in the knowledge of their sacred forms of prayer, and liturgies by which Ormuzd was worshipped, and in the ceremonies attendant on their prayers and sacrifices. They only were permitted to act as mediators between God and man. To them alone was the will of God declared. They only could penetrate the future. And they alone predicted the future to those who sought of them therefor. In later days the name Magi became synonymous with sorcerer, magician, alchemist, &c.[24] {26} The magi of Egypt were the priests, the founders and preservers of the mysteries of the secret grades of instruction, and of the hieratic and hieroglyphic writings and sculptures. In secret they were the priesthood. In public, in religious matters, the same. But in public secular affairs they seem to be recognised as Magi. When mythology was invented, most of the gods, if not all of them, were received as symbolical, physical beings, the poets made of them moral agents; and as such they appear in the religions of the people of earlier days. The symbolical meaning would have been lost, if no means had been provided to insure its preservation. The MYSTERIES, it seems, afforded such means. Their great end, therefore, was to preserve the knowledge of the peculiar attributes of those divinities which had been incorparated into the popular religion under new forms; what powers and objects of nature they represented; how these, and how the universe came into being; in a word, cosmogonies, like those contained in the Orphic instructions. But this knowledge, though it was preserved by oral instruction, was perpetuated no less by {27} symbolic representations and usages; which, at least in part, consisted of sacred traditions and fables. "In the sanctuary of Sais," says Herodotus (l.c.), "representations are given by night of the adventures of the goddess; and these are called by the Egyptians _mysteries_; of which, however, I will relate no more. It was thence that these mysteries were introduced into Greece."[25] The temples of India and of Egypt seem to be identical in architecture and in sculpture.[26] Both nations seem to have sprung from the old Assyrian stock.[27] The magi of both countries appear to have had a common origin; and their teachings must have been, therefore, traditionally the same. We may, then, presume that there were three grades in the instructions of these mysteries, by whatever name they may have been called--whether Apprentices, Masters, and Perfect Masters, or otherwise; that they were sacred in their character; and that their symbolic meanings were revealed in these MYSTERIES, and in no other manner, while they were kept a secret from the world at large. But this was not all. They spread, with emigration and commerce, into all then known countries. Their common origin, or at least that of most of them, is still perceptible. CERES had long wandered over the earth, before she was received at Eleusis, and erected there her {28} sanctuary. (Isocrat. Paneg. op., p. 46, ed. Steph., and many other places in Meursii Eleusin., cap. 1.) Her secret service in the Thesmophoria, according to the account of Herodotus (iv. 172), was first introduced by Danaus; who brought it from Egypt to the Peloponnesus.[28] One writer says that mysteries were, among the Greeks, and afterward also among the Romans, secret religious assemblies, which no uninitiated person was permitted to approach. They originated at a very early period. They were designed to interpret those mythological fables and religious rites, the true meaning of which it was thought expedient to conceal from the people. They were perhaps necessary in those times, in which the superstitions, the errors, and the prejudices of the people, could not be openly exposed without danger to the public peace. Upon this ground they were tolerated and protected by the state. Their first and fundamental law was a profound secrecy. In all mysteries there were dramatic exhibitions, relating to the exploits of the deities in whose honor they were celebrated.[29] We may thus trace all ancient pagan religion to a common origin, with similarity of human means to accomplish a general result, variant in name, or in practice, as to the deity, or form of its worship, but resting on a unity as to its commencement and its object. {29} We can hardly penetrate the veil which hides from us the pagan worship of that early human stock the race of Ham, which--without the divine light granted only to the Israelites--was the origin of false worship. We can only arrive at conclusions, but these are the result of strong presumptions arising from undisputed historical facts. What are they? One of the principal chiefs of the earliest race, whence came the magi, &c., was Nimrod, afterward deified by the name of Bel to the Chaldeans, Baal to the Hebrews, [Greek: Bêlos] to the Greeks, and Belus to the Romans; and when, in later days, statues received adoration (which at first was only accorded to the being of whom the statue was a type), he became worshipped under a multiplication of statues, they were in the Hebrew language called "Baalim," or the plural of Baal. Nimrod was the son of Cush, grandson of Ham, and great-grandson of Noah. "And Cush begat Nimrod: he began to be a mighty one in the earth. He was a mighty hunter before the Lord: wherefore it is said, 'Even as Nimrod the mighty hunter before the Lord.' And the beginning of his kingdom was Babel, and Erech, and Accad, and Calneh, in the land of Shinar. And out of that land he went forth to Assyria, and builded Nineveh, and the city Rehoboth, and Calah, and Resen between Nineveh and Calah: the same is a great city."[30] While, then, {30} the children of Shem and Japheth pursued the patriarchal course, and preserved the ancient traditions subsequently handed down, the descendants of Ham, suffering under the patriarchal malediction of Noah, built cities composed of families, and a great kingdom composed of cities and nations. This kingdom was the origin of pagan worship. They lost the patriarchal traditions, and were the first to establish on this earth the concentration of power in a political system. That power once attained, the daring energy of the king became in the hand of the priesthood a subject of deification for two reasons. 1. The king was mortal, and must die. 2. The power must be preserved. When afterward, under Peleg, this race, at their {31} building of Ba-Bel--their temple of Bel--became dispersed, and left to us only their ruin of that temple, now called _Birs Nimroud_, the magi, or priests, preserved the power he attained to themselves, by means of secrecy in their mysteries, and which were dispersed subsequently through the earth in different languages and forms, varying with the poetry and climate of the country or countries thereafter occupied, and adapted from time to time to the existing exigencies of the times. Thence sprang the origin of mythologies, or, in other words, fabulous histories of the fructifying energies of Nature, whether developed in the germination of the vegetable kingdom, or in an occasional poetical version of some heroic act of one in power. This nation, the old Assyrian, became dispersed at the destruction of their great temple. But their political power everywhere was mysteriously preserved. When the magi became organized in Media, they spread in every direction. From earliest days we find their worship amid the nations conquered by Joshua. We see them in the traces of the [Greek: Oi Poimenes], or shepherd-kings of Egypt, and in the sorcerers of the days of Moses. We, find them reformed by Zoroaster in Persia. They are conspicuous among the Greeks, who derived their mysteries from Egypt; and in the worship of Isis at Rome, never indigenous there. And even in later days (those of Darius, Belshazzar, and Cyrus), they seem to be thoroughly {32} re-established in their original birthplace. And, strange as it may appear, we find their power over kings, generals, nations, and people, in the hands of the priesthood, by means of their mysteries, from all early history, until affected by the gospel of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. Regarding, then, the off-shoot from patriarchal tradition to be the origin of pagan worship; referring also to the first formation of cities, and of one immense kingdom, by the descendants of Ham (accursed by his prophetic ancestor), by whom an empire was first established; to Nimrod's deification; to the preservation in the priesthood of future political power; to the fact that after his death they would and might thereby perpetuate the same; that wherever thereafter dispersed, they did so by their revelations by mysteries, in which they controlled not only the masses of the people, but those who governed them, in whatsoever nation then known--we arrive at the conclusion that the mysteries were the elements of religious and consequently of political power. The important Greek mysteries, of the details whereof we know most, were--1. The _Eleusinian_. 2. The _Samothracian_, which originated in Crete and Phrygia, and were celebrated in the former country in honor of Jupiter. From these countries they were introduced among the Thracians or Pelasgians in the island of Samothrace, and extended thence into Greece. They were sometimes celebrated in honor {33} of Jupiter, sometimes of Bacchus, and sometimes of Ceres. 3. The _Dionysia_, which were brought from Thrace to Thebes, and were very similar to the former. They were celebrated every second year. The transition of men from barbarism to civilization was likewise represented in them. The women were clothed in skins of beasts. With a spear (_thyrsus_), bound with ivy, in their hands, they ascended Mount Cithæron; when, after the religious ceremonies, wild dances were performed, which ended with the dispersion of the priestesses and the initiated in the neighboring woods. They had also symbols, chiefly relating to Bacchus, who was the hero of these mysteries. These celebrations were forbidden in Thebes, even in the time of Epaminondas, and afterward in all Greece, as prejudicial to the public peace and morals. 4. The _Orphic_, chiefly deserving mention as the probable foundation of the Eleusinian. 5. The mysteries of Isis, not in vogue in Greece, but very popular in Rome.[31] The offspring of Egyptian priestcraft, they were instituted with a view to aggrandize that order of men, to extend their influence, and enlarge their revenues. To accomplish these selfish projects, they applied every engine toward besotting the multitude with superstition and enthusiasm. They taught them to believe that they were the distinguished favorites of Heaven; that celestial doctrines had been revealed to them, too holy to be communicated to the profane {34} rabble, and too sublime to be comprehended by vulgar capacities. Princes and legislators, who found their advantage in overawing and humbling the multitude, readily adopted a plan so artfully fabricated to answer these purposes. The views of those in power were congenial with those of the priests, and both united in the same spirit to thus control the respect, admiration, and dependence, of the million. They made their disciples believe that in the next world the souls of the uninitiated should roll in mire and dirt, and with difficulty reach their destined mansion. Hence, Plato introduces Socrates as observing that "the sages who introduced the Teletæ had positively affirmed that whatever soul should arrive in the infernal mansions _unhouselled_ and _unannealed_ should lie there immersed in mire and filth."--"And as to a future state," says Aristides, "the initiated shall not roll in mire and grope in darkness, a fate which awaits the unholy and uninitiated." When the Athenians advised Diogenes to be initiated, "It will be pretty enough," replied he, "to see Agesilaus and Epaminondas wallowing in the mire, while the most contemptible rascals who have been initiated are strolling in the islands of bliss!" When Antisthenes was to be initiated, and the priests were boasting of the wonderful benefit to ensue, "Why, forsooth, 'tis wonder your reverence don't hang yourself, in order to come at it sooner," was his remark. When, however, such benefits were expected to be derived from the {35} mysteries, it is no wonder the world crowded to the Eleusinian standard. Initiation was, in reality, a consecration to Ceres and Proserpine. Its result was, honor and reverence from the masses. They believed all virtue to be inspired by these goddesses. Pericles says: "I am convinced that the deities of Eleusis inspired me with this sentiment, and that this stratagem was suggested by the principle of the mystic rites." So also Aristophanes makes the chorus of the initiated, in his Ranæ, to sing:-- "Let us to flowery mead repair, With deathless roses blooming, Whose balmy sweets impregn the air, Both hills and dales perfuming. Since fate benign one choir has joined, We'll trip in mystic measure; In sweetest harmony combined, We'll quaff full draughts of pleasure. For us alone the power of day A milder light dispenses, And sheds benign a mellow ray To cheer our ravished senses. For we beheld the mystic show, And braved Eleusis' dangers; We do and know the deeds we owe To neighbors, friends, and strangers." It is believed that the higher orders of magi went further, and pretended to hold intercourse with, and cause to appear, the very [Greek: eidôlon] of the dead. In the days of Moses it was practised. "There shall not be found among you ... a charmer, or a consulter with familiar spirits, or a wizard, or a necromancer."[32] {36} Diodorus Siculus mentions an oracle near Lake Avernus, where the dead were raised, as having been in existence before the age of Hercules.[33] Plutarch, in his life of Cimon, relates that Pausanias, in his distress, applied to the Psychagogi, or dead-evokers, at Heraclea, to call up the spirit of Cleonice (whose injured apparition haunted him incessantly), in order that he might entreat her forgiveness. She appeared accordingly, and informed him that, on his return to Sparta, he would be delivered from all his sorrows--meaning, by death. This was five hundred years before Christ. The story resembles that of the apparition of Samuel before Saul: "To-morrow shalt thou and thy sons be with me."[34] The appearance of Samuel was regarded as a real transaction by the writer of Ecclesiasticus, for he says: "By his faithfulness he was found a true prophet, and by his word he was known to be faithful in vision; for after his death he showed the king his end, and lift up his voice from the earth in prophecy."[35] The rabbins say that the woman was the mother of Abner; she is said to have had the spirit of _Ob_, which Dean Milman has remarked is singularly similar in sound to the name of the _Obeah_ women in Africa and the West Indies. Herodotus also mentions _Thesprotia_, in Epirus, as the place where Periander evoked the spirit of his wife Melissa, whom he had murdered.[36] {37} It was a very general opinion, in later days, that demons had power over the souls of the dead, until Christ descended into Hades and delivered them from the thrall of the "Prince of Darkness." The dead were sometimes raised by those who did not possess a familiar spirit. These consulters repaired to the grave at night, and there lying down, repeated certain words in a low, muttering tone, and the spirit thus summoned appeared. "And thou shalt be brought down, and shalt speak out of the ground, and thy speech shall be low out of the dust, and thy voice shall be, as of one that hath a familiar spirit, out of the ground, and thy speech shall whisper out of the dust."[37] Euripides also refers to necromancy.[38] ADMETUS. [Greek: hora ge mê ti phasma nerterôn tod ê]? HERCULES. [Greek: ou psuchagôgon tond' epoiêsô xenon]. ADM. See! is not this some spectre from the dead? HER. No dead-invoker for thy guest hast thou. Seneca describes the spirits of the dead as being evoked by the Psychagogus in a cave rendered gloomy and as dark as night by the cypress, laurel, and other like trees.[39] Claudian refers to the same superstition.[40] And Lucan,[41] where Erictho recalls a spirit to animate {38} the body it had left, by horrid ceremonies. So Tibullus:[42]-- "Hæc cantu finditque solum, manesque sepulchris, Elicit, et tepido devocat ossa toro." The celebrated Heeren, in his "Politics of Ancient Greece" (ch. iii., p. 67, Am. ed.), remarks, in reference to the mysteries of Eleusis, that they exhibited the superiority of civilized over savage life, and gave instructions respecting a future life and its nature. For what was this more than an interpretation of the sacred traditions which were told of the goddess as the instructress in agriculture, of the forced descent of her daughter to the lower world, etc.? And we need not be more astonished if, in some of their sacred rites, we perceive an excitement carried to a degree of enthusiastic madness which belonged peculiarly to the East, but which the Hellenes were very willing to receive. For we must not neglect to bear in mind that they shared the spirit of the East; and did they not live on the very boundary-line between the East and the West? As those institutions were propagated farther to the west, they lost their original character. We know what the Bacchanalian rites became at Rome; and had they been introduced north of the Alps, what form would they have there assumed? But to those countries it was possible to {39} transplant the vine, not the service of the god to whom the vine was sacred. The orgies of Bacchus suited the cold soil and inclement forests of the North as little as the character of its inhabitants. Without going further into detail (the minutiæ of which are thus opened to every scholar), we must presume that the mythology of the children of Ham, the origin of pagan worship, fostered by variant mysteries to obtain and maintain temporal power, spread itself through the then known world. So far as we know, the secret doctrines which were taught in the mysteries may have finally degenerated into mere forms and an unmeaning ritual. And yet the mysteries exercised a great influence on the spirit of the nation, not of the initiated only, but also on the great mass of the people; and perhaps they influenced the latter still more than the former. They preserved the reverence for sacred things, and this gave them their political importance. They produced that effect better than any modern secret societies have been able to do. The mysteries had their secrets, but not everything connected with them was secret. They had, like those of Eleusis, their public festivals, processions, and pilgrimages, in which none but the initiated took a part, but of which no one was prohibited from being a spectator. While the multitude was permitted to gaze at them, it learned to believe that there was something sublimer than anything with which it was acquainted, revealed only to the initiated; and {40} while the worth of that sublimer knowledge did not consist in secrecy alone, it did not lose any of its value by being concealed. Thus the popular religion and the secret doctrines, although always distinguished from each other, united in serving to curb the people. The condition and the influence of religion on a nation were always closely connected with the situation of those persons who were particularly appointed for the service of the gods, the priests. The scholar will readily call to mind a Calchas, a Chryses, and others. The leaders and commanders themselves, in those days, offered their sacrifices (see the description which Nestor makes to Pallas, Od. iii., 430, &c.), performed the prayers, and observed the signs which indicated the result of an undertaking. In a word, kings and leaders were at the same time PRIESTS.[43] How far may this have been a reason why Pharaoh did not call on a priest for help, but rely on the supposed superior knowledge of the Magi? a higher grade of secret instruction, perhaps, than he had received. * * * * * {41} CHAPTER III. The Origin of the Cabbalistæ; the Chaldeans, and their Antagonism to Patriarchal Tradition.--The Hand-writing on Belshazzar's Wall.--The Secret Writings of the Cabbalistæ.--How Daniel read the Same.--Ezra.--The Origin of the Masoretic Text.--Zoroaster.--His Reformation and Reconstruction of the Religion of the Magi.--Pythagoras, and his "League."--The Thugs.--The Druids. So far as the children of Shem and Japheth are concerned, it is believed true religion was preserved, except where tradition became adulterated with extraneous matter. And for the preservation of that religion, Almighty God, in his mercy, established of that lineage a certain race, with rules, partly signifying his truth, partly merely political, which should thereafter shine as a moral light to the world, no matter how dim the light might be, through the imperfection of human nature under peculiar circumstances of temptation or otherwise. Here, at once, was an antagonism with the pagan religion, which was of the children of Ham, under his father's patriarchal curse. When Moses, the servant with the watchword, "I AM THAT I AM," presented himself to the Shemitic and {42} Japhetic races, he was everywhere received and acknowledged by them as their leader, in opposition to both the temporal and theological power of the Magi and of Pharaoh. Here came the clashing between pagan and traditional theology preserved by the patriarchs. And Almighty God, to show the truth of his laws, sanctioned their promulgation by signs and miracles, which the Magi could not equal nor counteract. Pass by the Israelitish history until the loss and destruction of the first temple, when we find this religious race, although imbued with the principles of truth, fallen from their high estate, and led captive into a strange land, subject to the very people that insisted on the opposite of their own religion. They were then under the control of a monarch who was governed by the laws of the Medes and Persians, that is, of the Magi; and who, in turn, relied upon their emperor, who trusted only to his magicians, sorcerers, and Chaldeans. They were in BABYLON itself. To confirm what has been said, and to elucidate what is to follow, we will pause a moment to learn what is meant by "the Chaldeans." The accounts that have been transmitted to us by the Chaldeans themselves of the antiquity of their learning, are blended with fable, and involved in considerable uncertainty. At the time when Callisthenes was requested by Aristotle to gain information concerning the origin of science in Chaldea, he was {43} informed that the ancestors of the Chaldeans had continued their astronomical observations through a period of 470,000 years; but upon examining the ground of this report, he found that the Chaldean observation reached no further backward than 1,903 years, or that, of course (adding this number to 331, B.C., the year in which Babylon was taken by Alexander), they had commenced in the year 2,234, B.C. Besides, Ptolemy mentions no Chaldean observations prior to the era of Nabonassar, which commenced 747 years B.C. Aristotle, however, on the credit of the most ancient records, speaks of the Chaldean Magi as prior to the Egyptian priests, who, it is well known, cultivated learning before the time of Moses. It appears probable that the philosophers of Chaldea were the priests of the Babylonian nation, who instructed the people in the principles of religion, interpreted its laws, and conducted its ceremonies. Their character was similar to that of the Persian Magi, and they are often confounded by the Greek historians. Like the priests in most other nations, they employed religion in subserviency to the ruling powers, and made use of imposture to serve the purposes of civil policy. Accordingly Diodorus Siculus relates (lib. ii., p. 31, compared with Daniel ii. 1, &c., Eccles. xliv. 3) that they pretended to predict future events by divination, to explain prodigies, interpret dreams, and avert evils or confer benefits by means of augury and incantations. For many ages they {44} retained a principal place among diviners. In the reign of Marcus Antoninus, when the emperor and his army, who were perishing with thirst, were suddenly relieved by a shower, the prodigy was ascribed to the power and skill of the Chaldean soothsayers. Thus accredited for their miraculous powers, they maintained their consequence in the courts of princes. (See Cic. de Divin. l. i., Strabo l. xv.--Sext. Emp. adv. Matt. l. v. § 2, Aul. Gell. l. xiv. s. 1, Strabo l.c.) The mysteries of Chaldean philosophy were revealed only to a select few, and studiously concealed from the multitude; and thus a veil of sanctity was cast over their doctrine, so that it might more easily be employed in the support of civil and religious tyranny. The sum of the Chaldean cosmogony, as it is given in Syncellus (Chronic. p. 28), divested of allegory is, that in the beginning all things consisted of darkness and water; that BELUS, or a divine power, dividing this humid mass formed the world, and that the human mind is an emanation from the divine nature. (Perizon. in Orig. Bab. Voss. de Scient. Math. c. xxx. § 5. Hottinger Hist. Or. p. 365. Herbelot Bib. Or. Voc. Zor. Anc. Un. Hist. vol. iii. Prid. Conn. b. iv. Shuckford, b. viii. Burnet Archæol. Phil. l. i. c. 4. Brucker's Hist. Phil., by Enfield, vol. i. b. i, c. 3.)[44] Now, we read that, "in the second year of the reign of Nebuchadnezzar, Nebuchadnezzar dreamed {45} dreams, wherewith his spirit was troubled, and his sleep brake from him. Then the king commanded to call the magicians, and the astrologers, and the sorcerers, and the Chaldeans, for to show the king his dreams. So they came and stood before the king."[45] But when by the king required not only to interpret but to reveal the very phantasm itself, they declared it beyond the power of their own or human art. Daniel, however, of the captive race, revealed it by supernal influence. Then did the monarch admit as to Deity, that God (JAH, Ps. lxviii. v. 4) was God of gods (_Baalim_, the representations of Baal).[46] His second dream was again only understood by the inspired representative of the Hebrews. But when, finally, appeared the stupendous handwriting on the wall, and when Belshazzar and his court were overwhelmed with amazement, so that "the king's countenance was changed, and his thoughts troubled him, so that the joints of his loins were loosed, and his knees smote one against another, the king cried aloud to bring in the astrologers, the Chaldeans, and the soothsayers."[47] They came; but all in vain. Daniel interpreted the hand-writing at sight, and his reading proved true. Some theories prevail about this, which, whether correct or not, are entitled to be understood and considered. They have, at least, direct reference to our subject of secret instruction and writing. {46} The wonderful miracles of God at the exodus did not prevent that nation from repeated lapse into paganism, and acts of open disobedience to the Theocratic law. Still less were they debarred thereby the mere oriental customs of imparting moral instruction in secret associations, or the pursuit of science in hidden confraternities. But the train of thought and instruction in the Hebrew societies was singularly pure, and directly at variance with the mysteries of paganism. While the whole result of the teaching of the heathen mysteries was to represent, symbolically, the fructifying energies of nature (which they supposed to be the sum of both science and theology), that of the Israelites was the inculcation alone of virtue, the acquisition of science, and the preservation of the name of Deity under peculiar forms and ceremonies, the recognition of which by members of the initiated, opened from one to the other every heart in perfect confidence, constantly reminding them of their duty to him as well as to each other. The whole system of oriental instruction, save that proclaimed in Leviticus and Deuteronomy, was secret. Even the name of Deity could not be pronounced except at low breath, or in a whisper, under prescribed forms. Has the reader ever asked himself the meaning of the passage in the Lord's Prayer, "_Hallowed be thy name_?" The Hebrews had a visible manifestation of God. That was not the only object of reverence. It was limited {47} not to any manifestation, but to the _name_ of Deity. And that teaching has received the express recognition of our Saviour, by his making it a part of the selections from the Jewish euchologies which form his prayers. We profess to worship Deity in spirit and in truth. Do we hallow his _name_? Mere abstinence from profanation is a negative duty. How must it be hallowed? That is a positive duty. Christianity, rejecting the Hebrew form, regards this as a mere Hebraism, substituting the name for the being himself. The Israelites do not: and one secret society still existing, whose origin we shall trace in this essay, still preserves the Hebraistic sanctification of the original holy name as their form of recognition of each other, under solemnities which hallow it. We know that Moses[48] "was learned in all the wisdom of the Egyptians, and was mighty in words and deeds." At his day pagan hieratic and hieroglyphic symbols only were written on papyrus, or carved and engraved on stone. Take, then, the fact, that the Hebrew patriarchs and their tribes of his time were suffering under the persecution of hard task-masters in Egypt. How could their patriarchs teach to their classes the lessons of virtue and morality? We can readily suppose at the conclusion of a toilsome day, when all is dark, and tired nature would otherwise be at rest, he that had patriarchal authority, at dead of night, when {48} their pagan rulers could not hear, and while due guard was kept, whether on high hills, or in low vales, would summon together those who were worthy TO RECEIVE instruction in moral science, virtue, and their patriarchal traditions, and there--taking as emblems their instruments of daily toil--preserve the lessons which thus alone could be imparted. This we believe to be the origin of the CABBALISTS, or _Kabbalistæ_, a secret society among the Hebrews, whose origin is lost in antiquity, yet whose knowledge may, under God's blessing, have been an instrument in accomplishing his great results. Their very name is derived from the Hebrew word [Hebrew: QBL] (Cabbala, "to receive"). This society of Cabbalistæ, had various methods of secret writing. Their first was the scriptura coelestis; the second, that of angels, or kingly or dominant power; the third, that of the passage of the flood (_Scriptura transitus fluvii_). Breithaupt[49] says: "It is to be recollected, that the more ancient of the Kabbalistæ, studied out even a secret method of writing, consisting of four lines intersecting each other at right angles, forming a square in the middle, {49} after the following method. The figure of the four lines is thus:-- | | shin lamed gimel | resh kaph beth | qoph yod aleph | | -------------------------------------------------- | | mem* samekh vav | kaph* nun he | tav mem daleth | | -------------------------------------------------- | | tsade* tsade tet | pe* pe chet | nun* ayin zayin | In each section three letters they place from right to left. When, therefore, they intend the first of the three, they write the figure of that section in which it is found, with one point ([Symbol: L with one dot]). If another (or the next), the same figure with two points ([Symbol: L with two dots]); if the third, the same again with three points ([Symbol: L with three dots]), and so on. But the Cabbalistæ had also a simpler writing: "The sublime philosophy of those who are called the Kabbala, embraces within itself different kinds to which the following appertain. In their most famous magic pamphlet _Rasiel_, which the Kabbalistæ hold in great respect, in the first place three secret alphabets are read, which, in many things, are wanting in the common form and syntax of usual Hebrew. The first is called _Scriptura coelestis_ (the writing of heaven); the next, [Hebrew: ML'KYM] or [Hebrew: MLKYM], that is, of angels or kings (_angelorum sive regum_); and the third the writing of the crossing of the flood."[50] There {50} are extant also, drawings of these letters preserved by Hern. Corn. Agrippa, in his work "_De Occult. Phil._ lib. iii. c. 30," the copying of which would be merely matter of curiosity to no end. But Breithaupt goes much further, and refers to a book, "In Oenigmatibus Judæorum Religiosissimis. Helmst. 1708, editio, p. 49," wherein he says,[51] that Herm. Vonder Hardt, the most celebrated philologist of our age, remembers two singular alphabets used by the Jews in preparing their amulets. The first is {51} when the next succeeding is substituted for the preceding letter in every instance, as to wit: [Hebrew: B] for [Hebrew: '], [Hebrew: G] for [Hebrew: B], and so forth. They are said to have concealed in this manner their recognition of the one true God, which they recite daily, early and toward evening, and as to which they persuade themselves that it is the most efficacious safeguard against idolatry, fortified wherewith they can not lapse from true to false religion. The other secret alphabet consisted in this, that in inversed order they change the last letter [Hebrew: T] with the first [Hebrew: '], and this and another in turn, and so on through the rest, which inversion it is the custom to call [Hebrew: 'TBSH]. From this they produce, by such letters, in their more elaborate amulets, the noted symbol [Hebrew: MTSPTS], which is nothing else than the name of God, [Hebrew: YHWH]. St. Jerome,[52] a celebrated father of the early church, contends that the prophet Jeremiah used this kind of writing, and not to irritate the king of Babylon against the Hebrews, for king, [Hebrew: BBL], said [Hebrew: SHSHK]. But some, also, among the Jews, declare that these words in Daniel, [Hebrew: MN' MN' TQL WPRSYN,] which, at the supper of the King Belzhazzar miraculously appeared upon the wall, to the astonishment of all, were written in this mode; and hence think this artificial transposition of letters originated with God. But these things are to be passed by as {52} uncertain. If this last be true, the handwriting on the wall would have appeared thus: [Hebrew: YT`T YT`T 'RB PWGCHMT`][53] But according to the first system referred to, the following would have been the appearance.[54] [Illustration] (See Conf. Jan. Hercvles de Svnde in Steganologia, lib. v., num. 4., p. 148. seqq.) If the society of Kabbalistæ originated among the Israelites as early as the time of Moses, their secret writings must having been only known to him and few besides, with their successors. Solomon, to whom Almighty God declared "wisdom and knowledge is granted unto thee,"[55] must have learned them; or, if it originated with him, Daniel and Ezra, who lived in a succeeding age; after the great temple had been destroyed, during the captivity, and at the rebuilding of the second temple, both inspired servants of God, equally knew them; and when the inscriptions on the wall, or on the ark, or in the sacred rolls, were lost and unknown to the people, they were easily deciphered by means of the knowledge of the Kabbalistic character, no matter what its form. Thus when Daniel saw the handwriting on {53} the wall he read it at once, possessed as he may have been of the knowledge how to read that cipher, while it can readily be seen why the Magi of Chaldea, and of Media and Persia, were at fault. It was a secret writing of the Hebrews, known only to the select few. Ezra, in the reign of Artaxerxes, king of Persia, "was chief-priest. This Ezra went up from Babylon, and he was a ready scribe in the law of Moses, which the Lord God of Israel had given."[56] This was, then, no new matter to him. The book of the law had been lost during the captivity. Yet, at the rebuilding of the temple, Ezra was a ready scribe in that lost writing. As such he went up from Babylon to Jerusalem. The wisdom of God granted to Solomon, must have provided against the foreseen loss of the sacred rolls, and determined a way for their discovery, and the manner of reading them. The lost rolls were brought forth by Ezra, and were read, notwithstanding the ignorance of their ancient language. In what way, so consistent with reason, as by his understanding the secret writing known only to the learned of that race--the hidden scripture and instruction of a mysterious society, whose only teaching was pure, in accordance with the divine commands of the theocracy, and with the oriental manner of instruction in matters of science and morality? Did this not furnish him a key to the original text? The words of {54} the one must have been recognised by their original use in application to the reading of the other; and though the language may have changed, the old cipher must have interpreted all. We learn that, "after the second veil, the tabernacle, which is called the holiest of all, which had the golden censer, and the ark of the covenant overlaid round about with gold, wherein was the golden pot that had manna, and Aaron's rod that budded, and the tables of the covenant," were entered.[57] The book (or rolls) of the law was commanded to be put within the ark.[58] The end of laying it there was, that it, as the original, might be reserved there as the authentic copy, by which all others were to be corrected and set right.[59] Prideaux contends that, the ark deposited in the second temple was only a representative of a former ark on the great day of expiation, and to be a repository of the Holy Scriptures, that is, of the original copy of that collection which was made of them after the captivity, by Ezra and the men of the great synagogue; for when this copy was perfected, it was then laid up in it. And in imitation hereof, the Jews, in all their synagogues, have a like ark or coffer,[60] of the same size or form, in which they keep the Scriptures belonging to the {55} Synagogue; and whence they take it out with great solemnity, whenever they use it, and return it with the like when they have done with it. What became of the old ark, on the destruction of the temple by Nebuchadnezzar, is a dispute among the Rabbins. The Jews--and herein they are supported by the traditions of the most ancient secret society on earth--contend that it was hid and preserved, by Jeremiah, say some, out of the second book of Maccabees.[61] But most of them will have it, that King Josiah, being foretold by Huldah, the prophetess, that the temple would speedily, after his death, be destroyed, caused the ark to be put in a vault under ground, which Solomon, foreseeing this destruction, had caused of purpose to be built for the preserving of it. And, for the proof hereof, they produce the text where Josiah commands the Levites[62] to put the holy ark in the house, "which Solomon, the son of David, king of Israel, did build."[63] Whether within or without the ark, or within a secret vault or not, EZRA, the scribe, brought forth the lost book or rolls of the law, and established the rules for its future perpetuity, whether by writing, or in oral explanation. And here, again, we note the use of secrecy in matters of power. From him is derived the present method of reading Hebrew, by what is usually known as the {56} vowel points in the Masoretic text. The Masorites were a set of men whose profession it was to write out copies of the Hebrew Scriptures. And the present vowel points were used by them, as derived from the secret writings of the Cabbalists. The Jews believe that, when God gave to Moses the law in Mount Sinai, he taught him first the true readings of it; and, secondly, the true interpretation of it; and that both these were handed down, from generation to generation, by oral tradition only, till at length the readings were written by the accents and vowels, in like manner as the interpretations were, by the Mishna and Gemara. The former they call Masorah, which signifieth "tradition." The other is called Cabbala, which signifieth "reception;" but both of them denote the same thing, that is, a knowledge down from generation to generation, in the doing of which, there being tradition on the one hand, and reception on the other, that which relates to the readings of the Hebrew Scriptures hath its name from the former, and that which relates to the interpretations of them from the latter. As those who studied and taught the Cabbala were called the Cabbalists, so those who studied and taught the Masorah were called the Masorites. As the whole business of the Cabbalists and Masorites was the study of the true reading of the Hebrew Scriptures, to preserve and teach the proper text, they certainly are justly held the most likely to have invented, or at least {57} received and preserved these vowel points, because the whole use of these points is to serve to this purpose.[64] About this time, in the reign of Darius, otherwise Artaxerxes, who sent Ezra and Nehemiah to Jerusalem to restore the state of the Jews, first appeared in Persia the famous prophet of the Magi, whom the Persians call Zerdusht, or Zaratush, and the Greeks Zoroastres: born of mean and obscure parentage, with all the craft and enterprising boldness of Mohammed, but much more knowledge. He was excellently skilled in all the learning of the East that was in his time; whereas the other could neither read nor write. He was thoroughly versed in the Jewish religion, and in all the sacred writings of the Old Testament that were then extant, which makes it most likely that he was, in his origin, a Jew. It is generally said of him, that he had been a servant to one of the prophets of Israel, and that it was by this means that he came to be so well skilled in the Holy Scriptures, and all other Jewish knowledge. From the collation of authorities made by Dr. Prideaux,[65] it would seem that it was Daniel under whom he served; besides whom there was not any other master in those times, under whom he could acquire all that knowledge, both in things sacred and profane, which he was so well furnished with. He founded no new {58} religion, but only reformed the old one. He found that the eminent of the Magi usurped the sovereignty after the death of Cambyses. But they were destroyed, and by the slaughter which was then made of all the chief men among them, it sunk so low, that it became almost extinct, and Sabianism everywhere prevailed against it, Darius and most of his followers on that occasion going over to it. But the affection which the people had for the religion of their forefathers, and which they had all been brought up in, not being easily to be rooted out, Zoroastres saw that the revival of this was the best game of imposture that he could then play; and having so good an old stock to engraft upon, he with greater ease made his new scions grow. He first made his appearance in Media, now called Aderbijan, in the city of Xix, say some; in that of Ecbatana, now Tauris, say others. The chief reformation which he made in the Magian religion was in the first principles of it: for whereas before they had held the being of TWO FIRST CAUSES, the first light, or the good God, who was the author of all good; and the other darkness, or the evil god, who was the author of all evil; and that of the mixture of these two, as they were in a continual struggle with each other, all things were made; he introduced a principle superior to them both, ONE SUPREME GOD, who created both light and darkness, and out of these two, according to the alone pleasure of his own will, made all things else that are, according to what is {59} said:[66] "I am the Lord, and there is none else, there is no God besides me: I girded thee, though thou hast not known me: that they may know from the rising of the sun, and from the west, that there is none besides me. I am the Lord, and there is none else. I form the light, and create darkness: I make peace, and create evil: I the Lord do all these things." These words, directed to Cyrus, king of Persia, must be understood as spoken in reference to the Persian sect of the Magians, who then held light and darkness, or good and evil, to be the supreme beings, without acknowledging the great God who is superior to both. To avoid making God the author of evil, Zoroaster's doctrine was, that God originally and directly created only light or good, and that darkness, or evil, followed it by consequence, as the shadow doth the person; that light or good had only a real production from God, and the other afterward resulted from it as the defect thereof. In sum, his doctrine as to this particular was, that there was one Supreme Being, independent and self-existent from all eternity. That under him were two angels, one the angel of light, who is the author and director of all good; and the other the angel of darkness, who is the author and director of all evil; and that these two, out of the mixture of light and darkness, made all things that are; that they are in a perpetual struggle with each other; and that when the angel of light prevails, then the most {60} is good, and when the angel of darkness prevails, then the most is evil; that this struggle shall continue to the end of the world; that then there shall be a general resurrection, and a day of judgment, wherein just retribution shall be rendered to all according to their works, &c. And all this the remainder of that sect, which is _now_ in Persia and India do, without any variation, after so many ages still hold, even to this day. Another reformation which he made in the Magian religion was, that he caused fire temples to be built wherever he came: this being to prevent their sacred fires, on the tops of hills, from being put out by storms, and that the public offices of their religion might be the better performed before the people. Zoroaster pretended he was taken up into heaven, there to be instructed in those doctrines which he was to deliver unto men. Mohammed pretended to have seen God. Zoroaster was too well informed for such imposture. He only claimed to have heard him speaking to him out of the midst of a great and most bright flame of fire; and he, therefore, taught his followers that fire was the truest _shechinah_ of the divine presence. His followers thereafter worshipped the sun as the most perfect fire of God. But this was an original usage of the Magi (referred to in Ezekiel viii. 16), where it is related, that the prophet being carried in a vision to Jerusalem, had there shown him "about five-and-twenty men standing between the porch and the altar, with {61} their backs toward the temple of the Lord, and their faces toward the east; and they worshipped the sun." The meaning of which is, that they had turned their backs upon the true worship of God, and had gone over to that of the Magians.[67] The _Kebla_, or point of the heavens toward which they directed their worship being toward the rising sun, that of the Jews in Jerusalem to the Holy of Holies on the west end of the temple; of those elsewhere toward Jerusalem; of the Mohammedans toward Mecca, and the Sabians toward the meridian. Come whence it may, what is the meaning of the use of fire in any divine worship? 1. Burnt-offerings of old required it. 2. It descended on the altars of Elijah, and of Solomon, from God himself. 3. The Magi, from the time of Zoroaster, have deemed it the symbol of purity. 4. The pagan mysteries in Egypt, Greece, and Rome, all preserved the "sacred fire." Most religions seem to have adopted its use. Why? 5. The Catholic church has ever preserved its use in burning tapers, lamps, and smoking incense. In his reformation of the customs and rites of the Magi, Zoroaster, as has been hereinbefore said, preserved their three grades of APPRENTICES, MASTERS, and PERFECT MASTERS.[68] The first were the inferior clergy, who served in all the common offices of their {62} divine worship; next above them were the superintendents, who in their several districts governed the inferior clergy, as bishops do with us; and above all was the perfect-master, the archimagus, who was the head of the whole religion. Accordingly their places of worship were of three sorts. The lowest sort were parochial oratories served by the inferior clergy, where they read the daily offices out of their liturgy, and on solemn occasions read part of their sacred writings to the people. In these churches there were no fire altars; but the small scintilla of sacred fire preserved in them, was kept only in a lamp. Next above these were their fire temples, in which fire was continually burning on a sacred altar. The highest church of all was "_the fire-temple_," the residence of the archimagus, first established by Zoroaster at Balch, but removed in the seventh century to Kerman, a province in Persia on the southern ocean. To gain the better reputation to his pretensions, Zoroaster first retired to a cave, and there lived a long time as a recluse, pretending to be abstracted from all earthly considerations, and to be given wholly to prayer and divine meditations; and the more to amuse the people who there resorted to him, he dressed up his cave with several mystical figures, representing Mithra, and other mysteries of their religion. In this cave he wrote his book, called Zendavesta, or Zend, meaning "fire-kindler," or "tinder-box." This book contains much borrowed {63} from the Old Testament. He even called it the book of Abraham, and his religion the religion of Abraham; for he pretended that the reformation which he introduced was no more than to bring back the religion of the Persians to that original purity in which Abraham practised it, by purging it of all those defects, abuses, and innovations, which the corruptions of after-times had introduced into it.[69] Is it not singular that all the nations of the earth still trace their teaching in pure religion to Abraham, whether under the name of Brahma, or otherwise? These ancient Magi were great mathematicians, philosophers, and divines of the ages in which they lived, and had no other knowledge but what by their own study, and the instructions of the ancients of their sect they had improved themselves in. All of the Magi were not thus learned, only those of the higher order. The priesthood, like the Jewish, was communicated only from father to son, except to the royal family,[70] whom they were bound to instruct, the better to fit them for government. Whether it were that these Magians thought it would bring the greater credit to them, or the kings, that it would add a greater sacredness to their persons, or from both these causes, the royal family of Persia, so long as the Magi prevailed among them, was always reckoned {64} of the sacerdotal tribe.[71] The kings of Persia were looked on to be of that sacerdotal order, and were always initiated into the sacred rites of the Magians, before they took on them the crown, or were inaugurated into the kingdom.[72] PYTHAGORAS next assumed, in the west, the most prominent place for learning. He was the scholar of Zoroaster at Babylon, and learned of him most of that knowledge which afterward rendered him so famous. So saith Apulcius (Floridorum secundo), and so say Jamblichus (in vita Pythag. c. 4), Porphyry (Ibid. p. 185. edit. Cant.), and Clemens Alexandrinus (Stromata i. p. 223) for the Zabratus or Zaratus of Porphyry, and the Na-Zaratus of Clemens, were none other than this Zoroaster; and they relate the matter thus: that when Cambyses conquered Egypt he found Pythagoras there on his travels, for the improvement of himself in the learning of that country; that, having taken him prisoner, he sent him, with other captives, to Babylon, where Zoroaster (or Zabratus, as Porphyry calls him) then lived; and that he there became his disciple, and learned many things of him in the eastern learning. There may be error as to date, but that Pythagoras was at Babylon, and learned there a great part of that knowledge which he was afterward so famous for, is agreed by {65} all. His stay there, Jamblichus tells us, was twelve years; and that, in his converse with the Magians, he learned from them arithmetic, music, the knowledge of divine things, and the sacred mysteries pertaining thereto. But the most important doctrine which he brought home thence, was that of the immortality of the soul; for it was generally agreed among the ancients (Porphysius in vita Pythagoræ p. 188, edit., Cant. Jamblichus in vita Pyth. c. 30), that he was the first of all the Greeks that taught it. Prideaux says he takes this for certain, that Pythagoras had this from Zoroaster, for it was his doctrine, and he is the earliest heathen on record who taught it.[73] But Pythagoras seems to have combined the notions he then received with those of the Egyptian Magi; for he taught immortality to consist in constant transmigration from one body to another. The Egyptian Magi claimed to be judges of the dead,[74] and taught this doctrine. Zoroaster taught a resurrection from the dead, and an immortal state as we understand it. And it is probable Pythagoras adopted this notion after he fled from Samos to Egypt to escape from the government of Polycrates. Be this as it may, he was a master-spirit in a secret society with its lodges spread through Magna Græcia, originating in one he established at Crotona in Lower Italy. Like that of the Cabbalists, this society had no connection whatever with the dominant religion. {66} The Kabbalistæ taught virtue and science, and thus were, perhaps, an auxiliary, but certainly no opponent to the sacred teachings of the holy law. The Pythagorean league taught philosophy alone; full instruction was given in the liberal arts and sciences in accordance with the learning of that age. But, after it was thought destroyed (and it was suppressed by Cylon and his faction, about the year 500 B.C.), it still exercised a great influence over all Greece, in such manner as that Heeren speaks of it as a phenomenon which is in many respects without a parallel. The grand object of the moral reform of Pythagoras was SELF-GOVERNMENT. By his dignity, moral purity, dress, and eloquence, he excited not only attention but enthusiasm. In that day an aristocracy prevailed in Magna Græcia, based chiefly on the corrupting tendencies of wealth and luxury. Against this class a popular movement commenced, by the influence whereof Sybaris was destroyed, and thereupon five hundred nobles fled for safety to Crotona, and prayed for protection from that city, which they obtained principally by the advice of Pythagoras. (Diod. Sic. xii. p. 77. Wechel.) Aristocratic evils he abrogated. A friend of the people, he recognised their equal rights: and it would seem that, while he adopted grades in knowledge and moral worth, he considered mankind on "a level" so far as all political power was concerned. To accomplish this end, he prescribed in his own society, and their affiliated {67} lodges, or meetings, a certain manner of life, distinguished by a most cleanly but not luxurious clothing, a regular diet, a methodical division of time, part of which was to be appropriated to one's self, and part to the state. Heeren remarks, that when a secret society pursues political ends, it naturally follows that an opposing party increases in the same degree in which the preponderating influence of such a society becomes more felt. In this case, the opposition existed already in the popular party. It therefore only needed a daring leader, like Cylon, to scatter the society by violence; the assembly was surprised, and most of them cut down, while a few only, with their master, escaped. They are said, so far as their political views were concerned, to have regarded anarchy as the greatest evil, because man can not exist without social order. They held that everything depended on the relation between the governing and the governed; that the former should be not only prudent but mild; and that the latter should not only obey, but love their magistrates; that it was necessary to grow accustomed, even in boyhood, to regard order and harmony as beautiful and useful, disorder and confusion as hateful and injurious. They were not blindly attached to a single form of government, but insisted that there should be no unlawful tyranny. Where a regal government existed, kings should be subject to the laws, and act only as the chief magistrates. They regarded a {68} mixed constitution as the best, and where the administration rested principally in the hands of the upper class, they reserved a share of it for the people. The writings of the Pythagoreans commanded high prices, but gained political importance only so far as they contributed to the education of distinguished men, of whom Epaminondas was one.[75] Another scion of these methods of secret instruction, wherein, however, religion was the engine of political power, came from the ancient Assyrian stock with Phoenician emigration to Great Britain. The DRUIDS controlled the learning of that country in religion as in science; and by their mysteries exerted an overwhelming influence upon the rulers and the masses. Dr. Parsons[76] says, what were the filids, and bards, and the Druids, but professors of the sciences among the Gomerians, and Magogians or Scythians, and it is plain that, from Phenius downward, there were always, in every established kingdom among the Scythians, philosophers and wise men, who, at certain times, visited the Greek sages, after they had found their schools? It is no easy matter to point out the first rise and ages of the Druids. They taught the same opinions of the renovated state of the earth, and of souls, with the Magi. According to Cæsar, in his time these Druids instructed their youth in the {69} nature and motion of the stars, in the theory of the earth, its magnitude, and of the world, and in the power of the immortal gods. On the continent of Europe, he says, the Druids grew into such power and ascendency over the minds of the people, that even the kings themselves paid an implicit slavish obedience to their dictates; insomuch, that their armies were brave in battle, or abject enough to decline even the most advantageous prospects of success, according to the arbitrary prognostics of this set of religious tyrants; and their decisions became at last peremptory in civil, as well as in the affairs of religion. One of the kings of Ireland, the learned _Carmac o' Quin_, great in law and philosophy, who was not afraid to inveigh openly against the corruptions and superstition of the Druids, and maintained, in his disputations against them, that the original theology consisted in the worship of one omnipotent, eternal Being, that created all things; that this was the true religion of their ancestors; and that the numerous gods of the Druids were only absurdity and superstition--proved fatal to him. For, as this society saw an impending danger of their dissolution, they formed a deep conspiracy against him, and he was murdered. The Druids on the continent never committed their mysteries to writing, but taught their pupils _memoriter_. The Irish and Scotch Druids wrote theirs, but in secret character. These were well understood by the learned men who were in great numbers, and had {70} not only genius but an ardent inclination to make researches into science. St. Patrick, then, with the general consent and applause of the learned of that day, committed to the flames almost two hundred tracts of their pagan mysteries.[77] And with his day ended the last of druidical superstition. The Druids preserved the mistletoe evergreen as an emblem of nature's fructifying energy, and of immortality. The Thugs, Assassins, Phanzigars, or by what other name they may be known, were no society for the development of philosophy or religion; and, although they began about this time, are unworthy of farther mention. Their mysteries, if any, were only those of the highway robber, murderer, or other violater of God's law. Their only secrecy was the concealment of their crime. * * * * * {71} CHAPTER IV. The Discipline of the Secret in the Origin of the Christian Church.--The Inquisition.--The Mystics.--The rise of Monachism.--The Mendicant Orders.--The Order of Knighthood.--The Jesuits, their Organization, and History.--The Rosicrucians, &c. But next appeared upon the stage of human life, our Lord and Saviour, JESUS CHRIST; "The sun of Righteousness, rising with healing on his wings:" that LIGHT of this world, which was to draw all men unto him, at the mention of whose name "every knee should bow, of things in heaven, and things in earth, and things under the earth."[78] His lessons to man were all oral. The church he established received none but traditional instruction. The gospels of his life were written more than half a century after the crucifixion. The apostles, commissioned to go forth and preach the Gospel, held their meetings in upper chambers, and in secrecy, and part of their manner of teaching, if not all, was founded upon the still-prevailing systems of the Kabbalistæ and philosophers. There were grades observed in the orders of ministry. The diaconate, the {72} presbyter, priest or elder, and the [Greek: episkopos] or bishop. So there were three grades of the laity--catechumens, (not yet baptized,) baptized persons, and "the faithful." The policy of the apostles (who, when they were taught to be harmless, were to be wise) adapted itself to the then existing state of affairs. It was not only for fear of the Jews, as at first, that they adopted the method of instruction in secret, and which is to this day recognised by the catholic church as the then _disciplina arcani_, or "discipline of the secret;" but they kept it up even during the times of persecution, down to the time of St. Augustin. When our Saviour was insulted by the scribes and Pharisees, saying, "why do thy disciples transgress the tradition of the elders?" &c. He said to them, "why do ye also transgress the commandment of God by your tradition?"[79] Still more did he rebuke them, when they asked him, "why walk not thy disciples according to the traditions of the elders, but eat bread with unwashen hands?" In his answer, he replied, "laying aside the commandment of God, ye hold the tradition of men, as the washing of pots and cups, &c., &c. And he said unto them, Full well ye reject the commandment of God, that ye may keep your own tradition."[80] St. Paul afterward, well knowing the then systems of philosophy, and their then traditional instruction, wrote to them at Philippi,[81] "Beware lest any man spoil you through {73} philosophy and vain deceit after the tradition of men, after the rudiments (or elements) of this world, and not after Christ." Then St. Paul, guarding the early Christians so carefully, writes to the faithful in Thessaly, "Now we command you, brethren, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that ye withdraw yourselves from every brother that walketh disorderly, and not after the tradition which ye have received _of us_,"[82] &c. When St. Paul preached on the first day of the week when the disciples came together to break bread, it was in an upper chamber where they were gathered together.[83] At an earlier date, the first day of the week after the crucifixion, in the evening, "when the doors were shut where the disciples were assembled, for fear of the Jews, came Jesus, and stood in the midst," &c.[84] When Pliny was proconsul in Judea, such charges were made against the Christians on account of their secrecy, as caused severe persecution, not for matters of religion, but for supposed cannibalism. He writes to Trajan, that he took all pains to inform himself as to the character of the Christian sect. To do this he questioned such as had for many years been separated from the Christian community, but though apostates rarely speak well of the society to which they formerly belonged, he could find out nothing. He then applied torture to two female-slaves, deaconesses, to extort from them the truth. After all, he could learn only that the {74} Christians were in the habit of meeting together on a certain day; that they then united in a hymn of praise to their God, Christ; and that they bound one another--not to commit crimes, but to refrain from theft, from adultery, to be faithful in performing their promises, to withhold from none the property intrusted to their keeping; and then separated and afterward assembled at a simple and innocent meal.[85] Evidently, the Christian mysteries were preserved secret from the Romans as from the Jews, or such crime could never have been imputed to them. Alluding to the secret traditional instruction prevalent in Judea and adopted by the early church, St. Augustin writes, "You have heard the great mystery. Ask a man, 'Are you a Christian?' He answers you, 'I am not.' 'Perhaps you are a pagan, or a Jew?' But if he has answered 'I am not;' then put this question to him, 'Are you a catechumen, or one of the faith?' If he shall answer you, 'I am a catechumen;' he is anointed but not yet baptized. But, whence anointed? ask him. And he replies. Ask of him in whom he believes. From the fact that he is a catechumen, he says, in Christ." This is the third lecture of St. Augustin on the ninth chapter of St. John's gospel, where our Saviour is portrayed as healing the blind man, by mixing earth with spittle and anointing his eyes therewith. And St. Augustin adds, "Why have I spoken of {75} spittle and of mud? Because the word is made flesh; this the catechumens hear; but it is not sufficient for them as to what they were anointed; let them hasten to the font, if they desire light."[86] But still further to mark the distinction between these grades of Christian secret instruction, St. Augustin, in the eleventh tract on the Gospel of St. John, treating of the conversation between Nicodemus and our Saviour, as to regeneration, says, "If, therefore, Nicodemus was of the multitude who believed in his name, now in that Nicodemus we comprehend why Jesus did not trust them. Jesus answered and said to him, 'Verily, verily I say unto you, unless any one shall have been born again, he can not see the kingdom of God.' Jesus placed faith, therefore, in those who were born again. Lo! they believed in him, and Jesus did not trust in them. Such are all catechumens: they now believe in the name of Christ, but Jesus does not confide in them. Let your love comprehend and understand this. If we say to a catechumen, 'Do you believe in Christ?' He answers, {76} 'I do,' and signs himself with Christ's cross: he bears it on his forehead, and blushes not at his Lord's cross. Lo! he believes in his name. Let us ask him, 'Do you eat the flesh of the son of man, and drink his blood?' He knows not what we say, because Jesus has not trusted him."[87] Now we are told in Holy Writ in reference to this matter. St. Paul, alluding to this secret traditional instruction in the several degrees of Christian learning, says to those advanced to a higher or more perfect degree: "and I, brethren, could not speak unto you as unto spiritual, but as unto carnal, even as to babes in Christ. I have fed you with milk, and not with meat: for hitherto ye were not able to bear it, neither yet now are ye able."[88] Even their first lessons in the great mystery were imperfect. Other and further instruction was to complete it. So also St. Peter saith in his general letter, "Wherefore laying aside all malice and all guile and hypocrisies and envies {77} and all evil speakings, as new-born babes, desire the sincere milk of the word that ye may _grow_ thereby."[89] And again, St. Paul saith,[90] "For when for the time ye ought to be teachers, ye have need that one teach you again which be the first principles of the oracles of God; and are become such as have need of milk, and not of strong meat. For every one that useth milk is unskilful in the word of righteousness: for he is a babe. But strong meat belongeth to them that are of full age, even those who by reason of use" (_habit, or perfection_) "have their senses exercised to discern both good and evil. Therefore leaving the principles" (the word of the beginning of Christ) "of the doctrine of Christ, let us go on to perfection,"[91] &c. We need not here refer to the wonderful spread of Christianity. We learn a plain and simple lesson taught by Jesus, as to the administration of his church. "These twelve Jesus sent forth, and commanded them, saying, Go not into the way of the Gentiles," &c. "Heal the sick, cleanse the lepers, raise the dead, cast out devils: freely have ye received, freely give. Provide neither gold, nor silver, nor brass, in your purses: nor scrip for your journey, neither two coats, neither shoes, nor yet a staff; for the workman is worthy of his meat."[92] When questioned before Pilate, he declared, "My kingdom is not of this world."[93] Whether the successors of the {78} apostles have or not, since that day, established a kingdom of this world, is not for us here to discuss. Whether those that claim such succession obey the precept quoted, or not, we do not interfere with. To insure unity in the church throughout the world, prudence would suggest that there should be some place, free from the control of worldly politics, whence its teachings should issue, and its counsels be heard. In its infancy the Christian church suffered bitterly from persecution. The faithful everywhere received a crown of martyrdom. When earthly terrors interposed, the blood of the martyrs proved the seed of the church. It is for us, however, to trace in history the secret teachings of those who have claimed its highest authority in any denomination, and if we do not reach their private counsels, their acts proclaim them. Has, or not, each Christian church been tempted by worldly power, wealth, and honor, like all other systems of religion? Have there existed within their jurisdiction, confraternities, with secular power, directly or indirectly under their control, seeking by secret measures to manage the government of the nations of this earth? That great Creator, whose word is truth which can not change, declared as law to govern all his creatures, "THOU SHALT NOT KILL." What saith history of those who claim to have acted in his name? Why, and in what manner did they act? {79} The south of France in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries became a scene of blood, the immediate cause of which was the erections of the "tribunals of faith," better known to us as a secret society called "THE INQUISITION." Innocent III., who ascended the papal chair in 1198, conceived the project thereof, to extirpate the rebellious members of the church--the Albigenses--and to extend the papal power at the expense of the bishops: and his successors carried out his plan. This tribunal, "_the holy office_" or "inquisition" (sanctum officium), was under the immediate direction of the papal chair: it was to seek out heretics and adherents of false doctrines, and to pronounce its dreadful sentence against their fortune, their honor, and _their lives_, without appeal. The process of this tribunal differed entirely from that of the civil courts. The informer was not only concealed, but rewarded by the inquisition. The accused was obliged to be his own accuser. Suspected persons were secretly seized and thrown into prison. No better instruments could be found for inquisitors than the mendicant orders of monks, particularly the Franciscans and Dominicans, whom the pope employed to destroy the heretics, and inquire into the conduct of bishops. Pope Gregory IX., in 1233, completed the design of his predecessors, and, as they had succeeded in giving these inquisitorial monks, who were wholly dependent on the pope, an unlimited power, and in rendering the interference {80} of the temporal magistrates only nominal, the inquisition was successively introduced into several parts of Italy, and into some provinces of France; its power in the latter country being more limited than in the former. The tribunals of faith were admitted into Spain in the middle of the thirteenth century, but a firm opposition was made to them, particularly in Castile and Leon, and the bishops there maintained their exclusive jurisdiction in spiritual matters. For a time this power waned, when, afterward in the fifteenth century, it assumed an aspect truly alarming. Three religions then prevailed in Spain: Christians, Jews, and Mahommedans. The power of the nobles was a bar, at the same time, to the absolute power of Ferdinand and Isabella. But this engine of religious tyranny accomplished their ends, and became the most powerful instrument of their policy. Owing to the fanatical preaching of Fernando Nuñez, who taught the persecution of the Jews to be a good work, popular tumults prevailed, in which this people was plundered, robbed, and murdered. Cardinal Mendoza, at Seville, in 1477, condemned and punished many who persevered in opposition to the doctrines of his faith. Mendoza recommended the establishment of the inquisition to Ferdinand and Isabella. Dependent entirely upon the court, what better engine could they use to render their power absolute, by confiscation of estates to fill their treasury, and to limit the {81} power of the nobles and superior clergy? In the assembly of the estates, therefore, held at Toledo, 1480, in spite of all opposition, it was determined to establish a tribunal, under the name of the general inquisition (_general inquisicion suprema_). This was opened in Seville, 1481. Thomas de Torquenada, prior of the Dominican convent at Segovia, father-confessor to Mendoza, had been appointed first grand inquisitor by the king and queen, in 1478. The peaceful teachings of the meek and lowly Jesus do not seem to have had much influence on this political Boanerges. He had two hundred familiars, and a guard of fifty horsemen, but he lived in continual fear of poison. The Dominican monastery at Seville soon became insufficient to contain the numerous prisoners, and the king removed the court to the castle in the suburb of Triana. At the first _auto da fè_ (act of faith), seven apostate Christians were burnt, and the number of penitents was much greater. Spanish writers relate that above seventeen thousand were given up to the inquisition. More than two thousand were condemned to the flames the first year, and great numbers fled to neighboring countries. The then pope, Sixtus IV., opposed the establishment of this court, as being the conversion of an ecclesiastical into a secular tribunal: but he was compelled to submit to circumstances, and actually promulgated a bull subjecting Aragon, Valencia, and Sicily, the hereditary dominions of Ferdinand, to the {82} inquisitor-general of Castile. The introduction of the new tribunal was attended with risings and oppositions in many places, excited by the cruelty of the inquisitors, and encouraged, perhaps, by the jealousy of the bishops. Saragossa and other places refused admission to the inquisitors, many of whom lost their lives; but the people were obliged to yield in the contest; and _the kings not only became the absolute judges in matters of faith, but the honor, property, and life of every subject were in their hands_. The political importance of this institution may be estimated by the following statement. In every community, the grand inquisitor must fix a period, from thirty to forty days, within which time heretics, and those who have lapsed from the faith, shall deliver themselves up to the inquisition. Penitent heretics and apostates, although pardoned, could hold no public office, nor become lessees, lawyers, physicians, apothecaries, or grocers; nor wear gold, silver, or precious stones; nor ride; nor carry arms; during their whole life, under a penalty of being declared guilty of a relapse into heresy: and they were obliged to give up a part of their property for the support of the war against the Moors. Those who did not surrender themselves within the time fixed were deprived of their property irrevocably. The absent, also, and those who had been long dead, could be condemned, provided there was sufficient evidence against them. The bones of those who were condemned after death were dug up, {83} and the property which they had left escheated to the king. At first the jurisdiction of the inquisition was not accurately defined; but it was regularly organized by the ordinance of 1484, establishing branches in the different provinces of Spain, under the direction of the inquisitor-general. The inquisitor-general presided, with aid of six or seven counsellers nominated by the king; and his officers were a fiscal (or quasi prosecuting attorney), two secretaries, a receiver, two relators, a secuestrador (or escheator), and officials. In an ordinance of 1732, it was made the duty of all believers, to inform the inquisition, if they knew any one, living or dead, present or absent, who had wandered from the faith, who did observe, or had observed the laws of Moses, or even spoken favorably of them: if they knew any one who followed, or had followed the doctrines of Luther; any one who had concluded an alliance with the devil, either expressly or virtually; any one who possessed any heretical book, or the Koran, or the Bible in the Spanish tongue; or, in fine, if they knew any one who had harbored, received, or favored heretics. If the accused did not appear at the third summons he was excommunicated. From the moment that the prisoner was in the power of the court he was cut off from the world. Then followed tortures, solitary confinement, and death in flames, with every attendant of abject humiliation, while his name, with that {84} of his children and grand-children, was officially declared infamous. Napoleon crushed this monstrous iniquity December 4, 1808. According to the estimate of Llorente, the number of victims of the Spanish inquisition, from 1481 to 1808, amounted to 341,021 persons. In Portugal the inquisition was established in 1557. Whence they also carried a branch of it to Goa, in the East Indies; in like manner as the Spaniards established one in America.[94] From the earlier days, however, of the Christian religion we find a select few known as the MYSTICS, steadily pursuing a peaceful course in the investigation of truth. Of them it is said, that they exercised a powerful influence both upon life and literature: and, although the inculcation of meekness and self-humiliation paralyzed active exertion, and a life devoted to emotions and sentiments occasionally produced fanaticism, yet this influence, especially in the middle ages was highly beneficial. John Tauler, of Strasbourg, Henry Suss, of Constance, and Thomas à Kempis, were active mystics, and eminent among their fraternity which was called "the brethren of the common life." Theirs was a religion of feeling, poetry, and imagination, in contrast with philosophical rules and forms of reasoning, as taught by the school-men. They excused their fanaticism, by appealing to the words of St. Paul: {85} "The spirit prays in us by sighs and groans that are unutterable." Now, if the spirit, say they, prays in us, we must resign ourselves to its motions, and be swayed and guided by its impulse, by remaining in mere inaction. Hence, passive contemplation they considered the highest state of perfection. The number of the mystics increased in the fourth century under the influence of the Grecian fanatic, who gave himself out as Dionysius, the Areopagite, a disciple of St. Paul, and probably lived about this period; and by pretending to higher degrees of perfection than other Christians, and practising greater austerities, their cause gained ground, especially in the eastern provinces in the fifth century. A copy of the pretended works of Dionysius, was sent by Balbus to Louis the Meek, in the year 824, which kindled the flame of mysticism in the western provinces, and filled the Latins with the most enthusiastic admiration of this new religion. In the twelfth century these mystics took the lead in their method of expounding Scripture; and by searching for mysteries and hidden meanings in the plainest expressions, forced the word of God into a conformity with their visionary doctrines, their enthusiastic feelings, and the system of discipline which they had drawn from the excursion of their irregular fancies. In the thirteenth century they were the most formidable antagonists of the schoolmen, and toward the close of the fourteenth many of them resided and propagated their tenets in {86} almost every part of Europe. In the fifteenth century they had many persons of distinguished merit in their number; and in the sixteenth, previously to the Reformation, it is said that the only true sparks of real piety were to be found among them.[95] Let us, then, examine the rise of confraternities attached to, and of, the Christian church, yet not necessarily more than its other laity entitled to authority which they afterward usurped. Monachism took its rise in the East, where a solitary and contemplative life, devoted to the consideration of divine subjects, had always been considered more meritorious than active exertion. This calling was gradually adopted by so many, that at the end of the third century, the Egyptian Antonius, who had cast away his vast possessions, and chosen the desert for his residence, collected together the hitherto dispersed anchorites (monachi) into fenced places (monasteria, cænobia, claustra, cloisters), that they might live together in fellowship; and his disciple, Pachomius, soon gave the brotherhood a rule. Monachism soon extended to the west. In the sixth century, Benedict, of Nursia, established the first monastery on Mount Casius, in Lower Italy, and became, by this means, the founder of the widely-spread order of Benedictines, which rapidly extended itself among all nations, and built many convents. These monasteries, erected, for the most part, in {87} beautiful and remote situations, and the inhabitants of which were obliged to take the three vows of chastity (celibacy), personal poverty, and obedience, proved in those days of lawlessness and barbarism, a blessing to mankind. They converted heaths and forests into flourishing farms. They afforded a place of refuge (asylum) to the persecuted and oppressed. They ennobled the rude minds of men by the preaching of the Gospel. They planted the seeds of morality and civilization in the bosoms of the young by their schools for education. And they preserved the remains of ancient literature and philosophy from utter destruction. Many of the Benedictine monasteries were the nurseries of education, the arts, and the sciences, as St. Gallen, Fulda, Reichenau, and Corvey (in Westphalia), and many others. When the Benedictine order became relaxed, the monastery in Clugny, in Burgundy, separated itself from them in the tenth century, and introduced a more rigid discipline. In the twelfth century the monks of Clugny numbered upward of two thousand cloisters. But this order, also, soon proved insufficient to satisfy the strong demands of the middle age, against the allurements of sin, and the seductions of the flesh; so that, at the end of the eleventh century, the Cistercians, and, a few decades later, the Premonstrants sprang up: the former in Burgundy (Citeaux), the latter in a woody country near Laon (Premontré). The order of Carthusians, founded about the year {88} 1084, which commenced with a cloister of anchorites (Carthusia, Chartreuse) in a rugged valley near Grenoble, was the most austere in its practice. A life of solitude and silence in a cell, a spare and meagre diet, a penitential garment of hair, flagellations, and the rigid practices of devotional exercises, were duties imposed upon every member of this fraternity. They deserve, at our hands, the full benefit of an honest and severe Christian effort to find out and nurture truth; so long as government and political power did not control them. History next tells us of the so-called "MENDICANT ORDERS." They originated in the thirteenth century, and this establishment was productive of remarkable results. Francis of Assisi (A.D. 1226), the son of a rich merchant, renounced all his possessions, clothed himself in rags, and wandered through the world, begging, and preaching repentance. His fiery zeal procured him disciples, who, like himself, renounced their worldly possessions, fasted, prayed, tore their backs with scourges, and supplied their slender wants from voluntary alms and donations. The order of Franciscans then spread rapidly through all countries. About the same time arose the order of Dominicans, or preaching monks, founded by an illustrious and learned Spaniard, Dominicus. Their chief objects were the maintenance of the predominant faith in its considered purity, and the extinction of heretical opinions. In {89} carrying these out, they became endowed with the greatest worldly and temporal privileges, received the powerful patronage of the pope, gradually obtained the chairs in the universities, and took the lead in the murder of their fellow creatures through the inquisition. What a temptation to brawling mendicants, too lazy to earn a living, authorized to beg, and the supple tools of political leaders; and all this by a mysterious society, under the guise and pretence of the Christian religion! Laic tools for such clerical workmen! While, from the mystics of that date, valuable works have been preserved, what has been left us from these mendicant orders? Anything save the cry of blood from the earth? Aught else than servile obedience in accomplishing the mandates of those in power? In the eleventh century, the crusades had given rise to a singular class of men, half-military, half-monk. They had their secret means of recognition, a peculiar garb, and a professed object. Religion was the motive cause, while science and philosophy seem to have been secondary with them. They were knights, of three orders, viz.: the Knights of St. John, or Hospitallers; the Templars; and the Teutonic Knights. The Knights of St. John are known equally by the name of the Knights of Malta, because, in 1530, Charles V. granted them the islands of Malta, Gozzo, and Comino, on condition of perpetual war {90} against the infidels and pirates, and the restoration of these islands to Naples, if the order should succeed in recovering Rhodes. The chief of this order had immense possessions in most parts of Europe. Their chief was called _Grand Master of the Holy Hospital of St. John of Jerusalem_, and _Guardian of the Army of Jesus Christ_. He was chosen by vote, and lived at La Villette in Malta. Foreign powers addressed him as _Altezza eminentissima_. His income equalled a million of guilders annually. This order still exists. Originally the affairs of the order were exercised by "THE CHAPTER," which consisted of eight balliages (_ballivi conventuali_), of the different languages of which the knights of the order consisted, that is, Provence, Auvergne, France, Italy, Aragon, Germany, Castile, and England. The lands of these ballivi conventuali of languages were divided into three classes, priories, balliages, and commanderies. Of the priories the German had the preference, and was called the Grand Priory. This confraternity were free-masons. And their organization was framed accordingly. Such was their kindness and benevolence to a wandering and unprotected pilgrim, that when afterward accosted on his journey with the customary inquiry, "Whence came you?" one and multitudes would answer, "From a lodge of the Holy St. John of Jerusalem," having experienced their hospitality and kindness in their pilgrimage. Their duty was to nurse, accommodate, {91} and protect pilgrims to the Holy Land: and everywhere on their travels, in whatever country, these lodges (or _hutten_) were found for their comfort. In the beginning of the twelfth century a secret order was formed, "for the defence of the Holy Sepulchre, and the protection of Christian Pilgrims." They were first called "The poor of the Holy City," and afterward assumed the appellation of "Templars," because their house was near the Temple. The order was founded by Baldwin II., then king of Jerusalem, with the concurrence of the pope. Many of the noblest knights connected themselves therewith, and they became known, then, as the KNIGHTS TEMPLARS. But the order degenerated, became faithless to their vows, and used the wealth and power they had attained in such manner as to occasion their public condemnation. In the beginning of the fourteenth century a sect of soi-disant philosophers appeared, known as the ROSICRUCIANS. They bound themselves together by a solemn secret, which they all swore inviolably to preserve; and obliged themselves, at their admission into the order, to a strict observance of certain established rules. They pretended chiefly to devote themselves to medicine, but above all that, to be masters of important secrets, and among others, that of the philosopher's stone; all which they affirmed to have received by tradition from the ancient Egyptians, {92} Chaldeans, the Magi, and the Gymnosophists. By their pretences that they could restore youth, they received the name of _Immortelles_. Their pretension to all knowledge, acquired for them the title of _Illuminati_. For years they were lost sight of. Consequently, when in later years they once more appeared under their original organization, they have been recognised as "_The invisible brothers_." Their name is not, as generally supposed, derived from _rosa_ and _crux_: but it is from _ros_ (dew), the then supposed solvent of gold, and _crux_ (the cross). To see, perhaps, a badge of this order, mark the arms of Luther! a cross placed upon a rose. True, a mistake as to the definition, yet does it not indicate the reason of its use politically and otherwise? Passing by, then, the middle ages, we commence a new era with the rise and progress of a religious secret order, without a parallel in the history of the world; one which has risen in influence and power far above all the other orders of the church, prohibiting its members to accept office in the church, yet which, in the art of ruling, has excelled the governments of the world hitherto, no less than any of its ecclesiastical rivals of any age or country. The Society of Jesus--known as THE JESUITS--early raised itself to a degree of historical importance unparalleled in its kind. This order was founded (1539) by Ignatius Loyola, who called it the Society of Jesus, in consequence of a vision, and bound the {93} members, in addition to the usual vows of poverty, chastity, and implicit obedience to their superiors, to a fourth, viz: to go, unhesitatingly, and without recompense, whithersoever they should be sent, as missionaries for the conversion of infidels and heretics, or for the service of the church in any other way, and to devote all their powers and means to the accomplishment of the work. The intention of Ignatius Loyola was originally directed rather to mystic and ascetic contemplations; but the order, from the nature of its fourth vow, soon took a shape adapted to the wants of the church. The origin of this society seems to have been a vision to the over-wrought mind of Loyola: may we call it a temporary inflammation of the brain? He was a Spaniard of very warm imagination, and a man of great sensibility. He declared he saw Mary, the mother of Jesus, in a vision: that she gave him the power of chastity: that Jesus and Satan appeared to him in the form of military officers enlisting men for service; whereupon he followed Christ. The society designated their object by Loyola's motto--_Omnia ad majorem Dei gloriam_. The intimate union of this society has been insured by severe trials, constant inspection, and unconditional obedience. Thoroughly organized by past experience, it now quietly pursues a policy deep, powerful, and difficult to be met on account of its mysticism. After Loyola's death the society was farther developed by Lainez, {94} and after him, by Aquaviva, men of deep knowledge of mankind, and steadfast purpose, who became the real authors of the present society. The seat of the society was, in so far, in Rome, as the general of the order resided there, with the committee of the society, and the monitor, who, totally independent of him, controlled the general as if he were his conscience. The order was divided into provinces, each of which was superintended by a provincial. Under the care of these officers were the professed-houses, with each a præpositus at its head, and the colleges, with each a rector. In the latter there were also novices. The mutual dependence of all parts of the system resemble the structure of a well-built fabric. The relations of subordination are so well ordered that the society is _simplex duntaxat unum_, without interrupting the free will of the individual, as is said, who only had to obey in permitted things. The popes Paul III. and Julius III., seeing what a support they would have in the Jesuits against what is usually called "the Reformation," which was rapidly gaining ground, granted to them privileges such as no body of men, in church, or state, had ever before obtained. They were permitted not only to enjoy all the rights of the mendicant and secular orders, and to be _exempt from all episcopal and civil jurisdiction_ and taxes, so that they acknowledged no authority but that of the pope and the superiors of their order, and were permitted to exercise every {95} priestly function, parochial rights notwithstanding, among all classes of men, even during an interdict; but, also (what is not even permitted to archbishops unconditionally), they could absolve from all sins and ecclesiastical penalties, change the objects of the vows of the laity, acquire churches and estates without further papal sanction, erect houses for the order, and might, according to circumstances, dispense themselves from the canonical observance of hours of fasts and prohibition of meats, and even from the use of the breviary. Besides this, their general was invested with unlimited power over the members; could send them on missions of every kind, even among excommunicated heretics; could appoint them professors of theology at his discretion, wherever he chose, and confer academical dignities, which were to be reckoned equal to those given by universities. These privileges, which secured to the Jesuits a spiritual power almost equal to that of the pope himself, together with a greater impunity, in point of religious observance, than the laity possessed, were granted them to aid their missionary labors, so that they might accommodate themselves to any profession or mode of life, among heretics, and infidels, and be able, wherever they found admission, to organize Catholic churches without a further authority. A general dispersion, then, of the members throughout society with the most entire union and subordination, formed the basis of their constitution. {96} In the education of youth, there has been a very unjust charge against them, that is, that they mutilated the classics. Would to God that every pure Christian would follow such an example; and that we might thereby present such an expurgated edition, as would create all the good they may contain, devoid of evil. Any who have read Virgil, Ovid, Terence, or other classic works, must acknowledge this necessity. Even Shakespeare's plays can not be read, as printed, in a modest company. There is not, either, any prudery in this. And, accordingly, a family expurgated edition has been published by Dr. Bowdler, demanding a far greater circulation than it may have as yet received. Praise, then, be awarded to all instructors of youth who will promote such expurgation from the classics as will blot out their immorality! The latitude in which this society has understood its rights and immunities has given occasion to fear an unlimited extension and exercise of them, dangerous to all existing authority, civil and ecclesiastical, as the constitution of the order, and its erection into an independent monarchy in the bosom of other governments, have assumed a more fixed character. This society seems to have been divided into different ranks or classes. The _novices_, chosen from the most talented and well-educated youths, and men without regard to birth or external circumstances; and who were tried for two years, in separate {97} novitiate houses, in all imaginable exercises of self-denial and obedience, to determine whether they would be useful to the purposes of the order, were not ranked among the actual members, the lowest of whom are the _secular coadjutors_, who take no monastic vows, and may, therefore, be dismissed. They serve the order partly as subalterns, partly as confederates, and may be regarded as the people of the Jesuit state. Distinguished laymen, public officers, and other influential personages (e.g., Louis XIV., in his old age), were honored with admission into this class, to promote the interests of the order. Higher in rank, stand the _scholars_ and _spiritual coadjutors_, who are instructed in the higher branches of learning, take upon themselves solemn monastic vows, and are bound to devote themselves particularly to the education of youth. These, as it were, the artists of the Jesuit community, are employed as professors in academies, as preachers in cities, and at courts; as rectors, and professors in colleges, as tutors and spiritual guides in families which they wish to gain or to watch, and as assistants in the missions. Finally, the nobility, or highest class, is made up of _the professed_, among whom are admitted only the most-experienced members, whose address, energy, and fidelity to the order, have been eminently tried and proved. According to one statement, they make profession, that is, take the vows of their order, by binding themselves in addition to the common {98} monastic vows by the fourth vow, to the undertaking of missions, among whom they consider heathen and heretics, as governors in colonies in remote parts of the world, as father-confessors of princes, and as residents of the order in places where it has no college. They are entirely exempt, on the other hand, from the care of the education of youth. None but the professed have a voice in the election of a general, who must himself be of their number, and who has the right of choosing from them the assistants, provincials, superiors, and rectors. The general holds his office for life, and has his residence in Rome, where he is attended by a monitor, and five assistants or counsellors, who also represent the five chief nations: the Italians, Germans, French, Spanish, and Portuguese. He is the centre of the government of the whole order, and receives monthly reports from the provincials, and one every quarter from the superiors of the professed-houses, from the rectors of the colleges, and from the masters of the novices. These reports detail all remarkable occurrences, political events, and the characters, capacities, and services of individual members, and thereupon the general directs what is to be done, and how to make use of tried and approved members. All are bound to obey him implicitly, and even contrary to their own convictions. There is no appeal from his orders. Loyola died July 31, 1556, leaving to the order a sketch of this constitution, and a mystical treatise {99} called "Exercitia Spiritualia," which work occupies the first four weeks of every novice. The rapid increase of the order, and the previous purity of Loyola's life, obtained canonization for him in 1662. Their first great missionary was St. Francis Xavier, whose labors (1541) in the Portuguese East Indies, where he died ten years afterward, have obtained for him the name of "the apostle of India", and the honor of canonization. We are told that, at Goa, Travancore, Cochin, Malacca, Ceylon, and Japan, some hundred thousand were by him converted to the Christian religion. If so, at present the light of it has become very dim. _Stat nominis umbra._ The inquisition at Goa, perhaps, may have shown the people the difference between theory and practice. Claudius Aquaviva, of the family of the dukes of Atri, general of the Jesuits from 1581 to 1615, is the author of their system of education. The want of deep, critical learning, with the mutilation of the classics (for which last they deserve praise, not blame), exposed their teachers, for a time, to the censure of philologists. Viewed with suspicion by the French, they only were admitted into that nation in 1562, under the name of "the Fathers of the College of Clermont," with a humiliating renunciation of their most important privileges, but they soon united in the factions of that country, and, notwithstanding a strong suspicion of their having had a share in the murder of Henry III., under the {100} protection of the Guises, they contrived to establish themselves, regain their privileges, and deprive the French Protestants of their rights. One of their pupils, John Chatel, attempted Henry's life (1594), and this caused their banishment until 1603, when, at the intercession of the pope, they were again restored by Henry IV. That they participated in the crime of Ravaillac could never be proved. They became the confidential advisers in Germany, of Ferdinand II. and III. They discovered remarkable political talent in the thirty years' war; the league of the Catholics could do nothing without them. Father Lamormain, a Jesuit, and confessor to the emperor, effected the downfall of Wallenstein, and by means of his agents, kept the jealous Bavarians in their alliance with Austria. Then burst upon them in France and the Netherlands, the hurricane of the Jansenist controversy, when Pascal's Provincial Letters scathed them, and his sentiments were even quoted (1679) by Innocent IX., against sixty-five of their offensive propositions. Complaints were made against some of them by the Iroquois, who had been converted by them, as would appear by the treaty of peace (1682). In 1759, by an edict, they were declared guilty of high-treason, and expelled from Portugal. Owing to difficulties at Martinique under their deputy, Father La Vallette, and the declaration of their general, Lorenzo Ricci, refusing to make any change in their constitution (_sint aut non sint_), "let them be as they {101} are, or not be," the king of France (1764) issued a decree for abolishing the order in all the French states, as being a mere political society, dangerous to religion, whose object was self-aggrandizement. In 1767 they were driven out of Spain, and soon after from Naples, Parma, and Malta. And the voice of public opinion at length compelled Pope Clement XIV. to publish his famous bull, _Dominus ac Redemptor noster_, of July 21, 1773, by which the society of Jesus was totally abolished in all the states of Christendom. The society, however, did not become extinct. In 1780 they were thought to have possessed themselves of the secrets of the Rosicrucians, and to have taken a part in the schemes of the Illuminati. In 1787, an unsuccessful attempt was made to revive the order under the name of the _Vicentines_. Pius VII. restored the order, in 1814, upon the issuance of the bull, August 7, _Solicitudo omnium_. In 1815 they were restored in Spain. Russia, by an imperial ukase, March 25, 1820, banished them thence. Since then they have been driven from Mexico, again restored by Santa Anna, and now, though resident, they are politically powerless under the administration of President Comonfort. They now seem to rely on the United States of America as their chief asylum, and upon the valley of the Mississippi river and its tributaries, as their basis of operations. Full and perfect freedom of thought and speech, of religious toleration, and of mode of life, monastic or {102} otherwise, insures to them a safe home in this country. They possess a flourishing college at Georgetown, which may almost be considered as part of the city of Washington, the capital of the United States. Also one at Cincinnati, and one at St. Louis, well endowed, and possessed of great wealth. They exercise a powerful yet unseen influence over the minds of the members of the Catholic faith where they reside, each naturalized citizen of which has an equal voice in selecting all officers of state and general government. An eminent writer has remarked, that everything in history has its time, and the order of Jesuits can never rise to any great eminence in an age in which knowledge is so rapidly spreading. We think differently. A society so capable of adaptation to any circumstances, whether political, religious, or social, plastic in nature to meet every desired impression, talented, highly learned, wealthy, and among others, embracing in its order some men of such pure and admirable life as to be cited as examples of virtue and Christian character, with the protection the American flag throws around all under its folds, is to be carefully observed. Human nature is always the same. The past history, then, of this society merits the study of every philanthropist and patriot. Once, in Paraguay, it became a blessing to mankind. Within due limits, it may be so anywhere. But its interference in any political affairs, under pretence of serving him, whose "kingdom is not of this {103} world," is not to be tolerated, as it may prove a most dangerous engine in the struggle of the cause of popular self-government. An unconditional surrender of one's own convictions to the will of another man is at variance with _every_ principle of republicanism. * * * * * {104} CHAPTER V. The Struggle between an alleged _Jus Divinum Regum_, and Popular Sovereignty.--And the Efforts now attempted to destroy our Grand Experiment of Self-Government.--Practical Results. With the differences of religious bodies as to dogmas of faith, this essay has nothing to do; but so far as churches connected with any religion, interfere with temporal governments, by mystic confraternities, that is a topic directly within our scope. Any union of church and state must, from these authorities, appear in opposition to the unprejudiced action of the citizen in the government of his country. The great struggle for political power, the contest as to the source thereof--whether a fancied divine right (_jus divinum_) in any family, or in an individual by anointment of a priest; or the free voice of a free people governing themselves by framing a constitution, limiting power in the hands of rulers, who are only their agents--is now undergoing a severe test. Of this, however, more hereafter. The history of England, from the days of James II.--yes, even from Henry VIII., whose crimes form a strange contrast to his assumption of a title to being {105} head of a church--presents a singular contest for political power, by means of religious domination. From the days of William of Orange, the parties in Ireland (which seems to have formed the battleground of these contestants) have been not only well-defined, but they have been organized in the most perfect mysticism, into Orange men and Ribbon men. Let the days of Curran, Grattan, and of the persecuting government tell that story. The blood of an Emmett has crowned a noble effort with martyrdom. His last speech will be read as long as school-books can perpetuate one of the finest efforts of oratory. Meantime, a secret society still existed which softened down asperity, and extended the blessings of fraternity even among those arrayed against each other--not only there, but over the world. By its teachings and its obligations, universal charity was inculcated. Is there an intelligent FREE-MASON who has perused our previous pages, but what has recognised the history of his own society from the origin of the Kabbalistæ? Spread everywhere, under whatever name, emanating from a common origin, recognised by common principles and instruction, enforcing the study of the liberal arts and sciences, teaching philosophy throughout the world, and the hope of a future immortality, it has, as a mystic order, taken deep root in every nation, but more so in republics, not having fear of an interdict, or other religious {106} fulmination. It has not and does not interfere in politics, nor seek political power in any shape. Like its brothers of old under Pythagoras in Magna Græcia, it teaches philosophy, and is well calculated to promote such education as must form true statesmen. So catholic is its every teaching, and such are its fraternal tendencies, that one church has placed it under ban. Throughout the world, whether among the descendants of the ancient Magi, the Hebrew Cabbalist, the Rosicrucian, or Templar, in the deserts of Africa, the forests of America, or on the wide-spread ocean, the symbols of recognition are known and received. Such have been its tendencies that spurious imitations for mere political purposes have been frequent. The Illuminati, the Carbonari, and other secret political societies have been supposed to be Masonic lodges. But it is a great mistake. The Kabbalists never interfered with, or acted in opposition to the Hebrew Theocracy. Their brothers of a later date have never interfered with politics, even to the present day; nor have they, in any wise, inculcated a single maxim at variance with their duty to God, their neighbor, or themselves. They have simply preserved and obeyed the original traditional instruction handed down to them. Another benevolent secret society has sprung up, chiefly in the United States, calling themselves the Independent Order of Odd Fellows. This is a charitable confraternity, intended, mainly, to promote {107} benevolence, aid the sick and distressed, and cultivate the warmer sympathies of our nature. It is of modern origin, and in most things seems to be an imitation of Free-Masonry. It has been productive of great good in the accomplishment of its benevolent purposes. Having no leaning whatever toward politics, it quietly pursues its mission of love. Thus, then, we have arrived at a point where we must pause. The summary of the past seems to be as follows:-- I. From the earliest history of the world there seems to have been an effort on the part of those who pretended to control the consciences and religious views of others to preserve in their own hands, the predominant _political_ power. 1. The first government recorded is that of Nimrod. He discarded patriarchal instruction; united tribes in cities; and formed their combination into an empire. The Magi controlled him, and, at his death, under the pretence of his deification, preserved his power in the priesthood. 2. In the extension of the Magi, every great leader, or king, was one of them; and obedient to the rules and instructions of their general, the Hierophant. 3. When, in the assertion of popular right, Pythagoras was driven away by Cylon, the then imperfect effort of self-government fell through. But little understood, its then dim light faded. 4. The society of the _Kabbalistæ_, part of whom {108} were afterward known as the _Pythagorean league_, as the _Collegio fabrorum_ of Numa Pompilius, as the _Liberi Architectonici_ of the middle ages, and as the _Free-Masons_ of the present day; this society, I repeat, never interfered in politics. 5. The Christian church was tempted to forget, that Christ's kingdom was not of this world. And its two great branches, that of Rome and England, were seduced into the error of seeking to obtain power through public policy. Rome exerted her influences through her prætorian cohorts, the confraternities of mendicants and of Jesus--the Jesuits. Unknown, and in silence, they were domiciliated in courts and in families, throughout all nations; and some roamed as itinerants. The will of their general, on their unconditional subserviency to his behest, seemed to create an almost omnipresent power to be controlled by Rome alone. Has not the exercise of it been exemplified in the inquisition? Was it not felt in the massacre of St. Bartholomew? I will not stop to ask the power and control of a Madame Maintenon, or Du Barry: nor whose influences controlled them. Does not all history portray their one effort? But has not the Church of England endeavored to obtain temporal power, also, by interference in the affairs of this world, politically? Shame! shame!! If the priesthood are honest in giving an undivided allegiance to HIM, whom they {109} have taken an oath _only_ to serve; and yet, whose "kingdom is not of this world;" how dare they violate that obligation? "_Ne sutor ultra crepidam,_" &c. But we in the United States are not better than our neighbors. Man is the same everywhere, but for education. And this brings us to the great, practical lesson, to which end all that has thus far been detailed has been directed. Americans! no matter of what nation you came, consider this lesson. We have ignored and thrown aside the priestly fable of an anointment by a man conferring an hereditary right to rule his brother man, by any family. This _jus divinum regum_ is an absurdity, practically discarded by those who assert it. What divine right has been granted either to Napoleon the Great, or to Napoleon the little? Whence came it? By whose hands? How is it preserved? Is not the same religious power ready to crown a Bourbon one day, and, in spite of the hereditary _jus divinum_ already granted, crown a Corsican (who has waded through blood to his throne) the next day; over the very rights of the Bourbon, who relies on that _jus divinum_ as his title? A divine right (if any) is here granted to both--to the Bourbon, and to the Corsican. Can truth contradict itself? If there be a contradiction must there not be error somewhere? {110} This _jus divinum_ that began with the deification of Nimrod, is still perpetuated though in other hands. But we must look into this a little further. II. Although the Theocracy in the days of Moses was of temporary duration, and human power afterward asserted a kingly right, was that divine right ever preserved? If divine, it is immutable. Does history show this? When Titus conquered Jerusalem, does not Jewish history tell us the voice was heard saying, "LET US GO HENCE?" III. History shows, among men, two classes who have governed others:-- 1. Kings, emperors, and rulers. 2. Priests and clergy, controlling the superstitious feelings of mankind; yes, even these kings, emperors, and rulers, by mysticism. IV. There have been throughout history two classes of secret societies. One always endeavoring to govern and control the masses politically, by religious mysteries, &c. The other endeavoring to persuade to the study of science and philosophy, and trying to wean men from the mere struggle of this world's power, to a preparation for another world, into which we must be born spiritually, by human death, and as to which this earth is only the school-house. And this class has not interfered in any manner with politics in any country. {111} This bring us to the present condition of our own beloved country at this time. A secret society, also political, was formed here, known as THE KNOW-NOTHINGS. And its secrecy was about to destroy it, when that secrecy, under the power of the press, vanished into mist. But what was the origin thereof? And when, after gentlemen and statesmen controlled it, and expelled its rubbish, it assumed a powerful influence, and a new form, as an "American Party," what were the deep moving causes which led to its prominent position? From the days of Nimrod to the present day, all history shows an effort on the part of a few to control temporal power, at the expense of the many. They have always acted on the superstitions of man to accomplish this end. But the American theory (_esto perpetua_) is, that all men are free and equal in their political rights, when their intellect is that of control, not of servitude; and that the people are the source and fountain of political power. It cometh not from a priest. It is the voice of freemen speaking and acting through their agents, whom they select. This antagonism is now to be severely tested in coming history. What is the source of temporal power? Rome, England, France, and other countries, say it is from "the church," meaning their own particular {112} designation of a religion. That it is a divine right communicated by priestly anointment, attended by public ceremonies, imposing in appearance, and "_ad captandum,_" for the public eye. The American theory, going far beyond the bare and imperfect teaching of Pythagoras, boldly asserts what is believed to be the true and only origin of temporal power, the free will of a people exercised through agents of its own selection. For about eighty years past this first great experiment has been successful. But that success has induced the most insidious attacks of those who advocate the opposite policy. We must be watchful, or our liberties will be gone. The game they now play is new in history; but, it is one easily comprehended. It has been well said that the price of liberty is eternal vigilance. But two centuries since this land was the home of the savage. The Caucasian intellect, however, has assumed its supremacy here; and the Indian, incapable of mental culture, is gradually, but surely passing, like other forms of animal existence, from the world. One of the highest efforts of the human mind, is the Constitution of the United States of America. The great principles of freemen governing themselves, as there enunciated, must and will necessarily be attacked by the asserters of divine right in temporal government. If our experiment succeeds the powers of Europe must fall, or undergo an entire change. {113} England's nobility must acknowledge, sooner or later, the equality of the commonalty and gentry with themselves. Distinctions in France have already gone, except as to the assertion of the power of an emperor by virtue of a priestly coronation. The popular masses of Europe have only displayed their first, but, as yet, imperfect efforts to assert their political rights. It is the reflex action of the great principle we have successfully, thus far, practised. And will not the powers who have conquered the masses then thus far, use every effort to destroy this experiment of ours and perpetuate thereby their own existence? If we continue to succeed, our lesson to the world is the death-knell of monarchy and imperial power. Foreign powers and priestly powers are making this effort. And if we are doomed to fail, it will be by the DISUNION their emissaries here endeavor to produce. With us, again, is religious influence exerted. Servitude is recognised and practised in the south. But the clergy of the north have commenced a fanatical crusade against it. We should guard well against these influences, foreign and domestic, now operating against us. As a part of the history of the times, it may be proper to give the rise and progress of the so-called order of "Know-Nothings." The plan of the organization was conceived by a gentleman of the city of New York, who, in 1849, prepared and embodied into a system, a plan for uniting the American {114} sentiment of the American people throughout the United States. It was meant as a combined resistance, on the part of the native American population, to foreign and papal influence in this country. The progress of the plan was so slow in its development, that at the end of two years, the number of members uniting in the organization did not exceed thirty. In 1852 the plan was examined by a few gentlemen connected with the Order of United Americans, another secret and American organization, but not directly political or partisan in its aims and objects. A society was formed, and forty-three members signed their names to it, and from that small beginning was formed a body of native Americans which, in a year or two after, exceeded, in the state of New York alone, two hundred thousand members. This state organization soon extended its ramifications all over the country, and is now known as the American party. It has held three national conventions, one in Philadelphia, one at New York, and one in Louisville, and is now no more of a secret party than either of the two great parties opposed to it: the national conventions having abolished all secret meetings, and the state conventions or councils having generally concurred in this abolition of all oaths and all forms of obligation but those of personal honor and mutual good faith. The ban of secrecy had made it, doubtless, an object of suspicion. Its adversaries hurl at it these {115} unfortunate antecedents. But now all secrecy has been abolished, and the party claims to assert only, the great principle of an INTELLIGENT SELF-GOVERNMENT. They recognise the secret and insidious influences of the Jesuit, and deprecate it. They call attention to it, and to its increasing importance in this valley; but still, in the spirit of liberty, leave the Jesuit free to act as he pleases. They perceive that it is irreconcilable with freedom of thought and conscience to surrender, unconditionally, one's own views and thoughts to the will of any one man, whether he be at Rome or elsewhere. Still he is not interfered with. Let him act with all freedom. You can vote for him for office or not, as you please; and, here, we have reason to fear the secret influence controlled alone at Rome. But, with all this freedom, it is called "persecution" to say "I will not vote for such a man." Let Europe send over all her emissaries, and our country tells them you shall have the protection of our flag. You shall think, and speak what you will, if it be not to the injury of your neighbor. But is there not a spirit of self-preservation which demands that eternal vigilance which is the price of freedom? Is it "proscription" in saying to another man, "I will not vote for you?" If you can not exercise your own will, where is your freedom? If a whig refuses to vote for a democrat is that "proscription?" Then, if I believe another man has surrendered his {116} own will to the unconditional control of another, in a foreign country, can I trust him--regarding the antecedents hereinbefore referred to? It has been said, perhaps unjustly (at least I hope so), that the teaching of this important society, the Jesuit, so deeply-rooted here, is, that "the end justifies the means." If this be so, and if they can exercise over the immigrant population from Europe the power imputed to them--all this also controlled at Rome by the general of the order and his monitor--where can freedom be preserved to us, if they can control a majority of votes here? In such case our liberties are gone. In such case, they have simply adopted and ingeniously carried out the ancient powers of the priestly Magi. Has not an Englishman, a member of parliament, come to this country, and lectured in New England on the abolition of slavery, expressly to aid in creating disunion of our states? Has not the leaven of Puritanism been excited to new action to accomplish the same result? Have not three thousand clergymen been induced to interfere in our temporal and political affairs; just as in past history we find the Magi and the priests did? Has not the word of God been set at naught? Where the command is, "Thou shalt not kill," are not Sharpe's rifles purchased by their command? A clever book of fiction, written by a fanatical old {117} woman, although untrue even as a picture of southern society, has obtained for her the cordial entrée of British aristocracy. Then, again, regard the immense immigration from Europe. No sooner is it possible, but we find politicians busy to influence them, and obtain their votes. And they chiefly are opposed to slavery. As patriots, Americans should say, you may vote. We throw around you no restraint. Your home is our home. You are in every sense a brother, and you shall be deprived of no privilege. But while in no manner the privileges of a freeman should be denied to any, we must not shut our eyes to the influences that surround us. The Magi controlled the then known world. The Roman church has done the same. In England a church has assumed secular power. In each instance it was the fabulous _jus divinum_ by which it was accomplished. Shall they be allowed by such influences to control and so break down our great experiment of self-government? Rather let those peaceful and benevolent influences prevail, which were inculcated by societies who taught equality of rights, and peace and charity among men. This bring us then to the great motive power which alone can save our country. It is _the education of the people, and the freedom of the press, directed through a unity of language_. {118} Through these, if properly conducted, unless they be controlled by the hostile influences hereinbefore spoken of, we shall be a happy and united nation. There is no need, hereafter, of any secret teaching. Secret societies may promote social good, but they are no longer necessary to teach either traditional philosophy, or promote public welfare, except by benevolence. Our duty is to encourage thought, foster public schools, create a unity of feeling and ideas, by means of a unity of language, and a freedom of the press. But, in doing so, from the history of the past, can we be too careful in guarding against the insidious influences of societies, whose antecedents in history have proved so dangerous? Societies having for their object a religious influence, and, thereby intending to control political power, are dangerous. The past has shown it. Societies of benevolence, like the Free-Masons and Odd-Fellows, have done much good; but each member therein votes, in political matters, as he pleases, and without control. These societies do good to all, without view to any particular faith. Each person that binds himself, by an obligation, to serve only HIM, whose "kingdom is not of this world," should be debarred thereby from interfering in the politics of this world, which he has thus forsworn. But what are the facts? Do not even the clergy {119} of New England try to control our government? Are they not even endeavoring to create DISUNION? Is this not with the desire and _empressement_ of foreign power? How far may not the prætorian bands of Rome aid therein to carry out the result? Can we be too guarded as to our great experiment? The first practical result, then, indicated by past history, is, that political power, in monarchies, empires, &c., has been under the control of mere priestly mysteries. The next is, that human nature is always the same, and will endeavor to accomplish the same result. Take the history of the past, what are we to anticipate for the future? Can we judge but from the past? Have they not endeavored to govern Europe? We can only allow the will of freemen to govern us. The will that has, on oath, submitted itself to the control of a foreign power, is not that of a _free man_, and our duty is to watch it. Let, then, every secret become a mystery; or, a revealed secret. If it be good to one, let it be good to all. Secure equality of rights. Collision of mind strikes out the sparks of truth. Secure universal education by free schools, ensuring unity of language, but leaving thought free; and the result will be, that secrecy will have become a mystery, or revealed knowledge to all. Education, and the freedom of the press, are the {120} true safeguards of a republic. Interfere with the exercise of no religion; but let no one system of faith control your government. Frown down every effort of priests or clergy to meddle with politics. Then shall we avoid the errors of the past, preserve our present union, and hope for the spread of the true principles of liberty. With education will be united true piety, each assisting the other, no matter what the peculiar system of faith. Do away with secrecy altogether, and let every blessing that knowledge can confer, be devoted to public information, and the good of all. So, shall the abuses of secrecy be done away with for ever--and it shine forth only in the holy sphere to which it should be confined, to modesty and domestic virtue, religious meditation and prayer, and prudence in the transactions of life. THE END. * * * * * Notes [1] St. Matt. xi. 28. [2] Montgomery. Hymn 134. Book of Common Prayer. [3] St. John, Gospel, iv. 44. [4] Mal. i. 2. [5] 1 Corinthians ii. 7-10, 12, 13, 16. Ibid. iv. 1, 5. [6] 2 Corinthians iv. 7. [7] 1 Corinthians xv. 22. [8] St. Matthew xxv. 14 to 29, inclusive. [9] St. Paul (Rom. xvi. 25, 26) defines "mystery" as above given: "Now to him that is of power to establish you according to my gospel, and the preaching of Jesus Christ according to the revelation of the mystery, which was kept secret since the world began, but now is made manifest, and by the scriptures of the prophets," &c. [10] Exodus vi. 2, 3. "And God spake unto Moses, and said unto him, I am the Lord [or JEHOVAH], and I appeared unto Abraham, unto Isaac, and unto Jacob, by _the name of_ God Almighty; but by my name JEHOVAH was I not known to them." [11] Genesis vii. 2, 3. [12] Ibid vii. 9. [13] Ibid xii. [14] Ibid xx. [15] Ibid xxvi. [16] Exodus iv. 27, 28. "And the Lord said unto Aaron, Go into the wilderness to meet Moses. And he went, and met him in the mount of God, and kissed him." [17] Weber. Outlines of Universal History. Am. Ed., p. 4. [18] Exodus vii. 11. "Then Pharaoh also called the wise men, and the sorcerers: now the magicians of Egypt, they also did in like manner with their enchantments." [19] Weber. Outlines Univ. Hist. § 12, p. 12. [20] Christ. Breithaupt. Prof. &c. _De arte decifratoria._ Helmstadtii, apud Ch. Fried. Weygand. MDccxxxvii. p. 13. "Apud veteres Ægyptios, vt ab his dicendi initium faciamus, præter vulgares litteras, tria adhuc alia characterum genera celebrantur, quibus _ad mysteria sua_ condenda fuerunt usi. Diserte hoc celebris ille stromatum conditor, Clem. Alexandrinus (lib. v. Stromatum, pag. 563, edit. Paris, de an. 1612), docet, ita scribens. s: 'Qui docentur ab Ægyptiis primum quidem discunt Ægyptiarum litterarum viam ac rationem, quæ vocatur [Greek: epizolographikê], i.e., apta ad scribendas epistolas: secundam autem, sacerdotalem, qua vtuntur [Greek: hierogrammateis], i.e., qui de rebus sacris scribunt: vltimam autem [Greek: hierogluphikên], i.e., sacram, quæ insculpitur, scripturam, cuius vna quidem est per prima elementa [Greek: kuriologikê], i.e., propria loquens, altera vero symbolica, i.e., per signa significans.' Cum Clementi conferendus est Arabs Abenephi, cuius verba ita se habent: (Scriptum hoc Arabicum asseruatur in bibliotheca Vaticana, et typis nondum expressum est; ab Ath. Kirchero autem in Obelisco Pamphilio sæpius citatur: vnde etiam ea, quæ hic ex illo adduximus, depromta sunt.) 'Erant autem Ægyptus quatuor litterarum genera: primum erat in vsu apud populum et idiotas; secundum apud philosophos et sapientes: tertium erat mixtum ex litteris et symbolis sive imaginibus: quartum vsupabatur a sacerdotalibus, erant que litteræ avium, quibus sacramenta indicabant divinitatis.' Ex quo posteriori testamento hoc discimus, quod erudite inter Ægyptios peculiari et a communibus litteris diuerso scripturæ genere vsi sint ad doctrinas suas propagandas. Vti exempla ostendunt, constitit hoec scriptura partim ex certis sententiis et argutis symbolis, partim ex historicis fictionibus, secretiori docendi methodo accommodatis." ... "Omnes, qui de rebus diuinis tractarunt, tam Barbari quam Græci rerum quidem principia occultaverint: veritatem autem ænigmatibus, signisque & symbolis, & allegoriis rursus, & metaphoris, & quibusdam tropis modisque tradiderunt." [21] Exodus vii. 11, 12. [22] Ibid vii. 22. [23] Ibid viii. 7. [24] Rheinisches Conversations-Lexicon. Köln und Bonn. 1827. Vol. 7, page 432. "Magier, Magie, ein ursprünglich medischer Volksstamm, dem, der Sitte des Orients zufolge, die Erhaltung der wissenschaftlichen Kenntnisse und die Ausübung der heiligen Gebräuche der Religion überlassen war; nachher im speziellen Sinne die Priesterkaste der Perser und Meder. Der Name kommt aus dem Pehlei; Mag oder Mog heißt in dieser Sprache überhaupt ein Priester. Als eigner Stamm der Meder werden sie ausdrücklich von Herodot erwähnt. Zoroaster war nicht der Stifter, sondern nur der Reformator der Magier oder vielmehr ihrer Lehrsätze. Daher widersetzten sich die zu seiner Zeit vorhandenen Magier anfangs seinen Neuerungen und werden von ihm verstucht. Nachdem sie seine Verbesserungen angenommen hatten, organisirte er auch ihre inneren Einrichtungen und theilte sie in Lehrlinge, Meister und vollendete Meister. Ihr Studium und ihre Wissenschaft bestand in der Beobachtung der heiligen Gebräuche, in der Kenntniß der heiligen Gebetformeln oder Liturgien, mit denen Ormuzd verehrt wurde; und der bei Gebeten und Opfern gebräuchlichen Zeremonien. Nur durch sie konnte man Gebete und Opfer der Gottheit darbringen; nur sie waren die Mittelpersonen zwischen der Gottheit und den Menschen; nur ihnen offenbarte jene ihren Willen; nur sie blickten in die Zukunft, und enthüllten sie dem, der bei ihnen darnach forsichte. Später hat man Magier überhaupt, Zauberer, Wundershäter, Goldmacher und dergl. genannt." [25] Heeren's Politics of Ancient Greece, ch. iii., p. 65. Bancroft, Amed., 1824. [26] Delafield's Antiquities of America, pp. 69-71, et notæ. [27] Sir William Jones, vol. i., p. 92. [28] Heeren's Politics of Ancient Greece: Am. ed., 1824, p. 64. Also Bryant's Ancient Mythology, ii., 390. [29] Encyclopædia Americana, vol. ix. (1835), p. 118. [30] Gen. x. 8-12. This is adopting the marginal for the text reading of the passage, and the reason for it is this: The above is a clear historical account of those who journeyed to the plains of Shinar, which were only the descendants of Cush the father of Nimrod; though Asshur is said to have gone and builded the city of Nineveh, with the others mentioned in the text--which Asshur was one of the sons of Shem, who perhaps was blended by marriage, or other connections, with his relations the sons of Ham, unless it can be shown that there was one of that name in Ham's descendants as well as Shem's son. It was something particular (if correct) that Moses should bring in Asshur into his account of Ham's issue, because he was very strict in giving such relations of Japheth and Shem in their own places. Would Noah, who was so much disgusted at his son Ham as to curse him, permit the children of his other sons, whom he blessed, to have any communication with his children? Bishop Cumberland, in the last century, took some pains to unravel this, and concluded that the marginal translation in our bibles is the right one--that in the text being, "Out of that land went forth Asshur, and builded Nineveh", &c.; that in the margin, "And he [Nimrod] went out of that land into Assyria"--for Asshur generally in scripture signifies _the Assyrian_, excepting only in the genealogies: and in support of this he brings forward many authentic testimonies. (See Parsons's Remains of Japheth, p. 15: London, 1767.) [31] Encyclopædia Americana, title "Mysteries," vol. ix., p. 118. [32] Deut. xviii. 10. [33] Livy, iv., c. 22. [34] 1 Sam. xxviii. 19. [35] Eccles. xlvi. [36] Lib. v., c. 92. [37] Isaiah xxix. 4; also viii. 19. [38] Alcestis, 1127. [39] Oedipus, Act iii., 530. [40] See Rufinius, i., 155. [41] Phars., vi., 670. This writer proposes hereafter to publish an essay on the intercourse between the living and the dead, as connected with natural magic, even to the present day. [42] Lib. i., El. ii., 45. [43] Heeren. Politics Anc. Greece; Am. Ed., p. 68. See also page following. [44] Rees' Cyclop. vol. vii. voc. "Chaldean Philosophy." [45] Daniel ii. [46] The true God, JAH, was God over the false deities, Baalim. [47] Daniel v. 6, 7. [48] Acts vii. 23. [49] Disq. Hist. de variis modis occvlte scribendi, Helmstadt. MDccxxxvii. pp. 23-26. "Illud memorandum, quod Kabbalistarum antiquiores etiam ex figura quatuor linearum, quæ inuicem sese intersecant, & in medio quadratum efficiunt, occultum scripturæ genus excogitarint sequentem in modum. In singulis sectionibus tres collocant litteras a dextra ad sinistram. Quando igitur primam extribus intelligunt, figuram sectionis istuis, in qua reperitur, cum vno puncto scribunt; si alteram, eandam figuram cum duobus punctis; si tertiam, rursus eandem cum tribus punctis." [50] "Illorum philosophia sublimis, quam _Kabbalam_ vocant, diuersas sub se complectitur species, quarum quædam huc pertinent. In famossissimo illo libello magico Rasiel, quem Kabbalistæ in magna veneratione habent, tria imprimis secreta alphabeta leguntur, quæ a communi Ebraicarum litterarum forma & ductu in multis abeunt. Primum vocatur scriptura coelestis; alterum scriptura angelorum sive regum; & tertium scriptura transitus fluvii.--_Disq. Hist._ &c., _ibidem._ [51] Herm. Von der Hardt, celeberrimus ætatis nostræ philologus, duorum etiam singularium alphabetorum meminit, quibus Judæi in amuletis suis conficiendis utuntur. Primum est, si proxima semper pro proecedente substituitur littera, nimirum [Hebrew: B] pro [Hebrew: '], [Hebrew: G] pro [Hebrew: B] & sic porro. Hoctegere dicuntur confessionem suam de vno vero Deo, quam quotidie mane & circa vesperam recitant, & de qua sibi persuadent, quod effica cissimum contra idololatriam proesidium sit, quo quasi proemuniantur, ne a veritate ad falsam religionem desciscant. Alterum alphabetum occultum in eo consistit, quod ordine elementorum in uerso vltimam litteram [Hebrew: T] cum prima [Hebrew: '], & hanc cum illa vicissim permutent, & sic etiam reliquas: quam inversionem [Hebrew: 'TBSH] dicere moris est. Ex hoc maiusculis litteris in nobilioribus amuletis conspicuum symbolum [Hebrew: MTSPTS] conficiunt, quod nihil iterum aliud, quam nomen Dei [Hebrew: YHWH]. HIERONYMUS, non incelebris primæ ecclesiæ pater contendit (hereinafter quoted) prophetam _Jeremiam_ hoc scribendi genere vsum fuisse, &, ne regem Babyloniæ adversus Ebræos irritaret, pro rege [Hebrew: BBL] dixisse [Hebrew: SHSHK]. Quin etiam sunt inter Judæos, qui verba illa apud Danielem [Hebrew: MN' MN' TQL WPRSYN], quæ super cænam regis Belsazaris e pariete per miraculum ad stuporem omnium prodibant, eodem modo scripta fuisse, atque iccirco hanc artificiosam litterarum transpositionem a Deo ipso primam originem suam trahere existimant. Sed incerta hoec & transeunda. [52] Tom. iv. Oper. comment. in Jerem. cxxv., 26, p. 286, edit. Coloniens. de an. 1616. [53] See Conf. Lud. Henr. Hillerus, in præfat. mysterii artis stenographicæ nouissimi Vlmæ an. 1682 editi. [54] Breithaupt, Disq. Hist., p. 25, notis. [55] 2 Chron. i. 12. [56] Ezra vii. 1-6. [57] Heb. ix. 4: and hereto agree Abarbanel on 1 Kings viii. 9, and R. Levi Ben Gersom.--Prideaux Conn. i. 297. [58] Deut. xxxi. 26: Or, as others interpret it, "by the side of the ark." _Mittzad_. 1 Sam. vi. 8. 2 Kings xxii. 8. Prideaux i. 297. [59] Prideaux i. 297. [60] Vide Buxtorfii Synagogam. c. 14. [61] 2 Maccabees ii. [62] 2 Chron. xxxv. 3. [63] Prideaux i. 303-'4. It were well to call to the reader's attention here, the remarkable subterranean discoveries made this year (1856), and still going on in Jerusalem, under the Austrian authorities there. [64] Prideaux i. 285. [65] Vol. i., Connex. pp. 383, 384. [66] Isaiah xlv. 5-7. [67] Prideaux, Con. i. 389. [68] Page 25. [69] Prideaux i. 338-'9. [70] Plato in Alcibiade i. Stobases, p. 496. Clem. Alex. in Pædagogo i. p. 81. [71] Prideaux Con. i. 395. [72] Cicero de Divinatione, l. i. Philo Judæus de spec. leg. Plutarch in Artaxerxe. [73] Prideaux i. 404-'5. [74] See page 21, antea. [75] Heeren, Politics Anc. Greece, p. 292. [76] Remains of Japheth, 136. [77] A bad way to extirpate error. Education, reason, and piety will meet error openly. [78] 2 Phil. ii. 9, 10. [79] Matthew xv. 2, 3. [80] Mark vii. 5-9. [81] Coloss. ii. 8. [82] 2 Thess. iii. 6, 7. [83] Acts xx. 7, 8. [84] John xx. 19. [85] Neander, Gen. Hist. of Christ. Rel. &c., p. 98. [86] Brev. Rom., p. 251. Lectio iij. infra Hebd. quartam Quadragesimæ. "Audistis grande mysterium. Interroga hominem: Christianus es? Respondet tibi: non sum. Si paganus es, aut Judæus? Si autem dixerit, non sum: adhuc quæris ab eo, Catechumenus, an fidelis? Si responderet tibi, Catechumenus: inunctus est, nondum lotus. Sed unde inunctus? Quære, et respondet. Quære ab illo, in quem credat? Eo ipso quo Catechumenus est, dicit, In Christum. Ecce modo loquor et fidelibus et catechumenis. Quid dixi de sputo et luto? Quia verbum caro factum est; hoc catechumeni audiunt: sed non eis sufficit ad quod inuncti sunt: festinent ad lavacrum, si lumen inquirunt." [87] Brev. Rom. p. 652. Festa Maji. Lectio viii. "Si ergo Nicodemus de illis multis erat qui crediderunt in nomine ejus, jam in isto Nicodemo attendamus, quare Jesus non se credebat eis. Respondit Jesus, et dixit ei: Amen, Amen dico tibi, nisi quis renatus fuerit denuo, non potest videre regnum Dei. Ipsis ergo se credit Jesus, qui nati fuerint denuo. Ecce illi crediderant in eum, et Jesus non se credebat eis. Tales sunt, omnes Catechumeni: ipsi jam credunt in nomine Christi, sed Jesus non se credit eis. Intendat et intelligat charitas vestra. Si dixerimus catechumeno: credis in Christum? Respondet, credo, et signat se cruce Christi: portat in fronte, et non erubescit de cruce Domini sui. Ecce credit in nomine ejus. Interrogemus cum: Manducas carnem filii hominis, et bibis sanguinem filii hominis? Nescit quid dicimus, quia Jesus non se credidit ei." [88] 1 Corinth. iii. 1, 2. [89] 1 Peter ii. 2. [90] Hebrews v. 12-14. [91] Hebrews vi. 1. [92] Matt. x. 5, &c. [93] John xviii. 36. [94] Llorente, Hist. Span. Inq. London. 1827. [95] Enc. Brit. xv. 674. * * * * * Corrections made to printed original. p. 17. "Pharaoh, king of Egypt": 'Pharoah' in original. Also in Note 18. p. 44. "more easily be employed": 'he' (for 'be') in original. ibid. "the human mind is an emanation": 'humid' (for 'human') in original. p. 49, diagram. Actual Hebrew letters in original. mem and tet are transposed, kaph and vav look just like resh. * = final forms. p. 52, note "54". Footnote marker missing, inserted in what seems to me the most likely place. p. 67. "kings should be subject to the laws": 'king' (ungrammatically) in original. p. 72. "[Greek: episkopos] or bishop. [Greek: episkokos] in original. p. 98. "All are bound to obey him implicitly": 'implicity' in original. Note 20. "Christ. Breithaupt": 'Breithaurpt' in original. "MDccxxxvii": MD in apostrophus form in text. So also in note 49, where an apostrophus is put wrongly for the cc. Notes 68, 74. The page numbers omitted in the original. 
57737	----	Transcriber's Notes: 1. Page scan source: Google Books "A Dead Reckoning" in CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL. (Sept 14. 1889.) https://books.google.com/books?id=jCYZAAAAYAAJ (Princeton University) CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR POPULAR LITERATURE _Science and Arts_ 1889 W. & R. CHAMBERS LONDON & EDINBURGH CONTENTS. Chapter I. Chapter II. Chapter III. Chapter IV. Chapter V. Chapter VI. Chapter VII. Chapter VIII. Chapter IX. Chapter X. Chapter XI. Chapter XII. Chapter XIII. Chapter XIV. Chapter XV. Chapter XVI. Chapter XVII. Chapter XVIII. Chapter XIX. A DEAD RECKONING. A STORY IN NINETEEN CHAPTERS. By T. W. SPEIGHT, Author of The Mysteries of Heron Dyke, By Devious Ways, &c. CHAPTER I. "Aunty, dear, do you know what day this is?" "If the almanac may be believed, it is the 24th of April." "Six months ago to-day, Gerald and I were married. I feel as if I had been married for years." "How dreadful to feel that you are growing old so quickly! I hope all married people don't feel like that." "You misunderstand me, Aunt Jane. I have been so happy since that evening last year when Gerald whispered something to me in the summer-house, that all my life before I knew him seems as unreal as a dream." "Such short courtships are positively dreadful. Now, when I was engaged to Captain Singleton"---- A third lady, who had been lounging on a sofa and making-believe to be intent on a novel, gave a loud sneeze and sat bolt upright. She had heard Captain Singleton's name introduced so often of late, that she might be excused for not caring to hear it mentioned again--at least for a little while. The first speaker, Clara Brooke, was a charming brunette of twenty-two, with sparkling black eyes, a pure olive complexion, and a manner that was at once vivacious and tender. Miss Primby, the second speaker, was a fresh-coloured, well-preserved spinster of---- But no; Miss Primby's age was a secret, which she guarded as a dragon might guard its young, and we have no right to divulge it. She had one of the best hearts in the world, and one of the weakest heads. Everybody smiled at her little foibles, yet everybody liked her. Just now she was busy over some species of delicate embroidery, in which she was an adept. Lady Fanny Dwyer, the third lady, whose inopportune sneeze had for a moment so disconcerted Miss Primby, was a very pretty, worldly-wise, self-possessed young matron, who in age was some six months older than Mrs. Brooke. She and Clara had been bosom friends in their school-days; and notwithstanding the many differences in their characters and dispositions, their liking for each other was still as fresh and unselfish as ever it had been. The ladies were sitting in a pleasant morning-room at Beechley Towers, Mr. Gerald Brooke's country-house, situated about fourteen miles from London. The room opened on to a veranda by means of long windows, which were wide open this balmy April afternoon. Beyond the veranda was a terrace, from which two flights of broad shallow steps led down to a flower-garden. Outside that lay a well-wooded park, with a wide sweep of sunny champaign enfolding the whole. Clara Brooke had scarcely heard her aunt's last remark. She was seated at a davenport, turning over some old letters. On the wall in front of her hung a portrait of her husband, painted on ivory. "'My own darling Clara,'" she read to herself from one of the letters; "'it seems an age since I saw you last, and it will seem like an age till I shall have the happiness of seeing you again.' What sweet, sweet letters he used to write to me! What other girl ever had such letters written to her?" She pressed the paper she had been reading to her lips, then refolded it, and put it away and took up another. "Ah, my dear," remarked Lady Fanny, turning to her friend, "as you remarked just now, you have only been a wife for six short months, and of course everything with you is still _couleur de rose_. But when you have been married as long as Algy and I have, when the commonplace and the prosaic begin to assert themselves, as they do in everything and everywhere, whether you like it or not, then I am sure you will agree that the scheme of married life my husband and I have planned for ourselves has really a good deal to recommend it to all sensible people." Miss Primby pricked up her ears. "You excite my curiosity, dear Lady Fanny," she said. "I hope you won't refuse to gratify it." "Why should I?" asked Lady Fan with her merry laugh. "We want converts, Algy and I; and who knows, my dear Miss Primby, but that some day--eh? Well, this is our _modus vivendi_--I believe that's the correct term, but won't be sure. About eighteen months ago--we had then been married a little over a year--Algy and I came to the conclusion that married people ought not to be too constantly together if they wish to keep on good terms with each other. Algy's contention is that half the quarrels and scandals which come out in the newspapers are simply the result of people seeing so much of each other that at last they are impelled by some feeling they can't resist to have what he calls 'a jolly row,' just to vary the monotony of existence. And then, as he says, one 'row' is sure to lead to another, and so on. When once the match is applied, no one can tell where the conflagration will stop. Now, although ours was a love-match, if ever there was one, we had not run together in harness very long before we made the discovery that in many things our likes and dislikes were opposed. For instance, next to me, I believe Algy loves his yacht; whereas I detest yachting: it seems to me a most stupid way of passing one's time. On the other hand, I delight in going from one country-house to another and visiting each of my friends in turn; while Algy, dear fellow, is always awfully bored in general society, especially wherever a number of our sex happen to be congregated. Thus, it has come to pass that at the present moment he is somewhere in the Mediterranean, while I--well, _je suis ici_. Algy and I never give ourselves time to grow tired of each other; and when we meet after being apart for a month or two, our meetings are 'real nice,' as my friend Miss Peckover from New York would say." Miss Primby shook her head. "I am afraid, dear Lady Fanny, that your opinions on such matters are very heterodox, and I can only say that I hope Clara will never see fit to adopt them." "Not much fear of that, Aunt Jane," answered the young wife. "Fancy Gerald and me being separated for a month or six weeks at a time! But it is quite out of the question to fancy anything so absurd." Lady Fan laughed. "Wait, my dear, wait," was all she said as she turned again to her novel. Clara Brooke shook her head; she was in nowise convinced. "Gracious goodness! whatever can that be?" ejaculated Miss Primby with a start. "Only Gerald and the Baron Von Rosenberg practising at the pistol-range. It is an amusement both of them are fond of." "An amusement do you call it! I wish they would practise their amusements farther from the house, then.--Heaven preserve us! there they go again. No wonder I have broken my needle." "It's nothing, Aunt Jane, when you are used to it," responded her niece with a smile. "Used to it, indeed! I should never get used to it as long as I lived. I have no doubt this is another of the objectionable practices your husband picked up while he was living in foreign parts." "Seeing that Gerald was brought up in Poland, and that he lived in that country and in Russia from the time he was five years old till he was close on twenty (I think I have told you before that his grandmother was a Polish lady of rank), I have no doubt it was while he was living in those foreign parts, as you call them, that he learnt to be so fond of pistol-practice." At this moment there came the sound of two pistol-shots in quick succession. Miss Primby started to her feet. "My dear Clara," she exclaimed, "if you don't want my poor nerves to be shattered for life, you won't object to my going to my own room. With plenty of cotton wool in my ears, and my Indian shawl wrapped round my head, I may perhaps---- Dear, dear! now my thimble's gone." "Why, there's your thimble, aunt, on your finger." "So it is--so it is, dear. That shows the state of my poor nerves." "Will you not stay and say good-bye to the Baron?" "No, my dear; I would rather not. You must make my excuses. Of course, you could not fail to notice how the Baron ogled me at luncheon. He puts me _so_ much in mind of poor dear Major Pondicherry. But I never cared greatly for foreigners; besides, he will smell horribly of gunpowder when he comes in.--There again! Not another moment will I stay." Clara Brooke's face rippled over with suppressed laughter as Miss Primby left the room. Then she turned to her letters again, and tied them up with ribbon. "I have heard that some people burn their love-letters when they get married," she mused. "What strange beings they must be! Nothing in the world would induce me to burn mine. Sweet silent messengers of love, what happy secrets lie hidden in your leaves!" She pressed the letters to her lips, put them away inside the davenport, and locked them up. Just as she had done this, the pompous tones of Bunce, who filled the joint positions of majordomo and butler at the Towers, became plainly audible. Apparently he was standing outside the side-door and addressing his remarks to someone on the terrace. "Now, the sooner you take your hook the better," the two ladies heard him say. "We don't want none of your kidney here. This ain't no place for mountebanks--I should think not indeed!" Mr. Bunce in his ire had evidently forgotten the proximity of his mistress. Clara crossed to one of the windows, and looking out saw, some little distance away, two strange figures slowly crossing the terrace. One was that of a man whose costume of a street tumbler was partly hidden by the long shabby overcoat he wore over it, which was closely buttoned to the chin. Over one shoulder a drum was slung, and in his left hand he carried a set of Pandean pipes. The second figure was that of a boy some eight or nine years old, who had hold of the man's right hand. Under one arm he carried a small roll of faded carpet. In point of dress he was a miniature copy of the elder mountebank, minus the overcoat. His throat was swathed in a dingy white muffler, while his profusion of yellow curls were kept from straying by a fillet round his forehead embroidered with silvered beads. "Poor creatures," said Clara to herself. "Bunce had no business to speak to them as he did. How dejected they look, and the child seems quite footsore." At this juncture the man happening to turn his head, caught sight of her. She at once beckoned him to approach. The mountebank's face lighted up and all signs of dejection vanished in a moment. He had some kind of old cap on his head. This he now removed, and bowed profoundly twice. It was a bow that might have graced a drawing-room. Then he and the boy crossed the terrace towards Mrs. Brooke. "Fan, I want you; come here," said Clara to her friend. Lady Fanny rose languidly and crossed to the window. What struck both the ladies first of all, as the vagrants drew near, was the remarkable beauty of the child. His face at the first glance seemed an almost perfect oval; his complexion, naturally fair and transparent, was now somewhat embrowned by exposure to the sun and wind. He had large eyes of the deepest and tenderest blue, shaded by long golden lashes; while his lips formed a delicate curve such as many a so-called professional beauty might have envied. "He looks more like a girl than a boy," whispered Lady Fan. "He looks more like a cherub than either," responded Clara, who was somewhat impulsive both in her likes and dislikes. "It is a face that Millais would love to paint." The appearance of the man was a great contrast to that of the child, and a casual observer would have said that there was no single point of resemblance between the two. Apparently the former was about forty to forty-five years of age. He had a sallow complexion and a thin aquiline nose; his black locks were long and tangled; while into his quick-glancing black eyes, which appeared to see half-a-dozen things at once, there would leap at times a strange fierce gleam, which seemed to indicate that although the volcano below might give forth few or no signs, its hidden fires were smouldering still. Only when his eyes rested on the boy they would soften and fill with a sort of wistful tenderness; and at such moments the whole expression of his face would change. "I am extremely sorry," said Mrs. Brooke, "that my servant should have spoken to you just now in the way he did. He had no right to do so, and I shall certainly ask my husband to reprimand him." "It was nothings, madame, nothings at all," responded the mountebank with a little bow and a smile and a deprecatory motion of his hands. "We are often spoken to like that--Henri and I--we think nothings of it." "Still, I cannot help feeling greatly annoyed.--Is this pretty boy your son?" "_Oui_, madame." "His mother"---- "Alas, madame, she is dead. She die six long years ago. She was English, like madame. Henri has the eyes of _ma pauvre_ Marie; and his hair, too, is the same colour as hers." Although the man spoke with a pronounced foreign accent, his English was fluent, and he rarely seemed at a loss for a word to express his meaning. "Poor child!" said Mrs. Brooke. "This is a hard life to bring him up to. Surely some other way might be found"---- Then she paused. The mountebank's white teeth showed themselves in a smile. "Ah no, madame; pardon, but it is not a hard life by no means. Henri likes it, and I like it. In the winter we join some _cirque_, and then Henri has lessons every day. He is clevare, very clevare--everybody say so. One day Henri will be a great artiste. The world--_tout le monde_--will hear of him. It is I who say it--_moi_." He touched his chest proudly with the tips of his fingers as he ceased speaking. "Would mesdames like to behold?"---- he said a moment later as he brought his drum into position and raised the pipes to his lips. "Thank you, monsieur; not to-day," answered Clara gravely as she stepped back into the room and rang the bell. Monsieur looked disappointed. Henri, however, looked anything but disappointed when, two minutes later, the beautiful lady, from whose face he could scarcely take his eyes, heaped his little hands with cakes and fruit till they could hold no more. "Tell me your name, my pretty one," said Mrs. Brooke, as she stooped and helped him to secure his treasures. "Henri Picot, madame." "And have you any pockets, Henri?" "_Oui_, madame." A pocket was duly indicated, and into its recesses a certain coin of the realm presently found its way. Before either Picot or the boy had time to give utterance to a word of thanks, a servant entered the room, and addressing Lady Fan, said: "If you please, my lady, the carriage is waiting; and Miss Primby desires me to tell you that she is ready." "Good gracious, Clara," said Lady Fan, "I had forgotten all about my promise to accompany your aunt in her call on Mrs. Riversdale. I wish to goodness you could go with us. I dread the ordeal." "And leave the Baron Von Rosenberg without a word of apology! What would become of my reputation as a hostess? Gerald and he will be here in a few minutes, I don't doubt; and if you like to wait till he is gone"---- "That would never do," interrupted her friend. "You know what a fidget your aunt is when she is kept waiting. You had better come and keep her in good-humour while I am getting my things on.--By-the-bye, where can our singular friends have vanished to?" Clara looked round. Picot and the boy had disappeared. Neither of the ladies had seen the start the mountebank gave at the mention of Von Rosenberg's name, nor how strangely the expression of his face changed. Clutching the boy by one wrist, he whispered: "It is time to go. Venez, mon p'tit--vite, vite! The ladies want us no more." "The man was French, and he seems to have taken the proverbial leave of his countrymen," said Lady Fan with a laugh. Mrs. Brooke was a little surprised, but said nothing. The two ladies left the room together. CHAPTER II. Five minutes might have passed when Gerald Brooke and the Baron Von Rosenberg came sauntering along the terrace, and entered the room through one of the long windows. In appearance the owner of Beechley Towers was a thoroughgoing Englishman, and no one would have suspected him of having a drop of foreign blood in his veins. He was six-and-twenty years old, tall, fair, and stalwart. His hair, beard, and moustache were of a light reddish brown; he had laughing eyes of the darkest blue, and a mouth that was rarely without a smile. His bearing was that of a well-born, chivalrous, young Englishman. As he came into the room, laughing and talking to the Baron, he looked like a man who had not a care in the world. The Baron Von Rosenberg was so carefully preserved and so elaborately got up, that one might guess his age at anything between forty and fifty-five. He was tall and thin, with a military uprightness and precision of bearing. He had close-cropped iron-gray hair, and a heavy moustache of the same colour. He spoke excellent English with only the faintest possible accent, but with a certain slowness and an elaboration of each word, which of themselves would have been enough to indicate that he was not "to the manner born." "I had no idea, my dear Brooke, that you were such a crack shot," remarked the Baron. "I had made up my mind that I should have an easy victory." "I learned to shoot in Poland, when I was quite a youngster. It is an amusement that has served to while away many idle hours." "I have a tolerable range at Beaulieu; you must come over and try your skill there." "I shall be most pleased to do so." "I have also a small collection of _curios_, chiefly in the way of arms and armour, picked up in the course of my travels, which it may amuse you to look over." "Your telling me that," answered Gerald, "reminds me that I have in my possession one article which, as I believe you are a connoisseur in such matters, you may be interested in examining." As he spoke he crossed to a cabinet, and opening the glass doors, he brought out a pistol, the barrel and lock of which were chased and damascened in gold, and the stock ornamented with trophies and scrolls in silver inlay and repoussé work. "It was given me when I was in India by a certain Nawab to whom I had rendered some slight service," said Gerald as he handed the pistol to the Baron. "It doesn't seem much of a curiosity to look at; but I am told that in its way it is almost unique." "I can readily believe that," answered the Baron, as he examined the weapon minutely through his gold-rimmed glasses. "I have never seen anything quite like it, although I have seen many curious pistols in my time. I myself have two or three in my collection on which I set some little store. I call to mind, however, that a certain friend of mine in London, who is even more _entêté_ in such matters than I am, owns a weapon somewhat similar to this, inlaid with arabesque work in brass and silver, which he has always looked upon as being of Spanish, or at least of Moorish workmanship.--Now, my dear Mr. Brooke, I am going to ask you the favour of lending me this treasure for a few days. I go to London tomorrow, and while there, I should like to show it to my friend, so as to enable him to compare it with the one in his possession. He would be delighted, I know, and"---- "My dear Baron, not another word," cried Gerald. "Take the thing, and keep it as long as you like. I value it only as a memento of some pleasant days spent many thousands of miles from here. My servant shall carry it across to Beaulieu in the course of the evening." "A thousand thanks; but I value the weapon too highly to trust it into the hands of a servant. I will return it personally in the course of a few days." So saying, the Baron, with a nod and a smile, dropped the pistol into the pocket of his loose morning coat. "But madame your wife," he said presently; "may I not hope to have the pleasure of seeing her again before I take my leave?" Gerald crossed the room, and was on the point of ringing the bell, when Mrs. Brooke entered. The Baron's heels came together as he bent his head. "I was just about to take my leave, madame," he said. "I am overjoyed to have the felicity of seeing you again before doing so." There was something too high-flown about this for Clara's simple tastes, and her cheek flushed a little as she answered: "I hope you have enjoyed your pistol-practice, Baron." "Greatly. I assure you that Mr. Brooke is an adept with the weapon--very much so indeed. I must really beg of him to give me a few lessons." Gerald laughed. "As a diplomatist by profession, Baron, you are doubtless a proficient in the art of flattery," said Mrs. Brooke. "A mere tyro, dear madame. Sincerity is the badge of all our tribe, as every one knows." At this they all laughed a little. "But now I must positively say adieu." "By which road do you return to Beaulieu, Baron?" inquired Gerald. "The afternoon is so fine and the distance so short, that I purpose walking back through the park." "Then, with your permission, I will walk with you as far as the corner of the wood." "Need I say that I shall be charmed?" Mrs. Brooke gave the Baron her hand. He bent low over it. For once the ramrod in his back found that it had a hinge in it. "You will not be gone long?" said Clara to her husband. "Not more than half an hour.--We will go this way, Baron, if you please." "Are all diplomatists like the Baron Von Rosenberg, I wonder?" mused Mrs. Brooke. "If so, I am glad Gerald is not one. His politeness is so excessive that it makes one doubt whether there is anything genuine at the back of it. And then the cold-blooded way in which he looks you through out of his frosty eyes! Could any woman ever learn to love a man like the Baron? I am quite sure that I could not." She seated herself at the piano, and had been playing for a few minutes when she was startled by the sound of footsteps on the gravel outside. She turned her head and next moment started to her feet "George! You!" she exclaimed; and as she did so, the colour fled from her cheeks and her hand went up quickly to her heart. At Mrs. Brooke's exclamation, a tall, thin, olive-complexioned young man, with black eyes and hair and a small silky moustache, advanced into the room. He was handsome as far as features went; just now, however, his expression was anything but a pleasant one. A something that was at once furtive and cruel lurked in the corners of his eyes, and although his thin lips were curved into a smile, it was a smile that had neither mirth nor good-nature in it. A small gash in his upper lip, the result of an accident in youth, through which one of his teeth gleamed sharp and white, did not add to the attractiveness of his appearance. In one hand he carried a riding-whip, and in the other a pair of buckskin gloves. "Good afternoon, Clara," he said with a careless nod as he deposited his hat, gloves, and whip on the side-table. "You quite startled me," said Mrs. Brooke as she went forward and gave him her hand. "You expected any one rather than me--of course. As I was riding along the old familiar road, I saw your husband, in company with some other man, walking down the avenue. In the hope that I might perhaps find you alone, I rode on to the _Beechley Arms_, left my horse there, entered the park by the side-entrance that you and I know so well, and here I am." "I am very glad to see you."--Mr. George Crofton shrugged his shoulders.--"Why have you not called before now? Gerald has often wondered why we have seen nothing of you since our return from abroad." "How kind, how thoughtful, of my dear cousin Gerald!" This was said with an unmistakable sneer. "George!" "You are not like yourself to-day." "Look you, Clara--if you expect me to come here like an everyday visitor, to congratulate you on your marriage, you are mistaken. How is it possible for me to congratulate you?--and if I were to say that I wished you much happiness, it would be--well--a lie!" "This from you!" He drew a step nearer, flinging out his clenched hand with a quick passionate gesture. "Listen, Clara. You and I have known each other from childhood. As boy and girl we played together; when we grew older we walked and rode out together; and after you left school we met at balls, at parties, at picnics, and if a week passed without our seeing each other we thought that something must have happened. During all those years I loved you--ay, as no other man will ever love you--and you, being of the sex you are, could not fail to see it. But your father was poor, while I was entirely dependent on my uncle; so time went on, and I hesitated to speak. But a day came when I could keep silence no longer; I told you everything, and--you rejected me. If I had been wild and reckless before, I became ten times more wild and reckless then. If before that day I had offended my uncle, I offended him beyond all hope of forgiveness afterwards. But before I spoke to you, my irresistible cousin had appeared on the scene and had made your acquaintance. Your woman's wit told you that his star was in the ascendant, while mine was sinking. Pshaw! what need for another word. It is barely eighteen months since you and he first met, and now you are the mistress of Beechley Towers, while I am--what I am!" It was with very varied emotions that Mrs. Brooke listened to this passionate outburst. When it came to an end she said in her iciest tones: "Was it to tell me this that you came here to-day?" "It was." "Then you had much better have stayed away. You do not know how deeply you have grieved me." "I have told you nothing but the bitter truth." "The truth, perhaps, as seen through your own distorted vision. From childhood you were to me as a dear playmate and friend, and as a friend I have regarded you till to-day." "A friend! Something more than friendship was needed by me." "That something would never have been yours." "I will not believe it. Had not a rival crossed my path--a rival who wormed his way into my uncle's affections, who ousted me from the position that ought to have been mine, who is master here to-day where I ought to be master--had he never appeared, a love so strong and deep as mine must have prevailed in the end!" "Never, George Crofton, as far as I am concerned! You deceive yourself utterly. You"---- She came to a sudden pause. A servant had entered, carrying a card on a salver. Mrs. Brooke took the card and read, "M. Paul Karovsky.--I never remember hearing the name before," she remarked to herself. Then aloud to the servant: "Where is the gentleman?" "In the small drawing-room, ma'am. He said that he wanted to see Mr. Brooke on particular business." "Your master is out at present; but I will see Monsieur Karovsky myself." Turning to Crofton as soon as the servant had left the room, she said: "You will excuse me for a few moments, will you not? Gerald will be back in a little while, and I do so wish you would stay and meet him. George"--offering him her hand with a sudden gracious impulse--"let this afternoon be blotted from the memory of both of us. You will never say such foolish things to me again, will you?" He took her proffered hand sullenly enough. "I have said my say," he muttered with averted eyes; with that he dropped her fingers and turned away. A pained expression flitted across her face as she looked at him. "You will wait here till I come back, will you not?" she said; and then, without waiting for an answer, she quitted the room. With his hands behind his back and his eyes bent on the ground, George Crofton paced the room once or twice in silence. Then he said, speaking aloud, as he had a trick of doing when alone: "It is a lie to say she would never have learned to love me! She may try to deceive herself by saying so; but she cannot deceive me. Had not my smooth-tongued cousin come between us, she would have been mine. I had no rival but him. Not only has he robbed me of the woman I loved, but of this old house and all this fair domain, which would all have been my own, had he not come between my uncle and me, and made the old man's bitterness against me bitterer still. "Oh," he exclaimed bitterly, "I have every reason for loving my dear cousin Gerald!" Presently he caught sight of the miniature of his cousin where it hung above the davenport. "His likeness!" he exclaimed. "The original is not enough for her; she must have this to gaze on when he is not by." He took the miniature off the nail on which it hung and scanned it frowningly. "To think that only this man's life stands between me and fortune--only this one life!" he said. "Were Gerald Brooke to die without heirs, I--even I, his graceless scamp of a cousin--would come into possession of Beechley Towers and six thousand a year! Only this one life!" He let the miniature drop on the hearth, and then ground it to fragments savagely under his heel. "If I could but serve the original as I serve this!" he muttered. The sound of the shutting of a distant door startled him. He pressed his hands to his forehead for a moment, as though awaking from a confused dream; then he sighed deeply and took up his hat, gloves, and whip. "Adieu, Clara; but we shall meet again," he said aloud. With that he put on his hat and buttoned his coat and walked slowly out by the way he had come. Two minutes later Mrs. Brooke re-entered the room. She looked round in surprise. "George gone?" she said to herself. "Why did he not wait and see Gerald?" She crossed to the window and looked out. "Yes; there he goes striding through the grass, and evidently not in the most amiable of humours. How strangely he has altered during the last three or four years; how different he is now from what he used to be when we were playmates together! If he had but some profession--something to occupy his mind--he would be far happier than he is. But George is not one to love work of any kind." With that Clara looked at her watch and dismissed Mr. Crofton from her thoughts. "I wish Gerald were back. What can that strange Monsieur Karovsky want with him? What can be the business of importance that has brought him here? I feel as if some misfortune were impending. Such happiness as mine is too perfect to last." She was crossing the room in search of a book, when her eye was attracted by the fragments of the miniature on the hearth. She was on her knees in a moment. "What is this?" she cried. "Gerald's likeness, and trodden under foot! This is George's doing. Oh, cruel, cruel! What a mean and paltry revenge! It is the portrait Gerald gave me before we were married. I could never like another as I liked this one. Oh, how mean! Gerald must not know--at least not for the present." Tears of mingled anger and sorrow stood in her eyes as she picked up the fragments and locked them away in her desk. She had scarcely accomplished this when she heard her husband's footsteps. She hastily brushed her tears away and turned to greet him with a smile. "And this is what you call being half-an-hour away!" she said as he drew her to him and kissed her. "Von Rosenberg and I were busy talking. We had got halfway through the wood before I called to mind where I was." He sat down and fanned himself with his soft felt hat. "He tells me," went on Gerald, "that he has taken Beaulieu for twelve months--furnished, of course--so that we are likely to be neighbours for some time to come." "He must find English country-life very tame and unexciting after being used to Berlin and St Petersburg." "You may add, to Paris also. Some years ago he was attached to the German Embassy there." "To live as he is now living must seem like exile to such a man." "I am afraid it is little better. But the whisper goes that he is really exiled for a time--that he has contrived in some way to incur the displeasure of the powers that be, and that leave has been given him to travel for the benefit of his health." "Poor Baron! Let us hope that his eclipse will only be a temporary one.--By-the-bye, there has been some one else to see you while you have been out." "And they call this the seclusion of the country!" "Some Russian or Polish acquaintance whom you probably met when abroad." "Ah! His name?" "Monsieur Karovsky." Gerald Brooke drew in his breath with a gasp. "Karovsky--and here!" "He says that he has important business to see you upon. "He is one of the few men whose faces I hoped never to see again. Where is he?" There was trouble in his eyes, trouble in his voice, as he asked the question. "When I told him that you were out, he said that, with my permission, he would smoke a cigarette in the grounds while awaiting your return. What a strange, almost sinister-looking man he is! How I wish he had stayed away!" Her husband did not reply; he looked as if he had not heard what she said. Next moment Mrs. Brooke started to her feet. "There he is. There is Monsieur Karovsky," she cried. And there, indeed, he was, standing just outside the open window smoking a cigarette. Perceiving that he was seen, he flung away his cigarette, stepped slowly into the room, removed his hat, and bowed. CHAPTER III. When George Crofton informed Mrs. Brooke that it was while riding along the road outside the park palings he had seen her husband leaving the house, he stated no more than the truth; but one little point he had not seen fit to mention--that he himself was not alone at the time. When he had recovered from his momentary surprise at seeing his cousin, he had said to his companion--an extremely handsome young person in a riding-habit that fitted her like a glove: "Let us put the pace on a bit, Steph. I've just remembered that there's a call I ought to make while I'm in this neighbourhood." A few minutes later they pulled up at the _Beechley Arms_, a country tavern only a few hundred yards distant from the back entrance to the park. Here Mr. Crofton had been well known in days gone by; and by the time he had dismounted and had assisted his companion to alight, the buxom landlady, all smiles and cap-ribbons, had come to the door to greet him. "Why, Master George, it's never you sure-ly," she said. "It seems like old times come back to see you come riding up just as you used to do." "Then you have not quite forgotten me, Mrs. Purvis," he said, as he shook hands with the landlady with that air of easy affability which he knew so well how to assume. "I don't wish to flatter you, but, on my honour, you look younger every time I see you." The landlady smirked and blushed, and said: "Get along with you, do, sir;" and then led the way to her best parlour, an old-fashioned, low-ceilinged room, with a diamond-paned window and a broad, cushioned window-seat. George ordered some sherry and biscuits to be brought; and as soon as the landlady had left the room, he said to his companion: "I shall have to leave you for half-an-hour, Steph, to make the call I spoke of just now; I shall be sure not to be gone longer. You won't mind, will you?" Mademoiselle Stephanie made a little _moue_. "I suppose you will go whether I mind or not;" she said. "I _must_ go," he replied. "It is a matter of extreme importance." "In that case there is nothing more to be said," she answered with a shrug. A moment later she added: "Only, remember, if you are away much longer than half-an-hour, Tartar and I will go back home by ourselves, and leave you to follow at your leisure." George Crofton laughed. "Never fear, _carissima_; I won't fail to be back to time. Besides, our dinner will be waiting for us three miles farther on. Did I tell you that I had ordered it by telegraph before leaving town?" "There's one thing neither you nor I must forget," she answered, "and that is, that I'm due at the _cirque_ at nine o'clock to the minute. Signor Ventelli never forgives any one who is not there to time." At this juncture Mrs. Purvis came in with the wine and biscuits. George hastily swallowed a couple of glasses of sherry; and then, after giving a few instructions with regard to the horses, and reiterating his promise not to be gone more than half an hour, he went. Mademoiselle Stephanie Lagrange was a very pretty woman--a fact of which she was perfectly cognisant, as most pretty women are. She had a profusion of light silky hair, and large steel-gray eyes that were lacking neither in fire nor audacity. Her lips were thin and rather finely curved; but her chin was almost too massive to be in proportion with the rest of her features. Her figure was well-nigh perfect; and as she was a splendid horsewoman, she never appeared in the Row without having a hundred pair of eyes focused on her, and a hundred tongues asking eagerly who she was. In case the reader should put the same question, it may be as well to state that Mademoiselle Lagrange was a prominent member of the celebrated Ventelli Circus troupe, on whose posters and placards she was designated in large letters as "Queen of the Haute Ecole." Whether Mademoiselle Lagrange was of French or English extraction was a moot-point with several of those who knew her best, seeing that she spoke both languages equally well. Some there were who averred that she spoke English with a slight French accent, and French with a slight English accent; but be that as it may, no one knew from her own lips where she was born or of what nationality her parents had been. As soon as she was left alone, Stephanie took off her hat and veil and seated herself on the window seat, from whence she could look into a strip of old-fashioned garden at the back of the tavern. As she nibbled at a biscuit and sipped her sherry--Steph was by no means averse to a glass of good wine--she soliloquised, half aloud: "Why has my good friend George left me and who is the person he has gone to see?--Eh bien, cher monsieur, there appear to be certain secrets in your life of which I know nothing. It must be my business to find out what they are. I like to have secrets of my own, but I don't like other people to have secrets from me." At this point, in came bustling Mrs. Purvis, ostensibly to inquire whether the lady was in need of anything, but in reality to satisfy in some measure the cravings of her curiosity. She found Mademoiselle Stephanie by no means disinclined for a little gossip; only, when she came to think over the interview afterwards, she discovered that it was she who had answered all the young lady's questions, but that the young lady had answered few or none of hers. Yes; she had known Master George from quite a boy, Mrs. Purvis went on to say, gratified at finding a listener so ready to her hand. He had been brought up at the Towers--the great house in the park there--and everybody thought he would be his uncle's heir. But as he grew up he fell into bad ways, and all sorts of tales were told about his extravagance and dissipation; and no doubt he was made out to be far worse than he really was. At length the old gentleman turned him out of doors, and made a fresh will in favour of his other nephew, Mr. Gerald Brooke--he who now lives at the Towers--while Master George had to content himself with a legacy of five thousand pounds. And then there was Miss Danby--the late vicar's daughter--whom everybody thought Master George would marry; but she, too, turned against him, and married his cousin, so that he lost both his inheritance and his wife. "And does this lady whom Mr. Crofton was to have married live at the place you call the Towers?" asked Stephanie. "Certainly, miss. She is mistress there; and a very beautiful lady she is." "It is her whom he has gone to see," said Stephanie to herself. "He pretends that he loves me, but he cannot forget her.--So this is your secret, _cher_ George! I shall know how to make use of it when the time conies." Suddenly she started and half rose from her seat. Her eyes had been caught by something outside the window. She turned quickly on Mrs. Purvis. "That child--where does he come from? Who is he?" The landlady's gaze followed hers through the window. "Do you mean that little fellow on the grass plat who is throwing crumbs to the birds? He's a mountebank's son, as you may see by his dress. His father is having some bread-and-cheese in the kitchen. What a shame it is that such a dear little mite should have to earn his living by turning head over heels in the streets." For several moments Stephanie stood motionless, her eyes fixed on the child. Then, without turning her head, she said: "Thank you. I require nothing more at present. When I do, I will ring." The tones in which the words were spoken conveyed more than the words themselves. Mrs. Purvis bridled like a peacock, shook her cap-ribbons, and marched out of the room, slamming the door behind her with unnecessary violence. There were two doors to the room, one by which the landlady had made her exit, and another which led into the garden. This second door Stephanie now opened, and at the sound the boy raised his eyes. She beckoned to him, and he came forward. It may be that he had visions of more fruit and sugared biscuits. Stephanie drew him a little way into the room, and going down on one knee, she passed an arm round his waist. It was evident that she was full of suppressed emotion. The conversation that ensued was carried on in French. "Tell me your name, _cheri_." "Henri Picot, mademoiselle." She had known what the answer would be; but for a moment or two her lips blanched, while she murmured something the boy could not hear. "And your father?" she said at last. "He is here, indoors. Poor papa was tired; he is resting himself." "Does your papa treat you kindly, Henri?" The boy stared at her. "Papa always treats me kindly.--Why should he not?" "And your mamma?" said Stephanie with bated breath. Henri shook his head. "I have no mamma," he answered with a ring of childish pathos in his voice. "She has gone a long, long journey, and no one knows when she will come back. Papa does not like me to talk about her--it makes him so sad. But sometimes I see her in my sleep, and then she looks beautiful, and smiles at me. Some day, perhaps, she will come back to papa and me." She kissed him passionately, to the boy's wonderment. Then with a half-sob in her voice, she said: "But you have a sister, have you not?" Henri's large eyes grew larger. "No; I have no sister," he answered with a shake of his head. "But you had one once, had you not? Does your papa never speak of her?" "No; never. I had a mamma, but I never had a sister." For a moment or two Stephanie buried her face on the child's shoulder. What thoughts, what memories of the past, rushed through her brain as she did so? "Cast off and forgotten!" was the mournful cry wrung from her heart. Suddenly a voice outside was heard calling, "Henri, Henri, où es tu?" followed by a note or two on the pipes and a tap on the drum. "Papa is calling me; I must go," said the boy. Stephanie started to her feet, and lifting him in her arms, kissed him wildly again and again. Then setting him down, she pressed some money into his hand and turned away without another word. Henri darted off. "He is gone--gone--and perhaps I shall never see him again!" She sank on her knees and buried her face in the cushions of the window-seat. Her whole frame shook with the sobs that would no longer be suppressed. Five minutes later George Crofton entered the room. For a few seconds he paused in utter amazement; then going forward, he laid a hand on the girl's shoulder. "Steph," he said, "Steph--why, what's amiss?" As he spoke his eyes rested for a moment on Picot and Henri, who were crossing the grass-plat hand in hand. CHAPTER IV. "Pardon. I hope I do not intrude?" said M. Karovsky, addressing himself to Mrs. Brooke with the suave assurance of a thorough man of the world. "I saw through the window that Mr. Brooke had returned, and as my time here is limited--_me voici_." Then advancing a few steps and holding out his hand to Gerald, he added: "It is five years, _mon ami_, since we last met. Confess now, I am one of the last men in the world whom you thought to see here?" "You are indeed, Karovsky," responded Gerald as he shook his visitor's proffered hand, but with no great show of cordiality.--"Have you been long in England?" "Not long. I am a bird of passage. I come and go, and obey the orders that are given me. That is all." "My wife, Mrs. Brooke. But you have seen her already.--Clara, Monsieur Karovsky is a gentleman whose acquaintance I had the honour of making during the time I was living abroad." "May we hope to have the pleasure of Monsieur Karovsky's company to dinner?" asked Clara in her most gracious manner, while at the same time hoping in her heart that the invitation would not be accepted. "_Merci_, madame," responded the Russian, for such he was. "I should be delighted, if the occasion admitted of it; but, as I said before, my time is limited. I must leave London by the night-mail. I am due in Paris at ten o'clock tomorrow." "For the present, then, I must ask you to excuse me," said Clara. Karovsky hastened to open the door for her, and bowed low as she swept out of the room. "That man is the bearer of ill news, and Gerald knows it," was the young wife's unspoken thought as she left the two together. M. Karovsky was a tall, well-built man, to all appearance some few years over thirty in point of age. His short black hair was parted carefully down the middle; his black eyes were at once piercing and brilliant; he had a long and rather thin face, a longish nose, a mobile and flexible mouth, and a particularly fine arrangement of teeth. He wore neither beard nor moustache, and his complexion had the faint yellow tint of antique ivory. He was not especially handsome; but there was something striking and out of the common in his appearance, so that people who were introduced to him casually in society wanted to know more about him. An enigma is not without its attractions for many people, and Karovsky had the air of being one whether he was so in reality or not. He was a born linguist, as so many of his countrymen are, and spoke the chief European languages with almost equal fluency and equal purity of accent. "Fortune has been kind to you, my friend, in finding for you so charming a wife," he said, as he lounged across the room with his hands in his pockets, after closing the door behind Mrs. Brooke. "But Fortune has been kind to you in more ways than one." "Karovsky, you have something to tell me," said Brooke a little grimly. "You did not come here to pay compliments, nor without a motive. But will you not be seated?" Karovsky drew up a chair. "As you say--I am not here without a motive," he remarked. Then, with a quick expressive gesture, which was altogether un-English, he added: "Ah, bah! I feel like a bird of ill-omen that has winged its way into Paradise with a message from the nether world." "Whatever your message may be, pray do not hesitate to deliver it." But apparently the Russian did hesitate. He got up, crossed the room to one of the windows, looked out for half a minute, then went back and resumed his seat. "Eight years have come and gone, Gerald Brooke," he began in an impressive tone, "since you allied yourself by some of the most solemn oaths possible for a man to take to that Sacred Cause to which I also have the honour of being affiliated." "Do you think that I have forgotten! At that time I was an impetuous and enthusiastic boy of eighteen, with no knowledge of the world save what I had gathered from books, and with a head that was full of wild, vague dreams of Liberty and Universal Brotherhood." "The fact of your becoming one of Us is the best of all proofs that the cause of Liberty at that time was dear to your heart." "But when as a boy I joined the Cause, I was ignorant of much I have learned since that time." "The world does not stand still. One naturally knows more to-day than one did eight years ago." "Karovsky, I know this--that the Cause, which, when I joined it, I believed to be so pure in its aims, so lofty in its ideas, so all-embracing in its philanthropy, has, since that time, been stained by crimes which make me shudder when I think of them--has dragged its colours through shambles reeking with the blood of those who have fallen victims to its blind and ferocious notions of revenge." "Pardon. But can it be possible that I am listening to one who, only eight short years ago, was saturated with philanthropic ideas which seemed expansive enough to include the whole human race--one whose great longing was that every man should be free and happy?--Ah, yes, you are the same--only time and the world have contrived to spoil you, as they spoil so many others. In those days you were poor; now you are rich. Then you had no fixed home; you were a wanderer from city to city; your future was clouded and uncertain. Now, you are the wealthy Mr. Brooke--a pillar of your country: this grand old mansion and all the broad acres, for I know not how far around it, are yours. You are married to one whom you love, and who loves you in return. Away, then, with the wild notions of our hot youth!" "Karovsky, you wrong me. My love of my fellows is as ardent as ever it was. My---- But why prolong a discussion that could serve no good end? You have a message for me?" "I have." The man was evidently ill at ease. He rose, crossed to the chimney-piece, took up one or two curios and examined them through his eyeglass, then went back and resumed his seat. "Gerald Brooke," he continued, "eight years ago, on a certain winter evening, in a certain underground room in Warsaw, and before some half-dozen men whose faces you were not permitted to see, you, of your own free-will, took the solemn oaths which affiliated you to that great Cause for the furtherance of which thousands of others have given their fortunes, their lives, their all. From that day till this you have been a passive brother of the Society; nothing has been demanded at your hands; and you might almost be excused if the events of that winter night had come at length to seem to you little more than a half-remembered dream. That you have not been called upon before now is no proof that you have been overlooked or forgotten, but simply that your services have not been required. Other instruments were at hand to do the work that was needed to be done. But at length the day has come to you, Gerald Brooke, as it comes to most men who live and wait." Gerald had changed colour more than once during the foregoing speech. "What is it that I am called upon to do?" he asked in a voice that was scarcely raised above a whisper. "You are aware that when an individual is needed to carry out any of the secret decrees of the Supreme Tribunal, that individual is drawn for by lot?" "And my name"---- "Has been so drawn." The light faded out of Gerald Brooke's eyes; a death-like pallor crept over his face; lie could scarcely command his voice as for the second time he asked: "What is it that I am called upon to do?" "The Supreme Tribunal have decreed that a certain individual shall suffer the penalty of death. You are the person drawn by lot to carry out the sentence." "They would make an assassin of me?--Never!" "You are bound by your oath to carry out the behests of the Tribunal, be they what they may." "No oath can bind a man to become a murderer." "One of the chief conditions attached to your oath is that of blind and unquestioning obedience." "Karovsky, this is monstrous." "I am sorry that things have fallen out as they have, _mon ami_; but such being the case, there is no help for it." "I--Gerald Brooke--whose ancestors fought at Cressy, to sink to the level of a common assassin? Never!" "Pardon. Might it not be as well, before you express your determination in such emphatic terms, to consider what would be the consequence of a refusal on your part to comply with the instructions of which I have the misfortune to be the bearer?--Mrs. Brooke is very young to be left a widow." "Karovsky!" "Pardon. But that is what it means. Any affiliated member who may be so ill-advised as to refuse to carry out the decrees of the Tribunal renders himself liable to the extreme penalty; and so surely as you, Gerald Brooke, are now a living man, so surely, in a few short weeks, should you persist in your refusal, will your wife be left a widow." "This is horrible--most horrible!" "Obedience, blind and unquestioning, the utter abnegation of your individuality to the will of your superiors, is the first great rule of the Propaganda to which you and I have the honour to belong. But all this you knew, or ought to have known, long ago." "Obedience carried to the verge of murder is obedience no longer--it becomes a crime. However you may put it, assassination remains assassination still." "Pardon. We recognise no such term in our vocabulary." "Karovsky, had you been called upon to do this deed"---- "I should have done it. For if there be one man in the world, Brooke, whom I have cause to hate more than another, that man is Baron Otto von Rosenberg!" "Von Rosenberg!" "Pardon. Did I not mention the name before? But he is the man." For a moment or two Gerald could not speak. "It is but half an hour since I parted from him," he contrived to say at last.--"Karovsky, I feel as if I were entangled in some horrible nightmare--as if I were being suffocated in the folds of some monstrous Python." "It is a feeling that will wear itself out in the course of a little while. I remember---- But that matters not." "But Von Rosenberg is not a Russian; he is a German ex-diplomatist. What can such a man as he have done to incur so terrible a vengeance?" "Listen. Four years ago, when attached to the Embassy at St Petersburg, certain secrets were divulged to him, after he had pledged his sacred word of honour that no use whatever should be made of the information so acquired. Wretch that he was! Von Rosenberg turned, traitor, and revealed everything to those in power. In the dead of night, a certain house in which a secret printing press was at work was surrounded by the police. Two of the inmates were shot down while attempting to escape. The rest were made prisoners, among them being three women and a boy of seventeen--my brother. Two of those arrested died in prison, or were never heard of more; the rest were condemned to the mines. On the road, my brother and one of the women sank and died, killed by the dreadful hardships they had to undergo; the rest are now rotting away their lives in the silver mines, forgotten by all but the dear ones they left behind.--You now know the reason why the Baron Otto von Rosenberg has been sentenced to death. The vengeance of the Supreme Tribunal may be slow, but it is very sure." There was silence for a few moments, then Gerald said: "All this may be as you say; but I tell you again, Karovsky, that mine shall not be the hand to strike the blow." "Then you seal your own death-warrant" "So be it. Life at such a price would not be worth having. 'Death before Dishonour' is the motto of our house. Dishonour shall never come to it through me." Gerald rose and walked to the window. His face was pale, his eyes were full of trouble; what he had said had been lacking neither in dignity nor pathos. The Russian's cold glance followed him, not without admiration. "English to the backbone," he muttered under his breath. "It was a blunder ever to allow such a man to become one of Us." Then he looked at his watch, and started to find it was so late. "I can stay no longer--I must go," he said aloud. "But remember my last warning words." He took up his hat and moved slowly towards the window. "Karovsky, for the last time I solemnly declare that this man's death shall not lie at my door!" Gerald sank into a chair, let his elbows rest on the table, and buried his face between his hands. "I have nothing more to say," remarked the Russian. He stepped through the window, his hat in his hand, and then turned. At that moment the door opened, and Mrs. Brooke, on the point of entering the room, paused suddenly as her eyes took in the scene before her. "Gerald!" she exclaimed in a frightened voice, and then her gaze travelled from her husband to Karovsky. The latter, with his eyes still resting on the bowed figure at the table, pronounced in low clear accents the one word, "Remember!" Then he bowed low to Mrs. Brooke, and next moment was gone. CHAPTER V. Ten weeks, had come and gone since the memorable visit of M. Karovsky to the master of Beechley Towers. It was a pleasant evening towards the end of June. There had been a heavy shower a little while ago; but since then the clouds had broken, and the sun was now drawing westward in a blaze of glory. In the same pleasant morning-room in which we first made their acquaintance, Mrs. Brooke and her aunt, Miss Primby, were now sitting. The latter was dozing in an easy-chair with a novel on her lap, the former was seated at the piano playing some plaintive air in a minor key. The glad light, the light of a happiness that knew no cloud, which shone from her eyes when we saw her first, dwelt there no longer. She looked pale, anxious, and _distraits_, like one who is a prey to some hidden trouble. She had spoken no more than the truth when she said that her happiness was too perfect to last. As the last sad note died away under her fingers she turned from the instrument. "I cannot play--I cannot work--I cannot do anything," she murmured under her breath. At this juncture Miss Primby awoke. "My dear Clara, what a pity you did not keep on playing," she said. "I was in the midst of a most lovely dream. I thought I was about to be married; my wreath and veil had been sent home, and I was just about to try them on; when you stopped playing and I awoke." "If I were to go on playing, aunt, do you think that you could finish your dream?" "No, my dear, it's gone, and the chances are that it will never return," said the spinster with a sigh. Clara crossed the room, and sat down on a low chair near the window, whence she could catch the first glimpse of her husband as he came round the clump of evergreens at the corner of the terrace. "I wish you would not mope so much, and would try not to look quite so miserable," said her aunt presently. "How can I help feeling miserable, when I know that Gerald has some unhappy secret on his mind, of which he tells me nothing. He has been a changed man ever since the visit of M. Karovsky. He cannot eat, he cannot rest; night and day he wanders about the house and grounds, like a man walking in his sleep." "Bad signs, very, my dear. Married men have no right to have secrets from their wives." "If he would but confide in me! If he would but tell me what the secret trouble is that is slowly eating away his life!" "I remember that when the Dean of Rathdrum leaned over the back of my chair, and whispered 'My darling Jane, I'"---- "Here comes Gerald!" cried Mrs. Brooke. She started to her feet, while a glad light leapt into her eyes, and ran out on the terrace to meet him. "What a time you have been away!" she said, as he stooped and kissed her. "And your hair and clothes are quite wet." "It is nothing," he answered. "I was caught in a shower in the wood." "Poor fellow! He certainly does look very haggard and dejected," remarked Miss Primby to herself. "Have you been far?" asked Clara. "Only as far as Beaulieu." "You called on the baron, of course." "No. I changed my mind at the last moment." "The first bell will ring in a few minutes." "I have one important letter to write before I dress." "Then aunt and I will leave you. You will not be long? I am so afraid of your taking cold. Come, aunt." "Nothing brings on rheumatism sooner than damp clothes," remarked Miss Primby sententiously, as she folded down a leaf of her novel, and tucked the volume under her arm. Then the ladies went and Gerald was left alone. He looked a dozen years older than he had looked ten weeks previously. All the light and gladness had died out of his face; he had the air of a man who was weighed down by some trouble almost heavier than he could bear. "She is afraid of my taking cold," he said to himself, with a bitter smile as his wife closed the door. "Poor darling! if I were to take cold and have a fever and die, it would be the best thing that could happen either to her or me." He began to pace the room slowly, his hands behind him, and his eyes bent on the ground. "Nearly three months have passed since Karovsky's visit, and nothing has yet been done. Only two more weeks are left me. Coward that I am, to have kept putting off from day to day doing that which I ought to have done long ago. Even this very afternoon, when I reached Beaulieu, I had not the courage to go in and confront Von Rosenberg. My heart failed me, and I turned back. If I have begun one letter to him I have begun a dozen, only to burn or tear them up unfinished; but now there is no time for further delay. I will warn him that if he wishes to save his life he must leave here immediately, and seek some asylum where his enemies will be powerless to harm him. Shall I vaguely hint at some shadowy danger that impends over him? or shall I tell him in plain terms why and by whom the death sentence has been recorded against him? Shall I write to him anonymously, or shall I sign the letter with my name? Better tell him everything and put my name to the letter; he can then act on the information in whatever way he may deem best. In doing this, as Karovsky said, I shall be sealing my own doom. Well, better that, better anything than the only other alternative." He halted by one of the windows, and stood gazing out at all the pleasant features of the landscape he had learned to know and love so well. "It seems hard to die so young, and with so much about me to make life happy," he sadly mused. "I think I could meet my fate on the battle-field without a murmur--but to be murdered in cold blood--to be the mark for some stealthy assassin! Poor Clara! poor darling! what will you do when I am gone?" He sighed deeply as he turned from the window. His eyes were dim with tears. Presently he seated himself at the davenport, and drew pen and paper towards him. "No more delays; this very night the baron shall be told. But how shall I begin? in what terms shall I word my warning?" He sat and mused for a minute or two, biting the end of his pen as he did so. Then he dipped the pen into the inkstand and began to write: "My dear Baron, from information which has reached me, the accuracy of which I cannot doubt, I am grieved to have to inform you that your life is in great and immediate peril. You have been sentenced to death by the Chiefs of one of those Secret Societies of the existence of which you are doubtless aware. Your only chance of safety lies in immediate flight." "What shall I say next?" asked Gerald of himself. "Shall I tell him that"---- But at this juncture the door was opened, and Mrs. Brooke came hurriedly into the room. "O Gerald, such terrible news!" she exclaimed, breathlessly. Gerald turned his letter face downward on the blotting-pad. "Terrible news, Clara?" he said in a tone of studied indifference. "Has your aunt's spaniel over-eaten itself and"---- "Gerald, don't!" she cried in a pained voice. "Baron von Rosenberg is dead--murdered in his own house leas than an hour ago!" Gerald rose slowly from his chair as if drawn upward by some invisible force. The sudden pallor that blanched his face frightened his wife. She sprang forward and laid a hand on his arm. He shook it off almost roughly. "Tell me again what you told me just now," he said in a voice which Clara scarcely recognised as that of her husband. She told him again. "Murdered! Von Rosenberg! Impossible!" "Dixon brought the news; he has just ridden up from King's Harold." Gerald sank into his seat again. His eyes were fixed on vacancy. For a few moments he looked as if his brain had been paralysed. Miss Primby came bustling in. "Oh, my dear Clara, can it be possible that this dreadful--dreadful news is true?" "Only too true, I am afraid, aunt." "Poor Baron! Poor dear man! What a shocking end! I never knew a man with more charming manners. Cut off in the flower of his age, as one may say." "Perhaps, dear, you would like to see Dixon and question him," said Clara to her husband. He simply nodded. Mrs. Brooke rang the bell and Dixon the groom entered. "You had better tell your master all you know about this frightful tragedy." The man cleared his throat. Gerald stared at him with eyes that seemed to see far beyond him--far beyond the room in which they were. "I had been down to King's Harold, sir," began Dixon, "to see Thompson, the farrier, about the chestnut mare, and was riding back, when just as I got to the Beaulieu lodge-gates I see the dog-cart come out with Mr. Pringle the baron's man in it, along with Dr. King, and another gent as was a stranger to me. Seeing the doctor there, and that Mr. Pringle looked very white and scared like, I pulls up. 'Anything amiss, Mr. Pringle?' says I, with a jerk of my thumb towards the house, as the dog-cart passed me. But he only stared at me and shook his head solemn like and drove on without a word. Then I turns to the lodge-keeper's wife and sees that she has her apron over her head, and is crying. 'Anything serous amiss, mum?' says I. 'I don't know what you calls serous, young man,' says she, 'but my poor master, the baron, was found murdered in the little shally in the garden only half an hour since--shot through the heart by some blood-thirsty villain.' I didn't wait to hear more, sir, but made all the haste I could home." No word spoke Gerald. The man looked at him curiously, almost doubting whether his master had heard a word of what he had said. "Thank you, Dixon; that will do," said Mrs. Brooke. The man carried a finger to his forehead and made his exit. "Poor dear baron!" remarked Miss Primby for the second time. "There was something very fascinating in his smile." "Clara, tell me," said Gerald presently. "Am I in truth awake, or have I only dreamt that Von Rosenberg is dead?" "How strangely you talk, dear. I am afraid you are ill." "There you are mistaken. I am well--excellently well. But tell me this: ought I to feel glad, or ought I to feel sorry? On my life, I don't know which I ought to feel!" "Glad? O Gerald!" "Ah; I had forgotten. You don't know." "You no longer confide in me as you used to do." He took no notice of the remark. "Let the Dead Past bury its dead," he said aloud, but speaking exactly as he might have done had he been alone. "No need to send this now," he muttered in a lower tone as he took up his unfinished letter. "If I had but sent it a week ago, would Von Rosenberg be still alive? Who can say?" Crossing to the chimney-piece, he lighted a match and with it set fire to the letter, holding it by one corner as he did so. When it had burnt itself half away he began to whistle under his breath. "O Gerald!" said his wife in a grieved voice. "I had forgotten. Pardon--as Karovsky would say." "I am grieved to say so, dear, but his brain seems slightly affected;" whispered Miss Primby to her niece. "If I were you I would call in Dr. Preston." Before Clara could reply Bunce came in with a lighted lamp half turned down. He left the curtains undrawn, for a soft yellow glow still lingered over field and woodland. As soon as he had left the room Mrs. Brooke crossed to the couch on which her husband had seated himself, and taking one of his hands in hers, said: "Dearest, you must not let this affair, shocking though it be, prey too much on your mind. It is not as if you had lost an old and valued friend. Baron von Rosenberg was but an acquaintance--a man whose name even you had never heard six months ago." His only reply was to softly stroke the hand that was holding one of his. Clara waited a little and then she said: "Will you not come and dress for dinner?" He rose abruptly. "Dress for dinner!" he exclaimed with a strange discordant laugh. "How the comedy and tragedy of life jostle each other! Grim death claps on the mask of Momus and tries to persuade us that he is a merry gentleman. Here a white cravat, a dress coat, the pleasant jingle of knives and forks. There, a pool of blood, a cold and rigid form, a ghastly face with blank staring eyes that seem appealing to heaven for vengeance. Yes, let us go and dress for dinner; for, in truth, you and I ought to rejoice and make merry to-night--if you only knew why." "Gerald, you frighten me." "Nay, sweet one, I would not do that;" he answered as he drew her to him and kissed her. "I am in a strange humour to-night. I hardly know myself. I could laugh and I could sing, and yet--and yet--poor Von Rosenberg!" He turned away with a sigh. At this moment in came Mr. Bunce again. "If you please, ma'am," he said to Mrs. Brooke, "here's a strange young pusson come running to the Towers all in a hurry, who says she must see you without a minute's delay." The "strange young pusson" had followed close on his heels. "Yes, mum, without a minute's delay," she contrived to gasp out, and then she stood panting, unable to articulate another word. She was breathless with running. "Well, if ever!" exclaimed the scandalised Bunce, turning sharply on her. "Why, you ain't even wiped your shoes." "That will do, Bunce, thank you," said Mrs. Brooke with quiet dignity. Bunce sniffed and tried to screw up his nose further than nature had done already. "Sich muck!" was his comment to himself as he left the room. The person to whom this depreciatory epithet was applied was a girl of some sixteen or seventeen summers, Margery Shook by name, who was dressed in a coarse but clean bib and apron, a short cotton frock considerably the worse for wear, gray worsted stockings, thick shoes, and a quilted sun-bonnet, from under the flap of which her nut-brown hair made its escape in tangled elf-like locks. Her bright hazel eyes had in them more of the expression of some half-tamed animal than that of an ordinary human being. Her features, though by no means uncomely, were somewhat heavily moulded and did not respond readily to emotional expression. For the rest, she was a well-grown strongly-built girl, and when she laughed her teeth flashed upon you like a surprise. Margery's laugh, if laugh it could be called, was perhaps the most singular thing about her. It was witch-like, weird, uncanny; it never extended to her eyes; it broke out at the most inopportune moments; to have been awoke by it in the dead of night, and not to have known whence it emanated, might have shaken the nerves of the strongest man. Margery was an orphan, and until she was sixteen years old, had been brought up on a canal barge. It was her boast that she could drive a horse or steer a barge as well as any man between London and the Midlands. But there came a day when the girl could no longer either drive or handle the rudder. Ague had got her in its merciless grip. The barge-man for whom she worked landed her at King's Harold with instructions to a relative of his to pass her on to the workhouse. But before this could be done Mrs. Brooke had found out the sick girl. She was placed in a decent lodging, and the mistress of Beechley Towers paid all expenses till she was thoroughly restored to health. But not only did she do that: she went to see Margery three or four times a week, and eat with her, and talked with her, and read to her, and tried in various ways to let a few rays of light into the girl's darkened mind. Sometimes it happened that Mr. Brooke would call for his wife when she was on these expeditions, on which occasions he would always stay for a few minutes to have a chat with Margery, so that in a little while there was no such gentleman in existence as 'Muster Geril.' But towards Mrs. Brooke her feeling was one of boundless gratitude and devotion; it was like the devotion of a dumb animal rather than that of a rational being. Willingly, gladly would she have laid down her life for her benefactress, had such a sacrifice been required at her hands. When the girl was thoroughly convalescent it became a question what should be done with her. Clara had extracted a promise from her never to go back to her old life on the canal. About this time it was that the Baron von Rosenberg set up his establishment at Beaulieu. An assistant was required in the laundry; Margery thought she should like the situation, so it was obtained for her. "Why, Margery, what can be the matter? Why do you want to see me so particularly?" asked Mrs. Brooke. "It's about him--about Muster Geril," she managed to gasp out. "O mum! the polis is coming, and I've run'd all the way from Bulloo to tell you." "The what is coming, Margery?" "The polis, mum," answered the girl with one of her uncanny laughs. Miss Primby, who had never heard anything like it before, gave a little jump and stared at Margery as if she were some strange animal escaped from a menagerie. "The police, I suppose you mean?" Margery nodded, and began to bite a corner of her apron. "You must be mistaken, child. What can the police be coming here for?" "To take Muster Geril." "To arrest my husband?" Margery nodded again. "What can they want to arrest him for?" "For murder." "For murder!" ejaculated both the ladies. There was a moment's breathless pause. Gerald, with one hand on the back of a chair, and one knee resting on the seat, had the impassive air of a man whom nothing more can surprise. He had gone through so much of late that for a time it seemed as if no fresh emotion had power to touch him. "Great heaven! Margery, what are you talking about?" said Mrs. Brooke with blanched lips. "They say as how Muster Geril shot the gentleman--the Baron--what was found dead about a hour ago. Not as I believes a word of it," she added with a touch of contempt in her voice. "A pistol set with gold and with funny figures scratched on it, was found not far from the corpus, and they say it belongs to Muster Geril." "My Indian pistol which I lent to Von Rosenberg ten weeks ago," said Gerald quietly. "And now the polis have gone for a warrin to take him up," added the girl. "A warrant to arrest my husband?" Again Margery nodded. She was a girl who, as a rule, was sparing of her words. "I, the murderer of Von Rosenberg!" said Gerald, with a bitter laugh. "Such an accusation would be ridiculous if it were not horrible." Mrs. Brooke wrung her hands and drew in her breath with a half moan. The blow was so overwhelming, that for a few moments words seemed frozen on her lips. Gerald turned to the window. "Can the irony of fate go further than this," he said to himself, "that I should be accused of a crime for refusing to commit which my own life was to have paid the penalty!" In came Bunce once more carrying a card on a salver which he presented to his master. Gerald took it and read, "Mr. Tom Starkie." "Says he wants to see you very perticler, sir." "Into which room have you shown Mr. Starkie?" "Into the blue room, sir." "Say that I will be with him in one moment. Come, Clara, come, aunt," he said with a smile, as soon as Bunce had left the room; "let us go and hear what it is so 'perticler' that Mr. Tom has to say to me?" None of them noticed that Margery had stolen out on to the terrace, and was there waiting and watching with her gaze fixed on a distant point of the high-road where it suddenly curved, before dipping into the valley on its way to the little market town of King's Harold. Twilight still lingered in the west, and Margery's eyes were almost as keen as those of a hawk. CHAPTER VI. The Blue Room into which Mr. Tom Starkie had been shown was at the back of the house, and its windows looked into a quaint old-fashioned garden with clipped hedges and shady alleys. In order to reach this room, visitors had to cross the entrance hall, then proceed along a wide corridor which intersected the house, with doors opening on either hand, after which they found themselves in a second hall almost as large as the first. An archway, from which depended a heavy _portièr_ divided this hall from the Blue Room. This second hall, which was lighted by a cupola, was hung with a few family portraits, some arms pertaining to various countries and various epochs, together with sundry trophies of the chase. A broad, shallow, oaken staircase, black with age, led to an upper floor, at the foot of which, on either hand, stood a man in armour with his visor down, grasping in his mailed right hand a lance half as tall again as himself. Tropical plants in tubs were disposed here and there. Gerald Brooke, pushing aside the _portière_, advanced and shook hands with his visitor. Mrs. Brooke and her aunt had remained behind. It was just possible that Mr. Starkie might have something of a private nature to communicate to Gerald. "Brooke, what's this confounded mess you seem to have got yourself into?" he began, without a word of preface. He was a red-haired, open-faced, good-natured-looking young fellow of three or four and twenty. "Have you heard that Von Rosenberg is dead, and that you are accused of having murdered him?" "Yes, I have heard," answered the other quietly. "Is that the affair about which you have come to see me?" Mr. Starkie looked thunderstruck. "As if by Jove! it wasn't enough! But, unfortunately, there's more behind." Gerald touched the bell. "There is no reason why my wife and her aunt should not hear anything you have to say," he remarked. "They know already of what I am accused." When the ladies came in, they shook hands with Mr. Starkie. Clara and he had known each other for years. Gerald having explained the nature of their visitor's errand as far as he knew it, turned to the young man and said: "And now for your narrative, dear boy; we won't interrupt you oftener than is absolutely necessary." "I'll cut what I've got to say as short as I can," rejoined the other, "because, don't you know, there's no time to lose." He cleared his voice and drew his chair a few inches nearer Gerald. "About three-quarters of an hour ago," he began, "I happened to be with my dad in his office talking over some private matters, when Drumley, our new superintendent of police, was ushered into the room. He horrified both my dad and me by telling us that the Baron von Rosenberg had been found murdered--shot through the heart in the little _châlet_ which stands in the grounds about a hundred yards from the house; and he shocked us still more by telling us that he had come to apply to my father, as the nearest J.P., for a warrant authorising the arrest of Mr. Gerald Brooke as being the supposed murderer. As soon as my father could command himself, he demanded to know the nature of the evidence which tended to implicate a gentleman like Mr. Brooke in a crime so heinous. Then Drumley, to whom every credit is due for the smart way in which he has done what he conceived to be his duty, adduced his evidence item by item. Item the first was the finding of a curious pistol, inlaid with gold and ivory, which was picked up a few yards from the _châlet_. It had been recently discharged, and was recognised by some one at Beaulieu as being, or having been, your property." "There can be no dispute on that point," said Gerald. "The pistol in question is mine. I lent it to the Baron the last time he was here, ten weeks ago. He wanted it for a certain purpose, and promised to return it in the course of four or five days. As it happened, he was summoned by telegram next day to Berlin, and, as you may or may not know, he only returned to Beaulieu yesterday. Hence the reason why my pistol was still in his possession." "How unfortunate!" answered Starkie. "But perhaps you had some witness, perhaps some one was there at the time who saw you give the pistol to the Baron?" Gerald considered for a moment. "No," he said; "we were alone--the Baron and I; no one else was in the room when I gave him the pistol. He would not let me send it over by a servant, but persisted in taking it himself." "That is more unfortunate still," said the young man. "The next item of evidence was that of two of the Baron's men, who deposed to having seen you making your way through the plantation in the direction of Beaulieu; and to having seen you returning by the same way some twenty minutes or half an hour later, and not many minutes after they had heard the sound of a gun or pistol shot." "That fact also will admit of no dispute," answered Gerald. "I left home with the intention of calling on the Baron on a matter of importance; but at the last moment I changed my mind and determined to write to him instead. I, too, heard a shot; but as the Baron has a range for pistol-practice in his grounds, I thought nothing of it." Very glum indeed looked Mr. Starkie. "And now we come to the last item of evidence, which is perhaps the most singular of all. Had you not, a little while ago, a groom in your service of the name of Pedley?" "I had. About two months ago, I had occasion to discharge him for insolence and insubordination." "And a few days later he came to you for a character, telling you that he had a chance of getting into the employ of the Baron von Rosenberg?" "He did; and as I thought he was sorry for his behaviour, I gave him a note to the Baron's man, whose name I don't just now remember." "The day Pedley came to see you, do you recollect whether you left him alone in the room where the interview between you took place?" "Now you mention it, I believe I did leave him alone for a couple of minutes while I went into the next room to write the note I had promised him." "He seems to be a dangerous sort of customer. According to his account, it would appear that during your absence from the room, observing a half-burnt piece of paper in the fender, he took it up and carefully opened it. He had only just time to glance at its contents before you returned; but what he saw was sufficient to induce him to take the paper away with him so as to enable him to decipher it at his leisure." "May I ask the nature of the contents of the paper in question?" said Gerald, who had turned a shade or two paler in spite of himself. "When Pedley heard that you were suspected, he spoke to Drumley, and came along with him to see my father. There he produced the half-burnt piece of paper, the contents of which he stated to be in your writing, though how he should be able to speak so positively on the point is more than I can understand. Anyhow, Brooke, if the document should prove to be in your handwriting, it seems a somewhat singular composition, to say the least of it. I had only time to glance hurriedly over it; but from what I could make out, it appears to be a sort of warning addressed to Von Rosenberg, telling him that his life is in great and imminent danger, and that he has been condemned to death; and then there was something about escaping while there was yet time; but the whole thing was so fragmentary, and here and there there were such gaps in the sequence of the sentences, that I may perhaps scarcely have gathered the right sense of what I read. As there seemed to be no time to lose, I did not wait to hear more, but had my mare saddled at once, and rode straight across country, taking everything as it came, in order that I might be the first to bring you the news, bad as it is, and so put you on your guard." Gerald grasped his hand. "You are a true friend, Starkie, and I thank you from my heart," he said. Then he added: "I trust you will take my word when I say that, however black the evidence may at present seem against me, I am as innocent of this man's death as you are." "I believe it, Brooke--with all my heart I believe it!" "Now for an explanation of the half-burnt letter. That it is in my writing I don't for one moment doubt." Mr. Starkie gave vent to a little whistle under his breath. "It is perfectly true that Von Rosenberg's life was in imminent danger. His enemies were powerful and implacable, and nothing short of his death would satisfy them. He was to be assassinated--murdered in cold blood. In what way I came to know all this I am not at liberty to say. The half-burnt paper picked up by Pedley was a letter of warning to the Baron which I never finished, and afterwards, as I thought, burnt to ashes. Von Rosenberg was at Berlin at the time, and I knew that the danger which menaced him lay here, and not there. Finally, I decided not to write to him, but to await his return and seek a personal interview. He reached Beaulieu last night, and this afternoon I made up my mind to call upon him. I had nearly reached the house, when, coward that I was, my heart failed me, and I came back determined that, after all, I would break my news by letter. And now it is too late!" "But," exclaimed the other, "don't you see that what you have just told me, if told in a court of justice, would only serve to make the case seem a hundredfold blacker against you?" "I can quite understand that," answered Gerald sadly. "Nevertheless, the truth is the truth, and nothing can alter it." Mr. Starkie looked at his watch. "I have not a moment to lose," he said. "The police may arrive at any minute, and it would never do for them to find that my father's son had been here before them and given you the 'tip.'" "Oh, Mr. Starkie, what would you advise Gerald to do? What a horrible accusation to have brought against him!" exclaimed Clara. "It is that, and no mistake; but it is scarcely in my province, Mrs. Brooke, to advise your husband what to do." "Supposing you were in his place, Mr. Starkie, what would _you_ do?" "Upon my word, I hardly know. On the face of it one must admit that the case looks very black against him, so many bits of circumstantial evidence being piled one on the top of another; but I have no doubt in my own mind that further inquiry will in the course of a few hours go far to substantiate his innocence. In fact, I think it most likely that before this time tomorrow the real murderer will have been arrested." "Then you would advise?"---- She paused, and looked at him with eyes full of entreaty. "Well, Mrs. Brooke, I think--mind you, I only say I think--that if I were in Brooke's place would make tracks for a little while.--I beg your pardon," he resumed in some confusion, "what I mean is, that I would be suddenly called from home on business, or pleasure, or what not, so that when the police arrived I should be _non est_. Only, if you decide to do as I suggest, it must be done without a minute's loss of time. In the course of a day or two or even earlier, the mystery will no doubt be cleared up, and in the meantime Brooke will escape the unpleasantness of being in quod.--I beg your pardon, Mrs. Brooke; I mean in prison." "You hear, Gerald--you hear!" cried his wife. Mr. Starkie took Gerald aside and said something to him rapidly in a low voice, to which the other replied by an emphatic shake of his head. "No--no," he said; "I cannot consent to anything of the kind." "Well, you know best, of course," replied Mr. Tom; "but I think I would if I were you. In any case, I'll not fail to be on the lookout; only, don't forget the directions." Two minutes later he had said his hurried adieus and had ridden rapidly away. No one spoke till the noise of his horse's hoofs was lost in the distance. A sort of stupor of dismay had settled on the little party. Gerald felt as if he were shut in by a net of steel, which was being slowly drawn round him closer and closer. The mental anguish he had undergone since Karovsky's visit, combined with all the varied and fluctuating emotions of the last few hours, were beginning to tell upon him. It seemed to him as if some hinge in his brain were being gradually loosened--as if the fine line which divides the real from the imaginary and fact front fantasy were in his case being strained to tenuity. Mrs. Brooke was the first to break the silence. She crossed and sat down by her husband and took one of his hands in hers. "Gerald, dearest, you must fly," she said with a sob in her voice. The eyes he turned on her caused passionate tears to surge from her heart, but with all her might she forced them back. "Why should an innocent man fly?" he asked. "You heard what Mr. Starkie said. For a little while it may not be possible for you to prove your innocence, and in the meantime you will escape the ignominy of a jail." "But if I do not stay and face this vile charge, all the world will believe me guilty." "No one who knows you can possibly believe that.--O Gerald--husband--my dearest and best--listen to me!" "Clara, you would make a coward of me." "Oh, no, no! But consider how strong the evidence is against you. Less than that has brought innocent men to the scaffold before now." "Come what may, I must stay and face this out." "Again I say no. A few days, perhaps a few hours even, may bring the real criminal to light. As Mr. Starkie said, you must go on a little journey--a journey where no one can trace you. For my sake, Gerald--for your wife's sake!" "Oh, my dear boy, do, pray, listen to her," put in Miss Primby, who up to the present had scarcely uttered a word. "To-morrow will prove my innocence." "How devoutly I hope so! But can we be sure of it? Days, weeks even, may elapse before the murderer is discovered, and meanwhile what will become of you! Gerald--dear one, think--think!" "I have thought, Clara. You are asking an impossibility." "I am asking you to save your life. You must fly--you must hide, but only for a little while, I trust. You must leave me here to help to hunt down the murderer--to fight for you while you are away." "She speaks the truth, Gerald. Oh, do listen to her!" pleaded Miss Primby with quivering lips. "Again I say, you would persuade me to act like a coward." "Let the world call you what it will. While you are in hiding, your life will be safe. Will it be safe if you stay here?" Before more could be said, Margery burst without ceremony into the room. "O mum, they're coming!" she cried; "the polis is coming! There's five or six of 'em in two gigs." "It is too late--we are lost!" cried Clara in anguished accents. "I ran down to the little hill in the park, 'cos it's getting too dark to see very fer,'" continued Margery; "and when I see 'em come round the corner of the road, a quarter of a mile away, I bolted like a hare, and got the old woman at the lodge to lock the gate, and told her not to open it to anybody for her life. It'll take 'em seven or eight minutes longer to drive round by the other gate," concluded Margery with a burst of witch-like laughter. "Good girl! brave girl!" ejaculated Miss Primby. "Then there may yet be time," said Clara. She dropped on one knee, and clasping one of her husband's hands, pressed it passionately to her lips. "O Gerald--if you love me--for my sake!" she cried again. "You are persuading me to this against my will and against my conscience." "I am persuading you to save your life, which to me is more than all the world besides." "Be it as you wish," he answered with a sigh. "I feel as if whatever may happen now cannot greatly matter." Clara rose, and as she did so, a strange eager light leapt into her eyes. "Come with me--quick, quick!" she exclaimed. "I have thought of a plan. Even now there may be time." Then turning to Miss Primby "You will stay here, aunt, will you not? I shall not be more than a few minutes away." The spinster nodded; her heart was too full for speech. Then Clara, passing an arm through her husband's, lifted the _portière_, and they went out together. Margery had already disappeared. CHAPTER VII. Left alone, Miss Primby mechanically reverted to her embroidery; but it is to be feared that her doing so was little better than a pretence. She bit her underlip very hard to help her in controlling the nervous emotion which she had much ado not to give way to. True to her promise, Clara was not more than a few minutes away. When she came back she looked paler than before, but her eyes were extraordinarily bright and luminous. "Is he safe, Clara? Oh, tell me that he is safe!" "I hope and trust so; more than that I cannot say. The police may arrive at any moment. You must try to look brave and unconcerned, aunty, dear. You need not speak unless you like, but leave everything to me." "Very well, dear. I know that I shall be too nervous to say a word.--But what are you going to tell the police?" "I am going to deceive them.--But oh, aunty, aunty, surely in such a cause I shall be forgiven!" Suddenly Margery's unkempt head was protruded through the archway. "They've come, mum," she said in a stage whisper.--"They've stuck three men in front of the house and two at the back." Mrs. Brooke nodded, and the head vanished. "Now, aunt," said Clara, "let us both try to look as if nothing was the matter." So saying she sat down to the piano and began to play a waltz in a minor key. Presently in came Bunce, looking very white and scared, carrying a salver with a card on it. Mrs. Brooke took the card and read aloud: "'Mr. J. Drumley, Superintendent of Police.'--What can he want here at this hour of the evening?" she said.--"You had better show him in, Bunce." And with that she resumed her playing. She ceased playing, however, when the _portière_ was pushed aside and two men came forward, one a little in advance of the other. As Mrs. Brooke rose and confronted them, the first man made a stiff military bow, while the second carried a couple of fingers to his forehead. "To what may I attribute the honour of this visit?" asked Clara in her most gracious tones. Both the men were evidently disconcerted. This pale beautiful apparition with its great shining eyes was something they had not expected to meet. "You are Mrs. Brooke, I suppose, ma'am?" said the first man after an awkward pause. Clara smiled assent. "I am Superintendent Drumley of the King's Harold police, and this is one of my sergeants. But our business is with Mr. Brooke, and not with you, ma'am." "Quite so. But I hope your errand is not an unpleasant one?" "I am sorry to say it is a very unpleasant one." "May I ask the nature of it?" "If you will excuse me, ma'am, I would rather not enter into particulars--at least not just now. As I said before, our business is with Mr. Brooke. May I ask whether he is at home?" "He is not at home," answered Clara. "It is a pity you did not arrive a little earlier." She consulted her watch. "My husband left home about five-and-twenty minutes ago. His intention was to walk across the fields to Woodberry Station and catch the up-train to London." The two men stared at each other for a moment or two and then began to talk in eager whispers. Clara, who was close by the piano, turned over a leaf of music and struck a chord or two in an absent-minded way. In rushed Margery, panting once more, and to all appearance breathless. She made-believe not to see the two constables. "O mum," she cried, "what do you think? He let me carry his bag all the way through the park, and at the gate he gave me a bright new sixpence. I wanted to carry it to the station; but he wouldn't let me. I wish he had--he'd got more'n a mile to walk. But a new silver sixpence! O crumbs!" Margery ended with one of her most eldritch and uncanny laughs. The sergeant of police, who was rather a nervous man, jumped in his shoes; he had never heard anything like it before. For a moment Mrs. Brooke stared at the girl in blank astonishment; then a look flashed from Margery's eyes into hers and she understood. "Of whom are you speaking, girl?" asked Drumley sternly. "O lor! I didn't see you, sir.--Why, who should I be speaking of but Muster Geril?" "She refers to my husband, Mr. Gerald Brooke," remarked Clara. The two men retired down the room a little way and talked together in low tones. "I ain't so sure that this is anything more than a clever dodge," said Drumley, "and that the gent we want isn't still somewhere about. However, you had better take Tomlinson with you and drive as hard as you can to Woodberry Station. The London train will be gone before you get there; but you can set the telegraph to work and make whatever inquiries you may think necessary. You've got the description?"--The sergeant nodded.--"Of course you've got to bear in mind that he may be disguised. Do the best you can, and then hurry back.--Send Simcox to me. I'll have the house thoroughly searched while you are away." The man saluted and went; and presently Simcox appeared in his stead. Drumley drew a little nearer Mrs. Brooke. "Without wishing in the least, ma'am, to doubt what you have told me about Mr. Brooke's departure," he said, "I consider it my duty to search the premises." The piece of music Clara was holding fell to the ground. "To search the premises!" she exclaimed as she stooped to pick it up. She deliberately replaced the music on the piano before she spoke again. Then turning to Drumley with her most dignified air, she said: "You forget, sir, that you have not yet enlightened me as to the nature of your business at Beechley Towers." "It is my painful duty to inform you, ma'am, that the Baron von Rosenberg was murdered this afternoon in his own grounds at Beaulieu." "Murdered! The Baron von Rosenberg!" exclaimed both the ladies in a breath. "O aunty, that was a capital bit of make-believe on your part!" thought Clara to herself. Then, after a pause, to Drumley: "We are excessively shocked, sir, at your tidings. The Baron was a visitor at the Towers, and was highly esteemed both by my husband and myself. Still, you must excuse me for saying that I fail to see in what way this dreadful tragedy connects itself with Mr. Brooke." "It's a very disagreeable thing for me to have to break it to you, ma'am; but the fact is that Mr. Brooke is suspected of having shot the Baron. The evidence against him is very strong, and--and, in fact, I hold a warrant for his arrest." "A warrant--for--the arrest of--my husband! You must be dreaming--or--or"--- "Not at all, ma'am. As I said before, the evidence against Mr. Brooke--circumstantial, of course--is very strong. If you would like to see the document"---- "I will take your word for it.--My husband the murderer of the Baron von Rosenberg! Impossible! There is some incomprehensible mistake somewhere." "I hope so, with all my heart," answered the superintendent drily. "Still, I have my duty to perform." "Of course. I don't blame you for one moment; I only say there is a grievous mistake somewhere. You wish to go over the house--I think that is what I understood you to imply?" "By your leave, ma'am." Without another word Mrs. Brooke rang the bell; then, crossing the room, with her own hands she drew aside the _portière_ that shrouded the archway and fastened it back by means of a silver chain. The hall beyond was now lighted up by three or four lamps which shed a chastened radiance over the scene. More lamps lighted up the gallery. The portraits of the dead and gone Croftons, male and female, seemed to have retired further into the solitude of their frames, as though the lamplight were distasteful to them. The leaves of the tropical plants massed here and there shone glossy green; in that softened sheen the helmets and cuirasses of the men-at-arms who kept watch and ward at the foot of the staircase gleamed like burnished silver. "Bunce," said Mrs. Brooke, when that functionary responded to the summons, "you will be good enough to take a light and show these gentlemen over the whole of the house. You will allow them to enter every room without exception that they may wish to examine. Nothing must be kept back from them." She made a little bow to Mr. Drumley, as dismissing him and his companion, and then composedly re-entered the room. "Hang me, if I ain't half inclined to think she's humbugging me, after all!" said Mr. Drumley to himself as he followed the majordomo. Oh, the slow exquisite torture of the half-hour that followed, which seemed, indeed, to lengthen itself out to several hours. To this day, Clara never thinks of it without a shudder. From where she was seated she could see straight across the hall to the staircase beyond; no one could go up or come down without her cognisance. "Clara, dear, I had no idea you had half so much nerve," said Miss Primby in a whisper. "Don't speak to me, aunty, please," she whispered back, "or I shall break down." Then to herself: "Will this torture never come to an end!" It did come to an end by-and-by. Mr. Drumley and his man, preceded by Bunce, came slowly down the staircase. They were met in the hall by two other men who had searched the ground-floor and cellars. It was evident that in both cases their perquisition had been unsuccessful. A minute or two later in marched the sergeant. His journey to the station had been equally fruitless of results, except in so far as setting the telegraph to work was concerned. Mrs. Brooke went forward to the group where they stood in the centre of the hall. "Well?" she said interrogatively and with a faint smile. "Have you succeeded in finding Mr. Brooke?" "No, ma'am; I am bound to say that we have not." "I hope you have not forgotten what I told you when you first asked for him," was the quiet reply. "But can I not offer you a little refreshment after your arduous duties?" Mr. Drumley laughed the laugh of discomfiture. "I think not, Mrs. Brooke--much obliged to you, all the same.--Come, lads; it's no use wasting our time here any longer.--Mrs. Brooke, ma'am, I had a very disagreeable duty to perform; I trust you will bear me out in saying that I have tried to carry it out with as little annoyance to you as possible." "You have been most considerate, Mr. Drumley, and my thanks are due to you." A minute later the men were gone. Then Mrs. Brooke rang the bell and ordered all the lamps in the hall except one to be extinguished: that one but served, as it were, to make the darkness visible. No sooner was this done and the servant gone, than Margery once more put in an appearance. "They're gone, mum, every man-jack of 'em; and ain't Muster Drummle in a rare wax 'cos he couldn't find Muster Geril!" Scarcely had the girl finished speaking, when one of the men in armour at the foot of the staircase stepped down from his pedestal and came slowly forward. Margery fell back with a cry of terror, for not even she had been in the secret. But Clara, rushing to her husband, pushed up his visor and clasped him in her arms. "Saved! saved!" she cried in a voice choked with the emotion she could no longer restrain. "For a little while, my darling, perchance only for a little while," was the mournful response. CHAPTER VIII. We are at Linden Villa, a pretty little detached house, standing in its own grounds, in one of the north-western suburbs of London, and the time is the morning of the day after the murder of the Baron von Rosenberg. Two people are seated at breakfast--George Crofton and his wife Stephanie. For, Mr. Crofton's protestations and objurgations notwithstanding at the interview between himself and Clara Brooke, he had thought fit within a month after that date to make an offer of his hand and heart to Mademoiselle Stephanie Lagrange, an offer which had been duly accepted. And, in truth, the ex-queen of the _Haute Ecole_ was a far more suitable wife for a man like George Crofton than Clara Brooke could possibly have been. Mr. Crofton presented a somewhat seedy appearance this morning; there was a worn look about his eyes, and his hand was scarcely as steady as it might have been. His breakfast consisted or a tumbler of brandy-and-soda and a rusk: it was his usual matutinal repast. Mrs. Crofton, who was one of those persons who are always blessed with a hearty appetite, having disposed of her cutlet and her egg, was now leaning back in an easy-chair, feeding a green and gold parakeet with tiny lumps of sugar, and sipping at her chocolate between times. She was attired in a loose morning wrapper of quilted pale blue satin, with a quantity of soft lace round her throat, and looked exceedingly handsome. "Steph, I think I have told you before," said Mr. Crofton in a grumbling tone, "that I don't care to have any of your old circus acquaintances calling upon you here. I thought you had broken off the connection for good when you became my wife." "Que voulez-vous, cher enfant?" answered Steph without the least trace of temper. "You introduce me to no society; you scarcely ever take me anywhere; four or five times a week you don't get home till past midnight--this morning it was three o'clock when you crept upstairs as quietly as a burglar. What would you have?" George Crofton moved uneasily in his chair, but did not reply. "Besides," resumed his wife, "it was only dear old Euphrosyne Smith who came to see me. She looks eighteen when she is on the _corde_, but she's thirty-four if she's a day. I've known her for five years, and many a little kindness she has done me. And then, although, of course, I shall never want to go back to the old life, I must say that I like to hear about it now and again and to know how everybody is getting on. Can you wonder at it, now that you leave me so much alone?" "For all that, Steph, I wish you would break off the connection." Then, after a pause: "I know that of late I have seemed to neglect you a little; but if I have done so, it has been as much for your sake as my own." "Ah, yes, I know: cards, cards, always cards." "What would you have?--as a certain person sometimes says. I know a little about cards; I know nothing about anything else that will bring grist to the mill. I bought my experience in the dearest of all schools, and if I try to profit by it, who shall blame me?" "Which means, that you are teaching others to buy their experience in the same way." "Why not?" he answered with a laugh. "It is a law of the universe that one set of creatures shall prey on another. _I_ was very nice picking for the kites once on a time; now I am a kite myself. The law of metempsychosis in such cases is a very curious one." "I don't know what you mean when you make use of such outlandish words," said Stephanie with a pout. "So much the better; learned women are an abomination." At this juncture a servant brought in the morning papers. Crofton seized one of them, a sporting journal, and pushed the other across the table. He was deep in the mysteries of the latest odds, when a low cry from his wife caused him to glance sharply at her. "What's up now, Steph?" he asked. "It would be a libel to say you had touched the rouge-pot this morning, because there isn't a bit of colour in your cheeks." "What is the name of that place in the country where your uncle used to live?" she asked. "Beechley Towers." "And the name of that cousin to whom your uncle left his property?" "Gerald Brooke--confound him!--But why do you ask?" For sole reply she handed him the newspaper, marking a certain passage with her finger as she did so. If Mrs. Crofton was startled by something which caught her eye in the paper, her feelings were as nothing in comparison with those of her husband as his keen glance took in the purport of the paragraph in question. It was, in fact, little more than a paragraph in the form of a brief telegram, forwarded at a late hour by a country correspondent. What the public were told in the telegram was that the Baron von Rosenberg had been found in his own grounds, shot through the heart, about seven o'clock in the evening; that strong circumstantial evidence pointed to the supposition that Mr. Gerald Brooke, a near neighbour of the Baron, was the murderer; that he had disappeared immediately after the perpetration of the crime, and that, although he was still at large, the police had little doubt they would succeed in arresting him in the course of the next few hours. For a little while, speech seemed powerless to express a tithe of what George Crofton felt when the words of the telegram had burned themselves into his brain. What a sea of conflicting emotions surged round his heart as his mind drank in the full purport of the message and all the possibilities therein implied! What a vista of the future it opened out! "A little rouge, _mon cher_, would improve _your_ complexion," said his wife at length, who had been watching him curiously out of her half-veiled eyes. "If one were to judge by your looks, you might have committed the crime yourself." Her words served to rouse him. "Stephanie, the day of my revenge is dawning at last!" He ground out the words between his set teeth. "This Gerald Brooke--this well-beloved cousin of mine--is the man who came between my uncle and me and defrauded me out of my inheritance." "And the man who robbed you of the woman you loved, whom you hoped one day to make your wife." "How do you know that?" he gasped. "I never said a syllable to you about it." "It matters not how I know it, so long as I do know it," she answered, looking him steadily in the face as she did so, and beginning to tap her teeth with her long pointed nails. "Well, whoever told you, told you no more than the truth. I did love Clara Danby, and I hoped to make her my wife. But all that was past and gone long; before I met you." She did not reply, but only went on tapping her teeth the more. "Putting aside my own feelings towards Brooke," went on Crofton presently, "who has done me all the harm that one man could possibly do to another, don't you see that if he should be arrested and found guilty of this crime, what a vast difference it would make in your fortunes and mine?" "Expliquez-vous, s'il vous plait." "Should Gerald Brooke die without issue, by the terms of my uncle's will Beechley Towers and all the estates pertaining to it, including a rent-roll of close on six thousand a year, come absolutely to me--to me--comprenez-vous? Ah, what a sweet revenge mine will be!" "Yes; I should think it would be rather nice to live at a grand place like Beechley Towers and have an income of six thousand a year," answered Mrs. Crofton quietly. "So, if this cousin of yours is really guilty, let us hope for our own sakes that he will be duly caught and hanged." Crofton turned to the table, and having poured out nearly half a tumbler of brandy, he drank it off at a draught. Excitement had so far unnerved him that the glass rattled against his teeth as he drank. "But what could possibly induce a man in Mr. Brooke's position to commit such a crime?" asked Stephanie presently. "That's more than we know at present; we must wait for further particulars.--By the way, I wonder who and what the murdered man was? The Baron von Rosenberg they call him. I never heard the name before." "_I_ knew the Baron von Rosenberg some years ago--in Paris," answered Stephanie with just a trace of heightened colour in her cheeks. "He was a man between forty and fifty years old, and said to be very rich.--I never liked him. Indeed, I may say that I had every reason to hate him. And now he's dead! C'est bien--c'est très bien." Her husband was only half heeding her. "Stephanie," he said, "I never hated any one as I hate that man. Should the evidence at the inquest, which will no doubt be held in the course of to-day, go to prove, or go far to prove, that Brooke is the assassin, and should the police not succeed in arresting him in the course of the next forty-eight hours, do you know what I have made up my mind to do?" "How is it possible that I should know?" "I have made up my mind not to trust to what the regular police may or may not be able to do in this matter, but to employ a private detective on my own account. I happen to be acquainted with a man who is nothing less than a sleuth-hound in such a case as this. He has succeeded more than once when Scotland Yard has failed ignominiously. His services I shall secure; and if it cost me the last sovereign I have in the world, I will do all that man can do to bring Gerald Brooke to the bar of justice." He spoke with a concentrated malignity of purpose such as he had never exhibited in his wife's presence before. There was an eager, cruel gleam in his eyes, like that of some carnivorous animal which scents its prey from afar. He set his teeth hard when he had done speaking, so that the gash in his lip showed with startling distinctness, and lent to his features an unmistakably wolfish expression. Stephanie looked at him and wondered. She had flattered herself, as many wives do, that she had read and thoroughly understood her husband; but in this man there were evidently smouldering volcanic forces which might burst into activity at any moment, chained tempests of rage and ferocity which might not always be kept in check, the existence of which she had never suspected before. From that day forward, although her husband knew it not, she regarded him with somewhat different eyes. He rose abruptly and rang the bell. "Let a hansom be fetched at once," he said to the servant. "For what purpose do you require a hansom?" asked his wife. "To drive me to the terminus. I shall go down to King's Harold by the first train. I want to hear for myself the evidence at the inquest on the Baron von Rosenberg." CHAPTER IX. Gerald Brooke bade farewell to his wife, and quitted Beechley Towers about an hour after midnight. There was no moon; but the clouds had dispersed after the rain, and the stars shone brightly. His object was to make his way to Penrhyn Court, the seat of Sir John Starkie, the justice of the peace who had signed the warrant for his arrest. It seemed like walking into the lion's den; but it was probably the wisest thing he could have done under the circumstances. Penrhyn Court was one of the last places in the world where anybody would think of looking for him. Mr. Tom Starkie had offered to find a secure hiding-place for him for the time being; and after he had once consented to yield to his wife's entreaties and keep out of the way for the present, while awaiting the course of events, it seemed to him that he could not do better than accept his friend's offer. For one thing, he would be on the spot, should anything turn up necessitating his immediate presence; for another, he would be able to communicate with his wife without risk, through the medium of kind-hearted Tom. Over the parting of husband and wife we need not linger; but it was with a sad heart that Gerald quitted the threshold of the pleasant home where, but such a little time ago, he had looked forward to spending many happy years. Skirting coppice and hedgerow, and keeping as much as possible in the black shade of the tree; he sped swiftly on his way. The distance from the Towers to the Court was about three miles as the crow flies; and almost as straight as the crow flies went Gerald, taking hedge and ditch and stone wall on his way, and allowing no obstacle to turn him from his course. Once, as he was on the point of emerging from a coppice of nut-trees, he came upon two keepers, armed with guns, who were crossing a meadow not many yards away, evidently on the lookout for poachers. He shrank back on his footsteps as silent as a shadow, and waited for fully ten minutes before he ventured to proceed. Again, at a point where it was necessary for him to cross the high-road, he had a narrow escape from coming face to face with a mounted constable who was riding leisurely along on his solitary round. He had just time to sink back into the hedge-bottom and lie there as motionless as a log till the danger was past. Mr. Tom Starkie had described the position of his rooms to Gerald, so that the latter had no difficulty in making his way to them. He was to be guided by a lighted window the blind of which showed a transverse bar of a darker shade. As soon as he found this window, Gerald gave utterance to a low whistle. The light was at once withdrawn, as a token that his signal had been heard; and two minutes later he found himself safely in his friend's rooms. So far all had gone well; but only the preliminary step had been taken as yet. Not a soul in Penrhyn Court but Tom himself must know or even suspect the presence there of Gerald Brooke. But Tom had thought of all this when he first urged his friend to come to the Court, and had in his mind's eye a certain safe hiding-place, known to him and his father alone, where Gerald could lie by and await the course of events. The hiding-place in question was known as "The Priest's Hole," and was an integral part of the oldest portion of the house. A sliding panel in the library, held in its place by a concealed spring, gave admission to a narrow passage built in the thickness of one of the outer walls, down from which access was obtained, by means of a steep flight of steps, to two small chambers hollowed out of the very foundations of the house. These rooms were shut out from all daylight, the walls were unplastered, and the floors of hard dry earth. In the larger of the two was a small fireplace, but without any grate in it, the chimney of which opened into one of the main stacks of the Court. In one corner was a tressel bedstead of black worm-eaten oak, which would seem to indicate that the place had not been without an occasional occupant in days gone by. The first two hours after Gerald's arrival were spent by Tom in victualling and furnishing this place of refuge. Having encased his feet in a pair of list slippers, his first visit was to the larder, where he requisitioned bread, cheese, butter, tea, coffee, sardines, and sundry other comestibles, greatly to the perplexity of the worthy cook when she came to look over her stores next morning. His next raid had for its objects candles, matches, and crockery. Then came a folding-chair and a spirit-lamp from his own rooms; and so on till he possessed himself of as many articles as he required. Tom took immense delight in these stealthy raids during the small-hours of the morning; and more than once he was compelled to come to a stand with his arms full of things and indulge in a silent laugh, which shook him from head to foot, when he thought of worthy Sir John asleep, and of what his feelings would have been could he have seen how his first-born was just then occupied. The June sun was high above the horizon before Tom's preparations were completed. It was time for Gerald to vanish like a ghost at cockcrow. The two friends shook hands and parted for a little while; but when Gerald heard the click of the sliding panel as it was pushed back into its place, and when he had shut the door at the bottom of the stairs and had glanced once again round the dismal dungeon that was to be his home for he knew not how long a time to come, he felt as if he were buried alive and should never see daylight again. His heart sank lower, if that were possible, than it had sunk before, and for a few moments he felt as if his fortitude must give way. But this mood was not of long duration; he buoyed himself up with the thought that another day was already here, and that in a few hours more his innocence would doubtless be proved. Presently he lay down on his pallet, utterly worn out in body and mind, and five minutes later was fast asleep. Of Gerald Brooke's life during the next few weeks it is not needful to speak in detail; indeed, each day that came was so much a repetition of the one that had gone before it, that there would be but little to record. Tom rarely ventured to visit his friend till after his father and the rest of the household had retired for the night. It was a joyful sound to Gerald when he heard the click of the panel and knew that for two or three hours to come he should be a free man. Then through the silent shut-up house the two men would steal like burglars to Tom's room. Once there, they felt safe; for the rest of the family and the servants slept in different wings of the rambling old house. On nights when there was no moon, or when it was overcast, the two friends paced a certain pleached alley of the lower garden for an hour at a time; it was the only exercise Gerald was able to obtain. After that they sat and smoked and talked in Tom's room till the clock struck three, which was the signal for Gerald's return to his dungeon. Twice each week Mr. Starkie rode over to the Towers, acting the part of postman between husband and wife, in addition to that of general purveyor of news. So day after day passed without bringing the murderer of Von Rosenberg to light or tending in anyway to weaken the force of the circumstantial evidence accumulated against Gerald. It seemed, indeed, as if the police had made up their minds that Mr. Brooke, and he alone, must be the guilty man, directing all their efforts towards his capture, and listening with incredulous ears to such persons as suggested that, after all, it was just possible he might not be the individual they wanted. "If he isn't guilty, why don't he show up? Why has he gone and hid himself where nobody can find him?" was Mr. Drumley's invariable rejoinder, when any such suggestions happened to be ventilated in his presence. Such questions were difficult to answer. Many a time during those weeks of slow torture, as he sat brooding in his underground chamber by the dismal light of a couple of candles, did Gerald wish with all his heart that he had not yielded to his wife's entreaties, but had stayed, and braved the thing out to the bitter end. Clara, meanwhile, was doing all that it was possible for a woman, circumstanced as she was, to do. When a week had passed and nothing tending to prove her husband's innocence had been brought to light, she did that which Mr. George Crofton proposed doing, that is to say, she engaged the services of an experienced private detective. The man came, listened respectfully to all she had to say, and promised that his best endeavours should be at her service; but after his visit, day succeeded day without bringing any ray of comfort to the young wife's aching heart. Could it be possible, she sometimes asked herself, a little later on, that this astute individual, while to all appearance falling in with her views, really believed in her husband's guilt as strongly as Mr. Drumley did, and while quite willing to humour her and spend her money, was in his heart impressed with the futility of looking elsewhere for the criminal It was a weary time, full of heartache in the present, and with a future that began to loom more darkly as day followed day in slow and sad procession. By-and-by there came a certain night when Tom Starkie met his guest with a very long and gloomy visage. His news was quickly told. His father had suddenly made up his mind to start at once for one of the German spas, and insisted upon Tom's accompanying him. "And if I go, my dear Brooke--and I'm afraid I can't get out of it--what's to become of you?" "I must flit," answered Gerald with a shrug; "there's no help for it." He almost hailed the prospect as a relief, so unutterably weary was he becoming of the terrible monotony of his present mode of life; but the question of course was, Whither was he to go? At length, after the two men had smoked some half-dozen pipes each, a happy thought came to Gerald. He called to mind that he had another friend on whose secrecy and good faith he could rely, and who, he felt sure, would befriend him in his present strait, if it were in anyway possible for him to do so. The name of the friend in question was Roger Chamfrey. A few hours later, Tom Starkie set out for London in search of Mr. Chamfrey, whom he fortunately found at his club. The latter had of course read everything that had appeared in the newspapers respecting Von Rosenberg's mysterious death, and Tom found him to be as firm a believer in Gerald's innocence as he himself was. "I've got the very thing to suit poor Brooke," he said. "The situation of second-keeper is vacant on a certain moor which I rent in a wild and lonely part of Yorkshire and Brooke will be as safe there as he would be in the heart of Africa. I will give him a letter to Timley the head-keeper, who is a very decent sort of fellow, so worded that Brooke shall receive every possible consideration while yet ostensibly filling the part of assistant-keeper. What's more easy than to hint that our friend is a young gentleman of position who has quarrelled with his family, but that in the course of a little time he will come into a large property?" And Mr. Chamfrey laughed. So the letter in question was written and given to Mr. Starkie, together with many kind messages for Gerald. Four days later, Gerald reached his new refuge in safety. What means he adopted to escape recognition by the way, and by what circuitous routes he travelled, need not be specified here. It was indeed a wild and desolate tract of country in which he found himself; but in that fact lay his safety. Timley received him kindly; and when he had read and digested his employer's letter, he at once proceeded to turn himself and his wife out of the best bedroom in his cottage, and allotted the same to his new assistant, greatly to the surprise and disgust of his better-half, until he had pacified her by a few sentences whispered in her ear, after which she became all smiles and graciousness, and seemed as if she could not do enough to make Mr. Davis' comfortable. When they were alone, or when no one was within earshot, Timley invariably addressed Gerald as "Sir." The free open-air life he now led did much towards improving Gerald's health and spirits. Once a week he wrote to his wife, and once a week he received a long letter in return. His letters to her were addressed under an assumed name to be left till called for at the post-office of a little town some dozen miles from the Towers. From this place they were fetched by Margery, who made the journey by rail, and who at the same time dropped a return letter into the box addressed to "Mr. Davis" the keeper. So time went on till the 12th of August came round, about which date Timley had notice that in the course of the following week his master would arrive accompanied by a number of friends. At the last minute, however, Mr. Chamfrey was detained by important business, and his friends arrived without him. All was now bustle and excitement, and Gerald found quite enough to do. The first and second days' shooting passed off admirably. The weather was perfect, birds were plentiful, and everybody was in high good-humour. Gerald acted his part to perfection--at least Timley told him so. All fear of recognition by any of the visitors had passed away, and on the third morning after their arrival he caught himself humming an air from _Lucia_ while cleaning the barrel of his gun outside the cottage door. Hearing a footstep on the garden path, he turned his head quickly, and found himself confronted by a man who had been in his own service only some eight or nine months previously. The two stood staring at each other for a few moments in silence. It was at once evident to Gerald that, despite the change in his appearance, he was recognised. Before either had spoken a word Timley came out of the cottage. Then the man delivered his message, which was from one of the visitors at the Lodge in whose service he now was. Then, after another stare at Gerald, who still went on cleaning his gun, the man turned and went. Twelve hours later, Gerald Brooke--clean-shaven except for a small moustache which was dyed black, and with a black wig over his own closely cropped hair--was flying southward in the night express. Mr. Starkie, who had returned from the Continent by this time, and to whom he had telegraphed under an assumed name, previously agreed on, met him at the London terminus. The conference between the two friends was a long one. It resulted in Gerald coming to the decision that he would take up his abode in London itself, at least for some time to come, as being, all things considered, as safe a hiding-place as any for a man circumstanced as he was. It was, besides, becoming requisite that some decision should be arrived at with regard to matters at the Towers. Clara was still there; but although she had cut down the household expenses to the lowest possible limits, her supply of ready-money was dwindling away; and when that was gone, where was more to come from? With Gerald's disappearance his income had disappeared too. It was an impossibility for him to draw a cheque, or receive a shilling of rent from any of his tenants, while matters with him remained as they were. Then, again, Clara's long separation from her husband, and the many weeks of anxiety she had undergone, were wearing away both her health and her spirits. "Only let let us be together again, darling--that is all I crave," she wrote to her husband. "Two little rooms in some back street will seem like a palace if only you are with me." Thus it fell out that on a certain afternoon about a week after Gerald's arrival in London, two ladies, both of them closely veiled, who had been hunting for apartments all morning, and were utterly disheartened and tired out by their want of success, stood for a few moments gazing into a pastry-cook's window in Tottenham Court Road. As she did so, the younger lady raised her veil. Next instant she was startled by hearing some one say in French: "O papa, papa, here is the beautiful lady who gave me the cakes and fruit at that grand house in the country!" Clara dropped her veil and turned. She recognised the little speaker at once, although he no longer wore his mountebank's dress. There, too, was Picot himself, who had come to a stand a few yards away while he lighted a cigarette. Tired and anxious though she was, Clara would not go without speaking to the boy. "So you have not forgotten me, Henri," she said, "nor the cakes either? Would you not like some more cakes to-day?" For answer he lifted one of her hands to his lips and kissed it. When Mrs. Brooke and Henri came out of the shop they found Miss Primby and M. Picot deep in conversation. The mountebank was dressed quite smartly to-day, and had a flower in his button-hole. As Miss Primby said to her niece afterwards: "Although the poor man may be nothing but a tumbler, he is the essence of gallantry and politeness." After a few words had passed between Clara and Picot, some impulse--she could never afterwards have told whence it originated--prompted her to say to him: "My aunt and I are in London to-day on rather a peculiar errand. We are here to find apartments for--for some dear friends of ours who a little time ago were rich, but who are now very poor. We have been going about all morning, but cannot succeed in finding what we require. It is just possible, monsieur, that you with your knowledge of London may be able to assist us." "I am entirely at madame's service," answered Picot as he raised his hat for a moment. "Is it furnished apartments that madame requires?" "Yes--four or five furnished rooms at a moderate rent, and, if possible, not more than a mile from where we are now." Picot considered for a moment or two, then he said: "I remind myself of a place that will, I think, suit madame. The landlord is a compatriot of my own; he is honest man; he will not cheat his lodgers. If madame would like to see the apartments"---- "By all means, if you recommend them, monsieur." "Then I will give madame the address." He tore a leaf out of his pocket-book, pencilled down a couple of lines, and handed the paper to Mrs. Brooke with an elaborate bow. At Clara's request he then hailed a passing cab; then both the ladies, having kissed Henri and shaken hands with Picot, were driven away. Henri, as he stood gazing after the cab, said to his father: "Are the angels as beautiful as that lady, papa?" "That is more than I can say, _mon p'tit_," replied the mountebank with a laugh. "When I have seen an angel, I shall be able to tell thee." CHAPTER X. In less than a week after her interview with Picot, Mrs. Brooke, her husband, and Miss Primby were settled in their new home. The rooms recommended by the Frenchman had proved more to Clara's liking than any she had seen elsewhere, and she at once engaged them. The furniture and fittings were to a great extent after the cheap and tawdry style so much affected by the inferior class of French lodging-house keepers; but as the whole place was pervaded by an air of cleanliness, such little _désagréments_ as existed in other respects Clara was prepared to overlook. No. 5 Pymm's Buildings was one of a row of half-a-dozen houses similar to itself in size and outward aspect, situated in a quiet court abutting on a main thoroughfare in the busy and populous district of Soho. All the houses in Pymm's Buildings accommodated a more or less numerous tribe of lodgers, the lower floors being generally arranged in suites of rooms for the convenience of families, while the top floors were usually divided into separate sleeping apartments. And it was in this place and amid such sordid surroundings that the whilom owner of Beechley Towers hoped to find for a little time a secure shelter from the hue and cry of the ten thousand hounds of policedom, each and all of whom were doing their utmost to run him to earth. His idea had been to bury himself in the heart of some densely populated district where one man is but as a grain of sand among ten thousand others, and in so far it may be surmised that he had been successful. When Mrs. Brooke quitted Beechley Towers secretly and by night to join her husband in London, Margery, faithful Margery, was the only one who was made aware of her departure. The girl pleaded so hard to be allowed to accompany her, that at last Clara was fain to make her a promise that she would send for her as soon as she was settled in her new home. Thus it fell out that Margery was now here, and her mistress found the value of her services in a score different ways. For instance, Margery did all the marketing, and did it for little more than half what it had cost before her arrival. Poor simple-minded Clara, who believed everybody to be as honest as herself, had been imposed upon at every turn; but the shopman or peripatetic vendor who succeeded in "besting" Margery, as she termed it, must have been very wide-awake indeed. The girl would haggle for half an hour over a penny, and her powers of vituperation always rose to the level of the occasion. What was Mrs. Brooke's surprise about the third day after her arrival at Pymm's Buildings, as she was on her way downstairs, to encounter M. Picot on his way up! Then it came out that the mountebank rented a room at the top of the house which he looked upon as a permanent home, and occupied as such when his avocations did not take him elsewhere. Had Mrs. Brooke been aware of this fact at the time, she might perhaps have hesitated before deciding to take the rooms. And yet, somehow, she had an instinctive feeling of trust in the mountebank--the same sort of trust, although in a lesser degree, that she had in Margery; and after the first tremor of alarm which shot through her when she encountered him on the staircase, she never felt a moment's doubt that her secret, or as much of it as he might know or suspect, was safe in his keeping. It became, of course, necessary to explain to him that it was she and her husband, and not any one else, whose fortunes had changed so woefully. But Picot was one of the most incurious of mortals outside the range of his own affairs. He only remembered Clara as "la belle madame" who had kissed his boy and spoken kindly to him and had laden him with gifts, and about whom Henri often spoke when his father and he were alone. He had never thought of asking any one what her name was; and even now, when he understood from Clara how terribly the circumstances of herself and her husband were changed, he expressed neither curiosity nor surprise in the matter. He was _vraiment désolé_--he was heart-broken to think that such should be the case; but that was all. He did indeed, a little later, ask the landlord the name of his new lodgers; and when he was told that they were known as Mr. and Mrs. Stewart, he repeated the name to himself two or three times over, so as to impress it on his memory, and then went contentedly on his way. The furnished lodgings rented by Mr. and Mrs. "Stewart" comprised three rooms on the first floor and two on the second. As it chanced, the rooms on the ground-floor were at present untenanted. The sitting-room had two windows and was a tolerably sized apartment In it, about eight o'clock on a certain autumn evening, were seated Miss Primby and Margery. The former, as usual, was engaged on some kind of delicate embroidery; while the latter was trying her hand at a little plain sewing, the result being that on an average she pricked her finger once every three or four minutes. But, indeed, the girl was somewhat nervous this evening, or what she herself would have termed "in a pucker." She had had the ill-fortune to break a cup while washing up the tea-things. "O mum, do you think Mrs. Stewart will let me stay when I tell her? She won't turn me away, will she?" "Why, of course not, Margery. It was an accident; it cannot be helped." "Oh, thank you for saying that, mum. Sometimes my fingers seem as if they were all thumbs, and I lets everything drop. But I wants no wages, mum, and I ain't a big eater--leastways, I think not; and I'll eat less than ever now, so as to help to pay for the cup. A crust o' bread and drippin', a few cold taters, and the teapot after everybody else has done with it--that'll do me." "You must not talk like that, Margery; your mistress would not like it." "Oh, but you don't know how sorry I am, mum. Mariar--her on the boat--always used to say as I was a great awk'ard lout of a girl; and she was about right there." The two went on with their work for a little while in silence, and then Margery said: "You'll excuse me, mum, for saying so, but I've often wondered why such a nice lady as you never got married." The spinster could not help bridling a little. "Married! How absurd of you, Margery," she exclaimed. "From what I have seen of married life, I'm sure I am far better off as I am." Then, as if by way of afterthought: "Not but what I have had several most eligible offers at various times." "Lor! mum, didn't it make you feel all-overish-like when they went flop on their knees and asked you to marry 'em?" "Gentlemen don't often go on their knees nowadays. Still, I have had them do that to me more than once. I remember that when Mr. Tubbins, the eminent brewer, did so, he was so very stout that he could not get up again without assistance." "My! I'd have stuck a pin into him; that would have made him jump," cried the girl with her strange laugh. At this juncture the door opened and Mrs. Brooke came in. She was plainly dressed in black, and was closely veiled. Since Margery's arrival she rarely ventured out of doors till dusk, and then only when she wanted to do a little shopping such as the girl could not do for her. Any one who had not seen her since that April evening when M. Karovsky's ill-omened shadow first darkened the terrace at Beechley Towers, might have been excused for failing to recognise her again. It was not merely that she looked older by more years than the months which had elapsed since that day--anguish, anxiety, and the dread which never ceased to haunt her of what the next hour might bring forth, had marked their cruel lines on her features in a way that Time's gentle if inexorable graver never does when left to labour alone. The clear dancing light had died out of her eyes long ago; they looked larger and shone with a deeper and more intense lustre than in the days gone by; but a sudden knock at the door, an unusual footfall on the stairs, or the voices of strange men talking in the court below, would fill them on a sudden with a sort of startled terror, just as the eyes of a deer may fill when first it hears the baying of the far-away hounds. She took off her bonnet with an air of weariness and sat down. "Has not Gerald returned yet?" she said to her aunt "What can have become of him?" "The evening is so fine that he has probably gone for a longer walk than ordinary." "It makes me wretched when he stays out longer than usual. And yet, poor fellow! what a life is his. To be shut up in one miserable room from morning till night; never to venture out till after dark, and then only with the haunting dread, that he may be recognised and arrested at any moment! How will it all end?" She sighed and went into the other room. Presently she returned, and a few moments later a knock at the door made every one start. Margery hastened to open it. Outside stood Picot carrying a bunch of flowers. "Bon soir, madame," he said, addressing himself to Clara with a low bow, and then favouring Miss Primby with another. "Bon soir, Monsieur Picot. Entrez, s'il vous plait." "Merci, madame," lie answered as he advanced into the room. "I have here a petit bouquet--a few flowers--which Henri has sent for madame, if she will have the bonté to accept them." "I shall be charmed to do so," answered Clara as she took the flowers. "How fresh and sweet they smell! I am much obliged to Henri, and to you also, monsieur."--The mountebank made another low sweeping bow.--"I hope that Henri is quite well?" "Parfaitement bien, madame." "The first time he has a holiday, he must come and take tea with me; I will not forget to have a nice cake for the occasion." "He will be enchanté, madame.--Ah! if madame could see him on the trapeze--could but see him jumpez from one bar to another--it is splendid, magnifique!" "I think I would rather not see Henri go through any of his performances, monsieur." "Mais, madame!" with an expressive shrug; "there is no danger, nothings to be afraid of. Oh, the grand artiste that Henri will be one day! He is twice so clevare as I was at his age. He will be what you call in England great man--big fellow." "I am very glad to hear it. Meanwhile, you will not forget that he is to come some afternoon and take tea with me." "Ah, madame, he talk about you every day.--But I go now. I hope that monsieur your husband finds himself quite well?" "Quite well, thank you, monsieur." With that the mountebank made his adieus and bowed himself out. It here becomes needful to explain that just then Henri was engaged at a certain hippodrome as one of a troupe of juvenile acrobats who, under the pseudonym of "les frères Donati," and under the tuition of a celebrated "Professor," were performing a number of well-nigh incredible feats before crowded and enthusiastic houses. "Ain't he polite!" said Margery as Picot closed the door. "But what a pity the poor man talks such a lot of gibberish." "What can have become of Gerald?" said Clara for the second time, as she went to the window and drawing aside the curtain peered into the darkness. "I never knew him to be so late before. I cannot help feeling dreadfully uneasy." Then turning to Margery, she said: "Here is a list of things I want you to fetch from the grocer's in Medwin Street. Do you think you can find your way in the dark?" "Why, of course, mum. I never gets lost, I don't." Half a minute later she ran downstairs, whistling as she went. The minutes dragged themselves slowly away, and Clara was working herself into a fever of apprehension, when a well-known footfall on the stairs caused a cry of gladness to burst from her lips. "At last!" she exclaimed as she started to her feet and hurried to the door. "How glad I am that you are safely back," she added, as her husband entered the room. "You were away so long that I grew quite frightened." "The evening was so pleasant, that I extended my walk farther than I intended. I must be a caged bird now for the next four-and-twenty hours. Heigh-ho!" "Will you not have something to eat?" "Thanks; nothing at present," he answered as he proceeded to lay aside his slouched hat, his overcoat, and the muffler which had shrouded the lower part of his face. Then he took up a book and sat down in an easy-chair near the fire. His wife's eyes brimmed with tears as they rested on him. "My poor boy!" she said softly to herself. "This life is killing him. When, oh, when will it end!" She sat down to her needlework. Miss Primby was the first to break the silence. "Do you know, my dear," she said to her niece, "that Monsieur Picot puts me greatly in mind of the Count de Bonnechose, a French nobleman who once made me an offer of marriage. He used to speak just the same delightful broken English--and then he had such great black eyes, which seemed to pierce right through you, and the loveliest waxed moustaches; so that when he clasped his hands and turned up his eyes till nothing but the whites of them were visible, and murmured 'Mon ange,' and called me his 'beautiful Engleesh mees,' can you wonder that my heart used to thrill responsively?" Clara could not repress a smile. "I am by no means sure that I should have cared to call that count my uncle." "It was a mercy that I sent him about his business. He turned out to be no nobleman at all, but only a hairdresser's assistant whose father had left him a little money. But certainly he had remarkably fine eyes." Again there was a brief space of silence. This time it was broken by a knock which sounded all the more startling because no one had heard the faintest sound of footsteps on the stairs. All three started to their feet and looked at each other. Then, at a sign from Clara, Miss Primby crossed to the door and opened it. Framed by the doorway and shone upon by the lamplight from within, they beheld the black-clothed figure, the statuesque, colourless face and the inscrutable eyes of M. Karovsky. "Karovsky--you!" cried Gerald as he sprang forward. "Yes, I--why not?" said the Russian with a smile, as he raised his hat and came forward.--"Ladies, your servant." Then to Gerald: "You stare at me, mon ami, as if I had just come back from Hades. But this is scarcely the hand of a _revenant_, if I may be allowed an opinion in the matter." "It seems incredible that you should have found me out in this place," answered Gerald as the two shook hands. "Incredible? Peuh! I had need to see you; and I am here." "Will you not be seated?" As Karovsky drew up a chair, Clara made a sign to her aunt, and the two ladies passed out through the folding-doors into the room beyond. "Pardon," said the Russian as he glanced around, "but this place seems scarcely a fit home either for madame or yourself." "You know that I am in hiding; you doubtless also know that a large reward is offered for my capture?"--The other nodded.--"While such is the case, it is impossible for me to touch a penny of my income. My wife's aunt has lost her property by a bank failure. We are very poor, Karovsky; but there are worse ills in life than poverty." "Part of my errand to-night is to tell you that I have instructions to place certain funds at your disposal. You can leave this place tomorrow, if it please you so to do." "Thanks, Karovsky; but I cannot accept a penny of the money you offer me." "How! Not accept! But this is folly." "It may seem so to you; but that does not alter the matter." "It is unaccountable," said the Russian with a lifting of his black eyebrows. "But why remain in these wretched apartments? Why not go abroad--on the Continent--to America--anywhere? The world is wide, and there are places where you would be far safer than here." "I doubt it One reason why I am here is because I believe this spot--in the heart of one of the most populous quarters of London--to be as safe a hiding-place as any I could find. My other reason is that were I to go abroad, I feel as if I should be throwing away my last faint hope of ever being able to prove my innocence to the world." Karovsky stared at him in wide-eyed amazement. "How! Your"---- "My innocence of the murder of Baron von Rosenberg." "Pardon; I fail to comprehend." "When we parted last, I told you clearly and emphatically that, let the consequences to myself be whatever they might, mine should not be the hand to strike the fatal blow; but when you left me, you evidently did so in the belief that in a little while I should change my mind, and that of the two alternatives you had placed before me, I should choose the one which you yourself would in all probability have chosen had you been in my place. Time went on, and, within the period you had prescribed, Von Rosenberg was found dead, shot through the heart. Such being the case, it was perhaps a not unnatural conclusion for you to arrive at that it was I, Gerald Brooke, who was the assassin.--But I ask you, Karovsky, to believe in the truth of what I am now going to tell you. I had no more to do with the death of Von Rosenberg than you yourself had." "Est-il possible!" exclaimed the Russian in a voice scarcely raised above a whisper. For a few moments he sat staring silently at Gerald; then he went on: "Not often am I astonished at anything I hear; but you, Gerald Brooke, have astonished me to-night The evidence against you seemed so conclusive, that I never doubted Von Rosenberg fell by your hand. Yet more than once I said to myself:'What an imbecile Brook must have been to leave behind him such a condemnatory piece of evidence as the weapon with which he did the deed!'--But who, then, was the individual who so kindly spared you a necessity so painful?" "That I know no more than you do." "C'est un vrai mystère." "From day to day I live in hope that the real criminal will be discovered and brought to justice; but with each day that passes that hope grows fainter within me." "I know not what to say.--When I remember the past, and when I look round and think that this is now the home of you and madame"----He spread out his hands with a gesture more expressive than words. Before more could be said, there came a peculiar knock at the door--three taps in quick succession, followed by a fourth after a longer interval. At the sound, Clara and Miss Primby emerged from the other room. "That summons is intended for me," said Karovsky quickly as he rose and opened the door. Then those inside saw that a man, a stranger, was standing on the landing, who seemed to retire further into the shade the moment the light fell on him. He said something rapidly in a low voice to Karovsky, to which the latter replied in the same language. Then the Russian gave a nod as of dismissal, and closing the door, turned and confronted Gerald with a grave face and distended eyes. "That man is one of _us_," he said. "When I entered the house, I left him on watch outside. He now comes to tell me that a policeman in plain clothes is on guard outside the court, and that another is stationed inside, so that no one can pass in or out without being observed. He also tells me that there are two more constables in uniform patrolling the street close by; and that from what he can gather, they are waiting the arrival of some one, probably a superior officer. Is it possible, Brooke, that you can be the quarry on which they intend presently to swoop?" "There can be little doubt of it," answered Gerald, who had risen to his feet while Karovsky was speaking. He had turned very pale; but his lips were firm-set, and the expression which shone out of his eyes was something far removed from craven fear. Clara stood with one hand resting on the table, her frame trembling slightly. Was the blow she had dreaded so long about to fall at last? Miss Primby sat down with a gasp. "Well, let them come," went on Gerald after a moment's pause. "It will be better so. I am tired of this life of hide-and-seek. Why not end it here and now?" "No, no!" cried his wife. "Even at this, the eleventh hour, there must surely be some way of escape." "Even if I were eager to escape, which I am not, I know of none." "Madame is right," said the Russian in his impressive tones. "There is still one way of escape." "And that is?"----said Gerald interrogatively. But before Karovsky could reply, Margery, breathless and dishevelled, burst into the room. "O Muster Geril!--O mum," she exclaimed, "the polis is in the court--four or five of 'em, and I believe they're coming here. But I shut and bolted the door at the bottom of the stairs; and it'll take 'em some time to break that down," added the girl with a chuckle. Picot, who was on his way downstairs as Margery rushed up, had overheard her words, and he could now be seen dimly outlined on the landing, his eyes piercing the obscurity like two points of flame; but for the moment no one observed him. CHAPTER XI. No one spoke for a moment or two after Margery had blurted out her news. Then for the second time Karovsky said: "There is still one way of escape open to you." And that is?"----said Gerald again. "For me to personate you." "O monsieur!" cried Clara, a flash of hope leaping suddenly into her eyes. "Karovsky, are you mad?" "Pardon; I think not; but one can never be quite sure. Listen! These men who are coming to arrest you are strangers to you, or rather, you are a stranger to them; they have never set eyes on you before. I will answer to your name; I will go with them; and before they have time to discover their mistake, you will be far away." "And the consequences to yourself?" "A few hours' detention--nothing more. Your English police know me not." Then he added with a shrug: "At St. Petersburg or Berlin, ma foi, it might be somewhat different." "Karovsky, your offer is a noble one, and the risk to yourself might be greater than you seem to think. In any case, I cannot accept it." "Gerald, for my sake!" implored his wife. "As I said before, I am tired of this life of perpetual hide-and-seek. Let it end; I am ready to face the worst." "No, no! Would you court a felon's doom, you whose innocence will one day be proved to the world?" "Vous avez raison, madame," said the Russian. Then placing his hands on Gerald's shoulders, he said: "Go, Brooke, my friend; hide yourself elsewhere for a little time, and leave me to face these bloodhounds." Picot, who had been listening and watching in the background, now came boldly forward. It was enough for the kind-hearted mountebank to know that his friends were in trouble. "I have une petite chambre en haut," he said to Gerald. "Come with me, monsieur, and I will hide you." "Yes, yes; go, dearest, with Monsieur Picot," urged his wife, her beautiful eyes charged with anguished entreaty. "For your sake, let it be as you wish," answered Gerald sadly. At this juncture there came a loud knocking at some door below stairs. "Venez, monsieur--vite, vite!" said Picot. Gerald hastily kissed his wife, gripped the Russian's hand for a moment, and then followed the mountebank. "It will not be wise to keep our friends waiting," said Karovsky. Then turning to Miss Primby: "Madame, will you oblige me by taking charge of these trifles for a little while?" With that he handed her a card-case, a pocket-book stuffed with papers, and a bunch of keys. "They will be mighty clever if they get them out of here," muttered Miss Primby as the articles disappeared in the capacious depths of some hidden pocket. The knocking was repeated in louder and more imperative terms than before. "Let the door be opened," said Karovsky to Margery; then he addressed a few words hurriedly in a low tone to Mrs. Brooke. The door at the foot of the stairs, which Margery in her alarm had taken the precaution to fasten, had apparently been originally put there with the view of more effectually separating the upper part of the house from the lower, probably at a time when the domicile was divided between two families. This door Margery now unbolted without a word; and without a word, after flashing a bull's-eye in her face, a sergeant of police and two men pushed past her and tramped heavily upstairs. "Mr. Gerald Brooke, commonly known by the name of Stewart?" said the sergeant interrogatively as he advanced into the room, while his two men took up positions close to the door. The Russian turned--he had been in the act of lighting a cigarette at the fireplace. "Who are you, sir, and by what right do you intrude into this apartment?" he demanded haughtily. The sergeant went a step or two nearer and laying a hand on his shoulder, said: "Gerald Brook; you are charged on a warrant with the wilful murder of the Baron Otto von Rosenberg on the 28th of June last at Beaulieu, near King's Harold, and you will have to consider yourself as my prisoner." The Russian dropped his cigarette. "There is some strange mistake," he said. "I never either saw or spoke to the Baron von Rosenberg on the 28th of last June." "All right, sir; you can explain about that somewhere else; but I should advise you to say as little as possible just now." One of the men had advanced into the room, and now drew the officer's attention. "I say, sergeant," he whispered, "the gent don't seem to answer much to the printed description, does he?" "Idiot!" whispered back the other; "as if a man couldn't dye his hair and make his beard and moustache grow any shape he liked! Besides, we knew beforehand that he was disguised, and this is the room where we were told we should find him." When the sergeant turned again, Clara was standing before Karovsky with a hand resting on each of his shoulders. "You see," whispered the sergeant to his subordinate. "We were told his wife was living here with him, as well as an elderly lady--the aunt. He's the gent we want, and no mistake." "I shall only be away for a little while, cara mia," said Karovsky, as he drew Clara to him. For a moment her head rested against his shoulder, then his lips lightly touched her forehead. She turned from him, and sinking on a couch, buried her face in her hands. Karovsky drew himself up to his full height "Now, sir, I am at your service," he said to the sergeant. A moment later, and the three women were left alone. "They be clever uns, they be!" said Margery with a chuckle as the sound of the retreating footsteps died away. "How noble, how magnanimous of Monsieur Karovsky!" exclaimed Miss Primby. "I shall never think ill of the Russians again." "Now is the opportunity for Gerald to get away," said Clara. "The police may discover their mistake at any moment." Her hand was on the door, when suddenly there was a sound which caused all three to start and stare at each other with eyes full of terror. It was the sound of unfamiliar footsteps ascending the stairs. Mrs. Brooke shrank back as the door opened and George Crofton entered the room. "You!" she gasped. "Even so," he answered as he glanced round the room. "It is long since we met last." "Not since the day you crushed my husband's portrait under your heel." "As I have now crushed your husband himself." "What do you mean?" "Clara Brook; the hour of my revenge has struck. You slighted me once, but now my turn has come. It was through my efforts that your husband was tracked to this place. It was I who gave information to the police. Never could there be a sweeter revenge than mine." "Can such wickedness exist unsmitten by Heaven!" After that first glance round, he had never taken his eyes from Clara's blanched face. He spoke with a venomous intensity which lent to every word an added sting. "Don't I just wish I was a man, instead of a great hulking good-for-nothing girl!" muttered Margery, half to Miss Primby and half to herself, as she defiantly rolled up the sleeves of her cotton gown. For a little space, the two stood gazing at each other in silence. Clam's heart beat painfully, but her eyes blazed into his full of scorn and defiance. Then she said: "George Crofton, believe me or not, but my husband is as innocent of the crime laid to his charge as I am. It is not he who is a murderer, but you who are one after this night's work--in heart if not in deed." A sneering laugh broke from his lips. "I was quite prepared to hear that rigmarole," he said. "It was only to be expected that you should swear to his innocence. It is possible you may believe in it--wives will believe anything." But Clara's ears, of late ever on the alert, had heard a certain sound. With a low cry she sprang to the door; but before she could reach it, it was opened from without, and Gerald, accompanied by Picot, appeared on the threshold. Crofton fell back as if he had seen a face from the tomb. "By what fiend's trick have I been fooled?" he cried. "There stands the villain who betrayed you," exclaimed the young wife, pointing to Crofton with outstretched finger. "He! My cousin! Impossible." "It may not be too late yet," exclaimed Crofton as he sprang to one of the windows and tore aside the curtain. But next instant, with a bound like that of a tiger, Picot had flung himself on him and had gripped his neck as in a vice with both his sinewy hands. The other was no match in point of strength for the mountebank; and before he knew what had happened he found himself on his back on the floor, half-choked, with Picot kneeling on his chest and regarding him with a sardonic grin. Clara, with a natural impulse, had clung to her husband's arm. Miss Primby and Margery were too startled to utter a word. Picot's hand went to some inner pocket and drew from it a small revolver; then rising to his feet, he said to Crofton: "Oblige me by standing up, monsieur, and by taking a seat in that chair, or in one leetle minute you are a dead man." Crofton, with a snarl like that of some half-cowed wild animal, did as he was bidden. Gerald stepped quickly forward and laid a hand on Picot's arm. "What would you do?" he asked. "Shoot him like the dog he is, if he move but one finger. If he move not--tie him up--gag him--and leave him here till you, monsieur, have time to get away." Then addressing himself to Margery, but without taking his eyes for an instant off Crofton, he said: "My good Margot, in my room upstairs you will find one piece of rope. Bring him here. Dépêchez-vous--quick." Margery needed no second bidding. Then the mountebank said to Gerald: "You must not stop here any longer, monsieur; the police may come back at any moment." "Yes--come, come," urged Clara. "Another minute, and it may be too late." "George, I did not deserve this at your hands," said Gerald with grave sadness to his cousin. The only answer was a scowl and an execration muttered between his teeth. Gerald, his wife, and Miss Primby retired into the farther room and closed the folding-doors. Margery was back by this time, carrying a small coil of rope. "Good child.--Now hold this--so," said Picot, as he placed the revolver in Margery's hand and stationed her about a couple of yards from Crofton. "If you see that man stir from his chair, press your finger against this leetle thing, and--pouf--he will never stir again. Hold him steady--so. You have no fear--hein?" "Why, o' course not," laughed Margery. "It would do me good to shoot the likes o' him." With a dexterity that seemed as if it might have been derived from long practice, Picot now proceeded to bind Crofton securely in his chair. "You scoundrel! you shall suffer for this," muttered the latter between his teeth. "A la bonne heure, monsieur," responded the mountebank airily. Then perceiving a corner of a handkerchief protruding from his pocket, he drew it forth, and tearing a narrow strip off it, he proceeded to firmly bind the other's wrists; then making a bandage of the remainder, he covered his mouth with it and tied it in a double knot at the back of his neck. "Ah, ha! that do the trick," he laughed. "How found you yourself? Very comfortable--hein?" Margery, who had watched the operation with great glee gave back the revolver and retired to the inner room. Picot sat down a little way from his prisoner, but for the present took no further notice of him. He had heard a footstep on the stairs a minute or two previously, and rightly judged that Gerald was already gone. From the first day of taking up their abode at No. 5 Pymm's Buildings, Clara and her husband had prepared themselves for an emergency like the present one. They were always ready for immediate flight, and had arranged the means for communication in case of an enforced separation. At the end of a few minutes Margery returned, carrying a folded paper, which she gave to Picot, at the same time whispering a few hurried words in his ear. The mountebank nodded and smiled and kissed the tips of his fingers. Then the girl went back, and the two men were left alone. But presently both of them heard the footsteps of more persons than one descending the stairs. Picot listened intently till the sound had died away, and then proceeded to light a cigarette. Of Crofton, sitting there, bound and gagged, he took not the slightest apparent notice. A quarter of an hour passed thus, and with the exception of a footfall now and then in the court below no sound broke the silence. At the end of that time, Picot's cigarette being finished, he rose, pushed back his chair, clapped his hat on his head, and after a last examination of his prisoner's bonds, he marched out of the room without a word, and so downstairs and out of the house, first shutting behind him the door which divided the upper rooms from the ground floor. Left alone, George Crofton began at once to struggle desperately to free himself, but all to no purpose. After a little time, however, he discovered that the chair in which he was bound moved on casters, and this discovery put an idea into his head such as would not have entered it under other circumstances. The room was lighted by a lamp on a low table, and to this table he managed by degrees to slide his chair along the floor. Then setting his teeth hard, and stretching his arms to the fullest extent his bonds would allow of his doing, he held his wrists over the flame of the lamp, and kept them there unflinchingly till the outermost coil of the ligature which bound them was burnt through. When once his hands were at liberty, very few minutes sufficed to make him a free man. "My revenge is yet to come, Gerald Brooke," he said aloud as he paused at the door and took a last glance round. "It is but delayed for a little while, and every day's delay will serve but to make it sweeter at the last." CHAPTER XII. We are back once more at Linden Villa. It is a March evening, and the clock has just struck nine. George Crofton is smoking a cigar, and gazing fixedly into the fire, seeing pictures in the glowing embers which are anything but pleasant ones, if one may judge by the lowering expression of his face. He looks haggard and careworn, and is no longer so fastidious with regard to his personal appearance as he used to be. Dissipation has set its unmistakable seal upon him; he has the air of a man who is going slowly but surely downhill. His wife is amusing herself somewhat listlessly at the piano. There is a slightly worn look about her eyes, and the line of her lips looks thinner and more hard set than it was wont to do. Married life had not brought Stephanie the happiness, or even the content, she had looked forward to. The awakening had come soon, and had not been a pleasant one. Not long had it taken her to discover that she had mated herself with an inveterate gambler, if not with something worse. So long as plump young pigeons were to be had for the plucking, matters had gone on swimmingly at Linden Villa. There had been no lack of money, and Stephanie had never cared to inquire too curiously how it had been come by. But after a time Crofton's wonderful luck at cards began to be commented upon; people began to be shy of playing at the same table with him; pigeons were warned to avoid him; and when, one unfortunate evening, he was detected cheating at the club, and unmasked by a member cleverer in that particular line than himself, his career in that sphere of life came to an end for ever. But his ambition had not been satisfied with the comparatively small gains of the card-table; he had bet heavily on the St. Leger and other races, and had been unfortunate in all. So far he had been able to meet his racing liabilities, but the doing so had exhausted the whole of his available resources, and matters at Linden Villa had now come to a pass that might almost be termed desperate. Stephanie brought her roulades to an end with a grand crash; then turning half round she said in her clear metallic tones: "Have you anything to talk about, mon ange? Have you nothing to say to me?" Her husband's back was towards her as he sat brooding sullenly in front of the fire. "It is not often that you stay at home of an evening, and when you do--chut! I might as well be alone." He shrugged his shoulders. What would you have me talk about? Our debts--our difficulties--our"---- "Why not?" she broke in quickly. "If you talked about them a little oftener, it might be all the better. You seem neither to know nor care anything about them. You are out from morning till night. It is I who have to promise, to cajole, to lie, first to one person and then to another who come here demanding money when I have none to give them. Oh, it is a charming life--mine! N'importe. It will end itself in a little while." "What do you mean? What new trick are you hatching now?" he demanded. "It is nothing new--it has been in my head for a long time. Shall I tell you what it is? Why not?" The fingers of one hand were still resting on the piano. She struck a note or two carelessly, and then went on speaking as quietly as though she were mentioning some trifling detail of everyday life. "One evening, cheri, when you come home you will not find me; I shall be gone. This life suits me no longer. I will change it all. I will go back to the life I used to love so well. I have had a letter. Signor Ventelli is at Brussels; he prays to me to return to him. I shall go. You and I my friend, can no longer live together. It will be better for both that we should part." Again her fingers struck a note or two carelessly. Crofton was roused at last. He started to his feet with an imprecation and faced his wife. "What confounded stuff and nonsense you are talking, Steph," he exclaimed. "As if I believed a word of it!" "Do I ever say that I will do a thing when I do not intend doing it?" she quietly asked.--In his own mind he was obliged to confess that she did not.--"We have made a mistake, you and I, and have found it out in time," she resumed. "We can be friends, always friends--why not! But you will go your way, and I mine; that is all." The cold indifference of her tone and manner stung him to the quick. Evidently she was minded to cast him off as carelessly as she would an old glove. The sullen fire in his heart blazed up in a moment. He loved this woman after a fashion of his own, and was in nowise inclined to let her go. "What you say is utter nonsense. I would have you remember that you are my wife, and that I can claim you as such anywhere and everywhere." "And do you imagine that if I were twenty times a wife I should allow you or any other man to claim me as such against my will!" demanded Steph with a contemptuous laugh. "Tza! tza! my friend, you talk like a child." They were standing face to face, and for a few moments they stared at each other without speaking; but the clear resolute light that shone out of Steph's eyes cowed, for a time at least, the fitful, dangerous gleam flickering redly in her husband's bloodshot orbs, as though it were a reflection from some Tophet below. George Crofton turned away, and crossing to the sideboard, poured himself out a quantity of brandy. "You would be a fool, Steph, to leave me as you talk of doing, were it only for one thing," he said dryly. He seemed to have quite recovered his equanimity, and was choosing a cigar as he spoke. "If it pleases me to be a fool, why not?" "Has it never occurred to you that any morning the newspapers may tell us that my cousin, Gerald Brooke, has been captured? Every day, that is the first news I look for." "Ah, bah! you mock yourself. Your cousin will never be arrested now; he has got safe away to some foreign country long ago." "You have no ground for saying that. Any hour may bring the tidings of his capture, and then---- But you know already what the result of his conviction would be to you and me. Beechley Towers and six thousand a year--nothing less." "You deceive yourself," resumed Steph. "You are waiting for what will never happen. Nine months have passed since the murder, and the crime is half forgotten. You let Gerald Brooke slip through your fingers once; but you will never have the chance of doing so again.--Let us come back to realities, to the things we can touch. Dreams never had any charms for me." He went back to the fireplace with his cigar, and took up a position on the hearthrug. "As you say--let us stick to realities; it may perhaps be the wisest," he went on. "What, then, would you think, what would you say, if I were to tell you as a fact that in less than six weeks from to-day I shall be in possession of ten thousand pounds?" "I should both think and say that it was not a fact, but a dream, a--what do you call it?--a Will-o'-the-wisp." "And yet it is not a dream, but a sober solid fact, as a very short time will prove." She raised her eyebrows; evidently, she was incredulous. "Yon made sure that you would win two thousand pounds at Doncaster, whereas you contrived to lose five hundred. You were just as certain that you would win"---- "What I am referring to now has nothing to do with horseracing," he broke in impatiently.--"Listen!" he added; and with that he planted himself astride a chair and confronted her, resting his arms on the back of it and puffing occasionally at his cigar as he talked. "I am about to tell you something which it was my intention not to have spoken about till later on; but it matters little whether you are told now or a month hence." He moved his chair nearer to her, and when he next spoke it was in a lower voice: "The young Earl of Leamington, who is enormously rich, is to be married on the 27th of next month. On the 14th of April one of the partners in a certain well-known firm of London jewellers, accompanied by an assistant, will start for the Earl's seat in the north carrying with him jewelry of the value of over twenty thousand pounds, for the purpose of enabling his lordship to select certain presents for his bride. That box of jewelry will never reach its destination." Stephanie was staring at him with wide-open eyes. "You would not"----she exclaimed, and then she paused. "Yes, I would, and will," he answered with a sinister smile. "I and certain friends of mine have planned to make that box our own. The whole scheme is cut and dried; all the arrangements in connection with the journey are known to us; and so carefully have our plans been worked out, that it is next to impossible that we should fail." "And you, George Crofton, my husband, have sunk to this--that you would become a common robber, a thief, a voleur!" His face darkened ominously, and the gash in his lip looked as large again as it usually did. "What would you have?" he asked with a snarl. "My cursed ill-luck has driven me to it. I cannot starve, neither will I." For a little while neither spoke. "I didn't think you would take my news like this, Steph," he said presently. "Think of the prize! How is it possible for a man fixed as I am to resist trying to make it his own? One half comes to me because the plan is mine, but of course I can't work without confederates. My share will be worth ten thousand at the very least; and then, hey presto for the New World and a fresh start in life with a clean slate!--What say you, Steph?" "At present, I say nothing more than I have said already," she answered coldly. "I must have time to think." CHAPTER XIII. Cummerhays, in one of the most northerly of the northern counties of England, although it considers itself to be a place of no small importance, has not the good fortune to be situated on any of the great main lines of railway; consequently, to most people it has the air of being somewhat out of the world. Of late years, however, a branch line has found it out, and has thereby enabled it to emerge from the state of semi-torpor in which it seemed destined to languish for ever. The branch line in question, of which Cummerhays is the terminus, is about twenty miles in length, and leaves the main line at Greenholm Station. About halfway between the two places, but about a couple of miles distant from the line itself, are certain important collieries, to meet the requirements of which a secondary branch has been constructed, which turns abruptly from the main branch at a point dignified with the euphonious title of Cinder Pit Junction. Here a signalman's box has been fixed, a wooden erection, standing about six feet above the ground, with an arrangement of levers inside it, for working the points and signals in connection with the traffic to and from the collieries. At the time of which we write two men were stationed at the box in question, who came on duty turn and turn about, in each case a week of day-duty alternating with one of night-duty. The cottage of one of the signalmen was about half a mile from the box, on the road leading to the collieries; while that of his "mate" was about a quarter of a mile down the road in an opposite direction. Into this second cottage, which stood by itself in a lane a little removed from the high-road, and having no habitation near it, we will venture, Asmodeus-like, to take a peep on a certain April evening. It was already dusk in the valleys, although a soft rosy light still made beautiful the tops of the distant fells. In half an hour James Maynard, the signalman, would be due at his box to take his "spell" of night-duty. His thick blue overcoat was hanging behind the door ready to put on, his wife was washing up the crockery, and Maynard himself was smoking a last after-tea pipe before leaving home. He was a well-built stalwart man, with a jet-black beard and moustache, and close-cut hair of the same colour, to which his dark-blue eyes offered a somewhat striking contrast. He had been about three months in his present situation, and among the drivers and guards who worked the traffic between the junction and the collieries he had come to be known by the sobriquet of "Gentleman Jim." It was not that he ever set himself up as being in anyway superior to or different from his mates; indeed, he was universally popular; but these grimy-faced men, who in their way are often keen observers of character, had an instinctive feeling that, although necessity might have made him one of them to outward seeming, he was not so in reality, and that at some anterior time his position in life must have been widely different from that which he now occupied. But genial and good-natured though "Gentleman Jim" might be, he was a man who brooked no questioning, and no one thereabouts knew more about him than he chose to divulge of his own accord. Maynard and his wife had been chatting pleasantly together. Suddenly the latter laid a hand on her husband's arm to bespeak his attention. "What is it?" he asked. "I heard nothing." "There was a noise of wheels a moment ago, and now it has ceased. It sounded as if some vehicle had stopped suddenly at the end of the lane. Do you remain in the background, dear, while I go and ascertain whether any one is there." She opened the door and went out quickly. There was still light enough in the valley to see objects a considerable distance away. One side of the lane in which the cottage was built was bounded by a high bank. Up this Mrs. Maynard now clambered, assisted by the branch of a tree; she knew that from the top of it she could see not only the lane, but a considerable stretch of high-road on either hand. After gazing for a moment or two, she leaped lightly down and ran back to the cottage. "A carriage with two horses is standing at the corner of the lane," she said to her husband. "A lady has got out of it, and is coming towards the cottage, and--oh, my dear--I'm nearly sure it's Lady Fanny Dwyer." "Lady Fan! Well, I shall be very glad to see her. No doubt she is visiting at Seaton Park; and as she knows we are living in the neighbourhood, she must have made inquiries and discovered our whereabouts." "I hope she has not made her inquiries in such a way as to arouse any suspicion that we are at all different from what we seem to be?" "I think you may trust Lady Fan for that. She generally knows pretty well what she is about.--But had you not better go and meet her?" Clara hurried to the door; but as she opened it, Lady Fan appeared on the threshold. She looked a little white and scared, adventures with a spice of risk or romance in them not being in her usual line. Making a step forward and grasping Clara's hand, she said in a whisper: "Is it safe to speak aloud? Is there any one but yourselves to hear me?" Reassured on this point, Lady Fan threw herself into her friend's arms and burst into tears, holding out a hand to Gerald as she did so. "I can't talk to either of you till I have had my cry," she said between her sobs. "What a wicked, wicked world this is!" She grew calmer in a little while, and sat down close to Clara, holding a hand of the latter while she talked. Here it may be remarked that it was through the influence of Lady Fan's husband that Gerald Brooke had obtained his present situation as signalman at Cinder Pit Junction. The mode of life was of his own choosing. He wanted something to do that would take him out of himself as much as possible, and while not entirely isolating him from his fellow-men, would not bring him into contact with too great a number of them. In this out-of-the-way valley among the fells and moors, if anywhere, shelter and safety might surely be found. "O my dear, my dear," cried Lady Fan as she dried her eyes and looked round her, "and has it really come to this, that this dreadful poky little hole of a place is your home--the only home that you have!" "It is not a dreadful little hole by any means, dear Lady Fanny," answered Gerald with a smile. "It, is a substantial well-built cottage of four rooms--quite large enough for a family without encumbrances. You don't know how snug and comfortable we are in it. Economy of space is not half enough considered in a small world like ours." "I am glad you keep up your spirits," retorted her ladyship; "though how you contrive to do so under such circumstances is a mystery to me." "We have really and truly been very comfortable since we came here," answered Clara. "I have conceived quite an affection for our little house, and somehow, I hardly know why, I feel as if we were safer here than elsewhere. Probably it is the loneliness of the place that gives one this feeling of security; and then the air that blows down from the moors is so pure and invigorating that both Gerald and I feel as if we were growing young again." "Oh, of course you try to make the best of everything--it's just your aggravating way," retorted Lady Fan. "But if I were in your place, I should fret and fume and worry, and make myself and everybody about me as miserable as possible. That would be my way." "I don't believe it," answered Gerald with a laugh. "You don't know how many unsuspected qualities you possess that go towards making a capital poor man's wife." Lady Fan shrugged her shoulders. "And so you, Gerald Brooke, the owner of Beechley Towers, are living here as a common railway signalman," she said; "finding your companions among a lot of engine-drivers and--shunters, don't they call them?--and grimy people of that kind. What is the world coming to!" "My companions may be grimy, as you say; but I can assure your ladyship that they are a very hard-working, good-hearted, decently behaved set of fellows, and that among them is more than one of whose friendship any man might be proud. And I can further assure you, Lady Fanny, that I am quite satisfied with my mode of life--for the present and till brighter days return, if they ever will return. And that reminds me that I have had no opportunity of thanking Dwyer for the trouble he must have been put to in procuring me my present situation. Is he here with you?" "Oh dear, no. His last letter was dated from Cairo; where his next will be dated from, goodness only knows." "Well, I hope you won't forget to thank him for me when next you write." "By the way, how did you succeed in finding us out?" asked Clara. "To tell you the truth, my dear, one of my chief objects in accepting an invitation to Seaton Park was the hope of seeing you and your good-for-nothing signalman. I knew you were living close by, but not exactly where. I also knew that you were passing under the name of Maynard. Accordingly, I set my maid to work to make certain inquiries, telling her a white fib in order to stifle any curiosity she might feel in the matter; in fact, my dear Clara, I gave her to understand that before your marriage you had been in my service, and that I was desirous of ascertaining how you were getting on in life. It was the most likely tale I could think of, and I've no doubt it answered its purpose; anyhow, this morning Simpkins brought me your address, and here I am." "How it brings back the memory of old times to see you and hear your voice!" said Clara. "It seems years since I left the Towers, although it is only a few short months ago. I am often back there in my dreams." Lady Fan squeezed her friend's hand in silent sympathy. Then she said: "By-the-by, what has become of darling, quaint Miss Primby? I hope she is quite well?" "She has gone to stay for a time with some friends in Devon. This place was too bleak for her during the winter months; but now the spring is here, she will be back with us again before long." "You talk as if you were likely to remain here for ever and a day," answered Lady Fan. "And that reminds me that I have done to-day as our sex are said to do habitually with their postscripts--that is, I have left mentioning till the last the most important of the reasons which brought me here. Algy, in the last letter I had from him, charged me to either see or communicate with you as early as possible, and tell you from him that his banker is at your service for any amount you choose to draw upon him. He has a lot of money lying idle, and would only be too glad if you would favour him by making use of it." "Dwyer is a noble-hearted fellow, I know, but"---- "But me no buts," broke in her impetuous ladyship. "There is no reason why you should not end this mean and sordid way of life at once. There are plenty of charming nooks on the Continent where you and Clara might live with everything nice about you while waiting for better days; and really you would be doing Algy a great kindness at the same time." But this was a point on which Gerald was not to be moved. He combated Lady Fanny in almost the same terms that he had combated Karovsky when the Russian had made him an almost identical offer. He would never leave England, he said--on that he was determined--till the mystery that enshrouded Von Rosenberg's death should be cleared up and his own fair fame vindicated before the world. There was within him a hidden faith that, like an altar flame, sometimes burnt high and anon died down to a mere spark, but was never altogether extinguished, that one day his long waiting would be rewarded. Lady Fan fumed and lost her temper, and then recovered it again with equal facility, but in nowise shook Gerald from his purpose. The striking of the hour startled them both. "Eight o'clock and Sir William's horses waiting for me all this time!" exclaimed Lady Fan. "And I'm a quarter of an hour late," said Gerald to his wife. "Lucas will begin to think something has happened to me." Lady Fanny's last words to her friend were: "To-day is Tuesday. I'll come again on Thursday, when we will have a good long talk together, by which time I hope that obstinate and wrongheaded husband of yours will have come to his senses." Gerald Brooke had kissed his wife and had gone off to his duty at the signal-box, leaving her alone in the cottage. But not long would she be left in solitude. Margery, who had gone to Overbarrow, a village about two miles away, to purchase some groceries, would be back in a little while. But half an hour passed after her husband's departure without bringing Margery, and Clara began to grow seriously uneasy. Never had she been so late before. When the clock struck nine and still the girl had not come, Clara could contain herself no longer. Putting on her bonnet and shawl and locking the door, she hurried down the lane, and turning into the high-road in a direction opposite that which led to the railway, she went quickly forward along the way by which she knew Margery must come. The night was dark and moonless, but the stairs shone clearly, and by their faint light Clara could just discern the black outlines of the hedge which bounded the road, and thereby keep herself to the line of narrow turf-bordered footway which ran by its side. She had not gone more than a quarter of a mile when her heart gave a throb of relief. She heard footsteps advancing towards her, and her fine ear recognised them as those of Margery, even while the latter was some distance away. "Is that you, Margery?" she called, so that the girl might not be startled by coming suddenly upon her in the dark. A moment later they had met. Margery had been hurrying home at such a rate as to be nearly breathless. "O mum, he's here! I've seen him, and heard him speak," were the girl's first incoherent words. "Who is it that you have seen and heard?" "Muster Crofton, mum--Muster Geril's cousin--him as the Frenchy tied up in his chair." "George Crofton here!" murmured Clara, her heart seeming to turn to ice as she spoke. "Surely, surely, Margery, you must be mistaken." "I only wish I was, mistress," responded the girl fervently; "but he only need speak for me to pick him out of a thousand men in the dark. Besides, I saw his face with the cut in his lip and his teeth showing through." For a little while Clara was so dazed and overcome that she could neither speak nor act. In that first shock her mind had room for one thought and one only: George Crofton was on the track of her husband! No other purpose could have brought him to this out-of-the-world place. Gerald must be warned and at once; but first she must hear all that the girl had to tell. She had turned mechanically, and was now retracing her way to the cottage. "I suppose Mr. Crofton saw you at the same moment you saw him?" she said anxiously. "I saw him, but he never set eyes on me." "How could that happen?" "I'll tell you all about it, mum. I had got my groceries and had left the village and was coming along pretty fast, 'cos I was a bit late, when just as I was getting near the end of a lane I hears two men coming along it talking to one another. I was not a bit a-feared; but still I thought I might as well keep out of their sight; so just before they turned out of the lane, I slipped into the dry ditch that runs along the hedge-bottom and crouched down. They passed me without seeing me, still talking, and then I knowed at once that one of 'em was Muster Crofton. 'We are before our time,' says he to the other one; 'we shall have nearly an hour to wait.' Then says the other: 'Better be afore our time than after it.' After going a bit up the road, they crossed it, and passing through a stile, got into the fields, I making bold to skulk after 'em, first taking off my shoes so as they shouldn't hear me. On they went, I following, till they came to a hollow where there's a lot of trees, and in the middle of the trees a little house that seems, as well as I could make out, as if somebody had pulled it half to bits and then left off. When they were well inside, I followed on tiptoe; and then I heard one of 'em strike a match, and then I saw a light through the broken shutter of a little window. Going up to the window, I peeped in. Two lanterns had been lighted, and by the light of one of 'em I could see Muster Crofton's face quite plain. I couldn't make out much of what they talked about, only that they were waiting for somebody, and once the other man said: 'We shall be quite time enough if we leave here by half-past ten.' Then Muster Crofton, he swore, and said that he never could a-bear waiting." "Did you hear them mention your master's name?" asked Clara anxiously. "No, mum, not once." Clara was puzzled. To her wifely fears it seemed impossible that Crofton's presence should not bode danger to her husband. It was almost incredible that he should be there unless he were on the track of Gerald. Yet, on the other hand, what could be the nature of the business which took him at that late hour to a ruined cottage buried among trees? It almost looked as if he were concerned in some dark and nefarious scheme of his own. Suddenly a fresh thought struck her, and as it did so she came to an abrupt halt. "Margery," she said, "you shall show me the way back to the cottage among the trees. I will go and endeavour to find out for myself what it is that has brought Mr. Crofton so far away from home. Come." "O mistress!" said Margery with a gasp. It was her only protest: with her to hear was to obey. CHAPTER XIV. Varley's Cottage, which place George Crofton and his confederates had fixed upon as their rendezvous, was a spot of ill repute for miles around, and one which no inhabitant of the district would willingly go near by day, much less after dark. A grim tragedy centred round the spot. Some quarter of a century previously the cottage had been the home of a certain gamekeeper, Varley by name, who had made himself specially obnoxious to the poachers of the district. One night he was shot dead on his own threshold and his cottage fired in two places. The crime was never brought home to any one, neither was the cottage ever rebuilt. But of all this neither Clara Brooke nor Margery, being newcomers in the neighbourhood, knew anything. The elder woman hurried feverishly onward, the younger leading the way. Scarcely a word passed between them. Presently they reached the stile through which Margery had followed the two men, and crossing it, took a winding footway through the fields. They went swiftly and silently, walking not on the path itself but on the soft grass which bordered it. Not a creature did they see or hear, and before long the path began to dip to a hollow, then came some straggling patches of brushwood, and presently they were in the spinney itself, with trees and a thick undergrowth on both sides of them. Margery led the way as by a sort of instinct, only pausing for a second now and again to listen. To Clara, the adventure, with its darkness, its silence, and its mystery, had all the complexion of a nightmare. Again and again she had to ask herself whether it were indeed a reality. "We are nearly there now, mum," said Margery presently in a whisper. "Do you wait here among the trees, while I creep forward and try and find out what they be about." So saying, the girl stole forward, and was at once lost to view. The young wife waited with a heart that beat high and anxiously. The moments seemed terribly long till Margery returned, although in reality she was not more than three or four minutes away. Clara trembled so much that she could not speak. "There's four of 'em now, mum," said the girl. "I could see them quite plain through the crack in the shutter, and from what I could make out, there's more to come. O mistress, I wouldn't go near 'em if I was you; they're a desperate bad lot, and if they found you there, nobody can tell what might happen." Of a truth, Clara might well hesitate, and it was only the thought that some new and unforeseen danger might possibly at that very moment be closing like a net round the husband she loved so devotedly that nerved her to the task she had set herself to do. "Margery," she said after a brief silence, "where you can go with safety I can surely go. I must see and listen to these men for myself.--Now, attend to this. Should I be discovered by them, or should anything happen to me, you will fly as for your life and warn your master." "I understands, mum, never fear," was the girl's earnest response. Then the two crept together through the trees, almost as silent as the shadows of which they seemed to form a part, and presently Clara found herself under the walls of the ruined cottage. Margery guided her to where a rickety shutter still guarded a small square window, from which, however, the glass had long since disappeared. Through a chink in this, the interior of the room, such as it was, was plainly discernible. Two old-fashioned lanterns threw a dim weird light over the scene. Clara's eyes sought instinctively for the face of Crofton before taking any note of the others; it may be that some faint hope had all along lingered in her breast that Margery had been mistaken. But if that were so, the hope at once died out. George Crofton himself was before her. He was the only one of the party that was seated, and his seat consisted of nothing more than a pile of loose bricks, with part of the stone shelf of the mantel-piece laid across them. He was smoking, as were also two of the others, and seemed deep in thought. The rest of the party were utter strangers to Clara; they talked in low tones among themselves, and, much to her surprise, she saw that one of them was in the garb of a clergyman. Scarcely had Mrs. Brooke noted these things, when a low whistle sounded from somewhere outside. Crofton sprang to his feet, and all were instantly on the alert. The whistle was answered by another from within, and then one of the men left the cottage carrying a lantern. Clara and Margery sank noiselessly back into the undergrowth of bush and bramble by which the cottage on three sides was surrounded. When, two or three minutes later, Clara ventured to resume her post of observation at the window, she found that the party inside had been augmented by two fresh arrivals. The men had now grouped themselves round Crofton in various attitudes of attention, listening to the instructions he was evidently impressing upon them. Whatever the objects of this strange company might be, there could be little doubt that George Crofton was the leader of it. One man, who bent forward a little, had made an ear-trumpet of his hand, and it might be for his benefit that Crofton now pitched his voice in a higher key than he had previously done. Clara hardly breathed as she strained her senses to catch the words that fell from his lips. What she heard, gradually piecing the plot together in her own mind as Crofton issued his final orders to the men, was enough to blanch the heart of any woman with terror and dismay. The train to Cummerhays was to be attacked and robbed; some great treasure--Clara could not make out of what nature--was to travel by it to-night, which these desperadoes had determined on making their own. As a preliminary step, the signalman at Cinder Pit Junction was to be seized, bound, and gagged, his box taken possession of, and the telegraph wires cut. A member of the gang who answered to the name of Slinkey, and who understood the manipulation of points and signals, would install himself in the box. Then, when the train came up on its way to Cummerhays, passing the box at a speed of about twenty miles an hour, by a reversal of the points it was to be turned by Slinkey on to the branch leading to the collieries. As a matter of course, the driver would bring his train to a stand as speedily as possible, and then would come the opportunity of the gang. It was well known that, except at holiday times, passengers and officials together by this train rarely numbered half a score people. It would be strange if half-a-dozen desperate men, armed with revolvers, could not so far intimidate the driver, the guard, and a few sleepy passengers as to have the whole train at their mercy. Five minutes would suffice to successfully achieve the object they had in view, after which the train might go on its way again as if nothing had happened. Such were the chief features of this audacious scheme, as gathered by Clara from Crofton's instructions to the others. Of course, each man had known beforehand what he was expected to do, and what passed at the cottage was merely a sort of final rehearsal of the scene that was to follow. Crofton now looked at his watch and announced that it was time to start. The lanterns were extinguished, and the men filed silently out of the cottage, half of them taking one road and half another. Clara and Margery had but just time to draw their shawls over their heads and crouch on their knees amid the brushwood, when three of the men passed within as many yards of them. When all was silent again, they stood up. Never on any previous occasion when danger threatened her husband had Clara felt so utterly helpless as she did now. What could she, one weak woman, do to confound the machinations of six armed and desperate men? "O Margery," she cried, seizing both the girl's hands in the extremity of her distress, "there seems no help either in heaven or on earth. We are lost--lost!" The faithful girl could only kiss with a sob the hands that held her own. "What be they going to do, mistress?" she asked a moment or two later. She had not been able to see and hear what had passed in the cottage, as Clara had done. "They are going to seize and bind your master, and then they are going to stop and rob the train. O Margery, if there was but some way by which the train could be warned in time! Think, think; is there nothing we can do?" "Why, o' course there is, mum," answered the girl with one of her uncanny chuckles. "You just let me run home as fast as my legs'll carry me and get three or four singles--them things, you know, that Muster Geril used to fasten on the rails when the fog was bad in winter. I know how to fasten them, 'cos I watched Muster Geril do it one day when I took him some to the box. Then I'll take the short cut across the fields to where the line turns sharp round more'n half a mile away from the box, and I'll fix the singles there.--But what am I to tell the driver, mum, when he stops the train?" "Tell him there are half-a-dozen men with revolvers who are going to stop and rob the train, just beyond your master's box. After that, he will know what it will be best to do." She could have flung her arms round Margery's neck and kissed her, such a weight had the girl's words lifted off her heart. "But what about pore Muster Geril, mum?" urged Margery. Ah, what indeed! Clara shivered as though an icy wind had struck her. She had not failed to notice that her husband had never been mentioned by name by Crofton, who had spoken of him to the others as though he were an utter stranger. Could it be possible he was unaware that Gerald filled the position of signalman at Cinder Pit Junction. It was possible, but by no means probable; but in that faint chance lay her only hope of her husband's safety. In that case, should he and Crofton not encounter each other, the rest of the gang would merely regard Gerald in the light of an ordinary railway servant; and although he might chance to be assailed and maltreated by them, that would be but a minor evil in comparison with the other, and one which an hour or two at the most would set right. These thoughts passed through her mind far more rapidly than she could have given them utterance in words. The only question now was, had she time to warn her husband before the attack took place? The gang were on their way already: could she overtake them, pass them unseen, and reach the signal-box before they did? The chance was a desperate one, but she must attempt it--no other course was open to her. "Come!" she said, grasping Margery by the hand. "Let us hurry--let us hasten! While you go and fix the signals, I will go and warn your master, only pray heaven I may not be too late!" With scarcely a word more they sped swiftly back along the starlit fields; but when they reached the stile, Clara said: "Is there no nearer way to the signal-box than going round to it by the high-road?" "There's a way through the fields, that cuts off a big corner. I've walked it onst; but I dunno, mum, as you could find it in the dark." "I must try," answered Clara desperately. Every second was precious. The near cut in question was through a second stile somewhat farther on. At this point, after a few last words, the two parted, each going a separate way. Clara's way led her through more fields; but the track was so faint that she was utterly unable to distinguish it, and had to trust to her vague local knowledge that she was going in the right direction. In a little while she surmounted a rising ground, and then, to her utter dismay, she saw, from the position of the signal lamps in the valley below, that she had wandered a full quarter of a mile too far to the right of them. It was a thousand chances to one now that Crofton and his crew would be there before her. Anguish lent wings to her feet, and she flew down the slope like a creature pursued by the Furies. She could see the lighted window of the signal-box shining in the distance, a faint yellow disc. The next thing she knew was that she had reached the boundary of the line, but at a point still some distance from the box. It now became needful to exercise more caution than she had hitherto done, lest she should be seen by any of the gang, who were doubtless somewhere near at hand. The line at this point was bounded by a wooden fencing put up to prevent the straying of cattle, close to which, on the field-side, grew a thin straggling hedge. Under the shelter of this hedge Clara now stole softly and cautiously forward, with eyes and ears preternaturally on the alert. Step by step she drew nearer without being disturbed by a sight or a sound, till at length she faced the box with its lighted window where it stood on the opposite side of the line. Then with a heart, the pulsing of which sounded like a low drumming in her ears, she parted the bushes and peered through. For a moment or two a mist dimmed her eyes, and all she could discern was that there was some one inside the box. Then the mist cleared away, and she saw that the man standing there with one hand resting on a lever was not her husband, but the man Slinkey, whose sinister face she had seen through the broken shutter. Gerald was nowhere to be seen. She had come too late! CHAPTER XV. Gerald Brooke having relieved his "mate" Lucas at the signal-box, and having satisfied himself that his lamps were properly trimmed and set for the night, sat down in his box to read. The night duties at Cinder Pit Junction were not of a very onerous nature. The last passenger train from Cummerhays, which also carried the mail, passed at eight-thirty; and the last train to that place till the arrival of the morning mail, at a few minutes past ten o'clock. In the course of the night two or three trains of mixed merchandise and minerals passed through without stopping, and these, together with a train from the collieries bound for the South, comprised the whole of the nocturnal traffic. Thus it fell out that Gerald had plenty of spare time on his hands, and always brought a volume with him to help to while the long dark hours away. The signal-box, the entrance to which was reached by a flight of eight or nine steps, stood on a small space of cleared ground by the side of the line. A little way back was a low embankment crowned by a hedge, overshadowed here and there by an umbrageous beech or elm, beyond which the open fields stretched far and wide. Few places could be more solitary and deserted; not a house, not a habitation of any kind was within ken; but by day a haze of smoke in the distance told of life and labour not far away. The last train from Cummerhays had passed more than an hour ago, the next one would be the train going the reverse way. Gerald sat reading, but with his ear on the alert for the ting of the telegraph bell which should tell him when the coming train had passed Mellingfield, the nearest station south, five miles away. All at once he was startled by the sound of some one coughing, evidently just outside his box. It was a sound so unexpected and surprising in that lonely spot and at that hour of the night, that he sprang to his feet, while his nerves began to flutter strangely. Next moment there came a loud rapping at the door, as it might be with the handle of a walking-stick. Gerald opened the door at once; and then he saw a portly middle-aged man dressed in black, with a white cravat and spectacles--to all appearance a clergyman--standing at the foot of the steps and gazing blandly up at him. "My good man," said the stranger in unctuous but well-bred accents, "I am a stranger in these parts, and am sorry to say that I have lost my way. I want to get to a friend's house at Overbarrow; no doubt you can put me in the right road for doing so?" You must cross the line"--began Gerald. "My good man," interrupted the stranger, "I am somewhat deaf, and cannot hear what you say. I wish you would be good enough to come a little nearer. With my defective eyesight, I dare not trust myself up these steps of yours." Gerald stepped down without hesitation. "You must cross the line," he began again in a somewhat louder key, "and about twenty yards farther on you will find a gap in the hedge." "Yes, yes--a gap in the hedge; I understand," responded the other eagerly. "And after that you will find a footpath which will bring you to the high-road. Then"---- Not a word more spoke Gerald. A soft heavy cloth of some kind was suddenly thrown over his head, while at the same instant his arms were pinioned firmly from behind, and a cord with a running noose was drawn tightly round his legs. The attack was so sudden that he was powerless to make the least resistance, and in less than half-a-dozen seconds he found himself as helpless as a babe. Then a corner of the cloth that enveloped his head was raised and the sham parson said in his most oily tones: "My friend, if you have any regard for your life you will neither cry out nor attempt to make the least disturbance. Be obedient and good, and no harm shall befall you." As if to add emphasis to the warning, Gerald was lightly rapped on the knuckles with what he could feel to be the chilly barrel of a pistol. Then with a man on each side of him holding him by an arm, he was conducted to the background; and having been planted with his back to a tree, he was bound firmly to it with several folds of thin cord. The cloth which still enveloped his head was fastened loosely round his throat, so as not greatly to impede his breathing; but his voice would have been smothered in it had he even been in a position to call for help. He had no means of ascertaining the number of his assailants, but as far as he could judge there must have been three or four of them. He was lost in a maze of the wildest conjectures as to what the object of the attack could possibly be. Apparently none of the gang had recognised him as Gerald Brooke, the man for whose capture so large a reward was still unclaimed. Yet why, then, had they made him a prisoner? What object was to be gained by his capture? Never in his life had he felt so utterly perplexed. He could hear an eager conversation going on a little distance away; but all sounds now came dull and muffled to his ears. As already stated, the gang had previously separated into two parties. Three of the men, at the head of whom was Crofton, had made their way down the branch to a point close to where, as nearly as they could judge, the driver of the train would be able to pull up as soon as he found himself on the wrong line of rails. The other three men, with the sham parson as their chief, had been detailed for the capture of the signalman, the result of which we have seen. After a little talk together, one of the three now started off down the branch to carry the news to Crofton and the others. Slinkey at once took possession of the box, and proceeded to test the working of the various levers, in order that there might be no hitch when the critical moment should arrive. He was an ex-railway servant and thoroughly understood what he was now about. The sham parson was known familiarly among the "profession" which his eminent talents adorned under the pseudonym of "Lardy Bill," a title conferred upon him in the first instance by reason of his fondness for swell clothes, flash jewelry, and scented pocket-handkerchiefs. He was one of the most clever and unscrupulous rogues of which the great Babylon could boast; but it is pleasant to be able to record that despite his cleverness, a considerable portion of his knavish existence had already been passed in an enforced seclusion where board and lodging had been provided him free of charge. His appearance was eminently in his favour. He was a well-built, ruddy-cheeked man, with a moist and humorous eye, and a sort of hail-fellow-well-met air. He had the suggestion of a man who could tell a good story and appreciate a good glass of wine. He looked equally at home when made up as a clergyman, a gentleman farmer, a staid City magnate, or a poor tradesman who had fallen upon evil days. He had always _les larmes dans le voix_ at command when the occasion needed them, and he could choke a sob in his throat as cleverly as any low comedian on the stage. As soon as the two men were left alone, with their prisoner in the background, Lardy Bill lighted a cigarette--he liked to follow the fashion in everything--and began to stroll up and down the narrow clearing on which the box was built. Slinkey was too nervous to follow his companion's example. "As I calkilate," he said, "we ought to have had the signal from Mellingfield three minutes afore now. Can anything have happened?" "Pooh, man--what is likely to have happened?" said the other coolly. "These beggarly branch trains are nearly always late." Half a minute later they heard the welcome ting-ting announcing that the train had just passed Melling field. "She'll be twelve minutes or more yet afore she's here," remarked Slinkey as he again ascended the steps and entered the box. Presently Lardy Bill tossed away the end of his cigarette, and crossing to his prisoner, examined his bonds and satisfied himself that they were still intact. On going back to the box he was rejoined by Slinkey, who now proceeded to go down on one knee and rest his ear on the rail. "She's coming; I can hear her quite plain," he said after a few moments. "Another five minutes and she ought to be here." "Then I'll hurry off to the others," said Lardy. "I shall be wanted there when the shindy comes off, and you'll manage here by yourself all right." "Right you are," responded the other. "As soon as ever the train's past, I shall cut the wires, and then make a bolt of it, and wait for you fellows at the cottage." Nothing more was said. Lardy Bill started at a quick pace down the branch, while Slinkey re-entered the box. Neither of them had the slightest suspicion that for the last ten minutes or more all their actions had been watched by an unseen witness; but such was the case. When Clara Brooke, to her intense dismay, discovered that not her husband, but a stranger, was the occupant of the box, she felt for a little while as if her heart must die within her. Then she became aware of two dusky figures standing a little distance away, whom she rightly concluded to be other members of the gang; but still her husband was nowhere to be seen. She had arrived on the spot almost immediately after Gerald had been bound to the tree; but the night was too dark to admit of her seeing him from that distance. She felt at once that she must get round to where the signal-box stood, on the opposite side of the line, and, if it were possible, approach near enough to the men to overhear their conversation, and by that means discover what had become of her husband. No sooner was the thought formulated in her mind than she began to put it into practice. Still keeping in the shelter of the hedge that ran parallel with the line, she sped as fast as her feet could carry her to a point some forty or fifty yards farther down the line, far enough, as she judged, to be out of the range of vision of any one who might be on the lookout at the box. Here, after drawing her shawl over her head--she had discarded her bonnet some time before--she broke through the hedge, was across the line in three seconds; and then, after pushing through the hedge on the opposite side, she turned back in the direction of the signal-box, she and it being both now on the same side of the line. Creeping forward foot by foot and yard by yard, she presently found herself a little way behind the box, and within a dozen yards of her husband, had she only been aware of it. While this was happening, one of the men had gone off to join the others down the line. Clara, peering through the interstices of the hedge, could see the two remaining men walking and talking together, but was too far away to distinguish what they said. Not long had she watched and waited when she heard the ting-ting of the telegraph bell. She knew that it was a signal of some kind, but not what its precise meaning might be. Then one of the men disappeared into the box, while the other--it was the one, she could now make out, who was dressed like a clergyman--turned, and seemed as if he were marching directly towards her. Terror-stricken, she dropped completely out of sight behind the hedge-bank, expecting every moment to feel a hand laid on her shoulder. But nothing coming, she breathed again; then her head went up till her eyes were on a level with the top of the bank; then, to her surprise, she saw that the man seemed to be carefully examining the trunk of a tree some little distance away. She strained her eyes in the endeavour to see what he could possibly be about, and then suddenly her heart gave a great bound. The trunk of the tree was defined like a faint silhouette against a background of starlit April sky, but it was a silhouette which in one portion of its outline bore a startling resemblance to a human figure. As by a flash of divination, Clara knew that it was her husband she was gazing upon. Her breath fluttered on her lips like a bird trying to escape, and she set her teeth hard in the flesh of her arm, to stifle the cry that broke involuntarily from her heart. After a few seconds the man went back; and after saying a few words to his confederate, he apparently took leave of him, and starting down the branch, was quickly lost to view; then the other at once went back into the box. Now was Clara's opportunity. Half a minute later she was by her husband's side. Laying a hand softly on his arm, she said in a low voice: "Gerald it is I--Clara." Some smothered sounds came back to her; and then she discovered, what the darkness had hitherto hidden, that her husband's head and face were closely muffled. Her trembling but skilful fingers quickly undid the knots and removed the covering. Gerald gave a great gasp of relief as he drew a deep inspiration of the cool night-air. Then he whispered: "You will find a knife in my outside pocket." In a minute from that time he was a free man. Slinkey, waiting alone in the signal-box, had tried the lever again and again by means of which the points were opened that would turn the train on to the branch, and had satisfied himself that everything was in working order. Both the distance and the home signal-lamps showed the white light, so that the train would speed on unsuspectingly with unslackened pace. Slinkey at the best of times was a nervous timid creature--a man who walked ever in trembling dread of the hand which he knew would some day be laid suddenly on his shoulder--but now that he was left alone, now that he had no longer Lardy Bill's audacious bulldog courage to help to animate his own, his craven heart sank lower and lower, and he would have given a year of his life to be well out of the adventure into which he had allowed himself to be seduced. The low deep hum of the oncoming train grew palpably on the ear. Instinctively, Slinkey's hand closed on lever No. 3, while his heart began to beat a sort of devil's tattoo after a fashion that was far from comfortable. Suddenly he gave a great start, and for a moment or more the tattoo came to a dead stop. He had heard a sound that he remembered full well: it was the noise caused by the explosion of a fog-signal. At the same instant the engine began to whistle its shrillest. Then came the explosion of a second signal, and then the whistle ceased as suddenly as it began. And now he could faintly hear the soft rhythmical pulsing of the engine, as it might be that of some antediluvian monster till it was scant of breath; and Slinkey knew that the train had slackened speed and was feeling its way forward slowly and cautiously. What could be the matter? What could have happened? By whom and with what intent had fog-signals been placed on the line on a night so clear and beautiful? Such were a few of the queries that flitted through Slinkey's puzzled brain. And now not even the faintest pulsing of the engine could be heard. Could it be possible that treachery was at work, and that the driver had been warned and the train brought to a stand? Slinkey ran lightly down the steps and, kneeling, laid an ear once more to the rails. Not a sound came to him; the train and those in charge of it might have vanished into space, so unbroken was the silence. He got on his feet again, his tongue and throat as dry and constricted as those of a man who had been athirst for days. Instinctively his eyes turned to the tree to which the captured signalman had been bound; but he was too far away to be able to discern whether the man was still there. With a heart that misgave him, he hurried up to the tree, only to find that the prisoner had escaped. The cords were there, but the man was gone. Evidently, treachery was at work somewhere. Would not the wisest thing he could do be to decamp while he had a chance of doing so? He was asking himself this question but had not answered it, when up came Crofton, Lardy Bill, and one of the other men, at double-quick time. They, too, had heard the fog-signals, and had been as much at a loss to account for them as Slinkey had been. But when the latter told them that by some mysterious means their prisoner had contrived to escape, it was evident both to Crofton and Lardy that their carefully planned scheme had met with some dire mishap. They had been betrayed, but by whom? A traitor had been at work, but who was he? Each of them stared suspiciously at his fellows. "If I only knew who it was that bad sold us," said Lardy Bill with a fierce imprecation, "I'd scatter his brains with a bullet, though I had to swing for it after!" "That's all very well," said Crofton; "but the question is, what are we to do now?" "Do!" exclaimed Lardy, whom danger always made reckless. "Why, do what we intended from the first. The train's waiting there, ain't it, not five hundred yards away? Instead of its coming to us, we must go to it--that's all. Is there any one here," he demanded fiercely, "who would rather not go?" Slinkey would fain have answered that he for one would very much prefer to keep in the background, only that Lardy Bill was a man of whom he stood in mortal fear. "Now, mates, come along," added Bill. "We are only fooling away our time standing here. One bold stroke and the prize is ours." Scarcely had the last word passed his lips, when some half-dozen dark-coated figures burst suddenly through the hedge and made a dash into the midst of the gang. "We are sold!" screamed Crofton with an oath. "Every man for himself;" and with that he fired his revolver at the nearest of his assailants and then turned to flee. But he was too late. He was tripped up, seized, and handcuffed all in a breath as it seemed. A like fate befell Slinkey and the other man; but Lardy Bill, slippery as an eel, after felling two of his assailants, vanished in the darkness. The remaining two men, who had been left behind when Crofton and the others hurried to the signal-box, also contrived to escape. Crofton's shot had taken effect. The man he fired at staggered forward a pace or two and then fell on one knee. Now that the scrimmage was over, his companions had time to attend to him. They helped him to his feet; he was evidently suffering great pain, but was perfectly cool and collected. As the light of the bull's-eye which one of the men produced fell upon his face, Crofton, who was close at hand, staggered back with a cry of amazement Next moment he had recovered himself. "I denounce this man as Gerald Brooke," he exclaimed, "the murderer of Baron von Rosenberg, for whose capture a reward of three hundred pounds is offered." CHAPTER XVI. Never had the little town of Cummerhays been stirred to its depths as it was on a certain April morning, when it awoke to find that it had rendered itself famous after a fashion which would cause its existence to become known wherever an English newspaper penetrated. Its name would be in everybody's mouth for weeks to come. It felt that it could never again sink into utter obscurity. For the prisoners--about whose alleged attempt to rob the train all sorts of wild rumours were afloat--had after their capture been put into the train and brought on to Cummerhays, and were for the present lodged in the town jail. The magistrates would assemble at ten o'clock, when the preliminary inquiry would take place. But even a deeper interest, if that were possible, centred itself in the arrest of the alleged murderer of the Baron von Rosenberg, who was said to have actually been working as a signalman on the line for the past three or four months. It was dreadful to think that the lives of several hundreds of respectable people should have been at the mercy of such a miscreant! The town-hall was besieged by an excited crowd long before the opening of the doors, and had the justice-room been three times larger than it was, it might easily have been filled three times over. Among the foremost ranks of the surging crowd, and maintaining his position with passive tenacity, was a man on whom many curious eyes were bent. He was a foreigner--so much was evident at a glance--and that of itself was enough to excite the curiosity of the good folk of Cummerhays, many of whom had never been a score miles from home. He was very lean and very sallow, with drawn-in cheeks and sharply defined cheek-bones. He had deep-set eyes, black and burning, with something in them of the expression of a half-famished wild animal. He wore small gold circlets in his ears, and was dressed in a coat of frayed velveteen, with a soft felt hat; and a coloured silk handkerchief knotted loosely round his throat. He spoke to no one, and no one spoke to him; but now and then his lips worked strangely, as though he were holding a silent colloquy with some invisible companion. He was the one man in the crowd who was the least incommoded by the crowd. Those nearest to him shrank a little from him, involuntarily as it were. He was a being of a different world from theirs, and they knew not what to make of him. Jules Picot--for he it was--had arrived in Cummerhays at a late hour the preceding night, having walked there from another town about a dozen miles away. By what strange chance his wandering footsteps had brought him by many devious paths to this place of all others, and at this particular time, will be told a little later on. He had hired a bed for the night at the _Wheatsheaf Inn_, a cheap and unpretentious hostelry. He was up and had ordered his breakfast by eight o'clock next morning, and it was while waiting for that meal to be brought him that his attention was attracted by some conversation in the taproom which he could not help overhearing. The pallor of his face grew deeper as he listened; but whatever other emotion the change might arise from, it certainly had not its origin in fear. "Soh! It is for this that I have been brought here," he muttered, half to himself and half aloud, in French. "Now I understand." Going into the taproom, he put a few questions to the men to whose talk he had been listening. Having ascertained what he wanted to know, he left the house without waiting for his breakfast, and bent his steps in the direction of the town-hall. At a quarter to ten o'clock, when the doors were thrown open, Jules Picot was one of the first to push his way forward, or to be pushed forward by those behind him, into the small penned-up space allotted in the justice-room of Cummerhays to the general public. In three minutes the place was crannied to its utmost limits. A few minutes after ten, the magistrates entered one by one and took their seats, their clerk having preceded them by a few seconds. They were three in number, all venerable gentlemen. One was partially blind; one partially deaf; while the third, who had a very red face and took the lead in everything, was quick-tempered and aggressive in his manner. There were two cases of drunkenness and one of theft to be disposed of before the great sensation of the day would begin. Everybody seemed relieved when they were over; and presently a flutter of intense excitement ran through the court as three men, in charge of as many constables, filed in and were placed in the dock. Then, after a brief pause, a fourth man was ushered in whose left arm was supported by a sling, and a murmur ran round that this was the alleged murderer of the German Baron. A moment later another door opened, and there glided in a female in black, closely veiled, who sat down on a chair in the background which one of the officials handed her with a bow. The prisoner with his arm in a sling was also allowed to be seated a little way from the dock in which the other men had been placed. When the mountebank beheld Gerald Brooke, whom he still knew only by the name of "Mr. Stewart," marched in as a prisoner, and when he saw, and his quick eyes recognised, the veiled figure in black who entered immediately afterwards, he was seized with a vertigo, which caused the room, the magistrates, and the prisoners to surge up and down before his eyes as though they were being tempest-tossed at sea. "Mon Dieu! est-il possible?" he exclaimed half aloud. Then he buried his face in his hands for a time, while a cloud seemed to lift itself slowly from his brain, and much became clear to him that had been dark before. The charge against the first three prisoners was one of assault and attempted robbery; but against one of them there was a supplementary charge of attempted murder. That against the fourth prisoner was the much more serious charge of murder. But from what the magistrates could understand of the case at present, this fourth prisoner was so mixed up with the charge against the other three--he being the man who had been assaulted and bound and afterwards shot by one of them--that the poor gentlemen, who had never before had to investigate a case of such gravity, or one which presented so many peculiar features, were fairly at their wits' ends to know how to deal with it from a strictly legal point of view. Thus it fell out that the whole of the prisoners found themselves in court at the same time. It was now, however, suggested by the clerk that the prisoner on the capital charge should be put back while the examination of the others was being proceeded with. This suggestion was at once acted upon. After the remaining prisoners had answered to the names entered on the charge-sheet, the first witness was called, but not till the red-faced magistrate had intimated that he and his colleagues only intended to take sufficient evidence that day to justify a remand. The first witness proved to be Mr. Sturgess, a London jeweller. His evidence went to show that, accompanied by a trustworthy assistant, he had left home the previous day on his way to Lord Leamington's seat, a few miles beyond Cummerhays, having in his charge a box containing jewelry to the value of several thousands of pounds. All had gone well till he reached Greenholme, at which place he had to wait an hour and change to the branch line; but on his arrival there, he had found a telegram awaiting him from his partner in London in which he was told on no account to pursue his journey without first obtaining an escort of four or five constables. No reason was furnished by the telegram for taking such extraordinary precautions and he could only surmise that an attempt was about to be made to rob him of the box, and that by some means his partner at the last moment had obtained wind of the affair. Fortunately, through the courtesy of the police authorities at Greenholme he experienced no difficulty in obtaining the required escort, and under its protection he resumed his journey by the next train. The next witness to answer to his name was the driver of the train, who deposed to everything having gone right till he was just inside the distance signal of Cinder Pit Junction, which showed "line clear," when he and his mate were startled by the explosion of a fog-signal. He at once whistled and put on all the brake-power at his command, and could not have gone more than forty or fifty yards farther before a second signal exploded; and then he could just make out the figure of a woman standing on the embankment and beating the air with both her arms as a sign for him to stop, which, as the brakes were on already, he was not long in doing. After that, the police took charge of the affair, and he did just as they told him. The next witness called was Margery Shook. She had been sitting out of sight behind a large screen which sheltered their worships from any possible draughts at the lower end of the room. As she entered the witness-box she shot a glance of venomous hatred towards Crofton, which would have killed him then and there if looks had power to slay. The nature of the evidence she had to give we know already. More than once her peculiar phraseology caused a titter to run through the court, which was, however, promptly suppresed. Clara Brooke was the next person called upon. As she raised her veil her eyes met those of Crofton for a moment, while a faint colour suffused her cheeks, only to die out as quickly as it had come. A low murmur of commiseration passed like a sigh through the court; and the eyes of many there filled with tears when they beheld her pale beautiful face, for it had been whispered about that this was the wife of the man who was accused of murder. The evidence she had to offer was given clearly and unhesitatingly; with the purport of it we are sufficiently acquainted already. When she had told all she had to tell, she let her veil drop and went back to the seat she had occupied before. The next and last witness whose evidence it was proposed to take at present was the Greenholme sergeant of police. He told how he had been instructed by his superintendent to take four men and accompany the gentleman from London as far as Cummerhays. Then he narrated how the train had come to a stand in consequence of the explosions of the fog-signals; and how, when he and his men alighted from it, they had found the witness Margery Shook, who gave them to understand that the train was about to be attacked a little way farther on. How the girl had scarcely finished telling them this when up ran the signalman, who had been released by his wife; and how, under his guidance, he, witness, and his men had succeeded in surprising the would-be thieves and in capturing three of their number; and finally, how the signalman had been severely wounded by Crofton, one of the prisoners, firing his revolver point-blank at him. "You have omitted one little episode," said Crofton in cold measured tones as the sergeant was about to step down from the witness-box; "you have forgotten to tell these worthy gentlemen that it was I who recognised the so-called signalman as Gerald Brooke, the man charged with the wilful murder of the Baron von Rosenberg, and that I denounced him as such then and there." "That is so, your worships," said the sergeant. "We quite understand that already," remarked the red-faced magistrate; "but it is a point on which we need not enter at present, more especially seeing that the prisoner in question has already admitted that his name is Gerald Brooke, and that he is in point of fact the man for whose apprehension a reward of three hundred pounds is still unclaimed." With that the magistrates laid their heads together and consulted for a little while among themselves. By Picot, sitting quietly among the general public and watching everything with restless burning eyes, all these proceedings were only imperfectly understood. Why Gerald Brooke had been brought in a prisoner and almost immediately taken out again without any charge being brought against hi, was a mystery to the mountebank. Neither could he understand how "la belle madame" and "Margot," as he termed them, came to be mixed up in such a strange fashion with the prisoners at the bar, in one of whom he had at once recognised the man he had gagged and bound to his chair in the house in Pymm's Buildings. He lacked the key to the situation, and wanting that, he could only look on and listen, and feel himself becoming more bewildered after each witness that appeared on the scene. Not that he troubled himself greatly about these things; something of much deeper import lay at the back of all his wandering thoughts about this matter or the other. He had been led to that place, his footsteps had been mysteriously guided thither--he could see it all now--for a certain purpose, and that purpose, as he sat there, was never for one moment out of his mind. The magistrates having brought their brief consultation to an end, intimated that the prisoners at the bar would be remanded till the following Monday. They were at once removed; and after a brief pause, Gerald Brooke took his stand in their place. Having answered to his name in the usual way, the red-faced magistrate leaned forward a little to address him. "Gerald Brooke," he began, "you stand charged on the verdict of a coroner's jury with the wilful murder of Otto von Rosenberg, commonly called the Baron von Rosenberg, at Beaulieu, in the county of ----, on Thursday, the 28th day of June last. The crime having been committed outside the jurisdiction of this court, all we have now to do is"--- Suddenly a man with gold circlets in his ears and holding a soft felt hat in his hands stood up in the body of the court, and addressing himself directly to the magistrate, said in a voice which all there could hear "Pardonnez moi, s'il vous plaît, monsieur, but I--Jules Picot--and not the prisoner at the bar, am the man who killed Otto von Rosenberg." CHAPTER XVII. For the first few moments after Picot's startling confession had fallen like a thunderbolt among those assembled in the justice-room of Cummerhays, the silence was so intense that, to use a common phrase, a pin might have been heard to drop. Every eye was focused on the mountebank, who stood on the spot where he had risen, erect and very pale, his eyes glowing in their deep orbits like live coals, and pressing his soft felt hat with both hands to his breast. Suddenly there was a slight commotion close to where the magistrates were sitting; the strained silence was broken, and all eyes turned as with one accord. The lady in black, she who was said to be the wife of the accused man, had fainted. But Margery's strong arms had caught her ere she fell. Another woman in the body of the court at once hurried to her help, and between them the unconscious young wife was carried out. "Place that man in the dock," said the red-faced magistrate, "and allow the other prisoner to be seated." Picot stepped quietly forward of his own accord, the people near making way for him with wonderful alacrity, and placed himself on the spot the magistrate had indicated, a couple of constables stationing themselves behind him as he did so. Then the clerk put certain questions to him, which Picot answered without a moment's hesitation. When these came to an end the entry on the charge-sheet stood as follows: "Jules Picot. Age, forty-three. Native of France. Profession, acrobat. No fixed place of residence." Then the magistrate, clasping the fingers of one hand in those of the other, and resting them on the table in front of him as he leaned forward a little, said: "Jules Picot, you have confessed openly and in public to the commission of a most heinous and terrible crime. Such being the case, we have no option but to detain you in custody while inquiries are being made as to the truth or falsehood of the extraordinary statement just volunteered by you. Any further statement you may choose to make we will of course listen to; but at the same time we must caution you that anything you may say will be taken down and used as evidence against you elsewhere. Is it your wish to make any further statement, or is it not?" "Ma foi, monsieur," answered Picot, with a slight shrug, "that is what I am here for--to make what you call statements, to tell the truth, to prove that this gentleman is innocent, and that I, Jules Picot, and I alone, killed Otto von Rosenberg." He paused, and in the hush that followed, the rapid scratching of the clerk's pen as it raced over the paper was clearly audible. The pencils of the two reporters who sat in a little box below the clerk moved at a more deliberate pace. One of them even found time to make a furtive sketch of Picot on a blank page of his note-book. It was so evident the prisoner had something more to say that no one broke the silence. "Eight years ago, monsieur," he began in a low clear voice, "I had a wife, a daughter, and a son. Now I am alone. I was living in Paris. No man could have been more happy than I was. Stephanie, my daughter, had an engagement at the Cirque de l'Hiver. She was beautiful, she was good. In an evil hour she attracted the attention of the Baron von Rosenberg. He followed her everywhere; he gave her rich presents; he even went so far as to promise to make her his wife--_scélérat_ that he was! Of all this I knew nothing till afterwards. One day Stephanie does not come home. I make inquiry for her. She has fled. Von Rosenberg, too, has disappeared. They have fled together. From that day I never saw Stephanie more." Again he paused, and although there was no trace of emotion in his voice, it may be that the hidden depths of his being were profoundly moved. "A little while later, ma pauvre Marie died. She had been ill a long time; but what killed her was the loss of Stephanie. Ah yes! After that, Henri and I set out, wandering from place to place, not caring much where we went, but always looking and asking for Von Rosenberg, because I want to demand of him what has he done with my child. All at once I discover him. It was at the house of this gentleman, Monsieur Brooke. Next day they tell me that he has gone away back to his own country, and they know not when he will return. But I wait and wait while one week go away after another, and at length he comes back. I hide myself in the wood. I climb into the thick branches of a tree, and stay there hour after hour till he shall be alone. At length I see him coming down the path that leads from the house to the châlet near the wood. He whistles as he comes, and he is alone. I wait a little while, then I come down from the tree and walk up to the châlet. The Baron is standing up, examining a pistol--a pistol with inlay of ivory and gold, and with strange figures marked on it. On the table close by is a heavy riding-whip. He has not heard my footsteps. I enter, and he starts and stares. I make him a profound bow, and say: 'Bonjour, Monsieur le Baron. My name is Jules Picot, and I come to demand from you what you have done with my daughter Stephanie.' He still stares, and seems to be thinking to himself how he shall answer me. At last he says: 'I know nothing whatever of your daughter; and if I did I should decline to tell you.' 'She left Paris in your company,' I reply. 'Possibly so,' he answers with an evil sneer. 'Monsieur, I repeat that I am her father. I seek for her everywhere, but cannot find her. You, monsieur, if you choose, can give me some clue by which I may be able to trace her. Her mother is dead, and I have no other daughter. Think, monsieur--think.' He laughs a laugh that makes me long to spring at his throat and strangle him. 'I. altogether refuse to give you any information whatever about your daughter,' he says. 'How, monsieur, you refuse!' I say as I draw a step or two nearer. He has laid the pistol on the table by this time, and his fingers now shut on the handle of the riding-whip. 'Then you are a coward and a villain,' I continue; 'and I spit in your face, as I will do again and again whenever I meet you. I have found you now, and I will follow you wherever you go.' He replies only by seizing the whip, hissing it quickly through the air, and bringing it down with all his strength round my head and shoulders. Strange lights dance before my eyes; there is a noise in my ears as of falling waters. The pistol is close to my hand; I grasp it; I fire. Von Rosenberg falls without a cry or a word. I fling the pistol away and walk quietly back through the woods. As I reach the village, where my boy is awaiting me, the church clock strikes seven. The evening is that of the 28th of June." He ceased speaking as quietly and impassively as he had begun: he might have been reading something from a newspaper referring to some other man, so little apparent emotion did he display; yet his hearers felt instinctively that he was speaking the truth. "What you have just told us," said the magistrate, "will be taken down in writing; it will afterwards be read over to you, in order that you may make any additions or corrections that you may deem necessary; and you will then be asked to affix your name to the document. You will have no objection to do so, I presume?" "To write my name on the paper, is that what monsieur means?" "That is what I mean." "Certainement, monsieur, I will write my name. Why not?" "Then for the present you are remanded." Picot looked round with a puzzled air; but one of the constables touched him on the shoulder and whispered, "Come this way." He turned to obey, and as he passed Gerald the eyes of the two men met. Gerald's hand went out and gripped that of the mountebank. "O Picot!" was all his lips could utter. The mountebank stroked the back of Gerald's hand caressingly for a moment while a strangely soft smile flitted across his haggard features. "Ah, monsieur, you and la belle madame will be happy again," was all he said. Next moment he had passed out of sight. Gerald was now replaced in the dock; and one of the magistrates, addressing him, said that although, on the face of it there seemed little reason to doubt the truth of the singular narrative to which they had just listened, it would have to be confirmed by ample inquiry before it could be accepted and acted upon. Meanwhile, he regretted to say Mr. Brooke would have to remain in custody. But on the morrow, or next day at the latest, both prisoners would be transferred to King's Harold, when the amplest investigation would doubtless at once take place. With that the prisoner was removed. Before going back to his cell, Gerald was allowed to see his wife for a few minutes. The meeting was almost a silent one; words would come after a time; just now their hearts overflowed with a solemn thankfulness, the roots of which struck deeper than speech could fathom. As soon as Picot reached the cell allotted to him, he asked to be supplied with a cup of coffee, after which he lay down on his pallet with the air of a man thoroughly wearied out, and in a few minutes was fast asleep. He slept soundly till aroused some three hours later, when he was conducted to a room where he found one of the magistrates, the clerk, the governor of the jail, and two other officials. Here a paper, which had been drawn up from notes taken in the justice-room, was read over to him. After having caused it to be corrected in one or two minor particulars, he affixed his name to it; and his signature having been duly witnessed, he was reconducted to his cell. About eight o'clock, after the gas had been lighted, he asked for pen, ink, and paper, and a small table to write on. These having been supplied him, he sat and wrote, slowly and laboriously, for nearly a couple of hours, finally putting what he had written inside an envelope and sealing and directing it. Then, after having taken off his shoes and coat, he wrapped himself in the blanket which had been supplied him and lay down to sleep. The gas was lowered, and silence reigned throughout the prison. Once every hour during the night a warder went the round of the cells and peered into each of them that was occupied through a grating in the door. All through the night Picot apparently slept an unbroken sleep. When the warder visited him at one o'clock he found that he had turned over and was now lying with his face to the wall, after which he seemed never to have stirred between one visit and another. At seven o'clock another warder, who had just come on duty, went into his cell to rouse him. To his dismay, he could not succeed in doing so. He turned the unconscious man over on his back, and then the drawn, ghastly face told its own tale. "Ah," remarked the doctor, who was quickly on the spot, as he held up to the light a tiny phial only about half the size of a man's little finger and smelt at its contents, "five drops of this would kill the strongest man in three seconds." CHAPTER XVIII. Jules Picot had been carefully searched before being locked up in his cell, and it was an utter puzzle to the jail officials how he had contrived to conceal about him even so insignificant an article as the tiny phial of poison so as to evade detection. One of the warders, however, of a more inquiring turn of mind than his fellows succeeded, a day or two later, in solving the mystery. The mountebank wore very high-heeled shoes, as many of his countrymen make a practice of doing. The heel of one of his shoes had been so made that it could be unscrewed at will, while inside it was a cavity just large enough to hold the phial. Picot had evidently prepared himself beforehand for a contingency the like of that which had at length befallen him. The letter written a few hours before his death was in French, and was addressed to "Madame Brouke." The following is a translation of it: Madame--When these lines reach you, the hand that writes them will be cold in death. I am tired of life, and life is tired of me: this night we part company for ever. I take the liberty of addressing you because of your kindness to my little Henri (whom _le bon Dieu_ has seen fit to take from me for my sins), and because you were so much in his thoughts when he was dying. I also address you for another reason, which I will explain presently. It was in the first week of the new year that Henri met with the accident which proved fatal to him. He lingered for two weeks, and then died. He had but little pain; life faded out of him like a lamp that slowly expires for want of oil. As I said before, he often talked about his _belle madame_. He could not remember his mother, and it was your face that shone on him in his dreams, as it were the face of an angel. After he was gone and I was alone in the world, I, too, began to have dreams such as I had never had before. Every night Henri came and stood by my bed, but it was always with an averted face; never would he turn and look at me. I used to try to cry out, to seize his hand; but I was dumb and motionless as a corpse. Then, after a minute or two, he would slowly vanish, with bowed head and hands pressed to his face, as though he were weeping silently. Night after night it was ever the same. Then a great restlessness took possession of me. I seemed to be urged onward from place to place by some invisible power and without any will of my own. When I rose in a morning I knew not where I should sleep at night; onward, ever onward, I was compelled to go. Last night I reached this place, and this morning I rose thinking to resume my wanderings; but a conversation I chanced to overhear led me to seek the court of justice. You, madame, know what took place there. Even before I had spoken a word, I knew why my footsteps had been directed to this place, and that my wanderings were at an end. This afternoon, after all was over, I lay down on my pallet and fell asleep, and while I slumbered, Henri came to me; but this time his face was no longer averted; his eyes gazed into mine, and he smiled as he used to smile at me out of his mother's arms. Ah, how shining and beautiful he looked! Then a soft cool hand was laid on my brow, that had burned and burned for months, and all the pain went, and I knew nothing more till I awoke. A word more and I have done. Madame, pray believe me when I say that never could a man be more surprised and astounded than I, Jules Picot, was to-day when I found that it was your good husband who was accused of the death of the Baron von Rosenberg. When I made my way into the court after hearing that some one had been arrested for the murder, I thought to see only a stranger, one whom I had never seen before. But even in that case I should have done as I did to-day, and have confessed that it was by my hand and mine alone that Von Rosenberg met his death. Conceive, then, my astonishment when in the accused I recognised M. Brouke, whom I had known in London under the name of "M. Stewart!" I knew that when in London he was in trouble--in hiding--but never did I dream of the crime that was laid to his charge. Had I but known it, you and he would long ago have been made happy by the confession of him who now signs his name for the last time. Jules Picot. With what a host of conflicting emotions this document was read by her to whom it was addressed may be more readily imagined than described. George Crofton sat alone in his cell, devouring his heart in a bitterness too deep for words. All was over; all the bright prospects of his youth and early manhood had ended in this; his home for years to come would be a felon's cell, his only companions the lowest of the low, the vilest of the vile. "Facilis est descensus Averno," he muttered with a sneer. "Yes, in my case the descent has been swift and easy enough in all conscience." One gleam of lurid joy, and one only, illumined the black cavernous depths in which his thoughts, like fallen spirits, winged their way aimlessly to and fro, finding no spot whereon to rest. Gerald Brooke, the man he hated with an intensity of hatred bred only in natures such as his, was a prisoner even as he was, and it was his, Crofton's, hand that had brought him there! He had but spoken the truth when he said that the hour of his revenge would come at last. It was here now, although it had come after a fashion altogether different from what he had expected. Thanks to his folly, his own outlook was a dreary one enough; but what was it in comparison with the grim prospect that stared his hated cousin so closely in the face! When he thought of this it was as the one sweet drop in the bitter cup which Fate had pressed with such unrelenting fingers to his lips. While he sat brooding over these and other matters, just as daylight was deepening into dusk, a warder unlocked the door of his cell. "You're wanted in the waiting-room," said the man. "Your uncle, Colonel Crofton, has called to see you. It's past the hour for visitors; but as he's brought a magistrate's order, and as he says he's obliged to go back to London to-night, the governor has agreed to relax the rules for once." Crofton stared at the man in stupefaction. To the best of his belief he had no such relative in the world as the one just named. "Ah, you didn't expect to see him, I daresay," continued the warder. "A nice affable gent as ever I see; but I wouldn't keep him waiting if I was you." Crofton followed the man without a word; and after being conducted through a couple of corridors, was ushered into a sparsely furnished whitewashed room, where a middle-aged, well-built man of military carriage, who had been perusing through his eyeglass the printed rules and regulations framed over the mantel-piece, turned to greet him. He had close-cut grizzled hair and a thick drooping grizzled moustache. He wore a lightly buttoned frockcoat, gray trousers and straps, and military boots highly polished. He carried his hat and a tasselled malacca in his hand, and one corner of a bandana handkerchief protruded from his pocket behind. "My dear nephew--my dear George!" he exclaimed with much effusion as he advanced a step or two and held out his hand. "This is indeed a dreadful predicament in which to find you. What, oh, what can you have been about that I should have to seek you in a place like this! Your poor aunt will be heart-broken when she hears of it. I must break the terrible news as gently as possible; but really, really, in her delicate state of health I dread the effect such a disclosure may have upon her." His voice trembled with emotion; he brushed away a tear, or seemed to do so. George Crofton had undergone many surprises in his time, but never one that left him more dumfounded than this, for in his soi-disant uncle his quick eyes recognised at a glance no less a personage than Lardy Bill. If at the moment his eyes fell on him he had been in the least doubt of the fact, that doubt would have been dispelled by the expressive wink with which his friend favoured him an instant later. The man's audacity fairly took Crofton's breath away. "The first question, my dear boy," resumed the sham colonel, so as to give the other time to recover himself, "of course is whether anything can be done for you, and if so, what. I need not say that my purse is at your service; for, shocked as I am to find you in this place, I cannot forget that you are my brother's son. I leave for London by the first train, and immediately on my arrival I will take the advice of my own lawyers in the matter, which will, I think, be the best thing that can be done under the painful circumstances of the case." "I suppose that's about the only thing that can be done," answered Crofton, who was still utterly at a loss to divine the motive of the other's visit. The warder who had conducted Crofton from his cell was present at the interview, ostensibly for the purpose of seeing that none of the jail regulations were infringed either by the prisoner or his visitor; but a sovereign having been pressed into his unreluctant palm at the moment he ushered the latter into the waiting-room, he now discreetly turned his back on the pair and stared persistently out of the window. A little further conversation passed between uncle and nephew, the chief part of it falling to the lot of the former, then the colonel looked at his watch and rose to take his leave. The warder turned at the same instant. "As I remarked before my dear George," said the uncle as he clasped both the nephew's hands in his, "however pained--most deeply pained--I may be, everything shall be done for you that can be done. I refrain from all reproaches--at present I can only grieve. But your poor aunt, George--your poor aunt! You are her godson and favourite nephew. Ah me--oh me!" He walked out of the room with both hands outspread and slowly shaking his head, like a man whose feelings were more than he could control. The jail officials at an early hour next morning, in addition to making the discovery that in the course of the night their French prisoner had taken leave of them after an altogether illegal and unjustifiable fashion, were further astounded by finding that the inmate of cell No. 5 had also relieved them of his presence, but in a mode altogether different from that which had found favour with the mountebank. Crofton, unheard by any one, had contrived to file through the middle bar of his cell window and then to squeeze himself through the aperture thus made, after which there was nothing but a high wall between himself and liberty. Beyond this wall were some market gardens, the jail being situated in the outskirts of the town, and then the open fields. Outside the wall, a coil of rope with a strong steel hook at each end was found; and the footsteps of two if not of three men were plainly traceable for some distance in the soft mould of the garden. As to how Crofton had become possessed of the file, and by whose connivance and help he had been able to climb the wall and descend safely on the other side, there was no evidence forthcoming. The only fact the jail officials could affirm with certainty was that their prisoner was nowhere to be found. At as early an hour as possible on the morning following his capture, Crofton had obtained permission to send a telegram to his wife, and before noon Stephanie was speeding northward by the express in response to his summons. When she reached Cummerhays, it was too late for her to visit her husband that night; so, carrying her little handbag, she walked from the station to the inn nearest to it and asked to be accommodated with supper and a bed. She had ascertained from a constable in the street that the earliest hour at which visitors were admitted to the jail was ten o'clock. Next morning, which was that of Saturday, Stephanie rose betimes. While she was eating her breakfast the landlady bustled in, carrying an open newspaper. "Here's the weekly paper, ma'am," she said. "The boy has just brought it; and as it contains a long account of the doings at the justice-room yesterday, about which you may have heard, I thought that perhaps you would like to read it over your breakfast." "Thank you very much; I shall be glad to do so," said Stephanie quietly. She had given no name at the inn, and the landlady had not the slightest suspicion that her guest had any reason for being more interested than any stranger might be supposed to be in the news contained in the paper. Nor, in fact, had Stephanie any knowledge of what had happened. Her husband's telegram had been of the briefest; it had merely said: "I am in trouble. Come at once. Bring money. Inquire for me at the jail." But from what she knew already, she guessed, and rightly, that the enterprise on which Crofton was bent when he left home had failed, and that by some mischance he himself had come to grief. The moment she was left alone Stephanie opened the paper with eager fingers. Her quick eyes were not long in finding the particular news of which they were in search. She read the story of the attempted robbery, as detailed in the evidence, with ever-growing wonder--a wonder that was intensified twenty-fold when she read how Gerald Brooke had been arrested at the same time as her husband, and by what strange chance the two cousins had once more been brought face to face. But when, a few lines lower down, her eyes caught sight of another well-known name, all the colour ebbed from her face, leaving it as white as the face of a dead woman. She read to the end, to the last word of Picot's strange confession before the magistrates, and then the paper dropped from her hands. "My father the murderer of Von Rosenberg, and I--I the cause of it!" she murmured in horror-stricken accents. For a little while she sat like a woman stunned, stupefied, her eyes staring into vacancy, her mind a whirling chaos in which thoughts and fancies the most bizarre and incongruous came and went, mixing and mingling with each other in a sort of mad Brocken dance, all the elements of which were lurid, vague, and elusive. How long she sat thus she never knew; but she was roused by the entrance of the landlady, who had come to reclaim the newspaper, there being three or four people in the taproom who were anxious to obtain a glimpse of it. Fortunately, the good woman was somewhat short-sighted, and perceived nothing out of the ordinary in her guest's appearance or demeanour. But her entrance broke the spell and served to recall Stephanie to the realities of her position. For a little while all thought of her husband had vanished from her mind. This second blow had smitten her so much more sharply than the first that the pain caused by the former seemed deadened thereby. But now that her waking trance was broken, the double nature of her calamity forced itself on her mind. "My father and my husband shut up in one prison!" she said to herself; and it was all she could do to refrain from bursting into laughter. For are there not some kinds of laughter the sources of which lie deeper than the deepest fountains of tears? Suddenly she started to her feet and pressed both hands to her forehead. "But why--why should my father have gone to Von Rosenberg to demand from him tidings of me, when I wrote to him from London telling him all that had happened to me and where I was? Can it be possible that my letter never reached him? Had he received it, there would have been no need for him to seek Von Rosenberg. Even after so long a time I could almost repeat my letter word for word. In it I told my father how I had left home with Von Rosenberg, but only after he had given me his solemn promise to make me his wife the moment we set foot in England. I told how, within an hour after our arrival in London, I had claimed the fulfilment of his promise, and how he had laughed me to scorn, thinking that he had now got me completely in his power. I told how I flung all Von Rosenberg's presents at his feet and left him there and then, and going out into the rainy streets of the great city, fled as for my life. I told how I hid for weeks in a garret, living on little more than bread and milk; and how at last, when my money was all gone, I found my way to the nearest cirque, and there obtained an engagement. All this I told my father in my letter, and then I prayed him to forgive me, and told him how I longed to go back to him and my mother. Weeks and months I waited with an aching heart for the answer which never came. Then I said to myself: 'My father will not forgive me. I shall never see him or my mother again.' But the letter never reached him. Had it done so he would not be where he is to-day." Tearless sobs shook her from head to foot. At this juncture in burst the landlady with an air of much importance. "As you have read the paper, I thought that maybe you would like to hear the news that one of the warders just off duty has brought us from the jail. Such times as we live in, to be sure!" "News--what news? asked Stephanie faintly. "John Myles has brought word--and he ought to know, if anybody does--that one of the prisoners--Crifton or Crofton by name--managed to break out of his cell in the night, and has got clear away. But that's not all by any means. The foreigner--him as accused himself in open court of the murder--was found dead this morning, poisoned by his own hand. The news will be all over England before nightfall--Gracious me, ma'am, whatever is the matter!--Mary, Eliza--quick, quick!" CHAPTER XIX. CONCLUSION. Six weeks had elapsed since the events recorded in the last chapter. It was the evening of the return of Gerald Brooke and his wife to the home which they left under such tragic circumstances nearly a year before. Gerald's wound had proved a troublesome one; and after his release from custody, which was merely a matter of a couple of days, he had hurried up to London for the sake of obtaining the best medical advice, and there he had since remained; a few friends had met to welcome the home-comers; there was to be a grand reception by the tenants and others on the morrow. First and foremost there was our dear Miss Primby, not looking a day older than when we first made her acquaintance. She had been filling the post of mistress _pro tem_, at the Towers for the past month. She was of an anxious mind, and small responsibilities assumed a magnitude in her eyes they did not really possess, and thereby worried her not a little. She will be thankful when Clara resumes the reins of power, and she herself is allowed to subside into that life of tranquil obscurity in which she finds her only true happiness. There, too, deep in conversation, were Lady Fanny Dwyer and Mr. Tom Starkie. Her ladyship was husbandless as usual, but seemed in nowise put about thereby. She and Tom struck fire frequently in the arguments and disputations they were so fond of holding with each other; they agreed to differ and differed to agree, and perhaps were none the less good friends on that account. Flitting in and out and round about was Margery, spick and span in a new gown and gay ribbons, and a tiny apron all pockets and embroidery. For the first time in her life she had on a pair of French kid shoes, and she could not help stealing a glance at her feet now and again when no one was looking. She scarcely knew them for her own property, so changed an appearance did they present. This evening she was to enter on her new duties as "own maid" to her beloved mistress. Who so happy as Margery! The turret clock struck seven, but Mr. and Mrs. Brooke had not yet arrived. They were to drive down from London, and ought to have been here nearly an hour ago. Every minute Miss Primby grew more fidgety. Some accident must have happened, she felt sure. Perhaps the horses had run away; perhaps a wheel had come off the carriage; perhaps any of twenty possible mishaps had befallen the travellers. Fidgets are infectious, and before long Tom Starkie began to consult his watch every minute or two and to answer her ladyship at random. So many strange things had happened to Gerald during the last twelve months that anxiety on the part of his friends might be readily excused. The suspense was brought to an end by the sudden inroad of Margery, who had been down to the lodge, and now brought word that a carriage and pair had just turned the corner of the high-road half a mile away. This news sent every one trooping to the main entrance to the Towers. Not long had they to wait. Gerald still carried his arm in a sling, but his other hand was clasped tightly by his wife. Neither of them could speak as the carriage wheeled into the avenue and the old home they had at one time thought never to see again came into view. Nor was there much said for the first few moments after they alighted. A kiss, an embrace, a handgrip, told more than words: of tears the ladies shed not a few, but they were tears which had their source in the daysprings of happiness. Dinner was over and the company had returned to the drawing-room. The lamps had been lighted; but so soft and balmy was the evening that the long windows had been left wide open. Outside, terrace and garden and the miles of woodland stretching far beyond were bathed in a tender sheen of moonlight. Lady Fan was at the piano turning over some music. Mr. Tom Starkie was stooping over the canterbury, trying to find a certain piece of Schubert's he was desirous her ladyship should play. Clara and her aunt were talking together in a low voice on the sofa at the opposite side of the room. On the hearthrug, his back to the empty fireplace, stood Gerald. As he gazed on the pretty domestic scene before him, he could scarcely realise that all the strange events of the past year were anything more than the dream of a disordered brain. Could it be possible that only a few short weeks ago he who now stood there, so rich in all that makes life beautiful, had been a hunted felon on whose head a price had been set Incredible as it seemed, it was yet but too true. If proof positive were needed there was his arm still in a sling to furnish it. His eyes turned fondly to the sweet face of his wife, to which the sunshine and roses of other days were already beginning to come back. How brave, how loyal, how devoted she had been through all the dark days of his trouble! The care and love of a lifetime could scarcely repay her for all she had gone through for his sake. She had indeed been that crown of glory to her husband of which the sage made mention in days long ago. Clara, who while talking with her aunt had been absently gazing through the open window on to the terrace, suddenly gave utterance to a shriek, and springing to her feet, flung herself upon her husband's breast and clasped him round the neck with both arms. An instant later a pistol-shot rang through the dusk, and the bullet, passing within an inch or two of Gerald's head, crashed into the pier-glass behind. At the open window stood George Crofton, hatless and haggard, his white drawn features distorted by a scowl of fiendish malignity, the light of mingled hate and madness blazing in his eyes. Tom Starkie sprang forward as Crofton, with an imprecation on his lips, raised his revolver to fire again. But quicker even than Tom was a dark-cloaked figure which sprang suddenly into the range of vision framed by the window and dashed the uplifted weapon from Crofton's hand. For a second there was a cold gleam of steel in the moonlight and then the cloaked figure vanished us quickly as it had come. With a loud cry Crofton flung both arms above his head and staggered forward a pace or two into the room. "Gerald Brooke, you have won the game!" he exclaimed in hoarse accents; then making a clutch at his heart, he gave a great gasp and fell forward on his face. Gerald and Tom raised him. A tiny stream of blood trickled from his lips: he was stone-dead. The _portière_ was drawn aside, and all eyes turned on him who stepped into the room. It was the Russian, looking as cold, pale, and impassive as he always looked. "Karovsky, have you had any hand in this?" demanded Gerald sternly, as he pointed to the dead man. "I, my friend! what should I have to do with such _canaille?_" demanded the other with a shrug. Not more than half a minute had elapsed from the beginning to the end of the tragedy. Under the direction of Starkie, two or three of the servants who had hurried in now proceeded to remove the body to another room. While this was taking place the Russian drew Gerald aside. "Look here, Brooke," he said. "It is never wise to inquire too curiously into matters when no good end can be served thereby. This man had made up his mind to murder you. It was your life against his. It may be--mind you, I only say it may be--that that fact had come within the cognisance of the Brotherhood to which you and I have the honour to belong. If such were the case, they were bound by their laws to take his life rather than allow him to take yours. But this is nothing more than guesswork. In any case the scoundrel is dead and your life is safe; but it was touch-and-go with you, my friend--touch-and-go." The unexpected appearance of Karovsky following so closely on the grim scene just enacted before his eyes revived in Gerald's mind certain apprehensions that had slumbered almost undisturbed for many months. All his fears took flame at once as his memory travelled back to that April evening when Karovsky's ill-omened presence first crossed the threshold of Beechley Towers. What if, at some future day, when all the world seemed full of sunshine, he should suddenly appear again with a message of the same dire import! Gerald's heart seemed compressed as in a vice as this thought with all its dread significance forced itself on his mind. "Karovsky, he said in a dry hard voice, now that you are here, there is one question I would fain ask you." "I think I can guess the purport of it," answered the Russian with his imperturbable smile. "You need be under no fear, _mon ami_, that I or any other emissary of the Brotherhood will ever come to you again with evil tidings. The man who was condemned to die is dead, and although he did not meet his fate at your hands, that matters nothing. The sentence has been carried into effect, and such being the case, by the rules of the Supreme Tribunal you, Gerald Brooke, are absolved in full from ever being called upon again." THE END. 
49686	----	[Frontispiece: Going to Barbara's Wedding] Little Prudy Series ------------------- LITTLE PRUDY'S COUSIN GRACE BY SOPHIE MAY BOSTON: LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by LEE & SHEPARD, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. ----- COPYRIGHT, 1892, BY REBECCA S. CLARKE. ----- LITTLE PRUDY'S COUSIN GRACE CONTENTS. ----- I. THE CUP AND SAUCER II. THE RUBY SEAL III. THE PRIZE IV. A SNAKE IN THE GRASS V. FORTUNES VI. MISFORTUNES VII. THE REGARD-RING VIII. PRUDY PARLIN IX. BARBARA'S WEDDING X. WHO GETS THE PRIZE? XI. THE CHILDREN'S FAIR COUSIN GRACE ------------ CHAPTER I. THE CUP AND SAUCER. Grace Clifford and Katharine Hallock were such dear friends, and spent so much time together, that you could not think of one without thinking of the other, and people linked their names together, and spoke of "Grace and Cassy," just as one speaks of a "cup and saucer" or a "hook and eye." Yet they were not in the least alike. There was something very eager and vivid about Grace, with her bright blue eyes, auburn curls, and brilliant color. She had an ecstatic way of laughing, and a wild, agonized way of weeping. She clapped her hands for joy, or wrung them for grief. Her tears fell in showers, but afterward the sun was sure to shine out clearly. Cassy, on the other hand, was a gentle, brown-eyed little maiden, with long lashes sweeping her cheeks, and brown hair lying quietly behind her ears. She never stormed nor raved. It was a very rare thing for the girls to disagree. They had such a dear love for each other that they decided never to marry, but to live together in a charming cottage adorned with woodbine, and keep chickens, pigeons and a cat. At the beginning of our story they were nearly twelve years old, and closer friends than ever. They had exchanged rings as pledges of everlasting fidelity. The ring which Cassy gave Grace was set with gems--ruby, emerald, garnet, amethyst, ruby, and diamond--the initials spelling the word "Regard." This regard-ring had once belonged to Mrs. Hallock; but after being broken and mended it was too small for her, and she had given it to Cassy. In exchange, Grace put on her friend's third finger a pretty emerald, which had been a good-by present from Mr. Augustus Allen. One day in March these two Hoosier girls were walking hand in hand down Vine Street, where there was always a fine shade in the summer. Now the trees were leafless, and the bright sun shadowed forth little flickering pictures of their branches on the girls' shawls and hats. "Why, Cassy Hallock," said Grace, shading her face with one hand, "this sun is bright enough to blind an eagle." "But it doesn't blind _me_," laughed Cassy. "I can almost look at it without winking." "Then you must be a half-eagle, Cassy. Why, you don't mind the weather, or any of the bothers! You never fly out of patience! O, Cassy Hallock, I think you're splendid!" As this was not the first time Cassy had been eulogized as "splendid," she was by no means astonished, but continued to move quietly along, with her usual composure. Grace Clifford seemed a little nervous. Every now and then she would drop her friend's hand, and gather a few blades of grass, or pick up a pebble, then seize Cassy's hand again, and walk on. Cassy watched her companion with some curiosity. "Now, Gracie Clifford," said she at last, "you're keeping something to yourself; I just know you are." "What if I am?" said Grace, tossing an orange into the air and catching it as it fell; "I needn't tell you every single thing, Cassy!" "Yes, you must, Gracie Clifford," was the firm reply. "I'm your dearest friend, and am I not going off next week visiting?" "Well, I've nothing to tell, any way, but just thoughts," said Grace, pocketing her orange, and taking Cassy's hand again, while they each hopped on one foot like happy little robins. "I've a great many thoughts whizzing in my mind all the time, Cassy. I've been thinking lately about-- I mean, I've been wishing, for ages and ages, that I'd been born a boy; but it's silly, and so I never say it." "Why, Gracie Clifford, I've heard you say it five hundred times! I'd as soon be a girl, because I _am_, and there's the end of it." "But to grow up and be a woman!" said Grace, with a shudder. "Do you ever think of the wrinkles, and the cross kitchen girls, and the children that have to cut their teeth? And you can't sleep nights; and then they won't let you vote!" "I don't want to vote, Gracie; what would _I_ vote for?" "O, child! For union and liberty, and all the good things. Don't you go to encouraging slavery, Cassy!" "No," laughed Cassy, "I won't." "And don't let such swearing people as Mr. Blake go to Congress. But there, _you_ can't help it, Cassy; _you_ never'll vote, neither will I. And there's Horace, --what do you suppose that boy cares about politics? But _he'll_ vote fast enough." "O, yes," chimed in Cassy, beginning to grow indignant, "only because he's a boy!" "And he'll come to me, Horace will, just as likely as not, Cassy, and I'll have to tell him which way to vote." The girls looked rather scornful as they pictured to themselves an imaginary Horace, tall and twenty-one, anxiously inquiring of his sister what ticket he should throw into the ballot-box. "Now, you see," said Grace, "it's very absurd to make a fuss that way over boys. They feel it. It sets them up on a throne." "O, yes, I reckon it does, Gracie. Isn't it right funny now to look at boys, and see the airs they put on?" "It is _so_," said Grace, sweeping back her curls with a gesture of disdain. "There's their secret societies, Cassy." "Yes, Gracie, and I don't approve of any such goings on. Johnny looks so wise and important! How I wish I knew what it's all about!" "Why, Cassy, I wouldn't know if I could. I'd scorn to care." "So would _I_ scorn to care," replied Cassy, quickly. "O, of course! It's of no account, you might know." "What vexes me, Cassy, is the way they look down on us girls, and boast that they can keep secrets and we can't, when it's no such a thing, Cassy Hallock, as you and I very well know--we that have kept secrets for years and years, and never, never told, and never will to our dying days!" Cassy nodded her head emphatically, implying that words could not do justice to the subject. "Cassy, dear, you asked me, a little while ago, what I was thinking about; and now I'll tell you. I've been wondering if we mightn't get up a secret society our own selves!" Cassy stopped short, laughed, and said, "Capital!" forgetting that not five minutes before she had expressed contempt for such "goings on." "How many girls will we have, Gracie?" "Why, our graduating class, that's seven. We don't go much with the other girls, you know. I'm so glad you like the idea, Cassy! and, now you do, I'm going to have it. I've just made up my mind!" "But suppose the others don't approve?" "O, pshaw, Cassy! that's of no sort of consequence! What you and I think _they'll_ think--all but Isa Harrington, and we'll soon manage her." "Well," replied Cassy, drawing a long breath, "don't let's walk quite so fast, Gracie, we'll be at the schoolhouse before we know it, and you and I must have everything arranged between us. What name, Gracie?" "What think of calling ourselves Princesses of the-- the-- some kind of a seal? The seal must be golden, or diamond, or something else that's precious." "The Ruby Seal," suggested Cassy. "O, that's it, dear! Our _lips_ are the ruby seal, Cassy, and never, never will they open to utter the secrets of our order. We'll promise to love, honor and protect one another as long as we all shall live. Our motto will be, "_Vera ad finem_." I suppose you don't know what that means, Cissy; but it's "_true to the end_," Robin says." "I've only one thing to say," interrupted Cassy; "this mustn't make any difference between you and me, Gracie; we'll be good friends enough with the others, but--" "Yes, Cassy, good friends enough; but it's you and I that are the _dear_ friends. We'll be "_vera_" --that's _true_ --to the others, but never the least speck intimate. But hush! Here we are at the schoolhouse. Don't you breathe a word, you know, Cassy! We'll take our seats just as sober as if nothing had happened!" CHAPTER II THE RUBY SEAL. The graduating class of the Girls' Grammar School comprised seven young misses, of whom Grace Clifford was the youngest, though by no means the most timid and retiring. They all met on Saturday afternoon at Mrs. Hallock's to talk over the new project. The vote was unanimous in favor of the Ruby Seal. Isabel Harrington opposed it for a while, it is true; but this may possibly have been because she was not the very first one consulted. "Now," said Grace, when she saw that, as usual, Cassy expected her to manage affairs, "here I sit with pencil and paper; and now we'll pass resolutions, if you please. I'm secretary." "First place," said Isabel Harrington, with a toss of the head, "I'd like to ask what's the good of a society, any way?" "What's the good?" repeated Grace; "ahem! it's to-- to-- make us better, of course." "Then mightn't we pass one resolution to read the Bible?" asked gentle Mahla Linck, the lame girl, whom everybody loved. "Yes, we will, we will!" cried every voice. "It's a vote," said Grace, writing down: "We hereby solemnly pledge ourselves to read two chapters in the Bible daily." "And say our prayers," suggested Mahla again. "O, that's all understood," replied Grace. "I'd be ashamed to put that down. It looks like we could ever forget our prayers!" "Now," said Judith Pitcher, "I move we forbid the use of all unladylike words." This vote was passed. The next was against falsehoods of every hue, from little white lies up to the big black ones. "We mustn't talk about 'oceans of tears,' and 'biting our tongues out,' I suppose," said Isabel, demurely, but with a sly glance at the secretary. "That means me," said Grace, blushing. "And now," continued she, pausing and looking at Cassy, who would not speak for her, "--now let's all agree never-- never to be married. If that be your minds, please to manifest it." The girls looked astonished. "I've been reading Mythology," pursued Grace, "and some of the nicest goddesses and nymphs didn't marry -- Diana, and Minerva, and Clytie, and Sappho." "We're not goddesses and nymphs, I hope," said Diademia Jones, shaking her head. "Nor heathens," added Isa, with spirit. "O, no; but if ladies want to be very great, and do oceans of good, and write poems and everything, why, they mustn't be married. You see how it is, girls; there's so much housekeeping and sewing to attend to." "But, then," added Lucy Lane, mournfully, "if we're not married, we'll be--old maids!" "O, no, indeed," said Grace, positively. "Why, if you're great and splendid, you never will--no such a thing! Maria Edgeworth was splendid, and she never was an old maid that ever I heard of. And there was--" "Grace Greenwood," suggested Cassy, in the tone of one who has added the finishing stroke to an argument. But the girls exclaimed,--"Why, Grace Greenwood is married; what are you talking about? There, there, people can be married, and be splendid, too." Grace felt that her cause had received a blow. "Now, girls," said she, after a pause, "I'll tell you how it is. Grace Greenwood was married a long while ago. If she was a little girl now, and saw such acting boys, she'd say, 'It's an awful thing!' Why, girls, I think, for my part," Grace went on with much dignity, "we lower ourselves, we degrade ourselves, when we associate with boys. They smoke, and chew, and use very improper language. It does seem to me we're white lilies, and they're nothing but--but thistles. Let's faithfully promise not to converse with boys, --unless it's to try and reform them, you know." "Our brothers," urged soft-voiced Lucy Lane, timidly. "Yes, our brothers," murmured the other girls. "And our cousins, you know," added dashing Diademia Jones. No one was quite so enthusiastic over this non-marrying resolve as Grace had expected; still, the vote was passed with much solemnity, the girls resigning themselves to the prospect of single lives like a little band of heroines. They were now certain of becoming distinguished, and might be doctors, judges, or ministers, just as they liked, though, as Grace very justly remarked, they need be in no haste about choosing professions. It was decided that Grace should be queen of the Ruby Seal Society. The girls bound themselves to one another by solemn pledges, and if any member should, by word or deed, do anything to the injury of a princess, the offender was to be expelled at once. The name, and even the existence, of the society must be kept a profound secret. They agreed that a lecture should be delivered once a month, the queen leading off, and the princesses following in turn, according to ages. Isa Harrington tried to pass a resolution against any two members of the society being especially intimate, and setting themselves up for "particular friends." She was quite eloquent upon this resolution, but was frowned into silence by Grace, who would have cried, "Down with the Ruby Seal," sooner than she would have given up Cassy for an intimate friend. The society broke up mutually pleased, every one of the princesses sealing the compact with a kiss, and parting with the password for the month, "_Vera_." The only discontented face was Isa's, and her handsome eyes darkened with jealousy as she looked back and saw that Grace lingered, talking with Cassy. What was there about Cassy Hallock so very remarkable? For Isa's part, she couldn't see that she was better than other folks! Ah, Isa Harrington, look out for that tiny serpent of jealousy. Crush it before it grows to a monster. [Illustration: Grace and Cassy] Grace and Cassy walked slowly along, their arms about each other's waists, chatting socially, and making the most of the time, for Cassy was to go to Kentucky next week. There are few things more pure and delightful than the mutual friendship of two good little girls. Isa Harrington, to be sure, did not think so, but her jealousy was not more than half suspected by Grace and Cassy. The Cliffords lived a little way out of town, and their beautiful grounds were soon in full view. The broad lawn, enclosed by a trimly-cut hedge, was now of a sleepy brown, in harmony with the freestone house which stood on a terrace overlooking the clusters of evergreen trees and well-trained shrubbery. On the other side of the house was a conservatory filled with choice flowers, and beyond that the cottage of Mr. Sherwood, the English gardener. The girls parted at their trysting-place, the "acorn-tree," and Grace walked the rest of the way alone, musing upon the glorious destiny which awaited the distinguished Miss Clifford in the rosy future. When within a few steps of the gate, she saw her mother coming from Mr. Sherwood's cottage in apparent haste. There was evidently some cause of disturbance, for every member of the Sherwood family ran out of the house, one after another, followed by Barbara Kinkle, with her apron over her head. "What _is_ the matter," cried Grace, rushing into the yard in breathless haste. "Nothing much," replied Barbara, trying to speak calmly. "Your brother has only been and lost himself. But don't you have no fears, Miss Grace; he never did go and fall in the river." Every particle of color fled from Grace's face. She forgot that Horace belonged to the condemned race of "awful boys." The bare possibility that he might be drowned was too horrible! "O, Barby," she cried out. "O, Mr. Sherwood, run for the river." And for her own part, she ran round and round in a maze, wringing her hands, peeping under the hedge, examining the gravel path, and all the places where Horace certainly could not be, even if he had tried to conceal himself. Mr. Sherwood and his wife had gone to the river. "It is, perhaps, a foolish alarm," said Mrs. Clifford, pacing the yard. "Horace asked me to let him go, with some other boys, shooting squirrels, but I said _No_, very decidedly. I cannot think Horace would disobey me so." "Hurrah!" shouted a boyish voice from the house. "Here is the runaway, safe and sound. Please come here, Mrs. Clifford, if you want to see a curiosity." Mrs. Clifford, Grace, and Barbara went up stairs with hearts wonderfully lightened. "Further yet," said Robert Sherwood's voice from a distance. Ascending the fourth flight of stairs, they entered the square, unfinished room called the Observatory. Here sat the boy who had caused this anxiety, surrounded by a chaos of tools, blocks of wood, pieces of tin, and coils of rope. "Now, there!" cried he, bending his elbows into acute angles, and trying to hide his work in his leather apron. "What made you come in my shop? My pa said--" "My son," said Mrs. Clifford, trying not to smile at the boy's perplexed gestures and eager attempts to put things out of sight, "if you had only told us you kept shop in the roof of the house, we would have been spared this needless alarm." "Yes, Horace Clifford," said Grace, loftily, "I do despise to see anyone so secret and mysterious." "I wonders we didn't think he was whittling sticks some-place," said Barbara, glancing admiringly at Horace. "Well, now you know," said the boy, fidgeting. "You've found me, and I wasn't lost; now can't you go off?" "Pretty talk to your ma," cried Grace. "O, ma, I don't mean you. But I just don't want anybody to see this thing I'm making till it's plum done." "Plum done!" repeated Grace; "where did you pick up such droll words? and why will you twist your mouth so, Horace?" The boy threw down his jackknife with a jerk of despair. "There, now, can't you go away?--I mean you and Barby. 'Tisn't fair play. This is my own shop-room, and my pa said I could keep my tool-chest in it, and there shouldn't anybody--" But Horace found himself talking to empty air, for his visitors had disappeared. He unrolled his leather apron, removed the bit of straw matting from sundry boards, and gazed at them fondly, muttering, "Too good for Gracie, now, isn't it, when she blows me up so?" But for all that, he set to work again till it was so dark that he could not see to guide his jackknife; when he went downstairs, declaring--to use his own words--that he "was hungry enough to eat ginger." Phebe, the little colored girl, who, during all the excitement about Horace, had been obliged to stay in the nursery with the baby, was glad now to wash dishes for Barbara, and pour into her ears complaints of wee Katie, who was, she said, "a right cross one--as cross as two hundred sticks." Barbara listened in indignant silence, only asking at last, "What for a baby would she be now, if she goes to cut her teeth and doesn't cry?" "Bravo! Chalk Eyes," cried Horace, suddenly rushing out upon Phebe, "none of your grumbling." "O, Horace," whispered Grace, reprovingly, "hush saying Chalk Eyes. Haven't you any feeling for poor _discolored_ creatures? "Poh, Gracie! _Niggroes_ don't feel any worse than we do. Come, let's play catch." They played till they were called into the parlor to learn their Sabbath school lessons. Grace's last waking thought was about the new society. Who knew but they might some day build a little asylum for poor children? People would wonder and admire. Well, nobody should know a word about it yet,--not for a year and a day. Just as if girls couldn't keep secrets! And Grace at last dropped to sleep with her finger on her lip. CHAPTER III. THE PRIZE. The princesses quite enjoyed their stolen meetings and their mysterious signs. O, how little the world suspected that they were keeping weighty secrets! So surprised as the world would be if the princesses only had a mind to tell! It was evident that Isabel was more interested as soon as Cassy Hallock had gone away to Kentucky. Then there was no rivalry, for Isa was sure that she stood next to Cassy in Grace Clifford's esteem. But an event soon occurred which caused the Ruby Seal to sink into comparative insignificance. The graduating class walked home from school one evening, looking, one and all, as if they had something on their minds. They were talking of a prize which had been promised to the best scholar at close of school. Judith Pitcher, the girl with long features and melancholy eyes, looked discouraged. Diademia Jones, who usually wore a Berlin iron breastpin, which looked like an ink-blot, pouted, and said she wouldn't try: what did she care? Weak little Lucy Lane was nervous, and declared, if she hadn't staid home and got behind in her lessons, she might try; but, as it was, she didn't call it quite fair. All agreed it was a pity that Cassy Hallock should be away; they wondered her ma would allow her to go visiting in the midst of the term. One little girl, with bright and animated face, listened to all these remarks, but said nothing herself. Grace Clifford and Isabel Harrington were walking together, hand in hand. This was not quite to Grace's fancy. If she might have had her way, she would hardly have joined hands with any one but Cassy, certainly not with Isa, who was not a particular favorite of hers. They happened to be walking directly behind Mahla Linck and Diademia Jones. Diademia, or Di, as she was called, was saying, "I reckon you'll get the prize, Mahla, dear. I'm sure I hope so." A pink color flushed Mahla's pale cheeks, and she looked very eager, but said, sadly,-- "No use, Di. I could, perhaps, if it wasn't for Gracie Clifford; but she's so smart in arithmetic she'll get it. O, I'm sure she will." And as Mahla spoke she seemed to lean more helplessly on her crutch, and to limp more painfully than ever. She little knew that every word she spoke was overheard by Grace Clifford, and was sinking deep into her heart. Mahla was a gentle, studious girl, pitied by every one for her incurable lameness, and beloved for the sweet patience with which she bore her great sufferings. It was certainly Grace's intention, and had been ever since the promise of a prize, to try for it; but when she heard Mahla's hopeless words she was grieved, and felt an impulse to rush forward and throw her arms about the poor girl's neck, and say, "Now don't be afraid of me, Mahla. I'll not stand in your way." But this impulse Grace checked at once. In the first place, it would have been a silly parade of sentiment, she thought; and, in the second place, ambition was a strong feature in Grace's character; she could not, without a struggle, give up the hope of a prize. By this time she and Isabel had crossed the street, and heard nothing more that passed between Mahla and her companion. "Well, Gracie, dear," said Isa, "I'd be ashamed, if I was Di Jones, to talk about Mahla Linck's getting this prize, when Di knows well enough Mahla isn't half so good a scholar as you are." "O, but she is, though, Isa," said Grace, faintly. "Mahla's very studious, very, indeed." "Studious? Yes, she stays in from recess because she can't play. Now, if Cassy was here, she'd try for the prize--wouldn't she, Gracie?" "I dare say--I don't know." "Well, she's the last person to be afraid of," said Isa, sharply. She could never speak of Cassy without a feeling akin to anger. The thought of the tender friendship which existed between Grace and Cassy was like gall and wormwood to the unhappy, jealous little girl. "Why, Isa, to hear you talk, one would think that Cassy was dull! I'm sure Cassy's smart!" "O, dear me," said Isa, "how you do take a body up! I said Cassy's the last person to be afraid of,--I mean for you to be afraid of. She's smart, Cassy is; but then everybody knows, Gracie, she isn't so smart as you are, and don't begin to be." "I'd like to know," thought Grace, as she parted with Isa, and walked from the acorn-tree alone,--"I'd just like to know what does possess Isa to be so spiteful about Cassy! I wish that darling old Cassy was here this minute! I don't see what I did without her all last summer, when I was east!" "Ma," cried Grace, rushing into the parlor, swinging her hat by one string, "just guess what a splendid thing has happened! The three live trustees were all in school this day, and you never saw the like of the way they smiled and patted us on the head, ma! And they're going to give a beautiful prize to the one that improves most between this and July, and passes the best examination for the High School, you know." "Indeed, and shall you try for it, my dear?" "I don't know, ma," replied Grace, with quivering lips; for just at that moment Mahla's words, "Grace Clifford will get it; I'm sure she will," came back and rang in her ears. Mrs. Clifford saw that something was troubling her daughter, but refrained from asking any questions. She always preferred that Grace should confide in her of her own free will. "I don't know, my child," said she, "that I can say I am glad of this project." "But wouldn't you be proud to have me get it--not the least bit proud, ma?" Mrs. Clifford smiled meaningly. "O, no, ma; not exactly _proud_; pleased and gratified, I mean." "You always gratify me, my child, when you do your best. As for your excelling your schoolmates, why should I care for you to do that?" Grace thought her father would not listen to her story as coolly as her mother had done. "What's this I hear about a prize?" said he that evening. And Grace grew quite eager again, describing the benevolent looks and manners of the trustees, and declaring that the prize must be something elegant, everybody said. "But how did _you_ hear of it, pa?" "Your head trustee and I talked the matter over yesterday." "You didn't approve of it, Henry?" asked Mrs. Clifford, looking surprised. "I did, Maria; why not? Dear knows there's need enough of ambition in our schools." "But, Henry, I don't like children to strive so hard to outdo one another. Don't you think prizes are likely to awaken envy and ill-feeling?" Grace listened with her eager mind all awake. She very well knew that on such a question a little girl's opinion is worth nothing; still it seemed strange that her mamma could talk of "envy and ill feeling" in the same breath with the Girls' Grammar School. Mrs. Clifford, however, did not know of the Ruby Seal, which had united the girls in such strong bonds of friendship that it would never be possible for a trifle like this to part them. Captain Clifford settled himself into his dressing-gown and slippers. "I know," said he, "there are various opinions with regard to giving prizes; but so far as my own experience goes, they are real helps to industry. Begging your pardon, Maria, I highly approve of anything that quickens the ambition." Grace's eyes shone. "Yes," continued Captain Clifford, stroking his daughter's hair, "and if our Grace can win the prize, I'll promise to give her a handsome present to go with it." Grace gave a little scream of delight. "O, pa," cried she, throwing her arms about Captain Clifford's neck, "you're just the greatest darling! I do believe nobody else ever had such a father." Mrs. Clifford looked at her little girl's flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, and feared a sleepless night for her. "Remember this, Gracie," said she, gently: "'The reward is in the race we run, not in the prize.' Do your best, and then never mind who wins." Grace laughed nervously. "Ma doesn't care a speck," she thought. "You can't get ma eager about anything; but pa cares. O, dear me, won't I work hard just for the sake of pleasing pa!" It occurred to Grace that she must write at once to Cassy, and tell her what Mahla had said. Those mournful words, "Grace will get it," haunted her. It seemed to the child that she could not press forward and gain the prize without walking right over Mahla's heart. So Grace seated herself at the centre-table, and opened her little writing-desk; when her father, who had been quietly reading to himself, suddenly exclaimed, "Really, Maria, this is horrible," and began to read aloud an account of the last battle. When Grace heard any mention of the war, she either stopped her ears or ran away. Now she hastily gathered up her writing materials, and went into the kitchen, where Barbara sat with her unfailing black knitting-work. Barbara was very glad to have her tidy premises honored with a visit, and insisted upon bringing an arm-chair out of the dining-room for her guest. Grace seated herself at the kitchen table, which was as white as it could be scoured; but scarcely had she smoothed out her paper and written "Darling old Cassy," when Horace appeared in the door-way, making mysterious signals to Barbara. What could the boy mean? The good, foggy-brained German girl was sorely puzzled,--did not know the deaf and dumb alphabet, and could never take a hint. "Come here, then, Barby," cried the boy; "I'll make you '_ferstand_.'" "So I'm the one in the way," said Grace, quickly; "you're so mightily mysterious, all of a sudden, Horace!" "Good evening, Grace," said Robert Sherwood, appearing at the door; "what about the prize?" "O, dear, I don't know, Robin." "What think I heard? That the trial would lie between two of you girls--Grace Clifford and Mahla Linck." Grace flushed to the temples. Then other people thought that, as well as the school-girls. "What are you doing, Grace?" said Horace, returning from the dining-room, and eying his sister's writing-desk with some curiosity. "Writing a letter, or trying to," replied Grace, flourishing her pen nervously in the air. "Why is your letter like the equator?" said Robert. "Equator? Don't know. Can't stop to guess conundrums." "Because it's only an imaginary line." "My letter? O, Robin, how smart! It always will be imaginary, I reckon, while you boys stand there looking at me. Do, please, let me alone!" "O, good by, South Carolina," said Robert, bowing. "I'm off." "Good by, Car'line," echoed little Horace, with a patronizing sweep of his thumb. Grace returned to her writing, her feelings still somewhat ruffled. She had proceeded as far as "I want to see you more than tongue can tell," when Horace burst into the room again with a second message to Barbara. "Is there, or is there not, a place in this house where a body can go to write a letter?" cried Grace, rising and pushing back her paper. But her remark was unheeded. Barbara and Horace went on whispering together, and seemed to be enjoying their little secret, whatever it might be. Grace's nerves were quivering from the day's excitement. "I'm not cross," thought she. "O, no, not cross; but I'd like to give that boy a good shaking. It's not my temper, it's my 'nervous system.' The doctor said my nervous system was torn to pieces by the chills." Grace would never forget this unfortunate remark of her physician. But she was a sensible girl, and it suddenly occurred to her that her "nervous system" could never go to scolding unless she opened her mouth. Bitter, sharp words sprang to her tongue; but if her tongue was only "kept between her teeth," the words couldn't fly out. "I'll just 'lock my lips,'" mused Grace, "for, as ma says, 'A spoken word no chariot can overtake, though it be drawn by four swift horses.'" Tedious little Horace at last made an end of his story, and left the kitchen whistling either Dixie or Yankee Doodle, no mortal could tell which; for out of Horace's mouth they were one and the same thing. Barbara seated herself, and resumed her knitting. She usually nodded over that black stocking as drowsily as if it had been a treatise on philosophy, or something quite as stupid; but to-night she was painfully wide awake. "O, my patience!" thought Grace; "can't she look at anything but me?" There by the stove sat the glaring white kitty, staring at Grace with winking eyelids, and on the mantel stood the clock ticking at her, and in the corner sat Barby clicking needles at her; every tick and every click seeming to go through Grace's ears like percussion caps. "Miss Grace," said Barbara, picking up a stitch, "be you writin' to Susy Parlin?" "No, Barby," replied Grace, frowning at her paper. Barbara went on with her knitting, the clock went on with its ticking, and the cat still stared at Grace. Presently Barbara dropped another stitch. "Miss Grace," said she, "does you write to little Prudy Parlin?" "No, Barby; to Cassy. But seems to me you're amazingly wide awake." "Yes, dear; I doesn't feel sleepy a bit." Sharp words were on Grace's tongue again; but she said gently, after a pause,--"Barby, will you please not talk? It troubles me." "Bless your little white heart," cried Barby, turning about, and putting her feet on the stove hearth, "not a word more will I speak." Grace felt quieted. She had fought against her "nervous system," and conquered a peace. Now, for the first time, she could write, and forget clocks, cats, and knitting-needles in her subject. She told Cassy just what her father said, what her mother said, and how "there never was anything she wanted so much as that splendid prize." Then she spoke of Mahla Linck, and asked Cassy to be sure and write what she thought about her. Would it be a shame to try to get ahead of a poor lame girl? Why need one mind Mahla more than the other princesses? Hadn't one a right to push by all that came in one's way? Somehow Grace did not wish to tell her mother of the strife going on in her mind. "Ma wouldn't care a picayune about my winning," thought she; "she'd say, 'Give it up to the little German.' Ma is almost too good to live. But pa cares about it; O, I can see that pa cares very much." Grace's mind was settling itself. By writing the facts in black and white they had become clearer to her. Now she was fully decided what course to take about Mahla. She wrote till nine o'clock, then signed herself, "Yours, like everything--Gracie." "Now, Barby," said she, "yon may talk as much as you please, for I've no more writing to do. Much obliged to you for keeping so still." Barby laughed in high good humor, and going into the pantry, brought out a funny little table, about a foot and a half long. It was a miniature extension table, of black walnut, freshly polished with sweet oil. Grace clapped her hands, screaming with delight. "Why, where did this come from? Just what I've wanted for my dining-room department, Barby, ever since I had my cabinet!" Barbara took out the inside leaves, making an oval centre-table. "O, so cunning! Whose is it, Barby? I haven't felt like I could give dinner parties for my enormous doll on that tea-poy--it's too tall." Barbara laughed quietly, by and by telling Grace that this new article of furniture was hers, made on purpose for her by Horace. Grace could hardly believe it, for even a small extension table requires much mechanical skill. "O, but he has worked at it all the days for so long!" said Barbara, who was extremely proud of Horace. Upon inquiry, she confessed that he had been to see the "tischler" (joiner) "two times," and that Robin had helped him a little. "O, where's Horace?" cried Grace; "I want to see him this minute, to thank him for my beautiful present." "Sound abed and asleep," replied the German girl, yawning. When had Barby been known to sit up so late? Faithful creature, she had kept her sleepy eyes open for the sake of presenting this pretty table to Grace; for, as she said, "I just does like to hear her laugh!" "Deary me," thought Grace, "if I'd spoken up pettishly when she bothered me so, I'd want to bite my tongue out! Reckon I know of something as good for my 'nervous system' as quinine; and that's _patience_." CHAPTER IV. A SNAKE IN THE GRASS. Next morning, when Barbara was building the kitchen fire, she heard the sound of small boots, and, looking up, saw Horace, who had run down stairs in such haste that as yet he had put on but one sleeve of his jacket. "Ho, Barby!"--Horace considered it a waste of breath to say "good morning,"--"what were the first words she said?" "Let's me think," replied Barby, with an air of deep reflection. "'Where did this thing came from?' Them's the first words she said." "That all? Poh! If I'd known that, I wouldn't have touched to make it! Did you tell her Ike Davis couldn't? and he's learned the joiner's trade, too." "There, now, if I didn't forget to say dat!" "Why, Barby, I wouldn't have thought that of you, now!" "But she liked it. She was just as pleased." "Pleased, was she? Did she clap her hands?" "Yes; clapped 'em hard, she did, and laughed." "Will she put it in her cabinet, think, Barby?" "O, yes; she said it's what she did always want." Horace's face brightened like the moon sailing out of a cloud. Grace's cabinet held nothing but choice articles, and was kept as orderly as a paper of pins. "See here, Barby; you needn't tell Gracie I asked you any questions." When the children met that morning, Grace threw her arms about her brother's neck,-- "O, Horace, dear, there never was anything so nice as my little dining-table." "Poh!" exclaimed the boy, dipping, swallow-like, this way and that, to avoid a kiss. "Why, you dear little brother, mayn't I kiss you for thanks?" said the affectionate sister, trying to find a spot on his face which was not in motion. She succeeded at last in touching his forehead with her lips. "There, _once'll_ do," said Horace, impatiently; for he considered kissing an amiable weakness, and only submitted to it as a painful duty. "O, pshaw!" said he; "such a fuss over just nothing!" And this was all the remark he would deign to make concerning a piece of work which must have cost him many days of hard labor. Still, he was proud of his success, and for a long while afterward felt the keenest delight in seeing that table brought out for exhibition to visitors, or standing in a corner adorned with his sister's work-box. Grace had a bright face this morning, as Mrs. Clifford noticed at once. She sent her letter to the post-office by her father, then had a frolic with Horace, who was rather "wildish," and with little Katie, who, for a wonder, did not appear to be cutting a tooth that morning, and was "as cunning as a baby can be and live." As Grace entered the school-room, she met Mahla Linck, whose white face warmed to a glow at her friendly greeting. "She's the girl that thinks it's of no use to try for the prize," thought Grace. "Poor thing, I'll soon make her understand that she needn't be afraid of Grace Clifford." The school was called to order, and the teacher, a tall, fine-looking young lady, began to read the morning lesson in the New Testament. A part of the beautiful Sermon on the Mount was repeated by teacher and pupils. When they came to the words, "Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so to them," Grace involuntarily glanced across the room to Mahla, who sat resting her head on her hand. Such a hand! You could trace its veins as easily as the blue lines in white paper. Her pale hair shone in the sun like threads of gold. Grace's eyes were fixed on the little girl with a sort of fascination. If anything could be done to help poor Mahla, she would do it. What though by helping her she should lessen her own chance of the prize? Never mind. Hadn't Christ made the Golden Rule? Grace had fought out the battle with herself the night before. She had put her hand to the plough, and would not look back. When recess-time came, Mahla had no heart for play, but kept her seat, still vexing herself over a question in analysis, which was buried in a fog. Grace watched her with real pity. It was almost unaccountable, she thought, how any one who had ever studied "Colburn's Mental" could be puzzled by anything in analysis. But Grace was a natural mathematician, and Mahla was not. When school was over at noon, the pale young German girl still sat biting her slate pencil, and pressing one colorless hand upon her throbbing temples. "Now, what is it, Mahla?" said the sweet voice of Grace Clifford, as she came and leaned over her friend's shoulder, her face covered with smiles. "I do believe you're puzzling over the same thing that vexes everybody so to-day. Want me to show you just a speck? For you'll catch the headache, Mahla, if you think so hard." Mahla gave a sigh of relief. "I don't know, Gracie; things seem to spin round and round; I can't get a start." [Illustration: Grace helping Mahla.] "Let's look at it, Mahla. Do piece work--three men--how many days? It's that same old firm of A, B, and C. How long suppose they've been in company? I just believe they set up a shop in the ark?" Mahla laughed a little, the first time for that day; and it did her good. "Well, now, if those old patriarchs A, B, and C--" But we will not follow Grace in her explanation. She never wearied till Mahla's eyes brightened, and she cried out, "O, how stupid! Why couldn't I see that before? You make things so clear! You do beat everything in arithmetic, Gracie!" Then Mahla laid aside her slate and book with a smile of heartfelt satisfaction, and made ready to eat her dinner of plain bread and butter and Dutch cheese. Grace dropped an orange into her basket. "Good by, Mahla. If you have any more trouble with those horrid questions, let me know, please. Remember, we belong to the Ruby Seal and are bound to help one another." Mahla looked up with a face full of joy and gratitude, and tried to speak her thanks. But a swelling in her throat choked her voice. Grace felt strangely happy as she bounded out of the school-yard; yet the exquisite joy which throbbed at her heart, and called tears to her eyes, was not so much happiness as blessedness. She had obeyed the Saviour's Golden Rule in a sweet, unselfish spirit, and had her reward. Just outside the gate she met Isa Harrington, who had been waiting for her impatiently. "What did keep you so long, Gracie?" "O, I was talking with Mahla," replied Grace, who did not care to make a parade of her generous deeds. "It's right kind in you to take so much notice of Dutch girls," pursued Isa, who was extremely anxious to make the most of Cassy's absence, and win Grace's favor as far as she could, not caring how much flattery she used for the purpose. "Why, Isa, she's a respectable German--Mahla is." "O, yes, Gracie; but her ma used to work at your house before she was married. Wouldn't catch Cassy Hallock making so much of their hired girl's children. One of the kid-glove sort Cassy is, or would be if she was only rich." "Not proud, Isa Harrington." Isa cleared her throat. "Deary me, no! I declare, I forgot I was talking to _you!_ You'll never hear a word against Cassy, and I don't blame you, Grace Clifford." Grace's joyous mood changed; she looked vexed. Why would Isa persist in saying little hateful things, which pricked like cambric needles? "We girls would like to see Cassy Hallock stand up so for you--that's all," added Isa, shutting her mouth firmly, as if her teeth were all on edge. "Well, so she would. Cassy never would hear me abused. She's not a milk-and-water sort of person; and that you know, Isa Harrington!" Isa cleared her throat again with a provoking cough, which said, as plainly as words, "O, couldn't I tell you something surprising if I only would!" "Isa Harrington," said Grace, impetuously, "what's that you say?" "I said nothing at all," replied Isa, demurely. "But you _look_ mighty wise. I'd sooner a body'd speak right out than to look so wise; I would _so_, Isa." "Ah, Gracie. I could tell a heap of things I reckon; but no good--you wouldn't believe a word." "Speak out," said Grace, severely, as she proceeded to curl a dandelion stem. "Ahem! Remember that time you had the oyster supper at your house, don't you, Gracie? Well, did you stay in the room with the company? I always wanted to know." "Yes, Isa, part of the time. Why?" Isa rolled her eyes, and looked unutterable things. "O, nothing, only Mrs. Hallock was there, you know. Ahem! Well, next day, Mrs. Hallock said to her husband, and Cassy was right there in the room--" Isa hesitated. It seemed to be her painful duty to stop. "Do go on," said Grace. "If it's ever so bad I want to hear it." "I just happened to think, Gracie, dear, you haven't promised not to tell." "And I'll not promise any such thing, Isa," cried Grace, spiritedly. "Then I've said all I'm going to," replied Isa, folding her arms in a hard knot. "But you're not going to leave off right in the middle! Now, Isa, that's not fair." "Well, no more it isn't fair for you not to promise." By this time they had nearly reached Captain Clifford's, for Isa had walked a long distance out of her way to accompany Grace. "Isa Harrington, I think you might tell." "Gracie Clifford, I think you might promise." "Isa, I'd never dare. 'Twould fly out of my lips when I saw Cassy, and I couldn't help it. Don't make me tell a lie!" Grace ate her dinner that noon in silence. What dreadful thing could Mrs. Hallock have said to her husband? "Nothing much, I reckon; Cassy wouldn't go and tell stories about me! I'll trust Cassy as long as I live." Grace twirled her regard-ring about her finger. "I'd be crazy if I believed my best friend was false!" Still the thought troubled her. Grace had asked Cassy's views regarding the prize. To her it seemed a thousand pities that Cassy should have gone away, and so missed all chance of it. Cassy's reply was just like her. She didn't care her little finger for the prize. "It wouldn't probably be worth more than five dollars, any way; and as she had five dollars already, what could she want of any more?" She didn't see why Grace should want it, either; but if she did, Cassy hoped she'd get it. "If Mahla feels badly, you can give her something," added Cassy, sagely. Grace pondered over this letter for some time. It was short and to the purpose, for its writer never wasted words. Grace fancied, too, that it was rather cool; but every time a doubt tried to creep into her mind, she shut it out, saying to herself,-- "Cassy's my dear friend: I'll trust Cassy as long as I live." From this time Mahla Linck seemed to take a fresh start in arithmetic. Grace knew very well that as much as she helped Mahla, just so much she hindered herself. In everything but figures Mahla excelled. Her copy-book was a pattern of neatness; she could spell quite accurately; and as for geography, she was at home all over the world. But if left to herself, she was sure to spoil the whole by her dulness in arithmetic. Miss Allen was not possessed of "long patience," and dear little Mahla could make nothing of her scientific explanations. But Grace had a way of shedding light on that dismal book, which, though called _Ray's_ Arithmetic, was quite rayless to Mahla. So the poor child turned to her new friend with joyful eagerness. Grace did not falter; but she had one trial. Every night Captain Clifford said, smiling,-- "Well, daughter, how comes on the studying? Any nearer the prize?" And Grace had to answer, slowly, "O, pa, don't go to expecting I'll get it, please! Mahla's the one." When she had said this, her father would turn again to his newspaper, looking slightly disappointed. Then Grace felt a pang of regret; but it soon passed away, and never left a sting. CHAPTER V. FORTUNES. All the school-girls were talking just now about a wonderful woman, who had suddenly dropped down, perhaps out of the moon--a woman who could tell what had happened, and what would happen, as easily as she would wink. "Why," said the graduating class, talking two or three at once, "she can tell you when you were born, how your parents look, what's your given name, and all about your friends, whether they're light or dark complexion, and--" "Well, there," said Grace, contemptuously, "that's smart! Does anybody want to hear it all over again, when they knew it before? I'd like her to tell something new." "So she does," cried the girls, with breathless eagerness; "she can foretell things, and they do come to pass, too,--things that make your hair stand on end." "I wonder!" said timid Lucy Lane, shivering, and looking behind her. "O, fie! Lucy," said. Grace, patronizingly; "don't you be a bit afraid, dear; it's all a sham. I can foretell as well as Mrs. Gypsy. I'll foretell what we're going to have for dinner--a dog in a blanket." "There, now," laughed Diademia; "I've heard of eating roasted horses, but I didn't know it ever came to cats and dogs." Grace explained that a dog in a blanket was a roly-poly pudding. "But about this gypsy," continued Di; "anybody'd think, to hear you, Grace Clifford, that you supposed we believed in her." At this speech the girls all declared, by gestures and exclamations, that nothing could be more absurd than to suppose that they had any faith in such nonsense. What did they care about it? Only it was so queer! True, they knew of girls who had been to see this strange being,--young ladies who never told a lie in their lives,--and these young ladies all "deposed" and said that the gypsy was a perfect wonder! Grace listened with curling lip to the strange stories which the princesses narrated. There was Panoria Swan,--the proud young lady who, the boys said, had swallowed a whalebone and couldn't stoop,--even Panoria Swan sailed down in all her majesty to this gypsy, who sent her home so terribly frightened that she ran every step of the way, and forgot to scowl for six hours. Then there was the large girl with the geographical name, Missouri Arkansas Smith, who had found a pot of gold, or was going to; and a man who had had a splendid future foretold, which had come to pass; that is to say, all that had happened beforehand had come to pass, every speck of it. The arrival of this singular stranger was the most startling thing which had fallen to the notice of the Ruby Seal Society since its birth. For a day or two the usual game of skipping the rope was voted tedious, and the princesses formed a group by themselves, greatly fascinated by hearing and telling stories of this weird woman of the woods. How delightful if they could make up a party and go to consult her! It would be an appalling thing to venture alone; but there is strength in numbers. "Now, Gracie Clifford, if you'll only go ahead!" "O, yes, Gracie; what a gay time we'll have! Not that we, any of us, believe such witch stories. Just for the frolic, you know." "But I have a perfect _despise_ for fortune-tellers; it's not respectable; it's silly, and--I'd be ashamed." Grace did not add what she really thought--"and I'm afraid it's wicked." "I'm right glad you feel so, Gracie," said gentle Mahla Linck, laying her hand caressingly on their queen's shoulder. "I just know it's not right to go." But in spite of her assumed indifference, Grace had as much curiosity as any of the others. True, she declared, over and over again, that she didn't care about going within fifty miles of this gypsy; that, let the crazy creature say what she might, it would surely turn out exactly the reverse. Still, after having cleared her conscience by all this preamble, she consented to go, "just to please the girls." They were all delighted; for, in their opinion, Grace's presence gave an air of respectability to the enterprise. They decided that this was one of those affairs which could not be mentioned to any of their mothers. It was not probable that their mothers could be brought to understand the case; so difficult is it for grown-up women to perceive that there is no harm in a little frolic! Grace was very uneasy; still she freely acknowledged, with the others, that the thing must be done by stealth, or not at all. The princesses shook hands in all solemnity, promising secrecy till death. They arranged, all but Mahla Linck, to meet for a walk the next "evening," which with New Englanders means "afternoon." Delay was dangerous, for the gypsy might not stay long in town. She lived on the wing, and was no more to be depended upon than a butterfly. Saturday "evening" came, clear and cloudless; and at two o'clock the girls met by appointment. Did Grace Clifford feel no twinges of conscience when her kind mother packed a basket with dainties, and kissed her good by? Did she think the queen of the Ruby Seal had a right to keep such secrets from such a mother? Ah, this was not the conduct one might expect from a little girl who reads two chapters in the Bible every day. It is to be feared, however, that Grace only tripped carelessly over her task, instead of studying the Best of Books with real attention. After much chatting and laughing, and losing their way a few times in the "green gloom of the woods," the girls reached a settlement in the country called "Small's Enlargement," passed a romantic log church, and came in sight of the fortune-teller's dwelling, an unpainted cottage snuggled in among gooseberry-bushes, tulip-trees, scrub-oaks, persimmon, and Judas-trees. The tenement was owned by Mr. Harrington, Isa's father, but was so sadly out of repair that no respectable person would rent it; and it was usually occupied only by rats, or for a short time in the summer by some wandering family. Grace pulled something which seemed to be the remains of a door-knob; but if it was connected with a bell, the bell was certainly tongue-tied, for it would not ring. "Let's walk right in," said Grace, lifting the latch. Like many Western houses, this cottage had no front hall, and you stepped at once into the parlor. The girls were greeted by a dense cloud of smoke, which quite filled the room. Grace fancied for a moment that this strange woman had been invoking some sort of a spell with the aid of magic, and looked about her, half expecting to see "black spirits and white" floating in the air. But if spirits there were, they could not be discerned through the smoke, which was pouring out through the acorn-shaped stove in the corner. The occupant of the room did not come forward to greet her guests, but said in a low tone, as if muttering to herself, "Whatever is to be will be! Can't help your fate! As well go set an army of grasshoppers to fighting against the United States army! Yes, go set 'em to fighting, I tell you." This singular speech startled everybody. Poor Lucy Lane trembled, and caught fast hold of Grace's hand, while Grace, for her part, felt, as she had declared she should feel, ready to laugh, though partly from nervousness. The strange hostess glared at Grace in silence, but with much displeasure, and very likely from that moment marked out for her a dark future. This mysterious woman was dressed in a half barbaric costume. She had on a garment which resembled a coat, only the sleeves were loose and flowing, like those of a lady's dress. She wore Turkish drawers of green calico, gathered into a band at the ankle, and her feet blazed with red slippers, brilliantly adorned with "gold spangles." Over her shoulders she now threw a loose robe, like a cloak, made of scarlet moreen, for all the world like a pulpit curtain, down which dangled two huge tassels. By the time this robe of state had been carefully adjusted, the gypsy came forward and welcomed her visitors. Isa she patted on the shoulder with much cordiality, shook hands with Judith Pitcher and Lucy Lane, but passed by Grace with only a glance. The old crone's face was as strange as her dress. Her eyes were intensely black and bright; they seemed to have burned out the rest of her face, which was very thin and haggard. These wild eyes sank far into her head, "like birds' nests under the eaves of a house." To crown all, she wore a fierce turban of soiled white lace. Altogether, she was weird-looking enough to frighten a person of tolerably strong nerves. Well for the more timid of the little girls if they should escape from her with no worse effects than horrible dreams! "Well, my pretty dears," said she at last, "what can I do for you? Whatever is to be will be! We're nothing but a handful of grasshoppers! Do you dare to have me tear down the _mountainious_ veil of futurity?" It seemed necessary to make some reply. "Yes,'m," said two or three of the girls, in tremulous tones. "Please, may I raise the window, ma'am?" said Grace. The fortune-teller deigned no reply, but went on talking as if to herself:-- "The proper and true way to cure smoke, is to start a roaring fire, then pour on salt and water, and the steam will choke out the smoke. There are," continued she in the same tone, "some children of this generation who think they know more than their betters; but they never'll set the river afire. Now, you mark my words, such knowing children never'll set the river afire." The smoke growing worse, Isabel proposed that they should hear their fortunes out of doors. The gypsy readily consented, for from the first she had looked upon Isabel with a friendly eye. The truth was, she remembered the little girl's babyhood, and had often held her in her arms, though of this Isa knew nothing. Seated on a rude bench under the budding trees, the little girls and their dark hostess formed a picturesque group. All hearts beat high with awe and curiosity, as the gypsy drew out from the folds of her scarlet robe a pack of soiled cards, "shuffled" them with much deliberation, and passed them to Isabel, saying, "Tell me, young miss, shall I predicate your fortune by astrology, by cards, or by the lines on the palm of your hand?" Isa looked at the other girls, hoping for advice in this important matter. "What _would_ you do, Gracie?" "Suppose we each have it different?" replied Grace. "You take the cards, I'll take the astrology, and some of the others can use the lines on their hands." "Very well," replied Isa, turning to the gypsy, "I reckon I'll take the cards. Aren't they just as good?" "First," replied Mrs. Gypsy, with a solemn glance sky-ward, "first you may cross my palms with silver." "We've nothing but scrip," replied Grace, who was obliged to do the financial business for the whole party. "They said you asked six bits apiece for your fortunes, and we've brought it," added she, putting into the woman's hand three dollars and seventy-five cents in paper bills, the joint sums which the girls had brought with them. They might have made a vastly better use of their money by throwing it into the acorn-shaped stove for kindling. Grace's "six bits" was all she had left of her monthly allowance, and this she had been setting aside for the soldiers in the hospital; but the soldiers could wait a while for their currant jelly, whereas it is not every day one can have one's fortune told by a black-browed gypsy, with a turban on her head. The woman pretended to be surprised at the scarcity of silver, and the girls trembled lest she should, even now, send them off with no fortunes, just when they were on tiptoe with awe and curiosity. CHAPTER VI. MISFORTUNES. But to the immense relief of the girls, the gypsy at last consented, most kindly, to accept the money, and after the cards had been "cut," proceeded to assort them, and read from their dirty faces Isabel's future destiny. "Dark complect?" said she, looking up at Isa. "Yes, yes, coal-black hair, or will be, and a pair of eyes! There's two kinds of eyes in this world, little miss: one's the oily blank eye, and the other's the snapping black eye. Yours is the snapping black eye. 'Twill break the hearts, my dear--break the hearts," repeated Mrs. Gypsy, approvingly. "Here you are, the queen of spades, the queen of beauty, and behind you there I see trouble." The gypsy scanned the cards closely. "Ah, I know it all, now. It's a child, a girl, dead since way back. Your sister: you were named for her." The girls were dumb with surprise, and gazed at one another with parted lips. They had all heard of "the other Isa," and had seen her little head-stone in the graveyard. "You have one brother," continued the gypsy; "light hair; name begins with a T." "Thomas," cried the girls in a breath. "Where could she have heard of Tommy?" cried Grace. "Where, to be sure, miss?" was the tart reply. "Never heard of him till he looked up at me out of the cards." By this time five pairs of eyes had grown very large, and five little hearts were throbbing high with awe and curiosity. How could these children know that the gypsy was acquainted with the history of her landlord's family? How were they to imagine that she purposely told Isa's fortune first in order to excite their wonder? "I see here," said the gypsy, fumbling at the cards mysteriously, as if she could pierce quite through them with her sharp eyes, "I see a present for you: it's worth a power of money. I see a journey for you: it's across the waters. Here is a great nobleman; and O, how rich! He rolls in gold! He'll set great store by you, miss, and when you grow up you'll marry him, and you'll roll in gold, too." Isa smiled; and it is worthy of notice that she did not wonder at all at this future husband, though, according to her promise to the Ruby Seal Society, she could no more think of marrying than a veiled nun. "Such a lady as you'll be. You know of girls now that are pretty _thin_ with you. You wish yourself as rich and grand. But never mind. The day'll come when they'll be glad of a smile from you." The wicked woman continued this harangue for some time, painting in gorgeous colors the splendor which was to shine upon the happy Isa one of these days; while Isa sat listening to the romance in a tumult of delight. "What girls were those who felt themselves better? That must mean Grace Clifford, if anybody. She would come humbly to Isa Harrington, begging for a smile. Cassy Hallock would then have sunk into a nobody. O, how exquisite! Grace was cool and indifferent now--was she? Ah, well! the tables were about to be turned, and then maybe somebody else would know how to be cool and indifferent too." "O, Isa," laughed Grace, "think of the lovely dresses you'll wear! Please give me one, Isa. I hope you'll not forget your old friends." The gypsy scowled, but was keen to take observations. "I reckon I'll know who are my real friends better than some people do," replied Isa, meaningly. "I'll have so many friends that I just hope I'll not have to pick out the meanest of the whole to go with; I just hope I'll not be such a stupid as that, and then feel cross when anybody says she isn't perfect." Grace smiled, and so did the other girls. It was plain that Isa was so dazzled as to come very near fancying herself a great lady already. The glances which passed between the girls did not escape the sharp eyes of the gypsy. "Ah, ha! I see how it is. Somebody jealous! I'll soon study it out." Next came Diademia's turn, and she chose to have her fortune read by the zigzag lines on the palm of her hand. The woman declared that these lines were curved in just the right way on the little brown hand of Diademia, who was therefore sure to live in peace and plenty, and to receive a large legacy in five years. So it was with all. The gypsy fairly buried them under heaps of gold and precious stones, till it came to poor Grace Clifford. She bent her black brows, and looked upon this last candidate with a frown, pausing some time before she spoke. Grace did not understand this ominous scowl, but looked into the woman's face with a bright smile of anticipation. "I'd like my fortune told by astrology, please, madam. That's the stars--isn't it?" "First give me your hand, miss; not that--the left one, like the others did. Alas!" sighed the artful woman, poring over the soft little palm, "life-line short and crossed, matrimony-line and line of riches cut clean off! I daresn't to lift the tempestuous veil of fortune. Black, mighty black!" Grace might have answered, "Very well, madam; then pray don't take the trouble to do it, but give me back my 'six bits,' and I'll buy that jelly for the soldiers." But Grace was by far too much interested; she could not go away now without hearing her fortune, however dark it might prove. "Please go on, ma'am," said she, with a brave smile, though her heart quaked for fear. "What day and year was you born, miss?" "September 3d, 1851." "Then you are under the influence of the planet _Marcury_," said the gypsy, after an intense study of the sky, during which she looked as wise as an astronomer calculating an eclipse. "Marcury, sorry to say. You have friends who have been--ahem!--who will go to the war." Here the gypsy paused and gazed at the heavens again, lost in thought. "She means your pa," whispered Lucy, "when you supposed he was dead, and he wasn't." "As I was saying, you have a very dear relation who was killed, or almost killed, in the wars," continued the gypsy, starting up from her reverie, and beginning where she had left off, without appearing to pay the slightest attention to Lucy's whisper. "I had to study a while to find out if he died; but the truth is, he's alive now--your father, I mean." If possible the girls were more amazed than ever. What didn't the gypsy know? Wasn't it awful? "Yes, at the time you was born, poor thing! the planets Marcury and Haskell were disjunctive. Whatever is to be will you'll see trouble. You have a dear friend: you set store by her." Here the gypsy perceived that she had made another happy hit, for Grace looked surprised again. "This friend pretends to have a heart for you; you think she's true; but mark my words,"--and the prophetess dropped her monotonous voice to a hoarse whisper; "mark my words: you never were more mistaken in your life." Here Isa's face took on an expression of pleasure, and she touched Grace's elbow, whispering, "Didn't I tell you so? There now!" Grace grew an inch taller; would not look at Isa, but tossed a reply to her over her shoulder:-- "Please don't say any more, Isa. The woman may have told the other things right, but she's made a mistake about Cassy Hallock." "Cassy Hallock! ah, that's the name," spoke up the gypsy. "What do you say about mistakes? I don't make mistakes! I tell you that smooth friend of yours is a snake in the grass. Flies buzz, girls talk. Don't trust that girl. Trouble's coming thick as sand." The girls cast pitying glances upon Grace, as if they already saw her the victim of sorrow. "Needn't curl your lip; you are soon to have a fever and lose all your pretty hair. When you're twelve and some odd, your father'll die, and the next year your mother'll die too. You're one of them that considers every rain-storm nothing but a clearing-off shower; but you'll find one storm that won't clear off. You'll near about come nigh starving, miss. It's an awful way to die; but you won't die so. You'll be bit by a rattlesnake, and won't live a day after you're sixteen year old." Grace tried to laugh. "Come, girls," said she, "let's go." "You're an awful unlucky child," cried the gypsy, pointing her finger at Grace, who did not look quite humble enough yet. "You're very _peart_ now; but trouble's coming: now you mark my words." So saying, the crazy woman arose to enter the house; but as she saw the smoke still clouding the air, a new freak seized her bewildered brain. She quite forgot her character of fortune-teller, and shouted aloud, "I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness. Tell me one thing before I have you, little army of grasshoppers: what did John Baptist do with the locusts? Did he eat 'em raw, or did he smoke and roast 'em?" Then with "tinsel-slippered" feet, the gypsy entered the house, and closed the door. The girls heard a shout of wild laughter. Could it be from the gypsy? They started with one accord, and ran till they were out of breath. "Where are the baskets with our picnic?" cried Diademia, suddenly pausing. "Under one of the 'simmon-trees," replied Lucy Lane, who was a natural housekeeper, and had carefully collected the scattered baskets, and put them together in what she considered a safe place. Now, who would dare go for them? Tho girls were hungry, but they were also in a panic. Who could it be that had laughed so wildly? How did they know that the strange creature might not spring out upon them, and drag them into her den? Grace at last summoned courage, and the girls followed her, hoping that nothing dreadful could happen to any one but Grace, after such excellent fortunes. They went to the persimmon-trees, but found no baskets. Lucy, usually timid and irresolute, was firm enough in this case. She had placed the baskets under a certain tree; but they were not there now, neither could they be found. "Magic!" murmured Di. "I wonder," said Grace, "if they've been magicked off? What if I go ask our gypsy?" She stepped cautiously along towards the house. "Gracie Clifford, you don't dare." "How do you know that, Isa?" "Don't go," whispered the girls, crouching together behind the trees. They were divided in their minds between superstitious terror and sharp hunger. Grace's eyes were flashing with strong excitement. She was as much frightened as any of the others; but a spirit of desperation had seized her, and she walked up to the house and entered it in spite of the feeble remonstrances of the girls. She did not come out again for several minutes, and by that time her companions were alarmed. Not that they really believed the "fortune-woman" was an ogress, who ate children; but they did not know clearly what they did believe, and herein was the chief perplexity. If the gypsy had only been like other human beings! But that she certainly was not. Grace came out of the cottage at last. "Did you find her?" cried the girls. "Yes, but not the baskets. Where, think, she was? Sitting on the stove, muttering over some magic to top the smoke. There was her red robe, or whatever it is, on the floor, with something under it. I went up to her, and said I, 'Do you know, ma'am, where our baskets are?'--I reckon she doesn't like me. Why, girls, she glared at me like a wild tiger, and told me if I touched a hem of that red thing I'd be sorry, for she was the voice of one crying in the wilderness, and I don't know what all." "O, fie! I wouldn't have minded that," said Di. "Why didn't you go right along and take up the cloak? I'd have done it in a twinkling." "Then you may go do it, Di," retorted Grace, who thought such a scornful remark was but a poor return for her own valiant conduct. Di was dumb. "But," continued Grace, "I just feel as if those baskets were under that cloak; I do _so_." "If she eats my cookies," said Isa, "I hope they'll choke her." "There now, Gracie, what shall we do?" sighed Lucy Lane, trying to conceal her tears. "I brought three custards, and a silver teaspoon, and six slices of pound-cake; and Jane covered them up with one of ma's nice napkins. O, dear, dear, dear!" "My basket," said Judith Pitcher, "was ma's sweet little French bird's-nest, they call it, with a bird at each end for a handle. I'd starve to death and never mind it; but it's that basket that breaks my heart." "Girls, I'm going home to tell my pa to get a search-warrant, and a policeman, and a protest; see if I don't," cried Diademia, half frantic. "Di Jones, if you do," interposed Isa, "if you let on one word about this fix, you'll be turned straight out of our society. Didn't we promise secrecy till death?" "Hush!" said Grace, soothingly; "let's hunt the baskets a little longer." Accordingly they searched in all directions as long as they dared, then set their faces towards home, tired and discouraged. Lucy Lane stealthily wiped a few tears from her eyes. "Pretty doings!" whispered Di, confidentially. "_Gracie_ has got us into a curious fix." Lucy wondered how Grace could be blamed, but had not the courage to take her part; so she merely gave a little groan, which Di understood to mean, "Yes, dear; just so." Lucy was what Grace Clifford called a "yes-yes sort of girl;" she agreed with everybody. "You see now, Lucy, if Grace had said, up and down, she wouldn't go to see this horrid old witch, why, we would not have stirred a step. Grace is our queen; oughtn't she to keep us out of mischief, pray?" "Yes," said Lucy, "I think so too.--O, my silver teaspoon!" Grace and Isa were also talking in confidence. In spite of the lost baskets Isa "walked on thrones." "So queer, Gracie, what she said about Cassy Hallock!" "O, Isa, I believe she's the Witch of Endor." "Now, Grace Clifford, I'll tell you how Cassy slanders you, only you can't make me say where I heard it. A forward little miss, she says, you are, always speaking up when you aren't spoken to. Mighty grand you feel. Right vain of your hair, she says; but it's not auburn--it's fire-red." "Why, Isa Harrington," cried Grace, breathless with surprise, "Panoria Swan has fire-red hair. I'll leave it to you--does it look a speck like mine?" "Dear me, no, indeed, Gracie. Nobody ever dreamed of such an idea but just Cassy. But that's not all, nor half. She says her ma don't like her to go with you so much. There, that's all I'll tell." "Isa Harrington, I can't believe one word of that last part," said Grace, indignantly; "it's a mistake, and you may take it back." "I can't take back the sober, solemn, honest truth," returned Isa, firmly. "Seems to me Cassy's changed amazingly, then," said Grace, with a quivering voice. "Hasn't she seemed rather odder since the oyster party, Gracie? I mean Mrs. Hallock?" "Why, no," said Grace, hesitating; "no, indeed! Let me see: once or twice she wouldn't let Cassy go home with me farther than the acorn-tree; but that was because she must have her mind the baby.--Here we are at home." Grace was not ready to believe that her friend and her friend's mother were both so treacherous; still, she entered the house in a state of much perplexity. CHAPTER VII. THE REGARD-RING. Mrs. Clifford wondered why her daughter should return from a picnic so eager for supper. "Why, ma, we lost every single thing we carried to eat." "Lost it! What, not all your five baskets?" "Yes, ma," replied Grace, uneasily; "that's the solemn truth." Mrs. Clifford was naturally surprised. "But, ma, it's a secret. Don't ask me to break my promise, please. Some time, may be, I'll tell you. I will when I can." At the tea-table, Horace's curiosity was very active. He wanted to know where the girls spread out their picnic, what games they played, and would have gone on with his trying questions if Mrs. Clifford had not kindly come to her daughter's relief, and turned the boy's attention to something else. Grace was grateful to her mother, but a sense of guilt weighed heavily on her mind. She had sunk very low in her own esteem, and envied little Horace the innocent frankness with which he dared look people in the face. Added to these twinges of conscience, Grace was in a state of wretched doubt regarding Cassy. What charm would be left in this bleak world, she thought, if this only friend should prove false! Grace's sleep was haunted that night by witches and goblins. She felt the fever which had been predicted "coming to pass" in her burning veins, and was greatly relieved next morning when she awoke as well as usual. But the terrors of witchcraft still haunted her. In a few days another mysterious event took place. Grace lost her regard-ring. When she came from school one evening she was sure she had it on her finger. It must be lost in the house. All possible and impossible places were searched. So strange that Cassy's ring should disappear! Had it melted away like Cassy's friendship? At last Grace settled down to the conviction that Phebe, the little nurse, had stolen it. "What else could have gone with it, unless that wild woman had magicked it away?" Flying into the nursery, she met Phebe walking the floor with little Katie, who was wailing with the ache of some invisible little teeth. "Black people have light fingers, everybody knows," thought Grace, by way of fortifying herself. "Phebe Dolan, my beautiful regard-ring is gone--gone; and who do you suppose took it, Phebe Dolan? _You_ did!" Phebe's eyes rolled like wheels. In her surprise, she almost dropped the baby. "Why, now, I done declar, Miss Grace, I never took it--never seen it; much as ever I knowed you had a ring." "O, Phebe Dolan, you're trembling this minute. What could you want of my ring, you little wretch?" "I declar for't, Miss Grace, I hope to die fust!" "No, you mustn't hope to die, Phebe: you're too wicked to die!" "Then I never, never, in all my born days in this world, and never did, and never will," moaned Phebe, looking about for a handkerchief. It was the first time Grace had spoken sharply to her. She had been in Mrs. Clifford's family for two years, and in that time her excellent mistress had taught her much in regard to her duty; so, if Phebe had now broken the eighth commandment, it could not have been a sin of ignorance. The moment Grace's whirlwind of anger was over, she regretted her hasty words to the desolate little orphan. "Everything has gone wrong since Cassy went away," mused Grace. "I wonder what I'll do or say next? But there, Phebe needn't steal, I declare! It's good enough for her, if she did; and where's my ring if she didn't?" Grace would as soon have suspected one of Horace's pet doves, as Barbara Kinckle. Up to this time the little girls had not found their baskets. But one noon, Captain Clifford came home with a strange account of a crazy woman who had escaped from an almshouse in an adjoining county. She had been wandering about the woods for weeks, fancying herself a prophetess, and sometimes crying out to passers-by, "I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness; prepare ye the way." She had entered a country church and cut down one half of a pulpit curtain for a cloak. She had just been found now at Small's Enlargement, and had become so raving that she was carried away in a strait jacket. "They say," said Captain Clifford, helping himself to venison, "she has been telling fortunes with a pack of dirty cards. I must confess I was surprised to hear that our Grace had been one of the rabble to visit her, Maria." Mrs. Clifford looked at her husband in surprise. "Our Grace?" "Yes, our Grace. It seems to be new to you. Mr. Harrington told me to-day that she was ringleader of a party of little girls who went out to Small's Enlargement on a picnic excursion. The woman stole their baskets, and said such hobgoblin things that his Isabel has been nearly frantic ever since." "My daughter!" said Mrs. Clifford, in a sorrowful voice. "O, ma, I've wanted every hour and minute to tell you, and pa too; but I promised not to!" "Shame, shame!" cried Horace, pointing his index finger at his sister; "before I'd sneak off to a gypsy that way!" "That will do, my son," remarked Captain Clifford. "You may finish your dinner." "O, pa," said Grace, pushing back her chair, and burying her face in her handkerchief, "we all promised not to tell, you know, and I wouldn't, not for my right hand; and here's Isa, pa, she's gone and broken her word." "Wrong, I grant," replied Captain Clifford, with a provoking smile; "there should he honor even among thieves." Grace winced at this proverb. The subject was now dropped, for what Mrs. Clifford said to her daughter she preferred to say to her alone. ----- Cassy Hallock came home. Her father, mother, and brother Johnny were at the wharf to meet her. "Where's Gracie?" was her first salutation, after she had quietly kissed her relatives. "Why, my dear, I've hardly seen Grace since you went away," said Mrs. Hallock. "Goes with Isa Harrington nowadays," remarked brother John, thrusting his thumbs into his vest pockets: "just the way with girls. It's all their wonderful friendships amount to." "O, Johnny!" replied Cassy, faintly; and then she walked on in silence, for Cassy Hallock was not a little girl who wore her heart on her sleeve; it was kept out of sight, and usually did its aching in secret. The next day was Saturday; but Grace did not come to see Cassy, who was quite wretched, but too proud to let any one know it. At last, a happy thought struck her. "Ma, mayn't I go round to see Gracie, and carry a bottle of your cream beer? I reckon she doesn't know I'm home again." "Strange," thought Cassy, as she drew near her friend's house, and paused to rest. "Strange Johnny should say Grace has changed! Why, I've only been gone two months, and folks don't change in two months." Yet she felt strangely agitated as she entered the yard. Gracie must know she was home again; she almost wished she had waited to see if she would call. "I declare, if there isn't Cassy Hallock coming, bless her heart. O, dear me, no, the hypocrite!" said Grace, looking out of her chamber window. "I reckon she hasn't seen me; I'll run and hide. She needn't come here and pretend to be friends!" Grace stole into the library, and locked the door. "Miss Gracie," cried the sorrowful voice of black Phebe. No answer. At last, Phebe came to the library door and rattled it. Grace whispered through the key-hole,-- "Ask the person into the parlor, Phebe, and say I'll be down very soon." _The person!_ "O, won't I be dignified?" thought Miss Grace, walking the floor with a queen-like tread. But the affection of years was tugging at her heart-strings. "I'll not cry." She flung off the bright drop which fell on her hand. "I'll not be caught crying, when anybody I've loved as I did that girl--" Grace hastened down stairs, and "turned her tears to sparks of fire." "How d'ye, Miss Cassy?" Her old friend stood looking out of a window, her back towards the door. She felt the chill in Grace's voice, and was frozen stiff in a minute. "How d'ye, Miss Grace?" without moving her head. "Pleasant day. Please be seated, Miss Cassy." "Thank you, Miss Grace; I must be going." Cassy moved forward. The sun shone straight into her honest face. Grace saw its expression of astonishment, mingled with pride and grief. "Cassy Hallock, don't go yet." "Thank you, Grace Clifford; can't stop--only came to bring your ma some beer. In the music-room, on the piano." "Cassy Hallock, what's the matter with you?" "Gracie Clifford, what's the matter with YOU?" "You've been talking about me, Cassy," Grace burst forth, impetuously. "You've slandered me worse than I can bear. You think I'm proud and forward. Your ma don't like us to be friends. You say my hair is fire-red. O, Cassy Hallock!" Cassy's eyes expanded. "Who said that?" "Isa Harrington." "The biggest lie that ever was told!" "O, Cassy Hallock: then _'tisn't_ true!" "True, Gracie Clifford! and you my best friend!" "Are you right sure you never said so, Cassy?" "There, that's enough, Gracie Clifford. I'll not deny it again. If you believe Isa, and won't believe me, it's just as well. Good by." And Cassy moved to the door with "majestical high scorn." "Cassy Hallock," cried Grace, throwing her arms about her friend's neck, "you're not going one step. I don't believe a word of that lie, and never did!" Cassy allowed herself to be detained, but still held the door-knob in her hand. "I'll tell you what it is, Gracie Clifford. I'll not say how much I think of you, because you know; but if you can't trust me, there's the end of it." "O, I can trust you, I do trust you, Cassy. You're one of the salts of the earth--salt, I mean." "A small pinch," suggested Cassy, almost smiling. "O, Cassy, there's nobody in this world so splendid as you are!" But Cassy's indignation was not quite appeased. "Where's your ring, Gracie?" "Lost. O, you don't know how I feel about that. I'm afraid our Phebe stole it." "Glad of it." "Why, Cassy, you're crazy! That regard-ring, dear, that your ma gave you, and you gave me for my emerald, down by the acorn-tree! Why, Cassy!" "I said I was glad," replied Cassy, in a softer tone. "I mean glad you didn't take off the ring and go hide it. I supposed you did, just to let me see you didn't care for me any more." A complete revulsion of feeling had come over Grace: she laughed and cried in a breath. "O, you old Cassy! to think I ever could--" "There," said her friend, placidly, "let it all go." "But I can't let it go; it's a downright wicked shame. Now, Cassy, I ask you if we ought to allow such a girl as Isa in our R. S. S.?" "Not if I was queen, we wouldn't," was the decided answer. Now that the reconciliation was complete, Cassy declared she had a world to say, and Grace replied that she had "a hemisphere to say, herself." Then she told the story of the gypsy, and made confession that her dismal fortune had kept her awake "night after night." "Humph!" said Cassy; "nothing ever keeps _me_ awake! Thunder can't, nor cannons; and I'm sure that crazy old woman couldn't. What about the prize, Gracie?" "O, I don't know, Cassy; I've taken Mahla into Square Root." "Why, Gracie, what made you? You won't get that splendid present from your pa!" "O, Cassy," sighed Grace, "I thought I'd be good, just once, and do as the Bible said, and see how it would seem." "The Bible says so many things!" said Cassy, thoughtfully. "Yes, Cassy; but I mean the Golden Rule. Why, I never mistrusted that rule was so beautiful. It just makes me love Mahla dearly." Cassy's brown eyes kindled with sympathy; but she exclaimed, suddenly,-- "Come, let's go in the kitchen and talk German with Barby." Horace set by the white table, sighing over his Geography. Robert came in, looking mischievous. "What say to a story, girls?" said he, glancing at Grace. "I'll begin with a landscape, book-fashion:-- "Twas a lovely evening in May. The aged stars were twinkling as good as new; the moon was 'resting her chin' against a cloud: the serene heavens--" "Stop," cried Horace; "that's not a landscape: it's a skyscape." "What's that you say? You've interrupted me, and now I'll have to begin again:-- "The new moon was shaking down her silver hair most mournfully, or, in other words, she looked at a distance like a slice of green cheese. I had been giving a few elegant touches to the flower-beds, pulling out the weeds, pig and chick, you know, and--well, suffice it to say, I wended my way across a verdant lawn, not twenty miles from here. I went into a house. It was all papered and pictured. The master of the house offered me no seat, for he was not at home; but I helped myself to a sort of feather-bed chair near a window. I took my handkerchief out of my pocket in this way; a key came out with it, as you see now, and dropped into the chair. It slipped between the stuffed cushion and the back of the chair. I put in my thumb, and drew out--" "A plum," suggested Horace. "The key." The children looked as if they had been trifled with. "But the key was not all. To my surprise, I also drew out what you now see me holding up to view." "My ring!" cried Grace, darting forward. "O, Robin, where did you find it?" "Where I told you, in the Elizabeth chair in the parlor." [Illustration: "My ring! cried Grace."] Grace's first act was to clap her hands; her next, to rush out, calling for Phebe, who was in her own room, having a good cry. The child appeared at the head of the back stairs, and answered, in a subdued and husky voice, "What is't you want, Miss Gracie?" "I want _you_, you poor little dear," cried Grace, flying up the stairs, and hugging the disconsolate Phebe, whose wits were scattered to the four winds with surprise. "I've found my ring--my regard-ring, you forlorn little thing. Robin picked it out of the Elizabeth chair; and if you don't forgive me, I'll bite my tongue right out." "O, I've done forgive you, Miss Grace, if you'll forgive me too," sobbed poor Phebe, who had a confused idea that she must be somehow to blame for crying so hard. She had for two days been in the depths of despair; and now, this sudden turn of the wheel of fortune made her fairly dizzy with delight. Many were the choice tidbits which Phebe found beside her plate after this, and many were the snips of bright ribbon or calico which were given to her to put away among her treasures. If Grace had forgotten that "charity thinketh no evil," and had spoken rashly, she surely did all she could now to atone for her fault. CHAPTER VIII. PRUDY PARLIN. Isa Harrington's surprise was great when she saw all her artful plans overthrown, and Grace and Cassy the same "cup and saucer" as ever. "O, Gracie," said she, "you don't love Isa any more, now Cassy has come home." Grace drew coldly away. "You tried to turn me against my best friend, Isa." "O, Gracie, I never! I only told what I heard, and Lucy Lane was the one that said it. You may ask her." Lucy was as harmless a fly as ever got caught in a spider's web. Isa thought she could manage her finely. So the moment she had done talking with Grace, she made Lucy tease Miss Allen to let them both go into the recitation-room to study their lessons. "We'll promise, solemnly, we won't say a word only grammar," said Isa, earnestly. "Can't you trust us?" The teacher hesitated, looked at timid little Lucy, and said, "Yes. But if you break your word, girls, remember, 'tis the last time you'll ever go in there to study." Isa had no intention of keeping her word. She wanted to have Lucy to herself for the purpose of "managing" her. For a while the girls studied in silence, their heads close together, and covered by a shawl. "O, Lucy," said Isa, suddenly, "I've a compliment for you." Lucy put her finger on her lip. "Dear me, Lucy, didn't I speak good grammar? That's all the promise _I_ made--that I wouldn't say anything but _grammar_, and I won't, unless I make a mistake. A certain person said you had lovely hair. Got a compliment for me?" "Why, yes," said Lucy, innocently; "I heard a lady say you might be a right good little girl perhaps, but you're rather homely." Isa bit her lip. "It was Cassy Hallock that told yours, Lucy. By the way, did you ever hear her say Gracie's hair is fire-red?" "Why, Isa, no, indeed!" "Didn't? Why, that's nothing to the way she's slandered her; and Grace her best friend, too." Lucy was horrified. "Do you remember when you, and I, and Cassy staid, ever so long ago, to scrub our desks? Well, don't you know how Cassy spoke of Mrs. Clifford's oyster party?" "Yes, I do. She said Grace appeared like a lady." "There, Lucy Lane, is that the way you hear? Didn't understand it, did you, any more than a baby? She was hinting that Grace talked like old folks--very pert and bold." "O, was she?" "Of course she was, Lucy. Can't you see through a mill-stone, child? I wouldn't want any one to hint about me the way Cassy does about Grace." "Nor I wouldn't, either," echoed Lucy. "Didn't you think, Lucy, by what Cassy said, that her ma wanted to break up the friendship? You told me at the time that you thought so, now certainly." "O, what a story!" Lucy spoke very loud in her surprise. "Very well," said Isa, adjusting the shawl, "you've forgotten, perhaps. Your memory is about as long as my little finger, Lucy. But no matter; I know what Cassy meant if you didn't. Reckon I've got eyes in my head." "Well, I knew what she meant, too, I suppose, at the time of it," said soft-voiced Lucy, anxious to prove that she had eyes in her head, and could see through a mill-stone. Foolish fly! When a cunning spider said, "Will you walk into my parlor?" Lucy always walked right in. "I hate Cassy Hallock," cried Isa, unconsciously raising her voice very high: "I just hate her. She's no business to make believe friends with Gracie. Let's you and I put a stop to it." "Hush, Isa; don't speak so loud." "I didn't mean to. Peek out, Lucy, and see if the door is shut." Lucy pushed the shawl to one side and peeped out. Terror-stricken, she drew back again, glad to hide her head. The door was wide open, and the school so still you might have heard a pin drop! Not a word had been lost. There stood Miss Allen by the desk, her finger up to hush the faintest noise. Having opened the door and found the girls talking, she decided to let the whole school know it. Isa was in an agony of unavailing remorse. Not only had she lost her teacher's respect, but she had forever ruined her cause with Grace. She longed for the earth to open and hide her shame; but as the earth refused to take her in, the best she could do was, to steal home, her proud head bent low and concealed under her sun-bonnet. It was a bitter punishment; but Miss Allen, who had long understood her crooked conduct, was sure she deserved it. She was discharged from the R. S. S. Angry and mortified, and not knowing of any better way to annoy the girls, she told their secrets to the wide world. Grace had never dreamed of this. "What are we to do with that little black cow?" said Robert to Grace. "She always wants to be somewhere else. She's a regular tornado at tearing down fences. What say to her joining a secret society?" Grace was helping train a prairie-rose. "Don't know what you mean, Robin." "Just what I say. These strong-minded cows ought to form a Mutual-Improvement, Cows' Rights Society. I've thought of a good name," added Robert, with a twinkle in his eye: "Princesses of the Crooked Horn." "Now, Robin, what do you mean? Tell, this minute," cried Grace, dropping her ball of twine, and blushing. The boy whistled. "Tell me, Robin, have you heard something?" "I've heard something, yes." "What have you heard?" "Shan't tell. Reckon _you've_ heard of the Ruby Seal!" "That'll do, Robin," said Grace, suddenly looking down to watch an ant with threadlike limbs dragging off a cold shoulder of fly. "See here, Gracie: what cute hands girls are to keep secrets!" "Don't want to hear another word, Robin." "Cassy," said Grace, a little later, "what'll we do about the R. S. S.? Isa's been and spread it all over town!" "You don't believe it, do you? Why that makes me think what Johnny said to-day. He's sorry I'm such a broken-hearted old maid at this time of life. Now I know what he meant." "But what'll we do about our R. S. S.? I'm so mortified!" "Let it die: who cares?" "O, Cassy, I care. Don't let's give up at trifles." "Then turn it into a Soldiers' Aid." Grace clapped her hands and waltzed across the street. "So we will, Cassy; so we truly will! That's so very respectable!" "We'll marry, too, if they're going to make such a fuss," suggested Cassy. "I won't--unless I please. I'll never be married to keep people from laughing, Cassy Hallock." Here Grace set her little foot firmly upon a toad, which she mistook for solid ground. "Cassy," continued she, after a little scream, "let's work for those darling old soldiers in the hospital. What have we been thinking about? Don't you let on! After a little, you know, when school stops, Cassy! O, can we wait that long?" Meanwhile, we must attend to a new arrival. Uncle Edward Parlin dropped in suddenly, as good and smiling as ever, and with him little Prudy, blushing like a rose, but so dusty that she almost made you sneeze. But where was Susy? It seemed that Mrs. Parlin had not had time to prepare both the children for such a hasty journey. Horace shouted like a young Indian. Grace clapped her hands, and laughed in every note of the scale up to the second octave and back again. Prudy threw her arms about Mrs. Clifford's neck. "O, aunt Ria," she whispered, "bimeby I shall cry." "Aren't you well, darling?" "Yes'm; but I feel as if I wasn't _going_ to feel well." It had been a hard journey for the poor little thing. She was soon nicely bathed and put in a comfortable bed, where, for about at minute, she lay wondering at the mosquito-bar, and then forgot all her trials in sleep. Next morning, Horace asked what she had dreamed. "O," said Prudy, much refreshed, "I slept so fast I never heard my dreams. There, aunt Ria, you know Mrs. Mason, that gave Susy the bird? She's dead: I thought you'd be glad to hear that!" "I didn't know the lady," said Mrs. Clifford, smiling; "yet I am not glad she is dead." Prudy was constantly espying wonders. Her fear of pigs was extreme, and the whole Ohio valley seemed to her one vast pig-pen without any fence. The creatures had such long noses, too! From a safe distance, Prudy liked to watch them cracking nuts. She thought they could not have picked out the meats better if they had been gifted with fingers. She wandered with Grace and Cassy about the beautiful garden and green-house in a maze of delight. She might have been too happy if the mosquitos had not laid plans to devour her. Grace bathed the poor child in camphor. "It hurts," said Prudy, the quiet bears rolling down her cheeks; "but Gracie bathes me for my good, and I won't cry. O, aunt Ria, when I'm naughty, and you want to punish me, you can just put me to bed, and let the skeeters bite me." Owing to the savage conduct of these bloodthirsty creatures, there was no trace left of Prudy's beauty, except what Horace called her "killing little curls." Grace was disappointed, for she had hoped to exhibit her charming cousin to great advantage. However, the mosquito-hills disappeared from her face in time, and then Prudy was quite "a lioness," as Horace said. The princesses admitted her to their social meetings. All they did now was, to state that they had read the required amount of Scripture, had told no wrong stories, and used no language which they regarded as unladylike. For the present, they met and played games, intending during holidays to begin work for the soldiers in earnest. When Prudy visited the school, she sat with every one of the Princesses in turn, and liked them all but the discarded member of the society, Isa Harrington. In private, she told Grace that Isa looked "like the woman that killed the man," meaning Lady Macbeth, whose face she had often seen in a picture. "Don't you like me, darling?" said Isa, offering her a handful of peppermints. "O, yes, I like you," said the child, accepting the sugar-plums, "but I don't like the _spirit_ of you." "What does that mean, you funny thing?" "I don't know, but that's the way they talk." Prudy loved Mahla Linck at once. She said she had had just such a lameness her own self, and knew how it felt. "Ah, little dear," said Mahla, laying her wasted cheek close to Prudy's, "but you can walk now without a crutch, and I never can." "O, Mahla, yes, you can _never_; you can when you grow an angel." The Princesses liked to escort Prudy through the streets, and hear her exclamations of surprise. She told them the "Yankees wouldn't 'buze their horses so;" for it seemed to her rather unkind to braid their tails like heads of hair, and tie them up in knots; though Grace assured her this was done to keep them from trailing in the dust. The mules were another curiosity. Prudy was also amazed at the "loads of oxen" driven by men who sat in the carts, and "drove 'em and whipped 'em same as if they was horses." "Yankees," she said, "walked with the oxen, and talked into their ears." She informed the girls that the Hoosier sky was very odd-looking. "It's Quaker color," she said; "but the sky to Portland is as blue as a robin's egg, 'cept when it fogs." She described feathery snow-storms, "frost-bitten" windows, and the nice fishing in "Quoddy Bay;" told her listeners that eastern people "_shave_" their grass in summer, and when it is dry it's good to jump on. For the short time Prudy staid in Indiana her sunny face was a pleasure to everybody. "Why, aunt Ria," said she, "do you think I'm good, though? Well, I'm ever'n ever so much better away from home." CHAPTER IX. BARBARA's WEDDING. Barbara had now been at home for some time making preparations for her wedding, and had cordially invited all the children to see her married,--Grace, Cassy, Prudy and Horace; everybody but little "Ruffle-neck," as Horace sometimes called the baby. They set out in the morning in high spirits, Grace and Cassy walking under one umbrella, Horace and Prudy under another. Prudy was bareheaded, and her "killing little curls" were blown into wild confusion by the breezes. The June air was very sweet, for it was "snowing roses." Prudy asked Horace if he didn't think "the world smelt nice?" Horace put on a look of calm superiority, and replied that "the flowers were very much like essence bottles, to be sure, what we call _odiferous_, Prudy." Some way behind the two children sailed the other umbrella, marked, in white paint, "Stolen from H. S. Clifford;" while under it Grace and Cassy talked confidentially. Prudy had heard they were going to a place called the Bayou, and supposed it to be some sort of a house. But after a walk of two miles, they came to an immense field, where the corn shot up very tall and luxuriant. "There's the bayou over yonder," laid Horace, with a sweep of his thumb. "Where?" said Prudy, straining her eyes. "I don't see a single thing but sugar-canes." "_Corn_, you mean! Well, it's a bayou, and the water runs up over it in the spring, and that makes bottom-land rich as mud." Prudy stared at the cornfield, then at the river. "You don't mean that that little thing went over it," said she, waving her hat towards the Ohio. "Poh! you needn't think our river looks that way," dropping the umbrella over his shoulder. "Tell you what it is: that river rises out of bed every spring, but it's hung out to dry in the summer, Prudy." The little girl stopped short and swung her hat off into space. Horace gallantly restored it. "O, what is that big thing there? a whale, or an ice-bug?" Horace laughed. "Whales in the river! Goodness sakes, that's a sand-bar, miss. A man waded across here the other day. Tell you what, if he could do it, I could--want to see me?" Prudy was alarmed, agreeably to expectation. "Well, now," said the boy, holding the umbrella upright once more, "here we are at the Kinckles'. Come ahead, girls." Prudy looked, and saw nothing but a crooked fence. Horace waited till Grace and Cassy came up, then let down the bars. Prudy trembled, and caught fast hold of Horace, for Farmer Kinckle's calves were wandering about the field, eating grass, or playfully biting one another. Tall hickory, persimmon, peach, apple, and mulberry trees cast a deep shade. For some time nothing was to be seen of the house; but at last it appeared in view--dark, unpainted, with chimneys built outside. A cooking-stove stood in the yard, its long, black funnel puffing out smoke; and, strange to tell, under the stove a nest of young ducklings enjoying the heat and the smell of the cooking. "Understand it to me, please," said little Prudy. "Do the folks know their stove is out here?" Barbara appeared at the door with peony-colored cheeks and pleasant smiles. She would hardly have consented to be married unless the "childers" might be there to see. There was no entry, and the front door was at the side of the house just opposite the back door. A huge fireplace spread itself over a large part of the room; but it was never used except for smoking hams or mosquitos. It was the only fireplace in the house. On the high mantel stood a candlestick, a pipe, a beer bottle, a wooden clock, and a bowl of blackberries. On one side, exactly in the way, were two or three long drawers of black walnut, which ran nearly the length of the room, and on the top of the drawers were tubs, buckets, and clothes baskets. The house was propped on four feet. Horace discovered, under the house, a cat and kittens, a brood of chickens, and a dog. He called Prudy to admire this domestic menagerie, then crept under the house, and, by accident, overturned the cat's saucer of milk; whereat Pussy looked up at him with a glance of mild reproach. He next thrust both hands into a pool of corn-meal dough, which was meant for the chickens. "O, Horace," said Grace, shocked at the dismal plight of her brother's clothes, "I did think you'd try to keep clean for the wedding." This was expecting too much. Grace felt that it was a trial to take Horace visiting. At the table he declined mutton gravy, saying he never ate "tallow," and remarked about the cheese, that it was "as mouldy as castile soap;" yet Horace could not see that this was rude. Mrs. Kinckle wore a small black cap, which reminded Prudy of a wire cover which is used to keep off flies. Horace thought it looked about as big as a percussion cap. Prudy watched the good woman doing work just like anybody, though she was a German and a Jewess, and therefore could not have known the "truly name" of a single dish she touched. There were a few articles to be ironed for the bride, and Prudy had a mind to try the Jewish flatirons; so, with Barbara's leave, she smoothed out some handkerchiefs on a [text missing from book] But soon the rabbi, or Jewish priest, arrived, and it was time for the wedding. The company formed a circle, as if they were playing the "Needle's Eye," thought Prudy. In the middle of the ring stood Barbara and Solomon, the rabbi before them. The bride's dress was a straw-colored silk, which must have cost many months' wages; but it was quite hidden under a long white veil, which enveloped Barbara from head to foot. The honest young bridegroom wore a solemn countenance; but how the bride's face looked, no one could tell. The rabbi began to chant something in Hebrew, probably the marriage service. After this, Grace supposed he would pray; but he did not. Mrs. Kinckle now kissed the bride--not through the veil, however--and then all the rest kissed her, this being the only part of the ceremony which the children fairly understood. Prudy espied a small tear in Barbara's eye, and wished Solomon only knew it, in which case he would never carry Barbara off in the world. After the bride had been duly embraced, cake was passed around, and a certain Jewish wine, very strong and fiery, which, of course, the children did not taste. A basket of cigars came next, and in a few moments the gentlemen of the party were puffing at them. Thus the affair, after all, ended in smoke; and before sunset the children were on their way home. It seemed to Grace that the world had begun to fall in pieces. To think that Barby would never more be seen in Mrs. Clifford's kitchen, polishing and scrubbing! To think that just a few little Hebrew words had made such a dreadful change; spiriting away that splendid Barby forever. Cassy wondered how the Jews could endure their synagogues, and rabbis, and strong wines. Horace thought it a deal worse than keeping pigs. Grace would even sooner be married with candles and crucifixes, like a Roman Catholic. Cassy said _she_ should have fifteen bridesmaids, "like they had in Kentucky." Prudy gave it as her opinion that poor Barby was crying all the while the man "sing-songed." "She hates Solomon," added the child; "for I asked her if she didn't think so much whiskers was homely, and she said she did." Before the children reached home the full moon was rising. "I didn't use to know what the moon was," quoth Prudy. "I thought it was a chip." "What put that in your head, dear?" said Grace. "O, I threw it up, you know, when I wasn't three years old, there at grandma's. I threw it up in the air, and didn't see it go down; and then, when I looked up, there was the moon; and I said, 'O, grandma, see my chip!'" "But you don't know what 'tis now any better than you did then, I'll warrant," said Horace, sitting down in the road to laugh. "Don't know, Horace Clifford? I guess I do!" "Well, tell then, can't you?" "Silver, of course! Didn't you never know that before?" "It's a big world, darling," said Grace, laughing. "I know that, Gracie Clifford; did I say it wasn't? It's a silver ball as big as a house, and there's a man lives there, and I've seen him making up faces." Everybody laughed, and Prudy tried to be angry; but her fiercest indignation frightened you about as much as a firefly trying to flash out a little chain-lightning. Mr. Parlin was daily expected back from St. Louis, and Grace and Horace clung to their little cousin, dreading the thought of losing her. "Aunt Ria," said Prudy, "don't you think 'twould be a good plan for you to get the baby's picture took, and send it to my mamma for a present?" Mrs. Clifford said she would try; so, on Saturday afternoon, she went to Mr. Drake's photograph-rooms with the little girls, while Horace wheeled the baby in her small carriage. It was of no use. There were sure to be a dozen noses in Katie's picture, or as many mouths. In vain Horace chirruped to her, calling her dove-names. "Still, now, Brownbrimmer! Ho, little Topknot!" The more he tried to hush her, the more eager she grew for a frolic. "My fine little fellow," said the artist, "suppose you and the young misses go in the next room for a while?" They all went. Prudy threw off her hat, and sat down to hold the white kitty which she had carried in her arms all the way. "Sit still, little youngling," cried Horace; "I'll _take_ you!" So the boy arranged an apparatus by turning down one chair, setting another across it, and throwing over both a table-cover for a screen. Prudy looked solemnly at her finger-nails. "That's jolly, Miss Parlin. Just keep that little nose straight, so it won't be foreshortened or forelengthened. Now, young lady," continued the little artist, poking his roguish face between the bars of the chair, "afraid your dress won't take! too near--ahem--snuff color." "Don't say snuff-color, Horace, or I'll sneeze, and that'll spoil my nose." "O, what foolishness!" laughed Grace and Cassy. "Hush! There, I've fixed the focus. Now, observe this fly on my jacket (coat, I mean), young lady, and don't you wink." Horace consulted a small bottle he held in his hand for a watch. "These pictures were all failures," he said. "Some had 'no focus,' while others were 'all focus;' they 'flattered,' and were likewise too '_negative_.'" Meanwhile, the artist, Mr. Drake, much amused, brought in his photographic apparatus, and made a picture of the little group. This picture Mrs. Clifford purchased for Mrs. Parlin, instead of the many-nosed miniature of the baby. The day before starting for the east, Prudy went with Mrs. Clifford, her cousins, and Cassy, to visit the hospital, which was filled with sick and wounded soldiers. They wanted to give something to every man they saw, and mourned when their "goody-basket" was emptied of its contents. "O, ma," said Grace, with ready tears, "it just makes me feel like we must get up that fair, and raise money!" "I only wish _I_ could be here to help," said little Prudy. "Come here, my dear," said a pale gentleman who heard the child's voice. "I cannot see you, for I am blind. Will you tell me who you all are?" "Yes, sir; this is me, that's got your hand. My name is Prudy Parlin, and that boy that isn't in this room is Horace." "Horace! Whose son?" "He's my uncle Henry Clifford's son; but uncle Henry isn't _his_ uncle: he's his father. Horace is his only son, and me, and Susy, and Dotty is _my_ father's only daughters!" "Possible! Now, my sweet little one, will you ask Horace to come here?" It was Mr. Lazelle, with whom the Cliffords had travelled east the year before. They had a pleasant meeting. Horace had once been angry with this very gentleman for boxing his ears; but he forgot it all when he looked at the blind, helpless soldier, and wanted to open his savings' bank at once in his behalf. Next day Prudy went home. Grace and all the Princesses wept bitterly at parting with the dear child; still, it was better for them that she should go away. She claimed too much of their attention at the very time when they should have thought only of study. CHAPTER X. WHO GETS THE PRIZE? Mahla Linck seemed to grow paler and thinner. Her mother, when kindly advised to keep her at home, replied, "My Mahla loves her book; she must in the school go." The poor woman could not and would not see the danger. But though Mahla looked ill, she no longer seemed discouraged. Since Grace had undertaken to help her, she was gaining confidence. "Mother, I feel just this way," Mahla would say sometimes: "if I can't get the prize, I hope Grace Clifford will, for she's the best girl in school." Mrs. Linck was glad that Mahla felt so kindly towards her rival, but sighed as she looked at her daughter's pale face, and thought of the weary hours she had spent in study, while other girls were at play. Examination-day came. It was sultry even for July. But the girls at the Grammar School, who had drooped like wilted flowers, now bloomed bright and fresh once more. Those who had new dresses wore them on this occasion, and all came to school with hair smoothly brushed the very last thing. Ah, who does not know the flutter at the heart when the "three committee-men," or "trustees," knock; and are solemnly asked in and seated? Some of us have felt this flutter for the last time; but you children will understand just how the girls felt that day, with parents, older sisters, and neighbors to look on and criticise. Tall Miss Allen looked serene, but there was a tremulous motion of her mouth and fingers. On her desk was a vase of beautiful flowers, which Grace had brought, carefully shielded under her sun-umbrella. Mrs. Clifford and Mrs. Hallock, with a few other ladies, occupied the raised platform behind the desk. Mrs. Linck sat near the window, cooling her heated face by the use of a large feather fan. Mahla was in her old seat; there was a beautiful pink color in her cheeks, which one could see was the flush of excitement, not the glow of health. And over by the west window sat the bosom friends, Grace and Cassy, their tender friendship undisturbed by a single feeling of rivalry; for, owing to Cassy's long absence from school, she had not the faintest hope of the prize. Grace's sunny ringlets and sparkling eyes danced with eagerness. She looked as tidy as ever, in a thin blue dress, with rivulets of blue ribbon flowing down the skirt. Cassy's pensive face was lighted up with more than usual animation. It was a pleasure to see these two young friends together. Mrs. Clifford looked at them with a smile which was half a tear, as she remembered just such a friendship in her own childhood. Many other ladies watched Grace and Cassy with interest, and were carried back to the "days that are no more"--days whose dewy freshness can no more he recalled than the sweet apple-blossoms which fell so softly into the grass last year. But the question of the day was, "Who would get the prize?" Perhaps Captain Clifford, who sat with several other gentlemen near the door, felt more interest in the result than he confessed to himself. Horace stood near his father, as grave as a little judge. He ran over the whole school with his eye, and mentally decided that Grace was the prettiest girl in the room next to Cassy; for Cassy was his beau-ideal of beauty and goodness. The reading was over, and the copy-books were offered for inspection. Then the trustees began to ask questions. Grace's face lighted up; the hectic in Mahla's cheeks burned brighter still. Mrs. Clifford was sorry to see this feverish eagerness. She had never liked prizes, and now approved of them less than ever. In geography, Isa Harrington held out bravely, but at last yielded to Grace and Mahla, who kept together, neither gaining upon the other. The audience grew interested: the trustees looked at one another and smiled. Then came spelling. So many odd words were found--words which most of the girls had forgotten were in McGuffey's Spelling-Book. But though the others hesitated, neither Grace nor Mahla were caught tripping. One by one, all dropped off from the ranks but these two, who resolutely held their ground, though hard words rattled about their ears like bullets. At last came the test-word--one of the easiest, too--"pillory." Grace spelled it with an "a" instead of an "o." She knew her mistake in a second, and Mr. Reynolds paused, hoping she would correct herself. But though others had done this repeatedly, Grace was at once too proud and too generous. The flash in Mahla's eyes, as she spelled the word after her, was not one of triumph. She was really sorry Grace had not done better for herself. Next came arithmetic. This had always been Mahla's weak point, and Mr. Reynolds at first asked questions slowly, meaning to give her time to think. But it was soon evident that Mahla knew very well what she was doing, and could not be easily puzzled. True, Grace had gone over more ground; but this the trustees would not have known if Miss Allen had not informed them in an aside-whisper. "Ah, yes, yes," nodded Mr. Reynolds, peeping over his spectacles at Grace, with a glance which meant, "Well done! well done!" In grammar, again, Grace and Mahla were well matched. If there was any difference, Mahla excelled in giving rules, for her verbal memory was excellent. The trustees were surprised to find the two rivals so well informed, while at the same time they were puzzled as to any preference. They whispered together. Mr. Reynolds rubbed his spectacles as if they would help him see his way clear; Dr. Snow scratched his learned head, and Mr. Newell leaned backward in his chair to meditate. The audience felt somewhat as people feel in a court-room when the jury are out deciding an interesting case. From time to time Mrs. Linck looked anxiously at her daughter, as if she feared the excitement would be too much for her. All the while the prize was lying on the desk, wrapped in brown paper. What it was no one knew; but the girls fancied it was "large enough to be almost anything." They were growing uneasy, and the teacher herself tapped the floor gently with her foot, as if she thought it high time a decision was made. At last, when Mr. Reynolds had finished polishing his spectacles, he took from the brown wrapper a beautiful rosewood writing-desk, and held it up to view, opening it to show the elegant workmanship. "Young ladies, I would like your attention a few moments! Upon examination, we find two of you so nearly equal that it is no easy matter to decide which deserves the prize. Miss Grace Clifford does well--exceedingly well. Her reading we consider superior to Miss Mahla Linck's, and their copy-books are equally neat. The truth is, we wish we had two prizes to give, instead of one. But as that cannot be, we have at last concluded to award this writing-desk to--Miss Mahla. Now we wish you all distinctly to understand why we do this," continued he, placing the points of his forefingers together. "It is because we think the effort she has made in arithmetic this term deserves a reward. She has always been a good student, but within the past few weeks her progress in arithmetic has been remarkable!" There was a general hum of satisfaction. Poor Mrs. Linck was fairly trembling for joy, and Mahla looked as if a star had dropped from the sky at her feet. As for Grace, her heart was so full that she could hardly force back the tears. They should not fall. Nobody would understand that she was crying for joy! When Mahla whispered to Grace that night, "O, Gracie, I wouldn't have had it but for you, dear!" it would be hard to tell which was the happier girl, grateful Mahla Linck, or noble Grace Clifford. Nobody but the Lincks, the Cliffords, and Cassy ever knew the whole story. If people had heard it, they would have foolishly praised Grace for her beautiful simplicity of conduct. Then Grace might possibly have grown proud and self-conscious, and that would have spoiled all. Mrs. Clifford begged leave to furnish the desk with the choicest writing materials. It gave her pleasure to do this, for nothing in her daughter's best deeds had ever touched her like her disinterested kindness to Mahla. Grace was overjoyed to find that her father did not seem disappointed or displeased with her. He was apparently as glad as any one of Mahla's good fortune. He kissed his daughter that night more tenderly than usual, and there was something in his approving smile which Grace valued, after all, more than a hundred prizes. CHAPTER XI. THE CHILDREN'S FAIR. It was now vacation. Mahla was too ill to go out; and, as for the other girls, they said they had the "sleeps;" and, instead of working for the soldiers, they preferred to lie under the trees and dream away the summer days. Not so Grace Clifford. She saw so much of the sick men, and heard so much of them from Lieutenant Lazelle, that she was resolved to give the R. S. S. a good shaking, and wake it up. Quiet was Grace's abomination. She made a speech before the society--an off-hand effort, which I will record, first remarking that Grace could have done vastly better if she had stopped two minutes to think. _The Queen's Address._ DEAR PRINCESSES: In our early youth, while in the morning of life, and with the dew yet sparkling upon us like down on the cheek of a beautiful peach, I think (_we_ think, I mean) it's our glorious duty, as little girls of the _eighteenth_ century (_nineteenth_, I mean), to put our shoulder to the plough of our dear country! O, my Princesses, will we let the rebels, with glaring eyeballs, set their iron hoofs upon our necks, and choke, and grind, and crush, and trample us into--powder? Will we fold our idle arms, and shut our idle ears, and listen to the cry of their war-whoop, which goes rolling over and over the hills and down into the valleys of our glorious Union? Will we see the furious and howling enemy seize, plunder, and wring off the neck of our American Eagle,--that golden, glorious bird; and, while he screams with hoarse, cavernous echoes, pluck the noble eyes out of his head--his _bald_ head, O Princesses! (The queen looked round her for sympathy, and not in vain: she was carrying her audience away with her.) Think of our great, great, very great grandpas, how they fought and bled in freedom's cause. Hail, ye heroes!--No, I mean to say, Friends, countrymen, _girls_, let's put on our--helmets, and fight for dear life! Are we too weak to fire cannonades? Will we be forbidden to pour out our hearts' blood? And are our limbs too tender to be broken in a thousand pieces? Then we'll fight with our _needles_! We'll make our glorious, splendid, poor, miserable, dying soldier-boys comfortable! If that's all we can do, we'll do that!--Now, girls, I'll tell you what it is, continued the queen, suddenly dropping from her airy flight, let's work like spiders, won't we? and buy jellies, and broths, and things! I'll not have a new dress forever if I can help it. Who's in for a Fair? All that are agreed say, _Ay!_ It "was a vote." The girls concluded to shake off the "sleeps," and go to work. Mahla, who was duly informed of all that went on, was delighted with the project, and promised to make lace bags and a few little things at home. At Mahla's urgent request, poor Isa was taken back as a member of the society. She had been wretched enough to satisfy all ideas of justice, and could do no harm now by disclosing secrets. Isa was tolerably subdued and grateful, but a trifle sullen, withal. Her manner said, plainly,-- "O, girls, I'll do anything to make you trust me and like me once more. That's the way I feel; but I don't want you to know it; so I'm trying to look as if I didn't care." The Princesses were rather youthful, but they had this advantage--they were old enough to know their own ignorance. They chose their mothers for advisers--the wisest thing they could have done. Twice a week they held meetings in a large chamber at Mrs. Clifford's. Here they kept their pieces of work, each girl having a separate basket. Articles accumulated: unfinished pincushions, babies' socks, bookmarks, dolls' bodies, kettle-holders, and garments of "domestic muslin," known in New England as "factory cloth." Mrs. Clifford, who was not only a patriotic lady, but an accomplished needlewoman, had a general oversight of matters, and spent an hour or two each afternoon with the children, making suggestions and adding finishing touches. Before long, a dozen girls from the High School joined the R. S. S. Fancy articles grew apace. It was even hoped now that the Fair could be held before the opening of the schools in September. Grace was fathoms deep in business. She wanted Horace to work too, and thought he and Phebe should be ready at all hours to run of errands, drive nails, or hold skeins of silk. Horace ought never be complain when called away from play; for what did she ask of him but to help the poor, bleeding soldiers? All he did for the R. S. S. was so much done for his country. Horace had his own opinion upon this subject, forgot his errands, and when sent shopping, stupidly asked if sewing-silk was "cloth," and if tape came in "skeins"? He was willing to work when he could manage for himself, but didn't like to be "anybody's waiter." Grace's patience sometimes failed; but Cassy could effect wonders with her smiling--"Now, please, Horace." When _Cassy_ wanted anything, the wilful boy put on what his sister called "his heroics," and went to work with a will. To be sure, the "cup and saucer" were buried in cares; yet somehow they could steal time for long chats "down by the acorn-tree," their heads under an umbrella or a shawl. While thus pleasantly engaged, it was natural that Grace should think she had no time to assist her brother in pasting his scrap-books or making his kites. "See, now," said Horace, when, after a search, he had found Grace and Cassy under the acorn-tree, "you make mighty small of some folks! Can't lift a finger to help _me_; but when _you_ want some work done, it's 'Horace, dear,' and 'O, you darling!' Reckon I know a thing or two!" The girls' friendship flowed on smoothly. It was hardly in the power of the most designing person to make any more mischief between them. Grace's highest hopes for her baby-sister were, that she might grow up as "smart and good as Cassy." All this while, though Mahla Linck never lost interest in the society, she was growing weaker every day. Her little nerveless hands dropped the work they had attempted. She had no more use for her crutch, which lay on the table beside her bed, taking a long rest. Grace and Cassy made daily visits to their sick friend. Mahla assured them that her writing-desk was one of her greatest comforts: it was almost as good as a sister. When she was too feeble to sit up, it was placed on the bed near her elbow, and she would lie and look over its contents, counting the sheets of perfumed note-paper, and feeling their gloss with her fingers. When strong enough to write, she liked to copy poems in a neat round hand with her gold pen. "See how she that desk does love!" said Mrs. Linck, breaking her English into small pieces, as she always did when very earnest. "O, Miss Grace, your kindness forget never I shall." Grace felt inclined to kiss Mahla and to cry. "O, Mahla," said she, "if you're only well, won't we girls have good times in the upper room when school takes up?" Mahla smiled sadly. "I'm going some-place else." "Some-place else? O, Mahla, you're too sick!" "Not too sick to go to heaven, Gracie!" Grace shuddered, and hid her face in Mahla's bosom. "It don't frighten me a bit, Gracie." "But, Mahla, darling, it's so far off!" "O, Gracie, no, indeed; it seems as if heaven was right in this room." "So dark and cold down there," sobbed Grace. "But I'll not be there!" Mahla whispered. "Not in the grave a minute! I don't know what way I'll go up to heaven, but the Lord will know. O, he loves me so!" After this conversation, Grace and Cassy walked home together very quietly. Grace looked at the fair, green earth and soft sky, and remembered some of the poetry Mahla had copied:-- "The world is lovely. O, my God, I thank Thee that I live." As Grace repeated these lines to herself, she drew closer to her friend. "O, Cassy, it's so lonesome to be in the grave!" Yet Mahla, whom she pitied, was happier on her sick bed than even these joyous girls. Her clinging trust in God was more delightful than opal skies, and ruddy health, and even the dearest friendships. The Children's Fair was held in the Music Hall, and was fully attended. Robin said there was no room for more people, unless you drove up some nails. The benevolent enterprise had been undertaken by a handful of young girls, who had worked with great zeal in the very warmest days of summer; and since this fact was well known, it was enough in itself to bring a crowd of people out of mere curiosity. The little heroines of the evening, dressed in white, with wreaths on their heads, looked as fresh as lilies, but kept modestly in the background, leaving the management of affairs to older people. It was very much like other fairs--ice cream, cake, chicken salad, sandwiches, saucers of peaches and cream; then singing, some of which "jingled," Horace said, and he liked it. Grace held up her hands in horror. "You queer boy, a 'jingle,' as you call it, is a discord, and it sets my ears on edge! It's worse than the creaking of a horrid grindstone!" Then there were patriotic remarks, no speaker omitting to praise the "fair and noble young misses" who had been the means of raising hundreds of dollars for the soldiers. If these enthusiastic gentlemen had used less flattery, it might have been wiser; for I fear that some of the Princesses went home that night fancying their own little heads and hearts to be running over with wisdom and benevolence. The very next day Mahla Linck passed quietly away to the Saviour who "loved her so." It did not seem like death. Grace and Cassy looked at the face which Mahla had once lighted up. It was quite still, now, and changeless; but the sweet, trusting look was there yet--the very look she gave, her Saviour when she saw him coming to take her in his arms and bless her, and bear her away to heaven. Grace kissed the cold forehead, but it no longer thrilled to her touch. The purified spirit of little Mahla was not there. "O, Cassy, do you remember what she said?" whispered Grace through a mist of tears. "She said heaven was right in this room; and seems to me I can feel it!" The quiet of the spot was indeed hallowed. One might almost believe that the peace which had filled little Mahla's heart still lingered about her sleeping form. "She loved God dearly," thought Grace. "O, I wish I loved Him so!" Mrs. Linck took Grace's hand and laid it upon the beautiful writing-desk which stood on a table by the bed. "Keep it," said she; "my Mahla said it must to you belong. She will not, in heaven, need it any more." Grace sobbed out her thanks, and said she would "always love that desk, and never, never part with it." She preserves it now among her choicest treasures. It reminds her of the blessed Golden Rule; and she thinks--though I hope never with pride--of the happiness she was once able to give a tired and sick little friend. It is yet fresh and new; but the years pass so swiftly, that only a little while, and that very desk will be a relic of the past, which another generation of young people will regard as a sacred memento of Grace Clifford's happy girlhood. [Transcriber's note: Many of the characters in this book speak in dialect or mispronounce words. The many misspellings in the text, including "declar" for "declare" and "mountainious" for "mountainous" have been carefully checked against the hardcopy. The all-caps YOU near the end of the story also appears, as such, in the hardcopy.] 
21259	----	[Frontispiece: "Ah, mein Gott!" he cried, "It is Kaya!"] THE BLACK CROSS BY OLIVE M. BRIGGS _Frontispiece by_ SIGISMOND DE IVANOWSKI NEW YORK MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY 1909 Copyright, 1909, by MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY NEW YORK Published, February, 1909 to YAPHAH THE BLACK CROSS PART I CHAPTER I It was night in St. Petersburg. The moon was high in the heavens, and the domes, crowned with a fresh diadem of snow, glittered with a dazzling whiteness. In the side streets the shadows were heavy, the façades of the great palaces casting strange and dark reflections upon the pavement; but the main thoroughfares were streaked as with silver, while along the quay all was bright and luminous as at noontide, the Neva asleep like a frozen Princess under a breast-plate of shimmering ice. The wind was cold, the air frosty and gay with tinkling sleigh-bells. A constant stream of people in sledges and on foot filled the Morskaïa, hurrying in the one direction. The great Square of the Mariínski was alive with a moving, jostling throng, surging backwards and forwards before the steps of the Theatre like waves on a rock; a gay, well-dressed, chattering multitude, eager to present their tickets, or buy them as the case might be, and enter the gaping doors into the brilliantly lighted foyer beyond. It was ballet night, but for the first time in the memory of the Theatre no ballet was to be given. Instead of the "Première Danseuse," the idol of Russian society, a new star had appeared, suddenly, miraculously almost, dropped from a Polish Province, and had played himself into the innermost heart of St. Petersburg. The four strings of his Stradivarius, so fragile, so delicate and slim, were as four chains to bind the people to him; four living wires over which the sound of his fame sped from city to city, from province to province, until there was no musician in all the Russias who could play as Velasco, no instrument like his with the gift of tears and of laughter as well, all the range of human emotions hidden within its slender, resinous body. So the people said as they gossiped together on the steps: "The great Velasco! The wonderful Velasco!" And now he was on his way to Germany. It was his last concert, his "farewell." The announcement had been blazoned about on red and yellow handbills for weeks. One Salle after the other had offered itself, each more commodious than the last; but they were as nothing to the demands of the box-office. The list grew longer, the clamourings louder; and at last the unprecedented happened. At the request of a titled committee under the signature of the Grand-Duke Stepan himself, the Mariínski, largest and most beautiful of theatres, had opened its doors to the young god; and the price of tickets went up in leaps like a barometer after a storm;--fifteen roubles for a seat, twenty--twenty-five--and finally no seat at all, not even standing-room. The crowd melted away gradually; the doors of the foyer closed; the harsh cries of the speculators died in the distance. Behind the Theatre the ice on the canal glimmered and sparkled. The moon climbed higher and the bells of the Nikolski Church rang out clearly, resonantly above the tree-tops. Scarcely had the last stroke sounded when a black sleigh, drawn by a pair of splendid bays, dashed out of a side street and crossed the Pozeluïef bridge at a gallop. At the same moment a troïka, with three horses abreast, turned sharply into the Glinki and the two collided with a crash, the occupants flung out on the snow, the frightened animals plunging and rearing in a tangled, inextricable heap. The drivers rushed to the horses' heads. "A pest on you, son of a goat!" screamed the one, "Have you eyes in the back of your head that you can't see a yard in front of you?" "Viper!" retorted the other furiously, "Damnation on you and your bad driving! Call the police! Arrest the shark of an anarchist!" Meanwhile the master of the black sleigh, a heavily built, elderly man, had picked himself out of a drift with the assistance of his lackey and was brushing the snow from his long fur cloak. A fur cap, pulled down over his eyes, hid his face, but his gestures were angry, and his voice was high and rasping. "Where is the fellow?" he snarled, "Let me see him; let me see his face. Away, Pierre, I tell you, go to the horses! A mercy indeed if their legs are not broken. A pretty pass this, that one can't drive through the streets of the capital, not even incognito!--Call the police!" The other gentleman, who seemed little more than a boy, stood by the overturned troïka wringing his hands: "Is it hurt, my little one, my treasure, is it scratched? Keep their hoofs away, Bobo, hold them still a moment while I raise one end." He knelt in the snow and peered eagerly beneath the sleigh. "Sacre--ment!" cried the older man, "What is he after? Quick, on him, Pierre! Don't let him escape." The lackey moved cautiously forward, and then gave a sudden leap back as the boyish figure sprang to his feet, clasping a dark, oblong object in his arms. "A bomb, a bomb! In the name of all the saints! If he should drop it they were doomed, they were dead men!" The eyes of the lackey were bulging with terror and he stood riveted to the spot. In the meantime the young man had snatched out his watch and was holding it up into a patch of moonlight. "Twenty past the hour!" he exclaimed, "and old Galitsin fuming, I'll be bound! I'll have to make a run for it. Hey, Bobo!" As he spoke, an iron hand came down on his shoulder and he looked up amazed into a pair of eyes, small and black and crossed, flashing with fury. "Drop it," hissed a voice, "and I'll throttle you as you stand! Traitor! Assassin! Your driver obeyed orders, did he? You knew? Vermin, you ran us down! How did you know? Who betrayed me?--Who?" The youth stood motionless for a moment in astonishment. He was helpless as a girl in that vicious grasp that was bearing him under slowly, relentlessly. "For the love of heaven," he cried, "Let go my arm, you brute, you'll sprain a muscle! Be careful!" "Drop it, and I swear by all that is holy--" "You old fool, you curmudgeon, you coward of an old blatherskite!" cried the boy, "I wouldn't drop it for all the world, not if you went on your bended knees. Bobo, yell for the police! Don't you touch my wrist! Look out now! Of all unpleasant things--! "Bobo, come here. Never mind the horses. I tell you he is ruining my arm!--Hey! Help! You're an anarchist yourself, you fool! Shout, Bobo, shout!" In the struggle the two had passed from the shadow into the moonlight and they now confronted one another. The master of the black sleigh was still enveloped in his cloak, only the gleam of his eyes, small and black and crossed, was visible under the cap, his beaked nose and the upward twist of his grey mustache. The youth stood erect and angry; his head was bare, thrown back as a young lion at bay, his dark hair falling like a mane, clustered in waves about his broad, overhanging brows; strange brows and strange eyes underneath. The mouth was sensitive, the chin short and rather full, the whole aspect as of some one distinguished and out of the ordinary. They stared at one another for a moment and then the hand of the older man dropped to his side. "I beg your pardon," he said, with some show of apology in his tone, "Surely I must have made a mistake. Where have I seen you before? You are no anarchist; pray, pardon me." The young man was feeling his arm ruefully: "Good gracious, sir," he said, "but you are hasty!--I never felt such a grip. The muscles are quite sore already, but luckily it is the left arm, otherwise, Bózhe moi[1], I vow I'd sue you!--If it were the fingers now, or the wrist--" He took off his fur gloves and examined both hands carefully, one after the other. A scornful look came over the older man's face: "There was no excuse, my friend, for the way your troïka rounded that corner. Such driving is criminal in a public street. It's a mercy we weren't all killed! Still, you really must pardon me, these anarchist devils are everywhere nowadays and one has to take precautions. I was hurrying to the Mariínski." Hardly were the words out of his mouth, when there came the snapping of two watch lids almost simultaneously, and both gentlemen gave a cry of consternation. "Oh, the deuce!" exclaimed the boy, "so was I, and look at the time if you please; the House will be in an uproar!" The older man hurried towards the already righted sleigh: "Most unfortunate," he fumed, "and to-night of all nights! The entire concert will be at a standstill. The rug, Pierre, quick the rug! Are the horses ready? Hurry, you great lumbering son of an ox!" The boy had already leaped into the troïka and was wrapping the fur robes about his knees. "We shall put in an appearance about the same time, sir," he called back carelessly over his shoulder. "You won't miss anything, not a note, if that will comfort you. Hey, Bobo, go ahead! The concert can't begin without me." "Without you," interrupted the other, "eh, what--you? Týsyacha chertéi[2]! What do you mean?" The master of the black sleigh stood up suddenly and threw back his cloak with a haughty gesture. He was in uniform and his breast glittered with orders. His cap fell back from his face, and his eyes, small and black and crossed, his beaked nose, his grey upturned mustache, showed distinctly in the moonlight. The face was known to every Russian, young and old, rich and poor--the Grand-Duke Stepan. The youth made a low obeisance; then he tossed the hair away from his brows and laughed: "True, your highness," he said with mock humility, "I should have said--'until we both get there,' of course. Your pardon, sire." The Duke leaned forward: "Stop--!" he exclaimed, "Your face--certainly somewhere I have seen it--Wait!" The driver of the troïka reined in the panting horses three abreast. They pawed the snow, still prancing a little and trembling, their bits flecked with foam. The youth saluted with one hand carelessly, while with the other he grasped the dark, oblong object that was not a bomb. "Au revoir, your Grace," he cried, "You have seen me before and you will see me again, to-night, if this arm of mine recovers--" He laughed:--"I am Velasco." As he spoke the horses leaped forward and the troïka, darting across the moonlight of the Square, disappeared into the shadows behind the Mariínski. The Duke gazed after it petrified: "Velasco!" he said, "And I all but twisted his wrist!--Ye gods! "Go on, Pierre, go on!" The Theatre was superbly lighted, crowded from the pit to the gallery, from the orchestra chairs to the Bel-Etage with the cream of St. Petersburg aristocracy. It was like a vast garden of colour. The brilliant uniforms of the officers mingled with the more delicate hues of ecru and rose, sky-blue and palest heliotrope of the loggias. Fans waved here and there over the house, fluttering, flashing like myriads of butterfly wings. The stage was filled with the black and white of the orchestra and the musicians sat waiting, the conductor gnawing his long mustache in an agony of doubt and bewilderment. Gradually a hush stole over the House. The fans waved less regularly; the uniforms and the more delicate hues whispered together, glancing first at a box on the first tier, which was still empty, and then at the stage door and back again. Where was the Grand-Duke Stepan, and where was the star, the idol, the young god, who was to charm their hearts with his four strings?--for whom they had paid fifteen roubles, twenty--twenty-five until there wasn't a seat left, not even standing room; only the crimson-curtained Imperial Loggia in the centre, solitary, significant. The time passed; the minutes dragged slowly. Suddenly the curtains moved. An usher appeared and placed a chair. Another moment of silence; then a tall, grey-haired, military figure stepped to the front of the loggia and bowed to right and to left; his eyes, small and black and crossed, glancing haughtily over the throng. "At last!"--The applause was mechanical, in strict accordance with etiquette, but there was a relieved note in it and the thousands of straining eyes leaped back to the stage, eager and watchful. All at once a small door in the wings opened slightly and a slim boyish figure strode across the boards, a mane of dark hair falling over his brows. "Velasco!" A roar went up from the House--"Velasco! Ah--h--viva--Velas--co!" Instantly, with a tap of his baton, the conductor motioned for silence, and then, with the first downward beat, the orchestra began the introduction to the concerto. The young Violinist stood languidly, his Stradivarius tucked under his arm, the bow held in a slim and graceful hand. His dark eyes roamed over the brilliant spectacle before him, from tier to tier, from top to bottom. He had seen it all before many times; but never so beautiful, so vast an audience, such a glory of colour, such closeness of attention. Raising his violin, with a strange, dreamy swaying of his young body, Velasco drew the bow over the quivering strings in the first solo passage of the Vieuxtemps. The tones rose and fell above the volume of the orchestra. The depth of them, the sweetness seemed to penetrate to the uttermost corner. A curious tenseness came over the listening audience. Not a soul stirred. The Grand-Duke sat motionless with his head in his hands. The strings vibrated to each individual heart-beat; the bow sighed over them, and with the last note a murmur and then a roar went up. Velasco stirred slightly, dropped his bow and bowed, without raising his eyes. Then, hardly waiting for the applause to subside, the second movement began, slow and passionate. The notes became fuller and more sensuous. The hush deepened. The silence grew more intense; a strain of listening, a fixed eagerness of watching. Suddenly, in the midst, the Violinist raised his head from his instrument, drawing the bow with a slow, downward, caressing pressure over the E string. His eyes, half veiled and dreamy, looked straight across the House into a loggia next to the Imperial Box, impelled thereto by some force outside of his own consciousness. A girl with an exquisite flower-like face was leaning over the crimson rail, her gaze on his, fixed and intent. The gold of her hair glistened in the light. Her lips were parted, the bosom of her dress rising and falling; her small hands clasped. Velasco gazed steadily for a moment; then he dropped his head again, and swaying slightly played on. The bow seemed fairly to rend the strings. He toyed with the difficulties; his scales, his arpeggios were as a flash, a ripple of notes tumbling over one another, each one a pearl. His lion's mane caressed the violin; his cheek pressed it like a living thing, closely, passionately, and it answered like a creature possessed. As the strings vibrated to the last dying note, the beauty of it, the virtuosity, the abandon, drove the House mad with enthusiasm. They rose to him; they shouted his name eagerly, impetuously. "Velasco! Viva!--Velasco! Bravo--bravissimo!" Over the packed Theatre the handkerchiefs waved like a myriad of white banners. The bravos redoubled. The women tore the flowers from their girdles to fling on the stage; they lay piled on the white boards about him, broken and sweet, their perfume filling the air. The young Violinist bowed, his hand on his heart, smiled and bowed again. He went out by the little door, and then came back and bowed and bowed. The House rose as one man. "Velasco! Velas--co!" It was deafening. Suddenly out of the uproar, out of the crowd and the din, from someone, from somewhere, a bunch of violets fell at his feet. He raised them to his lips with a smile. "Viva--Velas--co--o!" The clapping redoubled. About the stems of the violets, twined and intertwined again, was a twist of paper. His eyes fell for an instant on the blotted words and then the stage door closed behind him. They were few and almost illegible. "_Will you help me--life or death--tonight? Kaya._" The rest was a blot. He scanned them again more closely and shook the hair from his eyes. "Velasco! Velasco--Viva!" When the young Violinist came forward for the third time, his dark eyes flashed to the eyes of the girl like steel to a magnet. They seemed to plead, to wrestle with him. "_Will you help me--life or death--tonight? Kaya._" Did her lips move; was it a signal? Her hands seemed to beckon him. He bowed low to the loggia, like one in a trance, once, twice, their eyes still together. And then, suddenly, he wrenched himself away remembering the House, the shouting, cheering, waving House. "Ah--h Velasco--o!" Lifting his violin he began to play again slowly, dreamily, hardly knowing how or why, a weird, chanting Polish improvisation like a love song, a song without words. His eyes opened and closed again. Always that gaze, pleading, wrestling, that flower-like face, those clasped hands beckoning. Who was she--Kaya? His heart beat and throbbed; he was suffocating. With a last wild and passionate note Velasco tore the bow from the strings; it was as though the earth had opened and swallowed him up; he was gone. [1] My God. [2] A thousand devils! CHAPTER II In one of the poorer quarters of St. Petersburg there is a street on a back canal, and over the street an arch. To the right of the arch is a flight of steps, ancient and worm-eaten, difficult of climbing by day by reason of a hole here, a worn place there, and the perilous tilting of the boards; at night well nigh impassable without a lantern. The steps wind and end in a tenement, once a palace, spanning the water. It was midnight. A cloud had come over the moon, light and fleecy at first, but gradually growing blacker and spreading until finally it hung like a huge drop-curtain screening the stars. The street lay in darkness. From a window in the top of the arch a single light was visible, pale and flickering as the ray from a candle; otherwise the grey bulk of the building seemed lost in the shadows, lifeless and silent. Suddenly the light went out. "Hist--st!" As if at a signal something moved on the staircase, creeping forward, and then from the shadow of the tenement, from under the archway, emerged other shadows, moving slowly like wraiths, hesitating, stopping, losing themselves in the general blackness, and then stirring again; shadows within shadows creeping. Presently a door at the top of the steps opened and shut. Every time it opened, a shadow passed through and another crept forward. No word was spoken, no sound; not a step creaked, not a board stirred. It was a procession of ghosts. Behind the door was a long stone passage, narrow and dark like a cave. The shadows felt the walls with their hands softly, gropingly, but the hands were silent like the feet. Except for a hurried breathing in the darkness the passage seemed empty. Beyond were more steps leading down, and another passage, and then a second door locked and barred. Before this door the shadows halted, huddled together. "Hist--st!" Instantly the floor under them began to quiver and drop, inch by inch, foot by foot, down a well of continued blackness. The minutes passed. They still dropped lower and lower, so low that they were now below the level of the canal; down, down into the very foundations of the tenement, once a palace. All of a sudden the darkness ceased. The room into which the elevator entered was large, low-raftered and lighted by a group of candles at the far end. In the centre was a black table, and about the table thirteen chairs also black. The one at the head was occupied by a figure garbed in a cloak and hood, with a black mask drawn down to the lips. The other chairs were empty. By the light of the candles the shadows now took shape, the one from the other, and twelve black-cloaked and hooded figures stole forward, also masked to the lips. They passed one by one before the seated mask, touching his hand lightly, fleetingly, as one dipping the fingers into holy water, and then around the table to their seats, each in turn, until all were placed. Some of the figures were tall, broad-shouldered and heavy, others small and slight. From the height, the strength or delicacy of the chin, the shape and size of the hand, was it alone possible to distinguish the sex; the rest was shrouded in a mystery absolute and unfathomable. As the last and thirteenth chair was filled, the mask at the head leaned forward and pointed silently to a dark object at the far end of the room about which the candles flickered and sparkled. It was a huge Black Cross suspended as above an altar. Below it lay an open bier, roughly hewn out of the stone, and across it a name in scarlet lettering. The bier was empty. The twelve other masks turned towards the Cross, reading the name, and they made a sign with the hands in unison, a rapid crisscross motion over the breast, the forehead, the eyes, ending in the low murmur of a word, unintelligible, like a pledge. Then the first mask to the left rose and bowed to the Head. "Speak," he said, "the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Of what is this man accused?" There was a moment of silence, intense and charged with significance; then the mask spoke. "In the province of Pskof there is a Commune. One night, last winter, the peasants rose without warning. They shot, they maimed, they hacked, they burned alive every Jew in the village, men, women and children; not one escaped. The police were behind them. The instigator of the police was--" The Head raised his hand: "Do you know this for a fact, from personal information?" "I know it for a fact, from personal information." The first mask took his seat and the second rose, a gaunt figure, the shoulders bowed and crippled under the cloak. His voice was deep and full, with tones plaintive and penetrating. "A month ago there were seven men arrested. They were taken to 'Peter and Paul' and thrust into dungeons unspeakable. They received no trial; they were convicted of no crime; they never saw their families again. Three of these men are now in the mines. Two are still in the cells. Two are dead." "Why were they arrested and by whose order?" "They were workmen who had attended a meeting of the Social Democrats and had helped to circulate Liberal papers. It was done by the order of--" The third mask sprang to his feet. His fists were clenched, and he was breathing hard like one who has been running. "It is my turn," he cried, "Let me--speak! You know--you haven't forgotten!--On the Tsar's birthday, a band of students marched to the steps of the Winter Palace. They went peacefully, with trust in their hearts, no weapon in their hands. They were surrounded by Cossacks, who beat them with knouts, riding them down. They were boys, some of them hardly out of the Gymnasium, the flower of our youth, brave sons of Russia ready to fight for her and die." He hesitated and his voice broke. "At the foot of the Alexander Column, they were mown down like grass without warning, or mercy; their blood still sprinkles the stones. Many were killed, hundreds arrested, few escaped. At the head of the Cossacks rode--" A sigh stirred the room deepening into a groan, and then came a hush. Some buried their faces in their hands, weeping silently behind the masks. After a while the Head raised his hand and the fourth rose, slowly, reluctantly, speaking in a woman's voice so faint and low it could scarcely make itself heard. The masks bent forward listening. "Last week," it murmured, "the Countess Petrushka was suspected. She was torn from her home, imprisoned"--The voice grew lower and lower. "She was beaten--tortured by the guards; she never returned,--yesterday she was--buried." The voice broke into sobs. "The man who signed the paper was--" So the trial went on amid the stillness, more and more solemn, more and more impressive, as one accusation followed the other in swift succession; the candles dropping low in their sockets, the light growing dimmer, the room larger and lower and more ghostly, the night waning. In every case the name was left a blank; but in that strange pause, as if for judgment, the eyes of the masks sought the bier, resting with slow fascination on the words across it, gleaming scarlet beneath the flickering candles, vivid and red like blood. The final accusation had been made. The twelfth and last mask had sunk back in his chair and the leader rose. The silence was like a pall over the table. When his voice broke through, it was sharp and stern, as the voice of a judge admonishing a court. "You have all heard," he said, "You are aware of what this man has done, is now doing, will continue to do. Does he merit to live?--Has he deserved to die? For the sake of our country, our people, ourselves, deliberate and determine.--His fate rests in the hands of the _Black Cross_." He bowed his head on his breast and waited. No one moved or spoke. At the far end of the room, the candles dripped one by one on the bier, falling lower and lower. Occasionally the wax flared up, lighting the darkness; then all was dim. Suddenly, as from some mysterious impulse, the thirteen sprang to their feet, and again their hands flashed out in that curious crisscross motion over the breast, the forehead, the eyes, and a murmur went from mouth to mouth like a hiss. "_Cmeptb_--Death!" rising into a sound so intense, so terrifying, so muffled and suppressed and menacing, it was as the cry of an animal wounded, dying, about to spring. Falling on their knees, they remained motionless for a moment; then, following the leader, each stepped forward in turn and took their places about the bier. The ceremony that followed was strange and solemn; one that no outside eye has ever gazed on, no lips have ever dared to breathe. They stood in the shadow of death, their own and another's. Their heads were bowed. Their bodies shook and trembled. With hands raised they took the oath, terrible, relentless, overpowering, gripping them from now on as in a vice; both sexes alike, with voices spent and faint with emotion. "_In the name of the Black Cross I do now pledge myself, an instrument in the service of Justice and Retribution. On whomsoever the choice of Fate shall fall, I vow the sentence of Death shall be fulfilled, by mine own hands if needs be, without weakness, or hesitation, or mercy. And if by any untoward chance this hand should fail, I swear--I swear, before the third day shall have passed, to die instead--to die--instead._" The words ended in a whisper, low, intense, prescient of a woe not to be borne. "_I swear--I pledge myself--by mine own hands if needs be._" A sigh broke the stillness. The masks stirred, recovered themselves and bent over the bier, drawing out, one after the other, a slip of paper folded. There were thirteen slips. Twelve were blank; on one was a Black Cross graven. They drew in silence; no start, no movement, no trembling of the muscles betrayed the one fated. Twelve drew blanks. Which of them had the Cross; which? They stared dumbly, questioningly, fearfully from one to the other. One was the assassin. Which? The answer was shrouded behind the masks. Lower and lower the candles burned in their sockets, flickering fitfully. The room grew darker and the figures, cloaked and hooded, seemed to melt back into the shadows from whence they had emerged, less and less distinct, until finally the shadow was one, more and more vapoury, filling the darkness. Suddenly, a scream cut the silence, like a knife rough and jagged. In a twinkling the lights went out. There was a scuffling, a struggling in the corridor, cries and shouting, the sound of wood splintering, the blows of an axe,--a rushing forward of heavy bodies and the trampling of feet. The doors burst open, and a cordon of police dashed over the wreckage, cursing, shouting--and then stopped on the threshold, staring in amazement and panting with mouths wide open. "Oï!--Oï! Týsyacha chertéi!" The room was empty, dark, deserted save for an old woman, half-witted, who was crouching on the floor before the sacred Icon, rocking herself and mumbling. They questioned her, but she was deaf and answered at random: "Eh, gracious sirs--my lords--eh? So old--so poor, so wretched! See, there is nothing!--A copeck, for the love of heaven--half a copeck--a quarter, only a little quarter! Ah! Rioumka vodki[1]--rioumka--vodki!" The police brushed her aside and searched the room. In the corner was a low cot, hanging on a nail was an old cloak; on the table the remains of a black loaf and an empty cup. They searched and searched in vain; tapping the walls, tearing at the stone foundations, peering up at the rafters, tumbling over one another in their eagerness. "Chórt vozmí[2]--!" shouted the captain, "We are on the wrong track. The scream came from the other side. Head them off! Run, men, run! Here, this passage, and then straight ahead! Devil take the old beggar! Shut up, you hag, or I'll strangle you!--Head them off!" Gradually the hurrying footsteps died away in the distance. The shouting ceased on the stairs. It was still as the grave, silent, deserted. The old woman glanced over her shoulder. She was still crouching before the Icon, rocking herself backwards and forwards; the beads of the rosary slipping through her fingers one by one; mumbling to herself. Suddenly she stopped and listened. The rosary fell to the floor. Her eyes watched the wreckage of the doorway closely, suspiciously, like an animal before a trap. The shadows encircled her, they were here, there, everywhere; but none moved, none crept. Snatching a slip of paper from her bosom, she bent over it, her eyes dilated, her mouth twisted with agony. In the centre of the paper, clearly graven against the white, was a Black Cross. She moaned aloud, wringing her hands. Her teeth gnawed her lips. She clung to the foot of the Icon, sobbing, struggling with herself, glancing around fearfully into the shadows. A gleam from the candle fell on her hood; it had slipped slightly and a strand of her hair hung from under the cowl. It sparkled like gold. She staggered to her feet, still sobbing and trembling, catching her breath. Then she went to the nail on the wall and took down the cloak. The woman stood alone in the midst of the shadows; they were heavy, motionless. Glancing to right and left, behind her, to the wreckage of the door, to the furthermost corner, back to the Icon again, her eyes roved, darting from side to side like a creature hunted. Clasping the cloak to her quivering bosom she approached the candle slowly, stealthily. Her steps faltered. She hesitated. She stooped forward--another glance over her shoulder, and blowing with feeble breath, the spark went out. [1] A small glass of brandy. [2] "The devil take you!" CHAPTER III Velasco sat in his Studio before the great tiled fire-place, dreaming, with his violin across his knees. His servant had gone to bed and he was alone. The coals burned brightly, and the lamp cast a golden, radiant light on the rug at his feet, rich-hued and jewel tinted as the stained rose windows of Notre Dame. Tapestries hung from the walls, a painting here and there, a few engravings. In the centre stood an Erard, a magnificent concert-grand, open, with music strewn on its polished lid in a confusion of sheets; some piled, some fluttering loose, still others flung to the floor where a chance breeze, or a careless hand, may have scattered them. Near it was the exquisite bronze figure of a young satyr playing the flute, the childish arms and limbs, round and molded, glowing rosy and warm in the lamp light. In one corner was a violin stand, a bow tossed heedlessly across it; and all about were boxes, half packed and disordered. The curtains were drawn. The malachite clock on the mantel-piece was striking two. Velasco stirred suddenly and his dark head turned from the fire light, moving restlessly against the cushions. He was weary. The applause, the uproar of the Mariínski was still in his ears; before his eyes danced innumerable notes, tiny and black, the sound of them boring into his brain. "Ye gods--ye gods!" The young Violinist sprang up and began pacing the room, pressing his hands to his eyes to drive away the notes, humming to himself to get rid of the sound, the theme, the one haunting, irrepressible motive. He walked up and down, lighting one cigarette after the other, puffing once, twice, and then hurling it half-smoked into the coals. Every little while he stopped and seemed to be listening. Then he went back to his seat before the fire-place and flinging himself down began to play, a few bars at a time, stopping and listening, then playing again. As he played, his eyes grew dreamy and heavy, the brows seemed to press upon them until they drooped under the lids, and his dark hair fell like a screen. When he stopped, a strange, moody look came over his face and he frowned, tapping the rug nervously with his foot. Sometimes he held the violin between his knees, playing on it as on a cello; then he caught it to his breast again in a sudden fury of improvisation--an arpeggio, light and running, his fingers barely touching the strings--the snatch of a theme--a trill, low and passionate--the rush of a scale. He toyed with the Stradivarius mocking it, clasping it, listening. His overwrought nerves were as pinpoints pricking his body. His brain was like a church, the organ of music filling it, thundering, reverberating, dying away; and then, as he lay back exhausted, low, subtle, insinuating ran the theme in his ears, the maddening motive. Beside him was a stand, with a decanter of red wine and a glass. The wine was lustrous and sparkling. He drank of it, and lit another cigarette and threw it away. Presently Velasco took from his pocket a twist of paper blotted, and studied it, with his head in his hands. "_Will you help me--life or death--tonight? Kaya._" He listened again. The theme was still running, the black notes dancing; but between them intertwined was a face, upturned, exquisite, the eyes pleading, the lips parted, hands clasped and beckoning. That night at the Mariínski--ah! He had searched for her everywhere. Ushers had flown from loggia to loggia, ransacking the Theatre. Next to the Imperial Box, or was it the second? To the right?--no, the left! Below, or perhaps on the Bel-Etage?--All in vain. Was it only a dream? He stared down at the twist of paper blotted "_Kaya--to-night._" Her name came to his lips and he repeated it aloud, smiling to himself, musing. His eyes gazed into the coals, dreamy, heavy, half open, gleaming like dark slits under the brows. They closed gradually and his head fell lower. His hands relaxed. The violin lay on his breast, his pale cheek resting against the arch. He was asleep. All of a sudden there came a light tap on the door. A pause, a tap, still lighter; then another pause. Velasco raised his head and tossed back his hair restlessly; his eyes drooped again. "Tap--tap." He started and listened. Some one was at the Studio door--something. It was like the flutter of a bird's wing against the oak, softly, persistently. "Tap--tap." He rose slowly, reluctantly to his feet and went to the door. It was strange, inexplicable. After two, and the moon was gone, the night was dark--unless--An eager look came into his eyes. "Who is there?" he cried, "Who are you? What do you want?" A silence followed, as if the bird had poised suddenly with wings outstretched, hovering. Then it came again against the oak: "Tap--tap." Velasco threw open the door: "Bózhe moi!" As he did so, a woman's figure, slim and small, hooded and wrapped in a long, black cloak, darted inside, and snatching the door from his hand, closed it behind her rapidly, fearfully, glancing back into the darkness. The woman was panting under the hood. She braced herself against the door, still clasping the bolt as though a weapon. Her back was crooked beneath the cloak and she seemed to be crippled. Velasco drew back. His eagerness vanished and the light died out of his face. "Who in the name of--" He hesitated: "What in the world--" Then he hesitated again, his dark eyes blinking under his brows. The woman stretched her hands from under the cloak, clasping them. She was fighting hard for her breath. "Tell me, Monsieur," she whispered, "Tell me quickly--are you married? Are you going alone to Germany?" Her voice shook and trembled: "Oh, tell me,--quickly." "Married, my good woman!" exclaimed Velasco. His eyes opened wide and he drew back a little further: "Why really, Madame--Of course I am going alone to Germany. What do you mean? How extraordinary!" "Quite alone?" repeated the woman, "no friend, no manager? Oh then, sir, do me the little favour, the kindness--it will cost you nothing--I shall never forget it--I shall bless you all the days of my life." She took a step forward, limping. Velasco recovered himself. "Sit down, Madame," he said, "and explain. You are trembling so. Let me give you some wine.--Wait a minute. There,--is it money you want? Tell me." His manner was that of a prince to a beggar, lofty, authoritative, kindly, indifferent. "Sit down, Madame." The woman shrank back against the door and her hand fled to the bolt as if seeking support. "No--no!" she murmured. "You don't understand. It's not for--not money! I'm in trouble, danger. Don't you see? I must flee from Russia--now, at once. You are going to Germany alone, to-morrow night. Take me with you--take me with--you!" An irritated look came over Velasco's face. Was the creature mad? "That is nonsense," he said, "I can't take any one with me, and I wouldn't if I could. Besides there is only one passport." The woman put her hand to her breast. It was throbbing madly under the cloak. "You could take--your--wife," she whispered, "Your wife. No one would suspect." "Really, my dear Madame!" Velasco yawned behind his palm. "What you say is simply absurd. I tell you I have no wife." She stretched out her hands to him: "You are a Pole, a Pole!" Her voice rose passionately. "Surely you have suffered; you hate Russia, this cruel, wicked, tyrannous government. Your sympathy is with us, the people, the Liberals, who are trying--oh, I tell you--I must go, at once! After tomorrow it is death, don't you understand,--death? What is it to you, the matter of another passport? You are Velasco?--Every one knows that name, every one. Your wife goes with you to Germany. Oh, take me--take me--I beseech you." The Violinist stared down at the hooded face. Her voice was tense and vibrating like the tones of an instrument. It moved him strangely. He felt a curious numbness in his throat and a wave passed over him like a chill. She went on, her hands wrung together under the cloak: "It isn't much I ask. The journey together--at the frontier we part--part forever. The marriage, oh listen--that is nothing, a ceremony, a farce, just a certificate to show the police--the police--" Her voice died away in a whisper, broken, panting. She fell back against the door, bracing herself against it, gazing up into his eyes. Velasco stood motionless for a moment; then he turned on his heel and strode over to the fire-place, staring down into the coals. The sight of that bent and shrinking figure, a woman, old and feeble, trembling like a creature hunted, unmanned him. "I can't do it," he said slowly, "Don't ask me. I am a musician. I have no interest in politics. There is too much risk. I can't, Madame, I can't." He felt her coming towards him. The flutter of her cloak, it touched him, and her step was light, like a bird limping. "You read it?" she whispered, "I saw you at the Mariínski; and there--there are the violets on the table, by the violin. Have you forgotten?" Velasco started: "Who are you?" he exclaimed. "Not Kaya!" He wheeled around and faced her savagely: "You Kaya, never! Was it you who threw the violets--you?" His dark eyes measured the shrinking form, bent and crippled, shrouded; and he cried out in his disappointment like a peevish boy: "I thought it was she--she! Kaya was young, fair, her face was like a flower; her hair was like gold; her lips were parted, arched and sweet; her eyes--You, you are not Kaya!--Never!" His voice was angry and full of scorn: "It was all a dream, a mistake. Go--out of my sight; begone! I'll have nothing to do with anarchists." He snatched the violets from the table and flung them on the hearth: "Begone, or I'll call the police." He was in a tempest of rage. His disappointment rose in his throat and choked him. The old woman shrank back from him step by step. He followed threateningly: "Begone, you beggar." His heart beat unpleasantly. Devil take the old woman! Impostor! She was old and ugly as sin. He was sleepy and weary. Why had he taken the violets; why had he read the note? If the girl were not Kaya, then who--who? "Come," he cried sharply, "Be off!" Suddenly the woman buried her head in her hands. She began to sob in long drawn breaths; they shook her form. She fell back against the Erard, trembling and sobbing. Velasco stared down at her. His anger left him like a flash and his heart softened. Poor thing, poor creature! She was old and feeble, and crippled. He had forgotten. He had only thought of her, Kaya, the girl with the flower-like face. He shook himself, as if out of a dream, and his hand patted the woman's shoulder soothingly. His voice lost its sharpness. "Don't," he said, "Don't cry like that, my dear Madame--no, don't! It will be all right. I was hasty. Don't mind what I said,--don't--no!" She dashed his hand from her shoulder and broke into passionate weeping: "You play like a god," she cried, "but you are not; you are a brute. You have no heart. It is your violin that has the heart. Don't touch me--let me go! It was so little I asked, so little!" She struggled away from him, but Velasco pursued her. His heart misgave him. He grasped her cloak with one hand, the hood with the other, trying to raise it; "Stop!" he said, "I can't stand a woman crying, young or old. I can't stand it; it makes me sick. Stop, I tell you! I'll do anything. I'll--I'll marry you--You shall go to Germany with me. Only stop for heaven's sake. Don't cry like that--don't!" He stooped over the shrinking figure still lower; his arm pressed her shoulder. She struggled with him blindly, still sobbing. "Now, by heaven," cried Velasco, "If you are to be my wife, I'll see your face at least. Be still, Madame, be still!" The woman cowered away from him, holding out her hands, pressing him back. "I beg of you--I beseech you," she said, "Not my face! No--no, Monsieur!" She gazed at him in terror, and as she gazed, the hood slipped back from her hair; it fell in a golden flood to her shoulders, curling in little rings and waves about her forehead, her neck; veiling her face. She gave a cry. Velasco stood for a moment petrified, staring down into the frightened eyes that were like twin wells of blue fixed on his own. Then he leaped forward, snatched at the cloak, flung out his arms,--he had clasped the air. She was gone. The door slammed back in his face and the sound of her hurrying footsteps, light as a bird's, fled in the distance. He was all alone in the room. Velasco rubbed his eyes with his hand and stared about him, strangely, mechanically, like a sleep-walker. "What a dream! Ye gods, what a dream!" He stretched his limbs yawning and laughed aloud; then he paled suddenly. Was it a dream; or no--impossible. On the sleeve of his black velvet jacket something glistened and sparkled, a thread as of gold, fine and slender like silk, invisible almost as the fibrous strings of his bow. He raised it between his fingers. Then slowly, heavily, he went back to his seat before the fire-place and flung himself down. The lamp-light fell on the Persian rug dimly, flickeringly, the colours were soft as an ancient fresco; the jewels were gone, and the coals burned lower, dying. He lit a cigarette and began to smoke. The violin was in his arms. He played low to himself, dreamily, fitfully, his eyes half closed, dark slits beneath the brows. At his feet lay the violets crushed and strewn; a twist of paper creased, blotted. The light of the lamp grew dimmer. The malachite clock struck again and again. The night passed. CHAPTER IV Below the Nicholai Bridge, on the right quay of the Neva, stands the palace of the Grand-Duke Stepan, a huge, granite structure, massive in form and splendid in architecture. The palace was ablaze with light. In the famous ball-room thousands of electric bulbs twinkled and sparkled, star-shaped and dazzling. Its lofty, dome-like vault, resting on marble columns, was encircled by a balcony, narrow and sculptured, from which the music of the band rose and fell, soft, entrancing, invisible, as from the clouds. The walls were of reddish marble rounded at the corners. The floor, shining, polished as a mirror, reflected the swaying forms of the dancers as they whirled to and fro. Beyond, on the grand stair-case, the guests ascended slowly in groups of twos and threes, flecking the marble with splashes of colour, radiant, vivid, like clusters of rose leaves strewn on the steps. The perfume was intoxicating, languorous. Light trills as of laughter and snatches of talk, gay and fleeting, mingled with the rhythm of the violins. The ball was at its height. In an arch of the stair-case stood a young officer. He was leaning nonchalantly against the carved balustrade; the scarlet and gold of his uniform shone against a green background of palms, distinguishing his broad shoulders from among the rest. The palms screened him as in a niche. The officer was swarthy of complexion with a short, black mustache, and his eyes, small and near together, roamed carelessly over the throng. As the groups approached the head of the stair-case, one after the other, he saluted smiling, half heeding, and his eyes roved on still more carelessly; sometimes they crossed. Whenever they crossed, his eyes would remain fixed, intent, for a moment, on some one advancing to the foot of the stair-case, eagerly watching as the form came nearer and nearer. Then the muscles relaxed. He frowned impatiently, tapping his sword against the carvings. "Hiss-s-t--Prince Michel!" The whisper came from behind the leaves of the palms and they swayed slightly, trembling as from a movement, or a breath. The officer started, turning his black eyes swiftly, fiercely on the green, and then looked away again. "Ha, Boris!" he muttered, hardly moving his lips, "How you come creeping behind one!--What is it, a message?" "Hist-st! Speak low." The voice was like the faint murmur of crickets on a hot summer's day. "The Duke has gone." "Gone? What! The devil he has!" "Sh-h!--not five minutes ago! A message came from the Tsar himself. He has just slipped away." The officer gazed straight ahead of him smiling, and bowed to a couple ascending the stair-case. His lips parted as if in greeting. "Did he send you to tell me?" "No, the Duchess. She has made some excuse and is receiving alone. No one suspects, not yet; but the guests must be diverted, or else--" "Be still, Boris, be still, you shake the leaves like a bull. When will he return?" "By midnight, Prince. Could you start the mazurka at once?" "Presently, Boris. Go and tell my mother I will--presently. The Countess is late, unaccountably late! Is the snow heavy to-night on the quay; are the sledges blocked? Hiss-st!--There she comes!" The trembling of the leaves ceased suddenly and the young officer leaned forward, his sword clanking, his eyes crossed and fixed on a vague white spot in the distant foyer. "She is coming! How slowly she moves! What a throng!--There, she comes, white and sweet like a lily, a flower!" The Prince waved his hand; his sword clanked again. "No, she doesn't see me; her eyes are on the ground--and her hair, it gleams like a crown." The two figures climbing the grand marble stair-case moved forward slowly, step by step, mingling with the flash and colour of the crowd, lost for a moment at the bend, then reappearing again. The man, evidently a general, was magnificent in his uniform; his breast regal with orders and medals, his grey head held high and his form stiff and straight. On his arm was the Countess, his daughter. She clung to him, her lips were smiling and her white robes trailed the marble behind her. She was like a young queen, charming and gracious, bowing to right and to left. As the groups drew aside to let her pass, they whispered together, looking up at the carved balustrade; then the crowd closed again. At the top of the stair-case the Prince sprang forward. He greeted the General hastily, saluting. Then the watchers behind saw how the Countess paused, hesitated, and then, at a few whispered words from the Prince, placed her hand on his arm and the two young figures, the white and the scarlet, disappeared within the doorway. The violins rose and fell in a dreamy measure. From the sculptured gallery the sound came mysterious, enchanting, swaying the feet with the force of its rhythm. "Not to-night," said the Countess, "No!" She drew herself away from the arm of the Prince and her lashes drooped over her eyes. "I am tired--later perhaps, Prince." Her voice, low and remonstrating, was lost in the swing of the waltz. With a sudden, swift movement the scarlet and white seemed welded together, whirling into the vortex of light and of motion. No word was exchanged. They whirled, gliding, twisting in and out among the dancers; and suddenly, swiftly, as at a signal, the music broke into the measure of the mazurka. A cry went up from the throng. In a twinkling the floor was cleared, the crowd pressed back against the columns; under the reddish marble of the dome four couples gathered, poised hand in hand. The uniforms of the officers glowed in the light, rich and scarlet, faced with silver and gold. The gowns of their partners were brocade and velvet, purple and crimson, lilac and pearl. Then from the balcony, high up, unseen, the rhythm changed again like a flash, and with it the national dance began. At first the movements were slow, the steps graceful; the feet seemed scarcely to move, barely gliding over the floor. One by one the couples retreated, the last left alone; and then interchanging. The music grew faster. In that moment, when they were left alone, the Prince bent his head to the slim, swaying whiteness by his side: "Why did you come so late?" he whispered, "Where were you?" The Countess' hand was cold like ice. She drew it away and danced on; then she whispered back: "The Duke! Where is he to-night? He is not here! Why is the mazurka so early, tell me." They interchanged again. "Hush," said the Prince, "You noticed?--Don't speak. He has gone to the Tsar.--What is it? Are you ill?" "He has--gone?" "Dance, Countess, dance. Don't stop; are you mad? Come nearer. Hush!--The Tsar sent for him, but he will be back at midnight. No one must know." The figure of the mazurka grew stranger and more complicated. When they were thrown together again, the Countess lifted her blue eyes to the eyes of the Prince. They seemed to look at her and yet to look past her; they were crossed. She shivered slightly and turned her head. Her white figure, slender and light as thistledown, floated away from him, and then in a moment she was back, their hands had touched; they were whirling together faster and faster, the tips of her slippers scarcely touching the floor. She closed her eyes. "You won't tell, not a soul, I can trust you?" whispered the Prince. "Come closer, closer. There is a plot to-night. Boris told me. The Secret Service men are everywhere, watching. Don't be frightened, Countess--your hand is so cold. Can you hear me? Bend your head--so! They hope to make arrests before he returns." "When--when does he return?" "Sh--h! At midnight. Dance faster, faster--Let yourself go!" The music broke into a mad riot of rhythm; the violins seemed to run races with one another in an intoxication of sound, pulsing, penetrating, overpowering. The white figure twirled in the Prince's arms, her gold hair a blot against the scarlet of his sleeve, faster and faster. Her head drooped; her eyes closed again. The rhythm was alive, tempting, subtle, like a madness in the veins; and as they whirled, the rubato, dreamy, sudden, caught them as in a leash; the steps faltered, slower, more lingering; slower, still slower until the music stopped, dying away into the dome of the vault in a last faint echo of sound. The Countess swayed suddenly. Her face was white as the lace on her bosom, and her eyes grew dark and big, with black shadows sweeping her cheeks. Others stepped forward to the dance; their places were filled and the music commenced again. "Lean on me," whispered the Prince, "Are you ill? Countess, lean on my arm--so." His voice was hoarse and excited. He was swaying a little himself from the intoxication of the dance. "Take me away somewhere, some quiet place," she whispered back. "Let me rest--I am faint." He drew her after him and the two figures, the scarlet and the white, passed under the archway into a salon beyond. The Prince raised a curtain: "This is the Duke's own room," he said in her ear, "Go under--be quick!" The curtain fell heavily behind them and the two stood alone in the Grand-Duke's room. There was a desk in the corner littered with papers, a lamp stood beside, heavily shaded, and back in the shadowy recesses was a couch. "Help me there," whispered the Countess, "And then go--go, Prince, leave me. My head is on fire! See, my cheeks, my hands, how they burn? Help me to the couch." She staggered and almost fell as they approached it, burying her face in her hands. "I can't leave you," said the Prince. He was on his knees beside her, kissing her hands, trying to draw them down from her face. "Kaya, what is the matter? Don't hide your eyes--look at me. Shall I call some one? Are you ill?" The Countess drew back against the cushions, shuddering, pushing him from her: "Don't call any one," she said, "Give me that water on the table there." Her eyes were wide open now and dilated; the hair fell disordered in golden rings and waves about the oval of her face. She drew her breath heavily; her bosom rising and falling like waves after a storm. One hand pressed her lace as if to clutch the pulsing and steady it; the other held the glass to her trembling lips. The Prince hovered over the couch. He was pale and the crossing of his eyes was more pronounced than ever. "Drink now," he whispered soothingly as if to a child in trouble, "Drink it slowly. It is wine, not water, and will bring back your strength. It was the dance; ah, it was so fast, so mad. You were wonderful! The blood beats in my veins still; I can feel the rhythm throbbing, can you? Speak to me, Countess--are you better?" "Is any one here," said the girl faintly, "Are we alone?" "Yes, yes, we are alone." "Will the Duke come in?" "Not yet. Put your head back against the cushions and rest. The colour is gone from your cheeks and you are pale like a broken flower. Listen--do you hear the violins in the distance? Your feet move like mine; every pulse in your body is tingling and throbbing. Rest; don't speak, and in a moment--Kaya--" Again the Countess pushed him back, her blue eyes sparkling, flashing on his: "Prince, hush! Don't speak to me like that. You don't know, how can you! Poor boy--poor boy! Don't look at me; I tell you, don't look at me. In the dusk it might be the Duke himself, his very self! Go--Leave me a little. If he were good like you--but you will be bad too when you are older, wicked, cruel--the blood is there in your veins. You will be like the rest. Keep away from me, Michel. Don't kiss my hands, not--my--hands!" The Countess tore them away and gazed at the young officer, her eyes wild and dilated. She gave a little cry as of pain. "No--no! I can bear all the rest, but not this--not this! Get up off your knees Prince. Leave me--leave me for a little while--I must think; I must be alone and think." Her hair sparkled and gleamed against the cushions. One hand was still clasped to her breast. He stooped over her, panting. "Come and dance with me, Kaya--dearest. You are well now; your cheeks are like roses. The wine is so strong when one is giddy. Let me put my arms about you--come! I love you. Ah, your hair is like a halo; your lips are trembling. The tears in your eyes are like dew, Kaya." The Countess rose slowly to her feet. "Yes, you are like your father already," she cried, "Already you are cowardly. You are strong and you think I am weak." Her head was thrown back; she measured him scornfully, "Go and dance, sir. Leave me, I tell you." The Prince held out his hands. "Leave you!" he cried, "No, Kaya, no. Come and dance." "Leave me--leave me." He came nearer: "Are you still faint? Will you rest and let me come back? When? How soon?" "Leave me." He took out his watch: "Nearly midnight," he cried, "then the Duke will return. When the clock strikes, Kaya, it will be our dance. You will waltz with me then--once more? As soon as the clock strikes?" "Leave me." "A quarter of an hour, Kaya, no more? I will send word to Boris. He will guard the curtain so no one will enter, unless it is the Duke himself. As soon as the clock strikes, you promise, we will waltz together?" "Go, Michel, go--I promise." The Prince made a step forward as though to gather the shrinking figure in his arms. He hesitated; then he moved towards the curtain; hesitated again and looked behind him. Then the heavy folds fell and the girl was alone. She stood for a moment, watching the folds, then she put her hands to her eyes and swayed as though she were falling. "God!" she cried, "Must I do it? Is there no other--no other instrument?" She sobbed to herself in little broken words, catching her breath: "_I vow--I vow--without weakness, or hesitation, or mercy--with mine own hands if--needs be._" She staggered forward, still sobbing, and bent over the desk. Something white fluttered and fell from her lace; she smoothed it with her fingers; gazed at it. "God!" she cried, "Oh, God!" Then she clasped her breast again and drew something out, something dark and hard. She gave a startled glance about the room, covering it with her arms; her form shivering as though in a chill. "_In the name of the Black Cross I swear--I swear--_" Then she crept back to the couch and sank on the floor behind it, covering her face with her hands. As she did so, the door on the corridor opened a crack, then wider, slowly wider, and some one came in. The form was that of a man. He looked about him. The room was still, deserted, and he gave a sigh of relief, hurrying over to the desk. When he turned up the lamp, the light revealed a bundle of papers which he laid on the desk, examining them one after the other, putting his face close to the lamp, studying, absorbed. The face was that of the Grand-Duke Stepan; his beaked nose, his grey, upturned mustache, his eyes small and crossed. They were fixed on the sheets. All of a sudden he started violently. Beside him on the desk, just under the lamp, was a slip of paper. There was nothing on the paper but a Black Cross graven, above it: _Cmeptb_. As the Duke gazed at it, his face grew ashen, his mouth twitched, his eyes seemed fairly to start from his head; his knees knocked together. He glanced fearfully around, trying vainly to steady his hands. "_Without weakness, without hesitation, or mercy, by mine own hands if needs be, I swear--_" Was it a voice shrieking in his ears? He cowered backwards, huddled together, shivering. "_I swear--_" Suddenly there came the click of a revolver. A shot rang out; a moan. The Duke stood motionless for a second; then he faltered, twisted and fell on his face with his arms outstretched. CHAPTER V It was snowing steadily. The drops came so thick and so fast that the city was shrouded as in a great white veil, falling from the sky to the earth. Drifts were piled in the streets; they were frozen and padded as with a carpet, and the sound of sleigh-bells rang muffled in the distance. It was night and dark, with a bitter wind that came shrieking about the corners, blowing the snow, as it fell, into a riot of feathery flakes; sudden gusts that raided the drifts, driving the white maze hither and thither, flinging it up and away in a very fury of madness. The cold was intense. Before the door of a house on the little Morskaïa stood a karéta. It was large and covered. Behind and on top several boxes were strapped, protected from the snow by wrappings of oil-cloth, and on the driver's seat was a valise. The horses pawed the snow impatiently, tossing their heads and snorting whenever the icy blast struck them. The wind was sharp like a whip. Occasionally the karéta made a sudden lurch forward; then, with guttural oaths and exclamations, the animals were reined back on their haunches, slipping and sliding on the ice, plunging and foaming. The foam turned to ice as it fell, flecking their bits. The breath from their nostrils floated out like a vapour, slender and hoary. The driver, muffled in furs, swung his arms against his breast, biting his fingers, stamping his feet to keep them from freezing. The karéta, the driver and the horses were covered with snow, lashed by it, blinded with it. They waited wearily. From time to time the driver glanced up at the door of the house and then back at the carriage, shaking his head and muttering fiercely: "Stand still, you sons of the devil, stand still! You prance and shy as if Satan himself had stuck a dart in you! Hey, there!--Back, back, you limb! Will the Bárin never come?" He swore vigorously to himself under his beard, and the flakes fell from him in a shower. After a while the door of the house opened; some one appeared on the steps and a voice called out: "Bobo, eh Bobo! Is that you, are you ready? Heavens, what a night!" "All ready, Monsieur Velasco, all ready." "The boxes on?" "Yes, Bárin." "You took my valise, did you?" "Yes, Bárin." The figure disappeared for an instant within the doorway and the light went out; then he reappeared, carrying a violin-case under his arm, which he screened from the wet with the folds of his cloak, carefully, as a mother would cover the face of her child. He leaped to the carriage. "All right, Bobo, go ahead. Wait a moment until I get the latch open. Ye gods! I never felt such cold. My fingers are like frozen sticks. There! Now, the Station: Warchávski Voksál--as fast as you can! Ugh, what a storm!" The Violinist flung himself back in the corner of the karéta, huddling himself in the furs; the windows were shut and his breath made a steam against the panes. The carriage was black as a cave. "There ought to be another fur!" he said angrily to himself. His teeth were chattering and his whole body shivered against the cushions. "I told Bobo to put in an extra fur. The devil now, where can it be?" He groped with his hands, feeling the seat beside him, when all of a sudden he gave an exclamation, alarmed, half suppressed, his eyes staring into the darkness, trying vainly to penetrate. What was it? Something was there, moving, breathing, alive, on the seat close beside him. Gracious heaven! He wasn't alone! Velasco crouched back instinctively, putting out both hands as if to ward off a blow. He listened, peering. Surely something breathed--there, in the corner! He could make out a shadow, an outline.--No, nothing--it was nothing at all. His pulses beat rapidly; he groped again with his hands, slowly, fearfully, hesitating and then groping again. It was as though something, someone were trying to elude him in the darkness. His breath came fast; he listened again. Something cowered and breathed--"Bózhe moi!" He gripped his lip with his teeth and hurled himself forward, grappling into the furthermost recesses of the karéta. His hands grasped a cloak, a human shoulder, a body. It dragged away from him. He clutched it and something shrank back into the shadows. His eyes were blind; he could see nothing, he could hear nothing; he could only feel. It was breathing. His hand moved cautiously over the cloak, the shoulder. It resisted him, trying vainly to escape; and then, as the carriage dashed on through the darkness, he dragged the thing forward, nearer--nearer, struggling. The breath was on his cheeks. He felt it distinctly--the rustle of something alive. Velasco clenched his teeth together, clutching the thing, and held it under the window-pane, close, close, straining forward. As he did so the rays of a street lamp fell through the glass, a faint, pale light through the steam on the panes; a flash and it was over. Velasco gave a cry. Beside him was a woman, slight and veiled, and she was crouching away from him, holding her hands before her face, panting, frightened, even as he was. "Who are you?" cried Velasco, "What are you? Speak, for the love of heaven! I feel as if I were going mad. Speak!" He shook the cloak in his trembling grasp and, as he did so, a hand pressed into his own. It was bare, and soft like the leaf of a rose. He grasped it. The fingers clung to him, alive and warm. Velasco hesitated. Then he dropped the hand and from his pocket he snatched a match, striking it against the side of the carriage. It sputtered and went out. He struck another. It flickered for a moment and he held it between his hands, coaxing it. It burned and he held it out, gazing into the corner, coming nearer and nearer. The eyes gleamed at him from behind the veil; nearer--He could see the oval of the face, the lips. Then the match went out. "Kaya--Kaya!" He snatched at her hand again in the darkness and held it under the fur. "You came after all," he whispered hoarsely, "I thought I had dreamed it. Speak to me; let me hear your voice." He felt her bending towards him; her shoulder touched his. "You promised--I hold you to your promise." "Yes; yes!" "Have you changed your mind?" "No.--Don't take your hand away. No! It is horrible, the storm and the blackness. Hear the wind shriek! The hoofs of the horses are padded with snow; they are galloping. How the carriage lurches and sways! Are you afraid, Kaya? Don't--don't take your hand away." Velasco's voice was husky and forced like a string out of tune. It was strange, extraordinary to be sitting there in that dark, black cave, his hand clasping the hand of a woman, a stranger. The two sat silent. The horses plunged forward. Suddenly they stopped. Velasco started as out of a dream and sprang to the window, wiping the steam from the panes with his sleeve. "Bobo!" he cried, "Madman! This is not the Station. Where are you going, idiot--fool!" His voice was smothered suddenly by a hand across his lips. "Hush, Monsieur, have you forgotten? The driver knows, he is one of us. Come with me; and I pray you, I beseech you, don't speak, don't make a sound; step softly and follow." In a moment the girl was out of the carriage and Velasco behind. Her veil fluttered back; her cloak brushed his shoulder. The storm and the wind beat against them. He ran blindly forward, battling with the gale; but fast as he went she went faster. He could scarcely keep up. In the distance behind them, the carriage and horses were lost in a white mist, a whirl. "Here," she cried, "Bow your head, quick, the arch--and then through the gate--run! Take my hand in the court--let me lead you. I know every step. Run--run! You waited so long; we shall be late. There is barely time before the train. Ah, run, Monsieur--run!" The two figures dashed through the alley and into an open cloister, running with their heads bowed against the wind, struggling with the snow in their eyes, in their throats; blinded, panting. "Stop!" gasped Velasco, "I can't run like this. Stop! You mad thing, you witch! Where, where are you going? Stop, I tell you!" She dragged at his hand. "Come--a moment further. Come, Monsieur. Ah, it is death--don't falter. Run!" She caught at a little door under the wall and pushed it madly. It yielded. He sprang in behind her; and then he stood blinking, amazed. They were alone in the dark, ghostly nave of a huge Church. The long rows of columns stretched out in the distance, tall and stately like pines in a forest; the aisles were broad and shadowy, leading far off in a distant perspective to the outline of an altar and a high cross suspended. They were dim, barely visible. "Where are we?" he murmured, faltering. "Kaya, speak--tell me." She put up her face close to his and he saw that her lips were quivering, her eyes blurred with tears. Her veil was white with the snow, like a bride's. She dragged at his hand, and he followed her dumbly, their footsteps echoing, a soft patter across the marble of the church. It was absolutely dark; only on the far distant altar three candles were lighted, three sparks, red and restless, like fireflies gleaming. Otherwise the nave, the chancel, the transepts were as one vast blackness stretching before them. They fled on in silence; their goal was the candles. At first the space before the altar seemed empty, deserted, like the rest of the Church; but as they approached, nearer and nearer, three forms seemed to melt from the back of the choir and stood on the steps; two were figures in cloaks; the third was a priest. His surplice shone in the shadows against the outline of the columns. He mounted the steps of the altar and stood with his face to the cross. They seemed to be waiting. To Velasco the sound of his footsteps echoed and reverberated on the marble, filling the darkness. The noise of them was terrible. He would have covered his ears with his hands, but the girl urged him forward. The soft fingers crept about his own like a vine, clinging, irresistible. "Come," she breathed, "ah, come, Monsieur--come!" Then he followed, moving forward hurriedly, blindly, like one hypnotized. His senses were dulled; his will was inert. When he came to himself he was kneeling beside her on the marble, and he heard the voice of the priest, chanting slowly in Slavonic: "Blessed is our God always, and ever, and unto ages of ages. "In peace let us pray to the Lord for the servant of God, Velasco, and for the hand-maid of God, Kaya, who now plight each other their troth, and for their salvation. . . . That he will send down upon them perfect and peaceful love. . . . That he will preserve them in oneness of mind and in steadfastness of faith. . . . That he will bless them with a blameless life. . . . That he will deliver us from all tribulation, wrath, peril and necessity. . . . Lord have mercy! "Lord have mercy!" He listened in bewilderment; was it himself, or his ghost, his shadow. He tried to think, but everything melted before him in a mist. The girl by his side was a wraith; they were dead, and this was some strange unaccountable happening in another world. The marble felt cold to his knees. Velasco tried to move, to rise, but the hand of the priest held him down. The voice chanted on: "Hast thou, Velasco, a good, free and unconstrained will and a firm intention to take unto thyself to wife this woman, Kaya, whom thou seest here before thee?" And in the pause, he heard himself answering, strangely, dreamily, in a voice that was not his own: "I have, reverend Father." "Thou hast not promised thyself to any other bride?" "I have not promised myself, reverend Father." Then he felt the hand of the priest, pressing the crown down on his forehead; it weighed on his brow, and when he tried to shake it off he could not. "The servant of God, Velasco, is crowned unto the hand-maid of God, Kaya. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen." "The servant of God, Kaya, is crowned unto the servant of God, Velasco. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen." "O Lord our God, crown them with glory and honour. "O Lord our God, crown them with glory and honour. "O Lord our God, crown them with glory and honour!" Velasco passed his hand over his face; he was breathing heavily. The crown glittered in the darkness. "And so may the Father and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, the all-holy, consubstantial and life-giving Trinity, one God-head, and one Kingdom, bless you, and grant you length of days, . . . prosperity of life and faith: and fill you with all abundance of earthly good things, and make you worthy to obtain the blessings of the promise: through the prayers of the holy Birth-giver of God, and of all the saints. Amen." "Glory to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit now, and ever, and unto ages and ages." "Amen." The chanting ceased suddenly, and there was silence. Then he felt something falling against him, and he staggered to his feet, dragging the girl up with him. She trembled and shook, pushing him back with her hands; her eyes were full of terror, staring up into his, the eyes of her husband. Again everything grew misty and swayed. He was signing a paper; how his fingers quivered; he could scarcely hold the pen! The priest drew nearer, and the two cloaked figures. They all signed; and then he felt the paper crackling in the bosom of his coat, where he had thrust it. They were hurrying back through the dark, ghostly nave. They were running, and the sound of their footsteps seemed louder and noisier than before; they ran side by side, through the door in the wall, the cloisters, the arch, bowing their heads; and there was the carriage, a great blot of whiteness, the horses like spectres. The snow came whirling through the air in sharp, icy flakes, cutting the skin. The wind grew fiercer, more violent. With a last desperate effort Velasco dashed forward, pursuing the veil, the fluttering cloak--and the door of the carriage closed behind them. In that moment, as it closed, the horses leaped together, as twin bullets from the mouth of a cannon; galloping, lashed and terrified through the night. It was still inside the karéta. Suddenly Velasco was conscious of a voice at his elbow, whispering to him out of the silence: "Thank you, Monsieur, ah, I thank you! We shall be at the station directly; then a few hours more and it will be--over! You will never see--me--again! I thank you--I thank you with all my heart." The voice was soft and low, like a violin when the mute is on the strings. He could scarcely hear it for the lurching of the carriage. The horses gave a final plunge forward, and then fell back suddenly, reined in by an iron hand, and the karéta came to a standstill. The station was all light and confusion; porters were rushing about, truckmen and officials, workmen carrying coloured lanterns. "Not a second to spare!" cried Velasco, "Send the trunks after me, Bobo--Here--my valise!" He snatched up his violin-case, and the slim, dark-veiled figure darted beside him. "If we miss it!" he heard her crying in his ear, "I shall never forgive myself! I shall--never--forgive myself!" "We shan't miss it!" cried Velasco, "I have the tickets, the passports for you and for me! Here--to the left! The doors are still open!" An official rushed forward and took the valise from Velasco's hand: "Here, sir--here! First class compartment!" Velasco nodded breathlessly, and the two sank down on the crimson cushions; the door slammed. "Ye gods!" They were alone in the compartment; they were saved! Velasco gave a little laugh of triumph. He was hugging his violin close in his arms, and opposite him sat the slim veiled figure. She was looking at him from behind the veil--and she was his wife. "Ye gods!" he laughed again. "Why are you trembling?" he said, "We are safe now. I told you I had the passports. Are you cold, or afraid?--You shake like a leaf!" The girl put out her hand, touching his. "Did you see?" she breathed, "There--on the platform--Boris, the Chief of the Third Section!--He was watching!" Velasco laughed again aloud, happily, like a boy: "What of it? Let him watch! Put up your veil, Kaya. Great heavens, what a night it has been! My heart is going still like a hammer--is yours? Lean back on the cushions--put up your veil. Let me see you once,--let me see you! Look at me as you did in the Theatre--Kaya! Don't tremble." "He is there," breathed the girl, "I see him behind the curtain! He is talking to the official--The train is late and it doesn't start. Why doesn't it start?" She gave a little moan and peered out through the veil: "Something has happened, Monsieur! The officials are clustered together, talking--there is some excitement! They are gesticulating and several are pointing to the train! What is it--what is it?" Velasco laughed again; but the laugh died in his throat. The two turned and gazed at one another with wide, frightened eyes. "The Chief of the Third Section--see! He is going from compartment to compartment--He is looking at the passports! He is coming here--here!" CHAPTER VI "Your passports, Monsieur--Madame?" Velasco thrust his hand slowly into the breast pocket of his coat and drew out the precious papers. His manner was cold and indifferent, and his eyes had narrowed into sleepy slits again beneath the heaviness of his brows. Kaya was leaning back on the cushions with the veil drawn closely over her face. She was tapping the panels of the door with a dainty, nervous foot. Neither glanced at the official. The Chief of the Third Section was in evening dress with a fur cloak thrown hastily over his shoulders. He would have passed for an ordinary citizen on his way to a ball if it had not been for the strangeness of such an attire in a railway station, and the cluster of anxious, humble officials bowing and gesticulating about him. The Chief examined the passports closely and at some length; then he tossed an order over his shoulder in a quick, sharp tone to the group of officials, and one hurried away. "This lady, Monsieur, she is your wife?" The voice of the Chief, as he turned to Velasco, was like the passing of a brush over wool. The Violinist shuddered. "Certainly sir, she is my wife," he returned curtly. "It is so stated on the paper, I believe." "It is," said the Chief, "The writing is plain, quite clear. Will you be good enough to raise your veil, Madame?" Kaya shrank back. "My veil!" she stammered. She half rose from her seat, supporting herself, with her hands pressed down on the cushions, gazing up at the waiting official. "No--my veil!--What do you mean?" "I am sorry to trouble you," said the Chief sharply, "but I said: 'your veil.' Kindly raise it at once. Ha!--Why shouldn't you show your face, Madame?" His burly form filled the doorway and the white of his shirt front, half screened by the fur, gleamed under the electric light. He seemed enormous. Velasco's brows lifted suddenly until his eyes were wide open and blazing: "Stand back, you impudent scoundrel!" he cried, "Stand away from my wife! How dare you?" "Come!" said the Chief. His voice was still sharper. "No nonsense, Monsieur. The veil must be raised and immediately; you are keeping the whole train back. What do you suppose I am here for?" There was menace in his tone as he took a step forward. "Now, Madame, will you raise it, or shall I?" Kaya retreated slowly to the farther side of the compartment. "Stop," she whispered to Velasco. "Don't get angry; don't do anything, it is useless. Come back in the shadow." Then she turned and faced the official defiantly, throwing up the veil. Her face was very pale, her eyes were blue and dark, like two pools without a bottom, and her lips pressed together, quivering slightly. Velasco stared at her for a moment and drew a step nearer, laying his hand on her shoulder. He was trembling with rage. "Are you satisfied now, you cur?" he cried, "Look at her then. You will never see another face as beautiful, not in the whole length and breadth of your cursed country. Look--while you have the chance! By heaven, whoever you are, chief of the devil himself, I'll report you for this--I'll--" A shrill whistle cut through the torrent of words, and in another moment the Chief had stepped back, and the under officials came crowding through the door of the compartment. "Arrest them both," cried the Chief shortly, "Get them away at once and don't let them out of your hands. 'Peter and Paul,' quick! The woman is--" He whispered something hoarsely. In a second the two were surrounded, their hands were chained; they were bound like sheep and dragged, first one, then the other, to a covered sleigh at the rear of the station. "Put them in--hurry!" cried the Chief, "Gag the fellow; don't let him speak! Is the woman secure, so she can't scream, or moan? Take them off!" The sleigh started, and the two lay side by side on the floor, jostled by the lurching of the runners, their flesh cut and bruised by the ropes, their mouths parched and panting behind the gags. They could not stir, or moan, or make a sign. They were helpless. When the sleigh stopped in the grim inner court of the fortress, they were carried out into the darkness, and borne like animals through long, damp passages, down innumerable steps and dim windings until finally a door clicked and opened. They were thrust inside, their bindings were cut, and the door clicked again, slamming in its socket with the sickening crash of steel against steel; the sound reverberating hard and metallic like a blow against the eardrum, finally dying away in the distance, echo upon echo until all was silent. The girl lay still on the floor where they had left her. She had swooned, and as she returned to consciousness slowly, gradually, her breath came in little gasps through her parted lips and she moaned as she lay. Velasco had dragged himself to his knees and was peering about him, feeling with his hands in the dim waning light. He was muttering to himself in little outbursts of anger and rebellion, rocking his arms to and fro. "What a hole! What a beastly place! The floor is wet; ugh!--The walls are dank and shiny--things are crawling! Good heavens, something ran over my foot!--It must be a rat, scurrying--scampering! Sapristi! There's another! What a scrape to be in--what a scrape!" The girl lifted her head and looked at him, straining her eyes for the outline of his shoulders, the mass of his dark curls. He had turned half away and was wringing his hands, feeling them and exclaiming to himself. She crept towards him and stretched out her hand, touching his shoulder. "Monsieur--Ah, Monsieur Velasco!" He shuddered away from her: "You, is it you! Are you alive? I thought you were dead! Mon Dieu, I thought I was shut in with a corpse! It is frightful, horrible! I have suffered! God, how I have suffered--the torture of the damned!" "Monsieur!" "My hands are cut; I know they are cut! Look, can you see,--are they covered with blood? I am sure I feel it trickling!--Look!" "No--no, Monsieur, there is no blood." "I tell you I feel it--and my shoulder, my arm--I shall never be able to play again! I am ruined--ruined--and for what? Why did you come to me? Why didn't you go to someone else--anybody?" "Ah forgive me, forgive me." The girl crept closer and laid her hand on his shoulder, pathetically as if half afraid. "I shouldn't have gone to you, but--listen, Monsieur--let me tell you--let me explain! I thought there was no danger, not for you, otherwise--Oh, do believe me, not for the world would I have done it! I knew you were an artist; Bobo told us you were going to Germany--I thought--Can you ever forgive me?" Her voice broke a little and she was silent. Velasco went on rocking himself, feeling his arms, his hands, his fingers at intervals. "Don't talk," he said, "You make me nervous. You did very wrong; you ought never to have come to me. I hate anarchists; I never could bear them; and now they take me for one! I shall live here all my days--and my Stradivarius, my treasure--Heaven knows where they have put it--lying on the platform of the station, or perhaps broken, or stolen! I shall never see it again, never! Ah, it is cruel--it is not to be borne! Don't speak, I tell you, I can't bear it! You shouldn't have coaxed me!--Ugh! these rats--brr--did you feel it?" The girl gave a muffled cry. She had shrunk away in the corner, but now she crouched forward, her eyes dilated, staring into the darkness. "A rat, Monsieur? Ah, it is so dark--I feel things, crawling--crawling; and the damp oozes down from the walls. I am frightened--frightened!" The last words were a whisper; her throat swelled and she was choked, trembling with terror. She put out her hand and touched something soft--it slid from her and ran. She cried out faintly. "Come here," said Velasco, "Come nearer! The rats won't hurt you. Rest on my cloak, poor child, are you cold? Where are you?--Let me touch you!" "Here," said the girl, "I can feel the edge of your cloak; don't put it around me--no! I deserve to suffer, but you--no wonder you hate me! Don't put it around me." "Come nearer," said Velasco, "I can't see you in this devilish darkness. Are you crying?" "No, Monsieur, no, let me tell you--it was your playing, your playing that night. I saw you, and then the thought came to me--I will go to him, he will help me; and then--I came." "Your teeth click together like a castanet rattling," said Velasco, "You tremble like a string under the bow. Come closer. There--one ran over my sleeve, curse the creature! Did you feel him, the vermin? Put my cloak close around you." "No--no--not your cloak! You are shivering yourself, you need it. Don't--I pray you!" There was a moment of silent struggle between them. "Keep still," said Velasco, "My hands are cut, but they are strong still, and yours are like wax, soft as rose leaves. Hold it around you; don't push it away. Now, lean against me; they won't touch you." The struggle continued for a moment; then the form of the girl relaxed, her head drooped and he felt the light rings of her hair brushing his cheek. She started and then sank back again. "Can you hear me?" said Velasco, "Perhaps there are spies, people listening; no one can tell. Put your lips to my ear. Why were we arrested, do you know? What have you done?--Ah, these rats! Make a noise with your feet; scuffle as I do, that will drive them away.--" "I--I can't tell you," whispered the girl, "No--it was nothing, don't ask me. You will know in the morning." "Tell me now," said Velasco, "When we talk, the darkness seems less, not so terrible. I like to feel you breathing against me; your form is so little and light. Don't move! Put your fingers in mine now and tell me.--Why won't you tell me?--Speak louder." The girl trembled and he put his arm closer about her. "Are you afraid of me?" he said, "My tempers are nothing; they are like a gust and it is over. I didn't mean what I said. When I think of my violin, that it is lost, gone forever perhaps, that my hands are so numb and so stiff, it makes me frantic. I feel as if I should go mad for a moment, locked in here; and I never could bear the dark, never; not when I was a child. I see things; sounds ring in my ears. I want to cry out, and storm, and fling myself against the walls; do you? It is my nature, my temperament, I was always like that. My nerves are on fire. Stay by me. When I feel your hand--Kaya, your hair is like silk. Don't move. What was it you did?" "Only what was just," breathed the girl, "and right. I could not help myself, I could not. I had taken the oath. I was only the instrument." "The what--?" said Velasco. "If you were an instrument I should take you in my arms and play on you. The strings would be the strands of your hair and my bow would caress them. The tones would be thrilling and soft like your voice; your cheek would be the arch on which my cheek rests. I would shut my eyes and play on you, and you would answer me, and we would sway together, your heart on my breast.--Ah! Where am I? Forgive me, I thought for a moment--Don't be frightened, I thought you were my Stradivarius. I was dreaming.--What were you saying? An instrument--I don't understand." "Let me go," cried the girl, "don't hold me! Take your cloak from my shoulders. You wouldn't understand if I did tell you. You are an artist and understand nothing but your art. What do you know of the conditions we are struggling against, the suffering, the horrible suffering of our country?" "Don't be angry," said Velasco, "I talk to my violin sometimes like that. There was nothing to flare up about; I was dreaming, I tell you! What do you know of such things yourself? Ugh! Leave them alone, child; leave all ugly things alone! Come back, or the rats will run over you." "It is terrible the things that happen," whispered the girl. She was on her knees and she was pushing him away with her hands. "I never knew until lately, but now--now I have met the Revolutionists; they have talked to me, they have told me. They are splendid men. Some of them are extreme, so am I. I hate the Tsar. I loathe him; I loathe them all! I would kill them all if I could." She was trembling violently: "It is true that I have--" And then she began sobbing, struggling with Velasco as he drew her to him. "Be still," he said, "Hush! Your voice was like a trumpet then. You are not like a girl at all; you are like a soldier fighting for his flag. What are you talking about? Hush! Let me wrap you again. The rats are getting worse! Creep closer and rest on my arm. The Tsar is the little Father; we must respect him and speak low about him always." The girl caught her breath, sinking back on his shoulder, wrapped in his fur. She tried to resist him, but his arm was strong and encircled her, his hand clasped her own; it was supple and the wrist was like a hinge. There was a power, an electric force in his touch, a magnetism--she shut her eyes, yielding to it. She was like a violin after all; if he chose to play on her with his bow! Ah--she quivered. "Monsieur," she said low, "You don't understand. You are a Pole and you care nothing for Poland; how could you understand? And yet you play--my God, how you play, as if you had cared and suffered more than any one in the whole wide world. Have you ever suffered?" "No," said Velasco, "What should there be to make me suffer? Not until to-night!--Ugh, this is torture, horrible!" "Have you ever twisted and writhed in an agony of mind that was like madness because--" "Of course," said Velasco, "After my concerts I am always like that. It is--" He shuddered. "A black depression creeps over one. Bózhe moi! It is awful! Is that what you mean?" "No," she said, "that is not what I meant. Tell me, Monsieur, have you ever cared for any one?" Velasco stretched his cramped limbs and yawned. "Never, any one particularly," he said, "that I can think of. I used to like my old master in Warsaw; and I have friends; good gracious! All over Russia and Germany I have friends. You don't mean that?" The girl stirred uneasily against his arm. "Was that another rat?" she said, "I felt something run over my dress." "Draw the cloak to your chin," whispered Velasco, "Huddle yourself in it. There, are you warm? Put your head down again. One moment you are like a boy ready to fight the universe, the next you shake at the sound of a rat.--Kaya!" "Yes, Monsieur?" She shivered, clinging to him. "What did you say? Say it again; don't tremble like that." "I would die," she whispered, "A thousand times I would die rather than have brought this on you. If I had known--if I had guessed!" "Your hair is like down," said Velasco, "a soft, golden fluff. I can't see it, or you; are you there? I shouldn't know if I didn't feel you breathing, and the touch of your head and your hand. Go to sleep; I will watch." She murmured and stirred in his arms. "Yes, yes, I forgive you. I never was angry. If only they haven't hurt my violin, my Stradivarius! If they do, I shall drown myself!--But don't think of it; don't speak of it. Be still and sleep." She murmured again. He laid his cheek to her hair and they sat silent, the girl half unconscious, Velasco staring out into the darkness, his face white and set. There was a stirring of something within him impossible to fathom; something apart from himself, strange and different, like the birth of a soul; a second personality, unknown, unrevealed. His heavy eyes gleamed through the slits. The round of his chin stiffened; his mouth took new lines. The luxurious artist personality of the musician was dormant for the first time in his life; his virile and masculine side had begun to awaken. The muscles of his arm swelled suddenly and he felt a strange beating in his heart. This girl, this stranger! She was helpless, dependent on him and his strength. He would guard her and protect her with his life. His arms were around her and no one should take her from him--no one! Not the Tsar himself! She was breathing, she was there; she was a woman and he was a man, and his strength was as the strength of a lion. What harm could befall her? He bent his head on his breast and his lips touched her hair. Across the sodden floor of the prison, suddenly, came the first rays of dawn falling aslant, touching the shadows, the two figures crouching, the rats as they fled. Velasco drew the cloak closer about the sleeping form of the girl, with a tender, protecting gesture. His eyes were alert. He had forgotten himself; he had forgotten his violin; he had forgotten his art. He was facing the sunlight grim and determined. CHAPTER VII The office of the Polkovnik was small and narrow, low, with ceiling and walls hewn out of the rock. At one end was a window barred, looking out upon a court; at the opposite end the door. On either side of the door stood a soldier in Cossack uniform, huge fellows, sabred, with their helmets belted under their chins, and their fierce, black eyes staring straight ahead, scarcely blinking. In the centre of the room was a table, and before the table an officer seated, also in uniform, but his head was bare and his helmet lay on the litter of papers at his elbow. He had a long, ugly face with a swarthy complexion, and eyes that were sharp and cold like steel, piercing as the point of a rapier and cruel. He was tossing the litter of papers impatiently, examining one after another at intervals, then pushing them back. He was evidently waiting, and as he waited he swore to himself under his breath, glancing from time to time at the Cossacks; but they stood stiff and immovable like marble, looking neither to right nor to left. Presently the officer leaned forward and touched a bell on the table. "There is no use waiting any longer," he said curtly, "Bring them in." The hammer of the bell was still tinkling when the door swung back suddenly on its hinges and two people, a man and a woman, were half led, half dragged into the room; the Cossacks prodding them on with the blunt edge of their sabres. "Brr--" said the officer sharply. In a flash the Cossacks had leaped to their niches, their forms rigid and motionless, only the tassels on their helmets quivering slightly to show that they had stirred. The man and the woman were left beside the table. "Your names?" demanded the officer, "The woman first." The girl drew herself up wearily; her face was wan in the morning light, and her hair fell about her shoulders, dishevelled, a bright golden mass, curling about her forehead and ears in little rings and spirals like the tendrils of a vine. Her eyes were proud and she looked the officer full in the face, her hands clenched. Her voice rang full and scornful. "My name is the Countess Kaya and I am the daughter of General Mezkarpin. What have you to say to me?" "We have a good deal to say to you, Madame," retorted the Cossack, "if it is true that you are the Countess. I never saw her myself, but the Chief will be here presently. He knows her very eye-lashes, and if you have lied--" "I have not lied," cried the girl, "How dare you speak to me like that! Send for my father, do you hear me? At once! The General Mezkarpin." She repeated the name distinctly and her shoulders stiffened, her blue eyes flashed. "A friend of the Tsar as you are aware. Be careful! What you do, what you say, every act, every word shall be reported to him." "If you have not lied," continued the Cossack smoothly, "it will be still worse for you, far worse!" He began smiling to himself and twirling his mustache. "If it is true, this report, I doubt if you leave here alive, Madame, unless it is for the Mines. You have an ugly crime at your door. How you ever escaped is a wonder! The Chief has been on your track for some time, but he was late as usual; he is always slow about arresting the women, especially if they are--" The Cossack showed his teeth suddenly in a loud laugh, leering at the slim, young figure before him. The girl blanched to the lips. "A crime!" she said, "What crime?" Then she put out her hand slowly, shrinkingly, and touched the figure beside her as if to make sure that he was there. The man was standing dazed, staring from the girl to the Cossack and back again. Mezkarpin's daughter, the great Mezkarpin, the friend of Nicholas! And accused of--what? It was a mistake--nothing! He passed his hand over his eyes. "Is this woman your wife?" said the officer shortly, "Answer." "She is my wife." "Where are the papers?" The man unbuttoned his coat and felt in his breast pocket, the left, the right; then the pockets of his vest. "I have them here, somewhere," he stammered, "Where in the devil! They were here last night!" He felt again desperately. "They seem to be gone! What can have become of them? I put them here--here!" He searched again. "Curious!" said the official, "Ha ha!" The prisoner stared at him for a moment blinking. "You impudent scoundrel!" he cried, "She is my wife, papers or no papers. Ask her!--Kaya!" The girl held herself straight and aloof. She was gazing down at the litter of papers on the table; her face was white and her lips were clenched in her teeth. "Kaya--tell him! The papers are lost! God, they are gone somehow! Tell him--" The girl released her lip and her voice came out suddenly, ringing, clear as if the room had been large and the Cossack deaf; it seemed to burst from her throat. "I am not his wife," she said, "He is mistaken. He is telling you that out of kindness. Monsieur is a stranger to me, until last night a perfect stranger. I don't know him at all. Don't believe what he says. You see for yourself there are no papers. Is it likely?" The tones of her voice seemed to die away suddenly and a drop of blood oozed from her lip. She wiped it away and clinched her teeth again, fiercely, as if hedging her words. "Kaya!" cried the man. "She is my wife, I tell you, she is my wife! The priest married us. I can prove it." "Silence," cried the Cossack. "What do we care if you are married or not. You will be imprisoned anyway for meddling in a matter that does not concern you. Silence, I tell you. Answer my questions. What is your name?" "My name is Velasco." "Ha--the musician?" "Yes." "Very good! Try again. There is only one Velasco in Russia, as every one knows, and he isn't here. Your name? Tell the truth if you can." "My name is Velasco." "The devil it is!" cried the Cossack, "Ha ha!--You two make a pair between you. Velasco! The Wizard of the bow! The one all Russia is mad over! Ye saints! I would give my old cavalry boots to have heard him. Bah--you anarchist dog! Now, damn you, answer me straight or I'll make you. Your name?" The Cossack leaned over the desk, his eyes blazing fiercely, shaking his fist. "No nonsense now; do you think we can't prove it? Quick--your name?" The prisoner folded his arms and stared up at the cross-barred window, half closing his eyes. The brows seemed to swell, to weigh down the lids. "Will you answer or not?" Velasco swayed a little and a dark gleam shot out between the slits: "If I had been brought up a soldier," he said, "instead of a musician, I should take pleasure in knocking you down; as it is, my muscles were trained to much better purpose. This interview, sir, is becoming unpleasant. I will trouble you to send for my Stradivarius at once. Some of your men stole it, I fancy, last night. It is worth its weight twice over in gold. There is not another like it in the country, perhaps in the world. The next time his majesty, the Tsar, requests my presence, I shall inform him that the violin is here in his fortress, stolen by a slovenly, insolent official, who doesn't know a violin from a block of wood, or a note from a pin head." His eyes drooped again. The Cossack examined him narrowly. "If you are Velasco," he said after a little, "Khoroshó[1]! then prove it. There was a case brought in last night, it might have been a fiddle. Brr--Ivanovitch, go for it. No. 17,369, in the third compartment, by the wall. That isn't a bad idea!" He rubbed his hands together and laughed, showing his teeth like a wolf: "There is only the one Velasco and I know a thing or two about music in spite of your impudence. You can't cheat me." He laughed loud and long. Velasco stood imperturbable, his arms folded; he seemed to be dreaming, his mind far away. The words fell on his ear like drops of water on a roof, rolling off, leaving no sign. The girl looked up at him and her lips quivered slightly. She pressed them with her handkerchief and again a drop of blood blotted the white; then she drew them in with her teeth and drooped her head wearily, the confusion of her hair encircling it like a framing of gold, veiling her brow and her cheeks. "Ah, here is Ivanovitch," cried the Cossack, "and here is the fiddle. Now, for a lark! Brr--Milikai, go for the Colonel, he is musical--ha ha! No, stop! I will keep the fun to myself. Shut the door. Is the Chief here yet?" "No, Gospodin." "Sapristi! Never mind, shut the door--shut the door!" Velasco roused suddenly. He looked about him, dazed for a moment; then he sprang forward, attacking the Cossack and tearing the case from his hands. His eyes were bright and eager; his voice coming in little leaps from his throat, full of joy and relief. "My violin, my treasure! My beloved, give it to me! You brute, you great hulking savage, if it is damaged or broken, I'll kill you! Out of my way! Let it go--or I'll strike you!--Let go!" He snatched the case to his breast and carried it over to the table, opening it, unfolding the wrappings. They were silken and heavy. The violin lay swathed in them, the glossy arch of its body glistening yellow, golden and resinous. He touched it tenderly, lifting it, examining it, absorbed, engrossed, like a mother a child that has been bruised. The official stared at him in amazement; the Cossacks gaped under their helmets. The girl watched him with wistful eyes. She understood. It was the artist-temperament in full command. The man had vanished, the musician was in possession. He was rocked by it, swayed, overpowered, a slave. His eyes saw nothing; his ears heard nothing; his mind was a whirl, a wonderful chaos of sound, of colour, of notes dancing, leaping. The bow was in his hand, the violin was on his breast. He closed his eyes, swaying, pressing it to his cheek. The eyes of the girl filled with tears. It was just as he had said. He was talking to it and it was answering him, softly at first, faint and low, his fingers scarcely touching the strings; then the tones burst out, full, radiant, like a bud into bloom, rushing, soaring, echoing up to the walls of the room, striking the stone, bounding back, dying away. He was drunk, he was mad; he was clasping the thing, forcing it, pressing it, swaying it, and the strings leaped after his will. She fell back against the wall, steadying herself, and her eyes drank in the sight of him as her ears the sound--the slight, swaying figure, the dark head bowed with his hair like a mane, the arm with the bow, the abandon of the wrist, the white, flashing fingers. She drew a quick breath. The official sat open-mouthed. The cruelty had gone from his face, the sharp, steely look from his eyes. He was grasping the desk with both hands, leaning forward, staring as one who is benumbed, hypnotized. Velasco played as he had never played before. He was playing for his life, his identity, his freedom; and suddenly into the tones crept another consciousness, subtle at first, scarcely heard, something fragile and weak, new born as if struggling for breath. He stopped and passed his hand over his eyes, dropping the bow. Where was he! What had happened! Was it his life, or hers, he was playing to save?--Oh God! He gazed at her across the room, into the two deep wells of her eyes, and again his muscles swelled, his chin stiffened. He stood there gazing, struggling with himself; his one personality against the other; the hair falling over his brows, the violin clasped in his arms. Suddenly there came a knock at the door. The Cossack gave a long sigh. He went up to Velasco slowly and took his hand, the hand with the bow. "Great heaven!" he cried, "I am exhausted, I am limp as a rag! There is not another soul in Russia, in the world, who can play like that! You are marvellous, wonderful! All they said was too little. Monsieur--there is no further doubt in my mind, I ask your forgiveness. You are, you can be no other than he--Velasco." The knock was repeated. "Come in!" cried the Cossack. His voice was hoarse and he cleared his throat: "Come in!" The door opened and General Mezkarpin strode into the room, followed by the Chief of the Third Section. The Cossacks saluted with their hands stiffly laid to their helmets; the officer stepped forward to meet them, bowing. All the assurance was gone from his manner; he was now the servant, the soldier in the presence of his superior. The General waved him aside. His face was florid and red; he was a large man, heavy, with prominent features, and his sword clanked against the stone of the floor as he moved. The girl was still leaning against the wall. When she saw him she gave a little cry and sprang forward, stretching out her hands: "Father!" she cried, "Father!" And then she stopped suddenly and clasped her hands to her breast. "Is this the woman you meant?" said the General, turning to Boris. He spoke as if he were on the parade-ground, every word sharp, caustic, staccato. "Right, left, shoulder arms, march!"--"Is this the woman?" "It is, General." "She was in the Duke's room?" "She was." "You found her in the train?" "In the train, last night, with this man." "You say she is an anarchist?" "We have known it for some time, sir." The face of the General turned purple suddenly and the rims of his eyes were red like blood. He approached the girl and stood over her, his fists clenched, as if he would have struck her, controlling himself with a difficult effort. "You heard?" he said, still more sharply, every word rolling out apart, detached. "Is it true? Are you mixed up with this infernal Revolutionary business? My daughter! An anarchist against the Tsar? Look me in the eyes and answer. May all the curses of heaven strike you if it is true." The girl looked him in the eyes, her blue ones veiled and dark, gazing straight into the blood-rimmed ones above her. "It is true," she said, "I am an anarchist." The purple tint spread over the face of the General, turning crimson in blotches. His limbs seemed to tremble under his weight; his fist came nearer. "You fired the shot?" he cried, "You! Answer me, on your soul--the truth. It was you who murdered the Grand-Duke Stepan? You?" The girl's face grew slowly whiter and whiter; the gold of her hair fell about her, her lips were parted and quivering. Still she looked at him and signed an assent. "You--you shot the Grand-Duke?" Her lips moved and she bowed her head. The General stood paralyzed with horror. He was like one on the verge of apoplexy; his tongue stammered, his limbs refused to move. Then he drew back slowly, inch by inch, and stared at the girl with the anger and passion growing in his eyes. "You are no daughter of mine!" he cried stammering, "You are a murderess, a criminal! You have killed the Grand-Duke--in his own house you have killed him!" "Father!--Father!" He gasped and put his hand to his throat. "Be still! I am not your father. You are no child of mine. I curse you--with my last breath I curse you.--Do with her as you like." He turned to the Chief, staggering like a drunken man, panting. "Take her away--Take her out of my sight. Send her to Siberia, to the Mines--anywhere! Let her pay the uttermost penalty! Let her die! She is nothing to me!--Curse her!--Curse her!--Curse her!" The Chief made a sign to the Cossacks and they sprang forward, one on either side of the girl. She shrank back. "Father!" she cried. "Chórt vozmí, I am not your father! Take her away, I tell you." With a stifled oath the General flung his hands to his head and rushed from the room. Velasco still stood dazed, clasping his violin. He was shivering as though he had a chill, and the roughness, the brutality of the words, the slamming of the door, went through him like a knife. He dropped his violin on the litter of papers. "By heaven!" he cried, "What a terrible thing! What brutes you all are! She is my wife--mine! No matter what she has done, she is my wife. Let go of her you savages!--Kaya! Help her, some of you--don't let them take her! They are dragging her away!--Kaya! Stop them--stop them!" He was struggling like a madman in the arms of the official, fighting with all his strength; but the muscles of the Cossack were like iron, they held him in a vice. The Chief sprang forward. They held him, and the girl was dragged from the room, brutally, roughly with blows. She looked back over her shoulder and her eyes, with a strange, tense look, gazed deep into Velasco's. They were dark and blue, full of anguish. Her whole soul was in them; they were beseeching him, they were thanking him, they were saying goodbye. He struggled towards her. A moment--and she was gone. The great door swung back on its hinges, the latch clicked. A faint, low cry came back from the distance. Velasco's arms dropped to his side and he stared fiercely from one official to the other. He tried to speak and could not. The cry came back to him, and as he heard it, his throat throbbed, his heart seemed to stop beating. "You can go now," said the official. "We know who you are, and there is nothing against you." He whispered something to the Chief. They handed him his violin and his case with its wrappings, and led him to the door. He followed them out, up the winding steps, through the passages, out into the court, stumbling blindly. "You can go--there is nothing against you." He walked straight on with his head bent forward, his eyes on the ground. He clasped the violin in one hand, the case with the other. He was shivering. The cry followed him out into the street. It rang in his ears. Her eyes were gazing into his with a strange tenseness. He could feel them. He was dumb, he was helpless. Oh God--the cry again! It was low, it was faint, it was broken with pain. He stumbled on. [1] Very well. CHAPTER VIII "Is Monsieur Velasco in?" "He is, sir." "Tell him his manager, Galitsin, is here and must speak to him at once." "Very well, Bárin, but--he is composing. He has been composing for days--Monsieur knows?" "I know," said the Manager. He was a short, thick-set man with crisp, curly hair, a wide mouth, a blunt nose, and eyes that twinkled perpetually as though at some inward joke that he did not share with the rest of the world; they twinkled now and he snapped his fingers. "Go ahead, Bobo, you coward. If he insists on hurling a boot at your head, why dodge it--dodge it! Or wait, stay where you are. I will announce myself." The old servant retreated with alacrity down the hallway, stepping lightly as if on eggs with his finger on his lips, while the Manager opened the Studio door softly, without knocking, and closed it behind him. Before the fire-place, with his back to the door, sat Velasco. His shoulders were bent, his head was in his hands; he was motionless. The Manager cleared his throat slowly with emphasis: "Eh, Velasco, is that you?" The young Musician leaped to his feet as if struck by a blow, and faced the intruder angrily, tossing the hair away from his brows. His face was pale, as of one who has watched instead of sleeping, and his eyes were haggard and bloodshot. "A hundred devils take you!" he cried, "What are you doing here? I told Bobo to keep people out, the treacherous rascal! For heavens sake go and leave me in peace; I tell you Galitsin, go! Don't come near me." The Manager laughed: "Composing, Velasco?" "Can't you see it? Of course I am composing. Go!" He waved his hand towards the door. "Don't talk." "You must talk with me," exclaimed the Manager briskly, "Now Velasco, there's no use, you will have to listen to reason. The way you are behaving is outrageous, abominable! All your German engagements have gone to the wall. My desk is piled high with letters; the agents are furious. In Leipzig the Gewandhaus was entirely sold out a fortnight ago. In Dresden there isn't a seat left. Why the money loss is something tremendous! I had a telegram this morning; they are nearly crazy. You must keep your engagements; you will ruin your career utterly, absolutely. You will never dare show your face in Germany again. And here you sit composing--composing! Good heavens, you look like it! You look as if you had been on a bat for a week! You look drunk, Velasco, drunk! I never saw such a change in a man! Come--wake up! Rouse yourself! Take the train tonight." The Manager laid his arm on the young Musician's shoulder and patted it soothingly. "Take the night train, Velasco. You ought to be playing, not composing! You know that as well as I do. If you go tonight, you will reach Leipzig in time. It makes a difference of thousands of roubles to me as well as to you; remember that. You musicians have no conscience. Come, Velasco--are you listening?" The Musician stood listless, his hands in his pockets, staring down at the bricks of the chimney piece. "What is that?" he exclaimed, "Were you speaking?--Oh, damn you, Galitsin, why don't you go? I'm not a slave! I won't stir one step in Germany if I don't feel like it; I swear I won't! Cancel everything, everything. Heavens! I couldn't play if I tried! You managers are like the old man of the mountain; you want to sit on my neck and lash me on as if I were Sinbad. All for the sake of a few dirty roubles to put in your pocket! What do I care? I won't do it, I tell you. Go and manage somebody else; get another slave. Petrokoff over there in Moscow! He will be like a little lamb and eat out of your hand. Now be off--be off! Your voice is like a bee buzzing." Velasco threw himself back in his chair again and blinked defiantly up at the Manager through his bloodshot eyes. They were heavy and weary, he could scarcely keep them open; his fingers strummed against the arm of the chair and he began to whistle to himself softly, a quaint little Polish air like a folk-song. Galitsin shook his head frowning: "You are a perfect child, Velasco, when this mood gets hold of you. There is no doing anything with you. Very well then, I wash my hands of the whole business. Answer your own letters and satisfy the agents, if you can. Tell them you are ill, dying, dead--anything you please." "Bah!" said Velasco, "Don't answer them at all." He shut his eyes. The Manager gave a hasty glance about the Studio and then he bent his head to the chair, whispering: "You have acted badly enough before, heaven knows, but never like this. It is not the composing. Where is the score?--Not a note!" He breathed a few words in Velasco's ear and the Musician started up. "How did you know; who told you? The devil take you, Galitsin!" The Manager smiled, running his hands through his short, crisp curls. "Everyone knows; all St. Petersburg is talking about it. When a man of your fame, Velasco, insists on befriending a Countess, and one who is the daughter of Mezkarpin, and an anarchist to boot--" He spread out his hands: "Ah, she is beautiful, I know. I saw her at the Mariínski. She stared at you as if she were bewitched. You had every excuse; but get down on your knees, Velasco, and give thanks. It is no fault of yours that you are not tramping through the snow to Siberia now, just as she is. A lesser man, one whose career was less marked! By heaven, Velasco, what is it?--You are choking me!" "Say it again!" cried the Musician, "You know where she is? Tell me! By God, will you tell me, or not?--I'll force it out of you!" "Let go of my throat!" gasped the Manager. "Sit down, Velasco! Don't be so excitable, so violent! No wonder you play with such passion; but I am not a violin, if you please. Take your hands off my throat and sit down." "Where is she?" Galitsin straightened his collar and necktie before the mirror of the mantel-piece. "What is the matter with you, Velasco? Any one would suppose you were in love with her! Better not; she is doomed--she is practically dead." "Dead!" "Don't fly up like that!--Sit down! I saw the Chief of Police yesterday, and he gave me some advice to hand on to you." "Is she dead, Galitsin?" "No, but she will be. She is sent with a gang to the Ékaterinski Zavad. They are gone already, chained together, and marching through the snow and the cold. It is thousands of miles. A Countess, who has undoubtedly never taken a step in her life without a maid--who knows! She is frail, she won't live to get there." The room was still for a moment and suddenly a coal fell from the fire to the hearth with a thud, flaring up. Then it broke into ashes. Presently the Manager continued: "She shot the Grand-Duke Stepan, they say. I don't know. The thing has been hushed up for the sake of Mezkarpin, poor man! The Chief told me he had had a stroke in the prison and may not recover. The girl must be a tigress!--Velasco! Are you asleep?--Wake up!--Velasco!" "What mines did you say, Galitsin?" "The Ékaterinski Zavad." "They have started already?" "Yesterday." "The Chief told you that?" "The Chief himself told me." "Did he mention the route?" "By the old road through Tobolsk, I dare say, the usual one. Come, Velasco, don't brood over it!" "Were they chained?" The Musician shuddered and moved his limbs uneasily. "Chains, Galitsin? Fancy, how horrible! How they must clank! It must be maddening--jingling, rattling with every step--Ah!" The Manager shrugged his shoulders. "When a woman undertakes to murder the Grand-Duke Stepan, what else can she expect? Mezkarpin is a friend of the Tsar, otherwise she would have been hung, or shot!--Why of course! The Chief said she was utterly brazen about it. She asked over and over if he were dead, and then said she was glad. Lucky for you, Velasco, they recognized you, they didn't take you for an accomplice; you would never have touched a violin again. All the same--" He glanced around the Studio again and his voice grew lower: "The Chief gave warning. You are to leave Russia, he said. Velasco--listen to me! He said you must leave Russia at once, to-night--do you hear?" The Manager leaned forward and shook the Musician's shoulder angrily. "Velasco, do you hear?--If you won't go for your Art, you must go for your safety.--Do you hear me? You must!" "I hear you," said Velasco, "You needn't bellow in my ear like a bull! If I must, I suppose I must. Go and write your letters and leave me in peace." "Shall I tell the agents you are coming?" "Tell them anything you like. Pull me about on wires like a little tin puppet, and set me down anywhere in Europe, just as you please. I feel like an automaton! You will be winding up my Stradivarius next with a key. Now go, or I won't stir a step!" The Manager took up his gloves and cane; he seemed uneasy. "You swear you will start to-night, Velasco?" "Be off!" "By the night train? I shall meet you at the station." "Very well. Good-bye." "The Night Express?" The Musician closed his eyes and nodded. "You cackle like an old woman, Galitsin; you would talk a cricket dumb. Send me up Bobo, if you see him, will you?--Good-bye." Galitsin took out his watch. "In three hours then," he said, "Au revoir! You have plenty of time to pack. Eleven thirty, Velasco." The door closed behind the short, thick-set figure with the crisp, curling hair, and the Musician waited in his chair. Presently the door opened again. "Is that you, Bobo,--eh? Come in. I sent for you. Didn't you tell me your wife was ill?" "Yes, Bárin." "You would like to go to her to-night?--Well, go. I shan't need you. Don't jabber, you make my head spin. Go at once and stay until morning; leave the cigarettes on the tray and the wine on the table--that is all. Just take yourself off and quietly." After a moment or two the door closed, and the sound of footsteps, scuffling in list slippers, died slowly away in the corridor. Velasco leaned forward with his head in his hands, his bloodshot eyes staring into the coals. "He may be one of them," he murmured, "or he may not. You can't trust people. He is better out of the way." The haggard look had deepened on his face; then he rose suddenly from his chair and went into the next room, dropping the curtain behind him. There were sounds in the room as of the pulling out of drawers, the creaking of keys in a rusty lock, steps hurrying from one spot to another, the fall of a heavy boot. Then presently the curtain was drawn aside and he reappeared. No, it was not Velasco; it was some one else, a gypsey in a rakish costume. The mane of black hair was clipped close to his head; he wore a scarf about his waist, a shabby jacket of velveteen on his back; his trousers were short to the knees, old and spotted; his boots were worn at the heel and patched. It wasn't Velasco--it was a gypsey, a tattered, beggarly ragamuffin, with dark, brooding eyes and a laugh on his lips, a laugh that was like a twist of the muscles. He crossed the room stealthily on his tiptoes, glancing about him, and stood before the mirror examining himself. At the first glance he laughed out loud; then he clapped his hand over his mouth, listening again. But he was alone, and the form reflected in the mirror was his own, no shadow behind. He snatched up the lamp and held it close to the glass, peering at himself from the crown of his close-cropped head to the patch on his boot. He gazed at the scarf admiringly; it was red with tassels, and he patted it with his free hand. "That is how they do it!" he cried softly, laughing. "It is perfect. I don't know myself! Ha ha!--I would cheat my own shadow. If the door should open now, and Galitsin should come in--the ox! How he would stare! And Bobo, poor devil, he would take me for a thief in my own Studio.--God, what is that?--a step on the stairs! The police! They come preying like beasts and seize one at night. She told me!" The gypsey's hand trembled and shook, and the wick of the lamp flared up. Great heaven! The step crept nearer--it was at the door--the door moved! It was opening! He dropped the lamp with a crash; the light went out and he staggered back against the wall, clutching his scarf, straining his ears to hear in the darkness. The door opened wider. Some one slipped through it and closed it again, and the step came nearer, creaking on the boards. He heard the soft patter of hands feeling their way, the faint sound of a breath. It was worse than in the carriage, because the room was so large and the matches were on the table, far off. There was no way of seeing, or feeling. The step came nearer. If it was a spy, he could grapple with him and throw him. The gypsey took a step forward towards the other step, and all of a sudden two bodies came together, grappling, wrestling. Two cries went up, the one loud, the other faint like an echo. "Hush, it is I, Velasco! You are soft like a woman! Your hair--It is you, Kaya! It is you! I know your voice--your touch! Did you hear the lamp crash? Wait! Let me light a candle." He stumbled over to the table, feeling his way, clutching the soft thing by the arm, the shoulder. "It is you, Kaya, tell me, it is you! Damn the match, it is damp, how it sputters!--Put your face close, let me see it. Kaya! Is it you, yourself?" The two faces stared at one another in the flickering light, almost touching; then the other sprang back with a cry of dismay. "You are a gypsey, you are not Velasco! The voice is his,--Dieu! And the eyes--they are his, and the brows! Let me go! Don't laugh--let me go!" "No--no, Kaya, come back! It is I. They told me you were chained with a gang; and were walking through the snow and the cold to the mines. How did you escape; how could you escape?" "Yes--it is you," said the girl, "I see now. It was the costume, and your hair is all cut. I thought you had gone in the train to Germany." She shuddered and clung to his hand. "Why do you wear that? Why aren't you gone? The Studio was vacant, I thought--deserted, or I shouldn't have come!" Velasco gazed at her, chafing the cold, soft fingers between his own. "Oh God, how I have suffered! I tried to reach you, I did everything, and then I shut myself up here waiting--I was nearly mad. Kaya--you escaped from the fortress alone, by yourself? Did they hurt you? You cried out; it rings in my ears--that cry! It has never left me! I shut myself up and paced the floor. Did they hurt you?" The girl looked over her shoulder: "It was horrible, alone," she breathed, "Some of the guards, the sentinels, belong to us. Hush--no one knows; it must never be guessed. To-night, after dark, someone whistled--one was waiting for me in the corridor with the keys; the others were drugged. They handed me on to someone outside; I was dropped like a pebble over the wall. Then I ran--straight here I ran." She put her hand to her breast. "Why aren't you gone? Go now, to-night. Leave me here. As soon as it is light I shall be missed, and then--" She shuddered and her hand trembled in his, like a bird that is caught, soft and quivering. Velasco looked at her again and then he looked away at the candle: "I won't leave you," he said, "and the railroad is useless. They would track us at once. When I put this on--" He began smoothing the scarf. "I meant to follow you through the snow and the cold to the mines, like a beggar musician." He laughed: "You didn't know me yourself, you see? I was safe." "Monsieur Velasco, you were coming to me? Ah, but they told you a lie! I--" She breathed a few words to him softly. "They would have--" She nodded. "When?" "To-morrow at daybreak." "In spite of Mezkarpin?" She broke down and buried her face in her hands. Velasco began to pace the room slowly. "If you had a costume like mine," he said, "If your hair were cut--" Then he brightened suddenly and ran forward to the girl, snatching her hands from her eyes, dragging her to her feet. "What a fool I was!" he cried, "What an idiot! Quick, Kaya! My chum is an artist; he is off now in Sicily, painting the rocks, and the sea, and the peasants; but his things are all there in his room next to mine, just duds for his models you know. Go--go! Put on one like mine. You shall be a boy. We will be boys together, gypsies, and play for our living. We will walk to the frontier, Kaya, together." The two stared at one another for a moment. He was pushing her gently towards the curtain. "Quick!" he whispered, "Be quick!" They both listened for a moment. Then he pushed her inside and dragged down the curtain: "Now, I must pack," he cried, "Now I must prepare to meet Galitsin, the round-eyed ox! Ha ha!--He will wait until he is stiff, and then he will fly back here in a rage. Good God, we must hurry!" He began opening and shutting the drawers, taking out money and jewels from one, articles of apparel from another. "No collars, no neck-ties!" he said to himself, "How simple to be a gypsey! A knapsack will hold all for her and for me.--Kaya!--Bózhe moi!" The curtain was drawn back and in the doorway stood a boy. CHAPTER IX The two gypsies gazed at one another in silence. The small, picturesque figure in the doorway wore velveteen trousers of green, old and faded, a black jacket rusty, with the sleeves patched, and a scarlet sash tied loosely about the waist. On the back of her cropped yellow curls was a velveteen cap, rakishly tipped, and she stood debonair beneath the folds of the curtain with a laugh on her lips. "Mon Dieu!" she cried, "How you stare, Monsieur! Will I do? What sort of a boy do I make; all right? Are you satisfied, sir?" She made a little rush forward, eluding Velasco, and stopped before the mirror with her hands boyishly deep in her pockets, glancing back over her shoulder and pirouetting slowly backwards and forwards. "The hair looks a little rough!" she exclaimed, "I cut it with a pair of shears, or perhaps it was a razor, who knows! Ma foi! It is not like a girl's at all, so short! What my maid would say! You would never take me for a Countess now, would you--would you?" She patted her curls and pulled down her jacket in front, turning first to one side, then to the other. "What a nice pair of gypsies we make, sir, eh? Come and look at yourself. You are taller than I, and bigger, and you have such shoulders, heavens! Mine are not half the size. You mustn't bully me, you know, not if I am a boy. You took the best jacket, the biggest, and look what I have--such a little one, only patches and rags! And see what boots!" She held out one slim, small foot in a peasant's boot and inspected it, pointing to the sole with little exclamations of horror. "I took the only ones I could find, and see--" Then she looked at him coaxingly with her eyes half veiled by her lashes, sideways, as if afraid of his gaze. "Do I make a nice boy, Monsieur, tell me? Am I just like a gypsey, the real ones? Is it right, do you think?" She faltered. Velasco took a step forward and looked down at the reflection in the mirror, the profile averted, the flush on her cheek, the curls on her brow, the boyish swagger and the hands in the pockets, the cap on the back of the tilted head, the laughing eyes, half veiled. He towered above her, gazing. And presently her eyes crept up to his under the lashes and they met in the mirror. She drew slowly away. "How little you are!" he cried, "You never seemed so little before; in a cloak, in a veil, you were tall. And now, stand still, let me measure. Your cap just reaches my shoulder. Kaya--" She gave a gay little laugh and held her back against his. "How you cheat!" she cried, "No--your heels on the floor, sir--there, now! Back to back, can you see in the mirror? Where do I come?" The two stood motionless for a moment, their shoulders touching, peering eagerly sideways into the glass. "Kaya, you are standing on tiptoe!" "No--it is you." "Kaya! You rogue!" She gave a little cry, laughing out like a child caught in mischief, springing away. "I must practise being a boy," she exclaimed, "What is it you do? It is so different from being a Countess. One feels so free. No heels, no train, no veil! When one is used to the boots it must be heaven. If my cap would only stay on!" She began to roam over the room, taking boyish strides, puckering her lips in a whistle; her thumbs in her vest and her head thrown back. "There, now, that is it; I feel better already, quite like a man. It is charming, Monsieur; a little more practice--" Velasco was following her about with the cap in his hands. "Step softly, Kaya, step softly," he said, "Stand still. Let me put it on for you." "No--no, toss it over." With a little spring the girl swung herself on the table edge, balancing and swinging her feet; looking up at him from under her lashes and laughing. "Shall I make a good comrade, Monsieur Velasco? What do you think?" He leaned over the table towards her. His eyes were bright and eager, searching her face, the dimples that came and went in her cheeks, her soft, white throat, bare under the collarless jacket; the lips parted, and red, and arched; the rings of her hair, shining like gold. "Kaya," he whispered hoarsely, "I never saw you like this before. My little comrade, my friend, my-- We will tramp together, you and I--all the way to the frontier. They will never suspect us, never! The Stradivarius shall earn our bread, and if you are ill, or weary, I will carry you in my arms. In the market-places I will play for the peasants to dance, and you--you, Kaya--ah, what will you do?" He laughed softly to himself and began teasing her, half gayly, half tenderly, with his face close to hers, the sleeve of his jacket brushing her arm. "What will you do, Kaya? Look at me! Your cheek is red like a rose; your eyes are like stars. Don't turn them away. Lift the fringe of those lashes and look at me, Kaya. Will you pass the cap for the pennies?--You will have to doff it because you are a boy; and you must do something because you are a gypsey. Will you pass the cap for the peasants to pay?" He held the velveteen cap in his hands, playing with it, caressing it, watching her. "Look at me, Kaya!" She flushed and drew back, her heart beating in little throbs under the vest. Suddenly she turned and looked at him squarely. It was strange, whenever their eyes met, like a thrill, a shock, an ecstasy; and then a slow returning to consciousness as after a blow. All at once, she drooped her lashes and began to trill, softly, faintly, like a bird, the tones clear, and sweet, and high; and as she sang, she glanced at him under her lashes, with her head on one side. The voice pulsed and grew in her throat, swelling out; then she softened it quickly with a look over her shoulder, half fearfully, and again it soared to a high note, trilling, lingering and dropping at last. Her mouth scarcely opened. The sound seemed to come through the arch of her lips, every note pure, and sweet, and soft like a breath. Velasco bent over entranced. "How you sing!" he cried, "Like some beautiful bird! In Italy, on the shores of the lakes, I have heard the nightingales sing like that; but never a woman. The timbre is crystal and pure, like clear, running water. When you soar to the heights, it is like a lark flying; and when you drop into alt, it is a tone that forces the tears to one's eyes, so pathetic and strange. Who taught you, Kaya? Who taught you to sing like that? Or were you born so with a voice alive in your throat; you had only to open it and let it come out?" She shook her head, swinging her feet, trying to laugh. "It is so small," she said wistfully. "You are a musician, Monsieur Velasco, and I--I know nothing of music. No--I will pass the cap for pennies. Give it to me. Is it getting late, must we go?" She took the cap and put it on her head, on the back of her curls, avoiding his eyes. "Will that do for a gypsey? Is it straight--Velasco?" She said the name quite low and breathed hurriedly, with a flush on her cheeks. He was still staring at her, but he said nothing; he made no motion and she drew away from him a little frightened. "You are like a violin," he murmured, "I told you you were like a violin. You are all music, as I am music. We will make music together--Kaya. Sing for me again, just open your lips and breathe--once more! Let me hear you trill?" "I can't," said the girl. "I am faint, Velasco. When I look at you now there is a mist before my eyes. The room sways." She put out her hands suddenly, as if to steady herself. Velasco started back: "Good heavens, Kaya, what is the matter? The colour has gone from your cheeks; there are shadows under your eyes, deep and heavy as though they were painted. Don't faint, will you? Don't! I shouldn't know what under heaven to do!" The girl slipped down from the table and, staggering a little, threw herself into the chair by the fire-place. "Get me some food, Velasco; some bread, some wine. In a moment it will pass!" She began laughing again immediately. "Don't be frightened. It is you who are pale, not I. Just a morsel to eat--Velasco. Since last night I have eaten nothing. You forget how hungry a boy can be! Is there time?" Velasco had snatched the red wine from the table and was pouring it out in a glass, holding it to her lips. "Drink, Kaya, drink--and here are biscuits, shall I break them for you? Don't speak. Shut your eyes, and drink, and eat. I will feed you." He hovered over her with little exclamations of pity and self-reproach. "Why didn't I see at once you were starving! Poor child, poor little one! You seemed so gay, dancing about; your cheeks were so red and now--Ah no, it is better--the colour is coming back slowly. The wine brings a flush." The girl lay back with her eyes closed, sipping the wine from the glass as he held it. "Is there plenty of time, Velasco?" she said faintly. He looked at the hands of the malachite clock on the mantel. They pointed to ten and presently it began to strike. "Yes--yes." he whispered, "Lie still. Let me feed you. We will go presently." "What was that on the stairway?" she said, "Was it a noise?--I thought I heard something." She opened her eyes and started up; and with the sudden movement, the glass in her hand tipped and spilled over. "It is nothing," she said, "It fell on my hand. I will wipe it away." Velasco laughed. "Your hand!" he cried, "Your hand is a rose leaf, so soft and so white. The wine has stained it with a blotch. How strange! It is red, it is crimson--a spot like blood." The girl blanched suddenly and fell back with a cry. "Not blood, Velasco! Wipe it off! Take it away! Not blood! Oh, take it away!" Her eyes stared down at the blotch on her hand. They were frightened, dilated, and her whole body quivered in the chair. "Velasco--take it away!" He put down the glass and took the small, white hand in his own, brushing it gently with the sleeve of his jacket. "There now," he said, "it is gone. It was only a drop of wine. Hush--hush! See, there is no blood, Kaya, I never meant there was blood. Don't scream again!" "It's the Cross!" she cried, "the curse of the Black Cross! Ah, go--leave me! I am a murderess! I shot him, Velasco, I shot him! I fulfilled the vow, the oath of the order. But now--oh God! I am cursed! Not blood--not blood!" She was struggling to her feet. "_Without weakness, without hesitation, or mercy_. I did it! Velasco--I did it!" She fell back into the chair again, sobbing, murmuring to herself. "Not blood--no--not blood!" "That is over and past," said Velasco, "Don't think of it, Kaya. Be a boy, a man, not weak like a woman. Eat the rest of the bread." The girl took the bread from his hand. "Finish the wine." He held the glass to her lips until she had drained it; and then she began to laugh a little unsteadily. "You are right," she said, "a boy doesn't--weep. I must be strong, a good comrade." She dashed the tears from her eyes and looked up at him pathetically, smiling with lips that still quivered. "It is over," she said, "I am--I have--you know; but it is over! I will forget it. Sometimes I can forget it if I try; then I shut my eyes at night and I see him before me, on his face with his arms outstretched--still and strange. The blood is trickling a stream on the floor! I hear the shot--I--" "Be still, Kaya, hush! Don't speak of it; forget it! Hush!" She began to laugh again: "See, I am your comrade, light-hearted and gay as a gypsey should be. Already--I have forgotten! What a couple of tramps we are, you and I! Just look at your boots!" "And your faded old jacket!" "And your scarf, Velasco!" "And your velveteen cap!" They laughed out together, and then they stopped suddenly and listened. "Was it anything?" "No, I think not." "Are you sure?" Velasco leaned towards her and their fingers touched for a moment. She drew them away. "Shall we go; is it time?" "Not yet," said Velasco, "not yet! Your lips are so sweet, they are arched like a bow; they quiver like a string when one plays on it. Kiss me, Kaya." She pressed him back with her hands outstretched, her palms against his coat. "We must go," she whispered, "They will track us, Monsieur. I am frightened." "Kaya, kiss me." Their eyes met and drew closer, gazing intently, the dark and the blue. "Don't touch me," she said faintly. "We are two boys together. You must forget that I am a girl. Can you forget?" "No," said Velasco. "You were charming before, but you are irresistible now, in that velveteen jacket and scarf, with the curls on your brow. When you look at me so, with your head on one side, and your eyes half veiled, and the flush on your cheeks, you are sweet--I love you! Kiss me." He pressed forward closely, his eyes still on hers; but she held him back with her hands, trembling a little. "Velasco," she whispered, "Listen! I trust you. You are stronger than I; your wrists are like steel, but--I trust you. See--I trust you." She took down her hands from his shoulders and folded them proudly over her breast, gazing up at him. "How strange your eyes are," said Velasco, "like two pools in the twilight; one could drown in their depths. You are there behind the blue, Kaya. Your spirit looks out at me, brave and dauntless. When you sob, you are like a child; when you look at me under the veil of your lashes and your heart beats fast, you are a woman. And now--you are--what are you, Kaya? A young knight watching beside his shield!" He hesitated, and passed his hand over his brows, and looked at her again; then he moved away slowly and began to lay the things in his knapsack. "They are all boys' things," he said, "but you are a boy; they will do for you too." "Yes," she said. He laughed a little unsteadily. "There is money in my belt; now the knapsack is ready, my violin--and that is all. It is nearly eleven. Come--Kaya." He turned his head away without looking at her; he approached the door slowly. The girl sat still in the chair. "Are you coming?" There was silence; then he turned on his heel, and went back to her, and laid his hand on her shoulder. "Kaya," he said, whispering as if someone could hear, "Are you afraid? Why are you afraid to come with me, dear brother musician, dear comrade?" His voice broke. "I will take care of you. You said you would trust me, Kaya." The girl clasped his arm with a cry: "I am not afraid for myself," she said, "but for you--you, Velasco. Leave me before it is too late. There is time for the train, just time. I implore you to go!" She trembled and raised her eyes to his. "If anything should happen, and you suffered for me, I couldn't bear it. Leave me--Velasco!" He put out his hand and took hers, crushing it in his own strength. He did not speak but he drew her forward, and she followed him dumbly, quietly, without resistance; her head drooping, the cap on the back of her yellow curls; the lashes hiding her eyes, fringing her cheek. He took the Stradivarius under his arm. The door closed and they started out, hesitating, looking back over their shoulders; stealing down the stairs like two frightened children hand in hand. CHAPTER X The first pale streaks of dawn were creeping slowly up from the horizon, piercing the darkness of night with faint, far-away shafts of light, like arrows silver-tipped, shot from an unseen quiver. In the distance, the snow fields stretched limitless and vast, and between them the road wound in and out, narrow and dark, like a coiled serpent amid the whiteness. Here and there an occasional black-roofed farm house reared its head; across the snow came the sudden gleam of an ice covered pond; while afar off, to the left, the domes of Bélaïa rose dark and mysterious in their roundness, like a patch of giant toadstools, shadowy and strange. The air was damp and a cold wind blew over the snow drifts. Along the road, in the full teeth of the blast, trudged two boys, the one a little behind the other, and the taller of the two shielding the younger with his body. "Is it far now, Velasco?" "Not far, if you peep through the folds of your cloak you will see the domes over yonder. Are you weary, Kaya?" "No--Velasco." The voice came in little gasps, as if blown by the gale, fluttering like a leaf that is tossed hither and thither. The older boy bent his head, struggling forward. "The wind is like a dagger," he stammered, "it cuts through the cloak like an edge of fine steel, like a poignard piercing the heart. Come closer, Kaya, and let me put my arm around you. Your body sways like a frail stem, a flower. You are stumbling and your breath freezes, even as it comes through your lips. Come closer, or you will fall, Kaya. Let me put my arm around you." "It is nothing, Velasco; only the snow that whirls before my eyes and blinds them. Is that the dawn, those faint, grey streaks in the distance?" "You are stumbling again, Kaya! It is wonderful the way you have tramped the whole night through. We are almost there." "It is only my feet, Velasco; they are frozen a little by the snow, and numb. That is nothing for a boy. Let us run a race together. Come!" "The wind mocks at you, little one. Run in such a blast--fight rather! Put your head down and battle with it. The demon! Keep behind me a little; use my cloak and my arm as a shield. It is not far now." "Shall we stop at the inn, Velasco; is it safe, do you think? There is one on the market-place." "Yes, why not?" "I was there once before, Velasco, with my--with my maid!" The girl laughed. "You pant, Kaya, and your breath comes in jerks. Are you frightened?" "No, Velasco--no!" "They will look for us in the trains and the boats, but never in the snow-fields and the market-places. Kaya, we will tramp as long as you are able to bear it, and then--" "Then--Velasco?" "We will take the train at some smaller station--Dvisk, Vilna--wherever we can." "You, Velasco, but not I." "Both of us. I will never leave you again. In my pocket are passports, blank; I bribed the official. We will fill them in together: two gypsies, one dark and one fair. Ha, Kaya--keep up--a little further! See, the domes are bigger now and nearer, and the road goes straight without winding." "Velasco--I cannot walk! I cannot see! Everything whirls before me in a mist Go! Leave me--I am falling--" The older gypsey gave a despairing look over the snow-fields; they were bare, and white, and glistening. The golden ball of the sun had begun to climb slowly and the shafts had grown suddenly yellow. Across the icy surface of the pond the wind whistled, lashing him in the face as with a whip. The road was narrow and deserted. They were alone, and the form of the younger boy lay against him unconscious, inert, half sunk in the snow. Velasco bent over his companion, chafing the hands, the cheeks; they were cold like ice. He gave another despairing glance around; then he lifted the form in his stiffening arms and carried it slowly, laboriously forward, plodding each step; his head bent, his teeth grit together, fighting his way. The shafts lengthened across the sky; the domes grew larger and began to glitter in the rays of the sunlight; by the side of the road houses appeared, straggling at first, then nearer together. Suddenly, behind them, came the tinkle of sleigh-bells, and the crunching of snow beaten in by the weight of hoofs. "Oï--Oï!" Velasco stepped aside with his burden and stared at the sleigh as it approached. It was a cart, roughly set on runners, drawn by a pair of long-haired ponies; while fastened behind was a mare, and two wild-eyed colts following. The peasant in the seat was wrapped in sheep-skin and smoking a short, thick pipe held between his teeth. "Oï--Oï! Is that a corpse you hold there, Bradjaga?" he cried. His voice was hardly distinguishable above the roaring of the gale. "For the love of heaven," shouted Velasco, "Moujik, if you have a heart under your sheep-skin, let me lay my comrade in the cart! He is faint with the cold, benumbed. We have tramped all night in the snow. Are you bound for the market at Bélaïa? Hey, stop! Moujik--stop!" "Get in," said the peasant, "The ponies rear and dance as if Satan were on their backs, and the mare is like one possessed! It is good to see the sun. Get in, Bradjaga, and if the burden in your arms is no corpse it will soon become one! The night has been hell. Bózhe moi! At the first crossing to the left is a tea-house--Get along you brutes!--Pour the vodka into his throat; it will sting him to life!" The ponies dashed forward, the mare and the foals running behind. Velasco sat huddled on the floor of the cart, his violin and the knapsack slung from his shoulders; his arms still clasping the slight, dark form, protecting it from the jolting of the runners. He was muttering to it under his breath: "Kaya--poor little one! Your curls are damp against my cheek; your forehead is ice! Courage, little comrade. Now--your heart beats faster--your eye-lids are flickering! Another moment and you will be warm and safe. The lights of the tea-house are ahead. Moujik--faster! We will drink a glass of vodka together, all three! Faster--faster!" As the sleigh dashed into the court-yard, the great red ball of the sun rose above the distant tree-tops; and behind the stables a cock began to crow, slowly, feebly at first, as if just awake and stretching his wings. When Kaya came to consciousness again, she was lying on a pile of straw in a low raftered room. She had dreamt that she was chained and in prison, and that something was choking her and weighing on her breast; but when she tried to move her limbs, she found that it was the blankets, wrapping her closely; and when she opened her eyes, she saw the face of Velasco bending over her, and he was trying to force some wine through her clenched lips. "Where am I?" said Kaya faintly, "You are choking me, Velasco!" She struggled to a sitting posture, leaning on one elbow, and peered up into his face. "What has happened?" she said again, "Where are we? I thought we were tramping through the snow and my feet were frozen! You are pale, Velasco, and your eyes are heavy!--Have I slept?" Velasco glanced over his shoulder, and then brought his lips close to her face and whispered: "You fainted and I carried you in my arms; the Moujik brought us here in his cart. You opened your eyes once, and then when we laid you on the straw you fell asleep. You slept so long I was frightened, Kaya--if it had not been for your jacket moving under the blankets, rising and falling softly with the beat of your heart, you might have been dead; you were so still! Poor little one, you were exhausted. Drink a little and eat!" "What time is it, Velasco?" "The sun was rising when we drove into the court and now, in another hour or two, it will be setting." Kaya put her hand to her cropped yellow curls, and then she looked at him and a dimple came in her cheek: "I forgot about being a boy," she murmured, "Is this what you call an inn, Velasco? It looks like a stable!" "It is a stable." Kaya looked at him again and began to laugh softly: "I forgot about being a gypsey," she said, "Your clothes are ragged and torn, Velasco; they are worse than they were that night in your Studio. And I--tell me--how do I look?" "Like a little Bradjaga, sweet, and disreputable, and boyish!" Kaya drew herself slowly to her knees and then to her feet, brushing the straw from her velveteen trousers and the sleeves of her jacket. "They wouldn't let us in the inn because we were gypsies, was that it? They were afraid we would steal?" The dimples came back in her face and she picked up her cap from the floor, dusting it with her elbow and cramming it down on the back of her curls. "Steal me a little bread, Velasco, I am hungry." "Come back to your nest in the straw, Kaya; put your fingers in my pocket and steal for yourself. I bought a loaf with a couple of copecks, and some honey-cake. At sun-down, when the peasants come for their vodka, there will be a dance. They have never danced to a Stradivarius before; but they won't know the difference, Kaya, not they! We will pay for the straw with a rollicking waltz--Ha ha!" The gypsey musician caught his comrade by the arm and pulled her down on the straw beside him. "Which pocket, Velasco? Oh, I feel the honey-cake bulging! Give it to me." "No--take it yourself!" "Your pocket is so deep; it is like diving into a pool." "Not so deep as your eyes, Kaya. You thief! Ah, take your fingers away and pay for your bread." "Are you fooling, Velasco? You look at me so strangely! Sometimes your eyes are slits and disappear under your brows, and now--Velasco, turn your head away--I am hungry. You make my heart beat!--Velasco--give me the bread." "Pay first and then you shall have it." She stared at him a moment, drawing back into the straw. "I am a boy," she said softly, panting, "Remember I am a boy! Don't--tease me!" "Just once, Kaya." "No--Velasco." The older gypsey glanced again about the low raftered loft. The window in the rafters was hung with cob-webs; the light came through it dimly, a shaft of sun-beams dancing on the floor; they fell on her hair beneath the cap and the curls glistened like gold. Her eyes were watching him. "No--no--Velasco!" He came nearer to her, and the straw crackled as he moved, stretching out his arms: "When you were weary, Kaya, I carried you. When you fell asleep I watched over you. It is not your heart that is beating so fast; it is mine! The colour has come back to your cheeks and the light to your eyes. You slept while I guarded you. My eyes were heavy, but I dared not shut them; I watched the folds of your jacket rising and falling, the breath as it came through the arch of your lips; the gold of your curls against the straw; the oval of your cheek and your lashes. My eyes never closed.--I have given up everything for you, Kaya, my life and my art." He stretched out his arms to her again, and his dark eyes gazed into her blue ones, passionate and eager. "--Kaya!" She put out her hand and touched his: "Sleep, Velasco. Your life is safe and your art. You have given them to me, but I will give them back again. Break off a piece of the bread, Velasco, and we will talk a little together while we eat. We have been such good comrades, you and I, and we care for one another--as comrades do. If you should die or--or leave me, it would break my heart--you know that." "Ah, kiss me--Kaya! Let me take you in my arms! Come to me and let me kiss you on your lips!" "You hurt me, Velasco, your hands are so strong! Not on the lips--Velasco--not on the--lips! I beseech you, dear friend,--I--" The gypsey held her close to him for a moment, his heart beating against hers, and then he turned away his head. "I love you, Kaya; I love you! Kiss me of your own will. I can't force you--how can I? Your hands are struggling in mine, but they are soft like the down on a bird's breast! Some day you will come to me, Kaya, some day--when you love me too. When--ah! The touch of your hands, your hair against my cheek sets my blood on fire! Feel my pulse how it throbs! It is like a storm under the skin! I suffer, little Bradjaga--little comrade!" "Don't suffer!" cried the girl, "Let me go, Velasco, let me go! We will sit here together, side by side; be my comrade again, my big brother! Laugh, Velasco! Smile at me! When you look like that and come so close, I am frightened! Don't tease me any more! The bread is hard like a nut; see, I will crack it between my teeth. Where is the honey-cake, Velasco? Give me a piece." "Do you care for me, Kaya? Look me in the eyes and tell me." The girl pushed him away from her slowly and turned away her head with a flush: "Is that your violin over there in the straw, lying in a little nest all by itself,--cradled so snug and so warm? It is charming to be a gypsey, Velasco. Are you glad I came to you, or are you sorry? That night, do you remember the violets? I flung them straight at your feet! I wasn't a boy then, but I threw straight. Velasco, listen--I--I care for you--but don't--kiss me!" "Kaya--Kaya!" "Hush! Shut your eyes! Put your head back in the straw and go to sleep. When it is time for the dance I will wake you. I will sit here close beside you and watch, as you watched over me. Shut your eyes, Velasco." "Won't you--Kaya?" "Go to sleep, Velasco--hush!" "If I shut my eyes--will you?" "Hush!" The sun-beams danced on the dusty floor and the light came dimly through the cobwebs. Velasco lay with his arm under his head, his young limbs stretched in the straw, asleep. He murmured and tossed uneasily. There was a flush on his face; his dark hair fell over his brows and teased him, and he flung it back, half unconscious. Kaya covered him with the blanket, kneeling beside him in the straw. She moved without rustling, drawing it in softly, and smoothing the straw with her fingers. "It is my fault that he is lying here in a loft," she whispered low to herself, "He does it for me! His hands have been frozen--for me! They were so white, and firm, and supple; and now--they are scratched and swollen!" She gave a frightened glance about the loft, and then bent over him, holding back a fold of the blanket. "He is asleep!" she breathed, "He will never know!" She stooped low with her golden head and kissed his hands one after the other, lightly, swiftly, pressing her lips to the scratches. He murmured again, tossing uneasily; and she fell backwards in the straw, gazing at him, with her arms locked over her breast and her heart throbbing madly. "No--he is asleep!" she said, "He is fast asleep! Another hour, and then in the dusk I will wake him. He will play for the dancing--Velasco! The greatest violinist in all Russia--he will play for the peasants to dance!" She gave a little sob, half smothered. "It was wicked," she said, "unpardonable! I didn't know then--how could I know? If I had known!--God, save him! Give him back his life and his art that he has given to me. Give it all back to him, and let me suffer alone the curse of the Cross--the curse of the--Cross! Make me strong to resist him! Ah, Velasco--!" She was sobbing through her clenched teeth; staring at him, stretching out her arms to him. --"Velasco!" CHAPTER XI The room was long, and low, and bare, lighted in the four corners by lamps, small and ill-smelling. The ceiling was blackened by the smoke from them, and the air was heavy, clouding the window-panes. At one end of the room was a raised platform, and on the platform sat two gypseys; the one was dark, in a picturesque, tattered costume, with a scarf about his waist, and a violin; the other was slight, with golden curls clipped short, and a ragged jacket of velveteen, worn at the elbows. The floor of the room was crowded with dancers; sturdy, square-faced moujiks in high boots; and their sweethearts in kerchiefs and short skirts. The moujiks perspired, stamping the boards with their boots until the lamps rattled and shook, and the smoke rolled out of the chimneys; embracing the heavy forms of the women with hands worn and still grimy with toil. The tones of the violin filled the room. "One, two--one, two--one, two, three--curtsey and turn--one, two, three." The dark haired gypsey sat limply in his chair, playing, his back half turned to the room. There was no music before him. He improvised as he played, snatches of themes once forgotten, woven and bound with notes of his own. His eyes were closed; he swayed a little in his chair, holding the violin close to his cheek. "One, two--one, two--one, two, three." The younger gypsey sat cross-legged on the floor, gazing down at the whirling crowd, blurred by the smoke. In his hands he held a tambourine, which he shook occasionally in rhythm with the waltz, glancing over his shoulder at his companion and laughing. Occasionally they whispered together. "You play too well, Velasco! Hist--scratch with the bow!" "I can't, Kaya, it is maddening!" "Just a little, Velasco." "Is that better? Týsyacha chertéi, how it rasps one's ears!" "Yes, but your technique, Velasco! No gypsey could play like that! Leave out the double stops and the trills!" "I forget, little one, I forget! The Stradivarius plays itself. Keep the castanet rattling and then I will remember." "Velasco, hist--st! There are strangers standing by the door; they have just come in! Scratch a little more, just a little. Your tone is so deep and so pure. When you rubato, and then quicken suddenly, and the notes come in a rush like that, I can hardly keep still. My pulses are leaping, dancing! One, two--one, two, three!" "Is that right? Don't ask me to scratch, Kaya! I can't bear it so close to my ear. The din of their stamping is frightful, the swine! No one will notice." The whispering ceased. The gypsey bent his dark head again and the violin played on. "One, two--one, two, three!" All of a sudden, voices began to call out from the floor, here and there among the dancers, irritated and angry; then an oath or two: "Keep time, Bradjaga, keep time!" Their heels beat against the floor. The landlord crossed the room hastily, edging in and out among the dancers; he was frowning and rubbing his hands one over the other. When he reached the platform, he leaned on it with his elbows and beckoned to the gypsies. "You don't play badly," he called, "not badly at all; but Dimitri, the old man, he suited them better. He always came strong on the beat. Play the old tunes, Bradjaga; something they know with a crash on the first, like this." He clapped his hands: "_One_, two, three! _One_, two, three! And fast--just so, all the time!" "Chórt vozmí[1]!" cried Velasco, "They don't like my playing! Don't clap your hands again--don't! The racket is enough to split one's ear-drums!" He dropped his violin on his knees and stared blinking at the landlord, who was still gesticulating and taking little skipping steps by way of illustration. "_One_, two, three--_one_, two, three! So, loud and strong! Just try it, Bradjaga!" Velasco blinked again and a flush came slowly in his cheeks: "My poor Stradivarius," he said slowly in Polish, "They don't like you; they prefer a common fiddler with a crash on the beat! Bózhe moi! Kaya, do you hear?" The younger gypsey made a sound half startled, half laughing, drawing nearer to him on the platform. "Hist, Velasco! They are peasants; they don't know! Ah, be careful--the strangers are crossing the floor. They are looking at you and talking together! I knew it, I feared it!" The dancing had stopped, and threading their way through the groups came several ladies and a gentleman. "Bradjaga," said the landlord, "This is Ivan Petrokoff, the famous musician of Moscow, who has deigned to honour my humble house with his presence. He wishes to examine your instrument." The gentleman nodded brusquely and stretched out a fat hand. He was short and quite bald, and he stuttered as he spoke. "Quite a d-decent fiddle for a gypsey," he said, "Let me s-see it!" Velasco bowed with his hand on his heart: "It is mine," he said in a humble voice, "A thousand pardons, Bárin! Impossible!" "I will p-pay you for it!" said the gentleman angrily, "How much do you w-want?" Velasco smiled and put his hand to his heart again, shrugging his shoulders. "Not that it is of any p-particular value," continued Petrokoff, "but I like the t-tone. I will give you--hm--s-sixty-five roubles!" Velasco drew the bow softly over the strings; he was still smiling. "Seventy! That is exorbitant for a g-gypsey's fiddle! You could buy a d-dozen other instruments for that, just as good! Come--will you t-take it?" Velasco began to trill softly on the G string, and then swept over the arch with an arpeggio pianissimo. "You are like a J-Jew!" exclaimed the musician. "You want to bargain! One hundred r-roubles then! There!" He turned to the landlord, stretching out his fat hands, palms upwards. "Absurd isn't it? The f-fellow must be mad!" "Mad indeed," echoed the landlord, "A miserable, tattered bradjaga, who can't even keep time. You heard yourself, Professor, how he changed the beat and threw the dancers out, every moment or so. They are nothing but tramps; but if you want a fiddle, Bárin, old Dimitri, who is sick in bed with the rheumatism in his legs, he will sell you his for a quarter the price and be thankful. A nice little instrument, fine and well polished, not old and yellow with the back worn!" He twiddled his fingers in contempt. Velasco ran lightly a scale over the strings. His hair fell over his brows and he half closed his eyes, gazing at the musician through the slits mockingly. "Are you really the great Petrokoff?" he said, "The Professor of the Violin known through all Russia! From Moscow? Even the gypsies have heard of you!" The Professor lifted his fingers to his lips and blew on them as if to warm the ends, which were flat and stubbed from much playing on the strings: "Humph!" he said, "You are only a boy! You are talented, it is true; but what do you know of violinists? You ought to be studying." "That is true, Bárin," said Velasco humbly. "I am only a poor gypsey; I know nothing!" "Let me see your hand and your arm," said Petrokoff, "Yes, the shape is excellent; the muscles are good. You need training of course. If you come to the Conservatory at Moscow, I may be able to procure for you a scholarship for one of my classes." "Ah, Bárin--your Excellence, how kind you are!" murmured the gypsey. "I should like it above all things! Would the Bárin teach me himself?" "Certainly," said Petrokoff loftily, "Certainly; but you would have to pass an examination. Your bowing, for instance, is bad! You should hold your arm so, and your wrist like this." "Like this?" murmured Velasco, curving his wrist first in one way, then in another. "That is indeed difficult, Bárin." "Give the bow to me," said Petrokoff, "Now, let me show you! I am very particular about that with all my pupils. There--that is better." The gypsey brushed a lock from his eyes and took up the bow carefully, as if he were handling an egg with the shell broken. "Ah--so?" he said, "Of course! And can you play with your wrist like that, Bárin?" Petrokoff stretched out his hand and took the violin from the gypsey's arms: "Give it to me," he said, "You notice how limpid, how rich the tone! That comes from the method. You will learn it in time; the secret lies in the bowing, the way the wrist is held--so!" Velasco opened his eyes wide: "Oh, how clumsy I am in comparison!" he said wistfully. "Your scale, Bárin! I never heard such a scale." He gave a swift glance over his shoulder at his companion with a low whistle of astonishment. "Your comrade seems to be choking," said one of the ladies, "I never heard any one cough so. Is he consumptive?" "No--no!" said the gypsey. "It is probably a crumb of bread gone the wrong way; or the dust blown about by the dancing. He will recover. Bárin--now tell me, do I hold the elbow right?" "Not at all. The arm must be--so!" "Ah--so?" "That is better." The gypsey ran his fingers over the strings in exact imitation of Petrokoff. The tone was thin, and his fingers moved stiffly as if weighted. His face wore an anxious expression. "Dear me!" he exclaimed, "It is more difficult than I imagined. Does every violinist hold his bow like that?" Petrokoff cleared his throat and his chest swelled a little under his coat. "Bradjaga, I have taught the violin for twenty-five years--there is no other way." The gypsey sighed. "My own way is so much simpler," he said, "Look!" His fingers flew over the neck of the Stradivarius in harmonics, swift and sure as the flight of a hawk; his bow seemed to leap in his hand, and when he reached the top note of all, high, clear and sweet, he trilled on it softly, swelling out into a tone pure and strange like the sighing of wind in the tree-tops. The hair fell over his brows, and for a moment there was silence in the room. Kaya had stopped coughing; she had clapped one hand over her mouth to still the sound, and her blue eyes were fixed on one of the ladies, who was staring hard at the gypsey. They were listening intently. Petrokoff stood with his hands clasped over his waistcoat, his head a little to one side, nodding gently from time to time, as if listening to a pupil in his class room. "Yes," he began, "as I said before, you have talent. I think I could make something of you; but your bowing is bad, very bad; your method is abominable! It would never be allowed in the Conservatory; and your harmonics--bah!" He shrugged his shoulders, spreading his fat fingers in disgust. "Give me the violin again; it is too good an instrument for a boy. If you come to Moscow, I will give you two hundred roubles, just out of charity. The instrument isn't worth the half, as you know. But I have a good heart, I am interested in your progress. With the two hundred roubles you can pay for your lodging and food. The harmonics--listen! They should sound like this." He played a few notes on the top of the instrument, shrill and sharp. The gypsey stretched out his arms eagerly. "Let me try, Bárin!" he cried, "So--so?" The harmonics seemed to squeak in derision; they flatted, and the sound was like the wheels of a cart unoiled. "Stop!" cried Petrokoff, "It is horrible! For the love of heaven, Bradjaga, stop!" The gypsey drew the bow slowly and lingeringly over the flatted notes. It was like the wail of a soul in inferno; a shriek like a devil laughing. "Ha-ha!" cried Velasco. "Now I understand! That is what you were after, Bárin?" Petrokoff eyed him sharply. The boy's face was the picture of innocence; the mouth was slightly puckered as if with concentrated effort; his eyes were open and frank; he was smiling a little triumphantly like a child that is sure of pleasing and waiting for praise. "You play atrociously," said Petrokoff severely. "I shall keep you six months on finger exercises alone. You play false!" The light died out of the boy's face: "Bárin," he said humbly, "In Moscow you will teach me to play like yourself. I am nothing but an ignorant bradjaga as you see." Suddenly he put his hand to his mouth and began to cough: "The dust!" he said, "It has gone to my throat all at once. Eh--what? Excuse me a moment, Bárin." Kaya's yellow curls were close to his ear and she whispered something. She was standing behind his chair and, as she stooped to him, her hand rested on his shoulder and trembled slightly: "Velasco," she said, in a voice like a breath, "Come, I beseech you! You are playing with danger, with death! They will surely suspect; ah, come!" The gypsey tossed his head, like a young horse when some one is trying to force the bit between his teeth; his chin stiffened and an obstinate look came into his eyes. He brushed her aside: "No," he murmured, "Go away, Kaya! He is a stupid fool, can't you see? I am not half through; it is heavenly to hear him! Go--go! I want to tease him some more; I tell you I will." The younger gypsey sank back on the floor cross-legged, half hidden by the chair and the form of Velasco. Her hands were still trembling and she put them in the pockets of her jacket, trying to force her red lips to a whistle; but no sound came through the arch. She heard the voice of Velasco smooth, and wicked, and humble, just above her. "There is a musician," he was saying, "Perhaps you have heard of him? His name is Velasco." "Bosh!" said Petrokoff in an angry tone, and then he blew his nose loudly. "Velasco--bosh! He is only a trickster! There is a fad nowadays among the ladies to run after him." He bowed to the three ladies in turn mockingly, "My friends here tried to get tickets last week in St. Petersburg, but the house was sold out. Bosh--I tell you! I wouldn't cross the street to hear a virtuoso like that!" The gypsey gave a queer sound like a chuckle: "He does not play as you do, of course, Bárin!" "I!" cried Petrokoff. He twirled his mustache fiercely. "The Russians are like children, they run after every new plaything. The Pole is a new plaything, a toy--bah! I have been before the public twenty-five years. I am an artist; I am one of the old School. I--" "Go away, Kaya!" whispered Velasco, "This is grand! I haven't enjoyed myself so much for an age. Go away, little one; don't be frightened. It is all right, only don't cough too much, or the ladies will see you are laughing. "Ah, Velasco, come--come!" "Go away, child! He is opening his mouth again, the fat monster! Watch the 'I' leap out! If he plays again I shall die in a fit; he handles the bow like the fin of a shark. Be still, Kaya--go!" "Velasco--listen, won't you listen? The ladies--ah, don't turn your head away--the one with the grey bonnet is the Countess Galli. I have seen her often at my father's house, Velasco; and she stares first at me, then at you. She suspects." "The fright, with the long nose?" "Yes, and the pince-nez." "She is staring now. Make up a face at her, Kaya; that will scare her away. She has never seen you in boy's clothes before, I warrant, with your hands in your pockets, and your curls clipped short, and a cap on the back of your head--ha ha!" "Velasco, don't laugh. Don't you see she is whispering to Petrokoff now and looking at us through her pince-nez?" "So she is, the vixen, the miserable gossip! Slip out towards the door quietly, Kaya, while they are talking. I will follow directly. Wait at the back of the stable by the hay loft." The gypsey stood up suddenly and approached the little group of ladies, bowing to them and to Petrokoff. He was wrapping the violin in its cover and laying it away in its case as he moved. "Pardon, Bárin," he said softly, "If you will wait for me here, I shall return presently. My supper is waiting. Perhaps after an hour you will still like to purchase the violin. See, it is really not a bad instrument--if you are in earnest about the two hundred roubles?" Petrokoff stepped eagerly forward. "Now," he said, "Give it to me now. I will hand you the money at once in notes." "Presently, Bárin," said Velasco still softly, "I will return directly. If your Excellency will permit--" He slipped past the outstretched arm of the musician; bowed again to the lady in the grey bonnet, staring straight into the gold-rimmed lorgnette; and the door closed behind him. Running like a grey-hound, Velasco darted through the corridor and around by the side of the inn to the stable. It was dark there, deserted, and beyond, the snow glittered on the meadows. "Kaya--are you there?" "Here, Velasco." "Have you the knapsack?" "Yes--yes, here it is." "Take my hand then and run--run, Kaya, for the Countess has told Petrokoff; she has told him by now. They'll be hot on our tracks! This way--to the left of the road! Hold fast to my hand and run, Kaya--run!" "I will, Velasco, I will!" "Don't fall--don't stumble!" "I won't! Which way? I can't see the road." "Ahead, straight ahead! Hold me faster! Leap as I leap--and if you hear hoofs, sink down in the shadow." "Yes--yes, Velasco!" "Ah, run, dearest--run, for the fiends are behind us! I hear hoofs and bells. Run--run!" [1] The devil take you. CHAPTER XII "Who is in the sleigh, Kaya, can you see? Keep low in the shadow and don't move your head." "The Countess, Velasco, and Petrokoff and two other men." "Gendarmes?" "I think they are gendarmes, Velasco. They look from side to side of the road as they pass and urge the driver forward." "Bózhe moi, little one! Keep close to me and hold your breath; in another moment they will be past." "Now--Velasco! Now they are out of sight; the last tinkle of the bells sounds in the distance. Shall we lie here, or follow?" The gypsey took a long breath and rose to his feet, brushing the snow from his trousers and coat. The girl still sat crouching behind the drift, peering ahead into the dark windings of the road and listening. "Come, little one!" said Velasco, "The fields are covered deep with the snow; there are no paths and we cannot go back. Give me your hand. You will freeze if you linger." The girl put her hand in his, springing up, and they darted into the dark windings together, making little rushes forward, hand in hand; then poising on one foot and listening. "They might turn back you know, Velasco." "Do you hear the bells?" "Not yet." Then they ran on. The night grew darker and darker; the sky was heavy and black with clouds, and between them a faint light flitted occasionally like the ghost of a moon, but feeble and wan. It struggled with the clouds, piercing them for an instant; and then it was gone and the sky grew blacker, like a great inky; surface, reflecting shadows on the snowfields, gigantic and strange. The wind had died down, but the cold was intense, bitter, and the chill of the ice crept into the bones. "What is that dark thing ahead on the road, can you see, Velasco?" "Hist--Kaya, I see! It is big and black. It seems to be a house, or an inn, for look--there are lights like stars just appearing." "Not that, Velasco, look closer, in front of the house; does it look like a sleigh?" Velasco's grip tightened on the woolen glove of the girl and they halted together, half hesitating. "A sleigh, Kaya? Stay here in the shadow--I will steal ahead and look." "Don't leave me; let me go with you!" The woolen glove clung to him and they went forward again, a step at a time, with eyes straining through the snow. "Is it the sleigh of the Countess, big and black with three horses abreast?" "Yes--it looks so." "Is there some one inside?" "The driver perhaps! No, there is no one. Velasco, they have gone into the inn to drink something warm and ask questions perhaps--'Have you seen two gypsies, one dark and one fair?'--Ah, Velasco, what shall we do? Shall we creep past on tiptoe?" The girl drew close to him and looked up in his face. "What shall we do, Velasco--speak! You stand there with your eyes half shut, in a dream. Shall we run, Velasco? Shall we run on ahead?" The gypsey put his finger to his lips and crept forward. "This is a God-forsaken hole, Kaya!" he whispered, "No telegraph--and perhaps no horses; they could only get oxen or mules. It will take several minutes to drink their hot tea--and the brutes are quite fresh!" He moved cautiously, swiftly, to the hitching post, fumbling with the straps. The horses whinnied a little, nosing one another and pawing the earth. "What are you doing, Velasco?" "Jump in, Kaya, jump in--quick, or the driver will hear! Take the fiddle! Ah, the deuce with this knot!" With a last tug the knot yielded. Velasco dashed to the step and sprang on it; then his knees gave beneath him, and he fell in the snow as the horses leaped forward. "Oï--oï! Týsyacha chertéi! A pest!" With oaths and shrieks of rage the driver rushed from the kitchen of the inn, wiping the vodka from his beard with his sleeve. From the tea-room three other men rushed forward, also shouting, and behind them the Countess. "What is it?" she screamed, "Have the horses run away? Where is the sleigh and my buffalo robe? Are they stolen? Catch the thieves--catch them!" Velasco still lay in the snow, stunned by his fall, a dark patch like a shadow. The sleigh had turned suddenly and veered around, not half a rod distant. Kaya stood with the reins uplifted, dragging back on the bits; and the horses were rearing, plunging, back on their haunches, slipping on the ice. "Velasco!" she cried, "Velasco!" Her voice rang out like a trumpet, echoing over the snow; and as she cried, she swept the horses about and lashed them with the whip, until they came leaping and trembling close to the patch on the snow, which had begun to stir slowly, awaking from the swoon. "Ah, if I were a man!" she cried, "If I were only a man and could lift you!" She clinched her teeth, swinging the whip, reining back the struggling animals with her slim, white hands from which she had torn the gloves. As the figure moved again uneasily, half sitting up in the snow, the men rushed forward. "Here they are--the gypsies! We have them! They were stealing the sleigh, the rascals!" As they sprang at Velasco, surrounding him, there came suddenly a swift whizz through the air, a singing as of a hornet, and the heavy lash struck them, across the face, the eyes, the shoulders, stinging and sharp, leaving cruel welts as it struck. The driver screamed out, half blinded. The gendarmes started back. Petrokoff fell on his knees and cowered behind a bush, his fat body trembling and his hands outstretched as if praying: "For the love of the saints!" he cried, "Don't strike!" The lash flashed through the air, blinding and terrible in its rapidity. The gypsey leaned over the dash-board, her face white, her eyes dark with rage, her cap on the back of her yellow curls; and the whip seemed to leap between her fingers like something alive. "Velasco!" she screamed, "Get up! Come--ah, come, while I beat them, the fiends!" The cry seemed to pierce the benumbed brain of her companion, as the lash the skin. The dark patch moved again and Velasco struggled to his feet; he ran towards the sleigh. The girl leaned forward once more and as the gendarmes sprang towards them again, swearing at her and shouting, she lashed them fiercely across the face and the eyes, mercilessly, with little cries of rage. Velasco tumbled in beside her on the seat. "Are you there?" she cried, "Are you safe?" Then she turned, and loosening the reins the lash fell on the horses, cutting them sharply; and they dashed forward, the foam dripping from their bits and their hoofs striking sparks from the ice as they fled, galloping madly, swiftly, through the snow. In a moment the inn was left behind, the shouting and swearing died away in the distance, and there was silence, broken only by the panting of the horses and the sound of their hoofs galloping. Kaya still urged them forward, shaking the reins in her left hand and lashing with the whip. "You are safe!" she cried, "You are there, Velasco?" And then as the silence continued, a great fear came over her; her heart seemed to leap in her throat and her pulses stopped beating. She stooped over him, unheeding the horses. They were in the midst of the forest now, and the next town was several versts distant. It was dark and she put her face close to his, crying out: "Velasco! Velasco!" Then she saw that he had fainted again; from his forehead a dark stream was gushing slowly; and when she touched it, it was warm and wet. She gave a little cry. The horses galloped on, but the sleigh moved more smoothly and slid over the icy surface of the snow. Kaya wound the reins about the dash-board. They were quiet now, let them gallop! She bent again over her companion and, taking the snow that lay on the side of the sleigh, she bathed the wound with it, staunching the flow with her handkerchief, holding his head against her breast. "Velasco!" she whispered low, as if afraid he might waken and hear: "It is better now. The wound has stopped bleeding--only a drop or two comes on my handkerchief! You struck it on the runners as you fell; I will bind it now with my scarf. Velasco--dear Velasco! Open your eyes and look at me--smile at me! We are safe. We are alone in the forest and the horses are galloping. Soon we shall be at the station--in the train! A few hours from the frontier--only a few hours--Velasco!" He stirred in her arms and moaned, and his eye-lids quivered as if trying to open. Kaya took the scarf from her waist and began to wind it slowly about the wound on his forehead. Her breath came in little gasps through her parted lips. "Have I your blood too on my hands, Velasco? Ah, waken and look at me! We have only a few hours more together--a few hours! Then you will never see me again. Never--never!" She clasped him closer to her breast and bent over him in terror. "Don't die, Velasco! The wound has stopped bleeding. Why don't you open your eyes? Don't die! If you die I shall die too. I love you, Velasco! I love you--I love you!" She laid her cheek to his cold one and tried to warm it. She covered him with her cloak. It grew darker and colder, and the horses galloped on. Presently he stirred again in her arms and opened his eyes, and they looked at one another. "Kaya" he said, "I heard you--I heard you!" She shrank back away from him: "You heard--me?" she stammered. Then he fainted again. The horses galloped on. The fields of snow stretched in the distance, the frost on the surface glittering like myriads of tiny dew-drops. Through the inky blackness of the clouds the moon shone out fitfully, Streaking the road with flashes of light, pale and shadowy. Ahead gleamed the lamps of the station. The hoofs rang on the frozen snow. Suddenly Velasco lifted his head from the breast of Kaya. He steadied himself and sat upright in the seat. The wound was bound about by the red scarf and his face looked white in the faint moon-beams. There was blood on his jacket and the folds of his vest, and the scarf was spotted with crimson blotches. He stared straight ahead at the tossing manes of the horses, their galloping bodies, three abreast, plunging and straining in the harness; the reins knotted to the dash-board; the dark, winding road bordered by snow-drifts; the lights in the distance looming nearer, and the bulk of the station. His eyes were shining under the bandage, wide-open beneath the brows. Kaya drew away from him slowly, burying herself in the corner of the sleigh, drawing the buffalo robe close about her and trembling. The cold was bitter. He drank in the icy air in long breaths, and it seemed to give him strength, to clear the fumes of the brain. He was like one who has been drowning and is coming to life again gradually. Suddenly he turned and they faced one another. The hoofs rang against the ice, pounding forward; the sleigh was lurching, and the runners slipped and slid in the snow. "Kaya!" "Velasco." He put his arms out and they closed around her; he drew her nearer and nearer with all the strength in his body, and she yielded slowly, resisting and weak. She yielded until his lips were on hers, and then she flung out her arms with a little cry and they clung together, closely, silently. The horses galloped on and the sleigh lurched faster--and faster. CHAPTER XIII The night train steamed swiftly through the darkness, the cars swaying from side to side of the track, and the couplings clanging and jolting. It was warm inside the compartments and the air made a thick steam on the windows, hiding the snowfields and the station as the train rushed thundering past. In one of the third-class compartments two gypsies sat together with their heads close to the window, peering out. "Half an hour now, Velasco." "Twenty-two minutes, Kaya." "Now, only twelve." "Are the passports ready, Velasco?" "They are here, little one. There is Virballen now in the distance; can you see the roofs and the eagle floating? In another moment, another second--!" The two gypsies sat quiet, straining their eyes through the steam; then the dark one rose suddenly and adjusted the strap of his knapsack, taking his violin in his hand. "The train is slowing up now, Kaya, come! Follow me close, and look neither to the right nor the left." The two sprang from the train, and hurrying into the customs-room of the station were soon lost in the crowd. The minutes dragged slowly. "Do you see that paling, Kaya? The other side of it is Germany--is freedom." "I know, Velasco--I know!" "Your heart is beating and throbbing, Kaya; your jacket tosses like a ship in a storm. Fold your arms over its fluttering, little one, that the guards may not see. They are coming now." "Pray--Velasco!" "To whom should I pray? The Tsar perhaps--or the Icon over yonder?" The gypsey laughed, holding out the passports. He was swaggering with his hands in his pockets, and when the official spoke to him, he shrugged his shoulders and answered in dialect. "Bohemian!" he said, "Yes--gypsies! We earn our living on the road, my comrade and I--eh, Bradjaga?" With that, he clapped Kaya on the shoulder, showing his white teeth and laughing: "No baggage, Bárin, no--no, only this--and that!" He pointed to the knapsack swung from his shoulder and the violin in his hand. "What does this ragamuffin do?" demanded the official, looking narrowly at Kaya, "He is fair for a gypsey." The girl started back for a moment, her shoulder brushing the shoulder of Velasco; then she lifted her blue eyes to the official, and her heart seemed to leap and bound like a wild thing caged. She began to stammer, shrinking back against her companion. A bell sounded suddenly in the office behind them and the official started: "A telegraph despatch!" he said, "Ha--I must go!" The girl sprang forward and clutched his sleeve: "Don't go!" she said, "You ask what I can do--I can dance! We will show you, my comrade and I. In a moment the doors will be unlocked; wait until the doors are unlocked! We will give you a performance now, a special performance such as the Tsar himself has heard and seen--Play!" She waved Her hand to Velasco, and in a moment the violin was out of its wrappings and held to his cheek. He was playing a wild, strange rhythm and Kaya was dancing. The crowd made a circle about them, and the official stood in the centre transfixed, open-mouthed. The violin was like a creature alive, it sobbed and laughed; and when it sobbed, the little figure of the dancer swayed slowly, languidly, like a flower blown to and fro by the breeze; and when it laughed, the rhythm quickened suddenly in a rush like an avalanche falling, and the figure sprang out into the air, turning, twisting, pirouetting; every movement graceful, intense, full of feeling and passion. The crowd about the gypsies stood spell-bound; the official never stirred. The bell rang again and again. Every time it rang, a new impetus seemed to seize the dancer. Her feet in the heavy boots seemed scarcely to touch the ground; the green of the velveteen was like the colour of a kaleidoscope, and the gold of her curls glittered and sparkled under the cap. The crowd swayed with the rhythm; they grew drunk with it and their bodies quivered as they watched. The minutes passed like a flash. Suddenly there came a creak in the lock; the key turned and the great doors opened, the doors towards Germany. Beyond was the long line of paling; the flag with the eagle floating; the sentinels with their muskets over their shoulders. A step and then-- The dancer made a little rush forward, gave a spring in the air and then bowed, snatching off the cap. "Messieurs--Mesdames!" She held the cap in her two hands, eagerly, pleadingly, and the silver fell into it. Copecks--ten--twenty--hundreds of them, and roubles, round and heavy; they clinked as they fell. "I thank you!" cried the gypsey, "Good-bye, Messieurs--Mesdames! Au revoir!" She bowed again, backing towards the door, the cap still held between her hands, the Violinist following. "Adieu! Au revoir!" The crowd clapped noisily, cheering until the great, bare station of the customs rang and re-echoed. "Au revoir! Adieu!" The gypsies backed together, smiling, bowing; they passed through the door. They reached the paling--the sentinels; the flag with the eagle floated over their heads; then a click, and the gate closed behind them. They were on German soil. They were free--they were free. "Kaya!" said Velasco. The room at the inn was small and very still. The shades were down, and over in the corner, beyond the couch, a single candle was burning. "Are you awake, Kaya?" said Velasco softly, bending over the couch until his curls brushed hers, and his lips were close to her rosy cheek. "I have watched so long for your eyes to open, Kaya! My--wife." The girl moved uneasily on the pillow. "My wife--Kaya!" He put his arms about her and she lay still for a moment, scarcely breathing. Then she spoke: "I am not your wife, Velasco. Take your arms away." "Your cheek is so soft, Kaya; the centre is like a red rose blushing. Let me rest my cheek against it." "Take your cheek away--Velasco." "Your lips are arched like a bow, so red, so sweet! When I press them--I press--them!" "Velasco--Velasco! Take your lips--away!" The girl half rose on her pillow, pushing him back; striking at him feebly with her bare hands; "Go--don't touch me! I have been asleep--I am mad! I am not your wife--Velasco! We must part at once--I tell you, we must part!" Velasco laughed: "Part!" he said, "You and I, Kaya?--Part? Have you forgotten the church, the priest in his surplice, the dark nave and the candles? We knelt side by side. You are my wife and I am your husband. Kaya, we can never part in life or in death." The girl put her hand to her breast: "It was only a 'Nihilistic marriage,' Velasco, you know what that means! A mere form for the sake of the certificate, the papers--just to show for the passport that we might go together." Her voice came through her throat roughly as if it hurt her. Velasco laughed again shortly: "What is that to me?" he said, "We were married; you are my wife. Put your hands down, Kaya--let me take you in my arms. You know--throughout the journey, when we were tramping through the snow and the cold, I treated you as a comrade, for your sake. You asked it. You know--Kaya? And now--now we are in Germany; we are gypsies no longer. You are the Countess and I am Velasco--your husband, Kaya, your--husband." He stretched out his arms to her, and his eyes were like sparks of light under his brows, gleaming. His hands trembled: "Look at me, Kaya, look at me. Why do you torment me?" The girl thrust her hand slowly into the breast of her jacket and drew out a paper. "You lost it," she said, "in the prison. I found it on the floor. The--the certificate of our marriage. I swore that night--if we reached the frontier I would--Velasco, don't touch me!--I would destroy it!" She held it away from him and her eyes gazed into his. "You would never destroy it, Kaya!" He looked at her and then he gave a cry: "Stop--Kaya!" She had torn the paper across into strips and was flinging the pieces from her; she was laughing. "You, my husband, Velasco? Are you mad? The daughter of General Mezkarpin marry a musician! Our family is one of the oldest in Russia and yours--!" She laughed again wildly, clasping her hands to her throat. "You are mad--Velasco!" He looked at her steadily. "Tell me the truth," he said, "Do you love me, or do you not love me? Yes, or no." "No, Velasco. You were kind to me--you saved my life; I am grateful. If it had not been for you--" Then she laughed again, staggering to her feet. "Love you? No--no! A thousand times--no!" "That is a lie," said Velasco. "You are trembling all over like a leaf. Your cheeks are ashy. The tears are welling up in your eyes like a veil over the blue. You are breathless--you are sobbing." He flung his arms around her and pressed her head to his breast, kissing the curls. "Lie still, Kaya, lie still in my arms! The gods only know why you said it, but it isn't the truth! You love me--say you love me! You said it in the sleigh when I was stunned, half conscious! Say it again--Kaya! The certificate is nothing. Does love need a certificate?" He laughed aloud. "Say it, Kaya--let me hear you, my beloved!" She was silent, clinging to him; she had stopped struggling. Her eyes were closed and he kissed her fiercely on the lips again and again. Presently he was frightened, and a chill of terror and foreboding stole over him. "Look at me, Kaya--open your eyes! Have I hurt you--was I too rough? Are you angry? I love you so! The whole world is nothing; art is nothing; fame is nothing. I would sell my Stradivarius for the touch of your fingers in mine, Kaya! I would give my soul for a look in your eyes! Ah, open them--dearest!" His voice shook and was hoarse, and he held her away from him, gazing down at her face and the panting of her breast. "Tell me you love me--Kaya!" Suddenly she stiffened until her body was straight and unbending as steel, and the strength came back to her slowly. She opened her eyes and the veil was gone; they were flashing and hard. "You use your strength like a coward, Velasco," she said. "Can you force love? I told you the truth." She pointed to the fragments of paper on the floor with her finger, scornfully: "There lies the bond between us," she said, "See--it is shattered; it lies at our feet. You will go on your way from here alone, to fill your engagements, and I--" She hesitated and stopped again, as one who is afraid of stumbling. Her arms stiffened, and her hands, and her whole body; and she drew away from him, avoiding his eyes, and looking only at the fragments of paper on the floor. "Good-bye now--Velasco," she said. He looked at her, and he was trembling and shaking from head to foot, like one in a chill. His teeth were clenched and his eyes were bloodshot; the pulses beat in his temples. "My God!" he cried, "If it is true--if you don't love me! If--" Kaya stretched out her hand to him, catching her breath. "Good-bye, Velasco--" He turned on her fiercely, and raised his arm as if he would have struck her: "You are cruel!" he said, crying out, "You are not a woman!" He caught her by the shoulders and held her, looking down into her eyes, with his face close to hers. "Swear it!" he cried, "Swear it if you can--if you dare! Swear you don't love--me." She looked at him and her lips trembled. "Swear it!" She nodded. A cry burst from his throat, like that of an animal, wounded, at bay. His blood-shot eyes stared at her for a moment, and then he flung her from him with all his strength and turning, dashed from the room. The door slammed. The girl reeled backward, putting her hands to her face. Then, as the echo of his footsteps died away on the stairs, she fell on her knees, crouching and sobbing. "He is gone!" she cried out, the words coming in little moans through her clenched teeth. "He is gone! Velasco is gone!" Her form shook in a torrent of weeping, and she took her hands from her face and wrung them together. "I love him!" she said, "I love him! If he had stayed! No--no, I am mad! I am cursed--cursed by the Black Cross. There is blood on my hands!" She held them out before her, and they trembled and shook. "Blood!" she cried, "I see it--red--dripping! It fell from his wound on my hand and nothing will wash it away! Nothing!" Her voice died away to a whisper and she knelt, staring at her hands with eyes wild and dilated: "Not even his love," she said, "not even his love could wash it away. It would spread--he too would be cursed. He--too!" Then she flung herself on the floor and buried her head against the side of the couch, clinging to it, with her body convulsed: "Come back, Velasco!" she stammered, "I am weak--come back! Put your arms around me--kiss me again! Don't be angry. Don't look at me like that! Velasco--I won't leave you! I--I love you! Come back!" She lay still, shuddering. Outside, in the street, came the clatter of wheels passing and the cries of a street vendor; far off came the whistle of a locomotive. Kaya dragged herself to her feet slowly, stumbling a little. She passed her hands over her eyes once or twice, as if blinded; then feebly, like one who has just recovered from a long illness, she tottered towards the door and opened it. Her head was bare and her curls covered it in a tangle of gold; her jacket and trousers were old and faded, patched at the elbows, torn at the knees. The tears had dried on her cheeks. She gazed ahead steadily without looking back; and the blue of her eyes was like the blue of the sky at night-fall, darkened and shadowy. At the bend of the stairway she stumbled, half falling; then she steadied herself, clinging to the balustrade with her hands--and went on. It was day-light, and the cocks were all crowing when Velasco returned. When he opened the door the candle burned low in its socket, and the sun-rays came filtering in through the windows. The room was deserted. He was muddy and footsore; his face looked haggard and old, and it was lined with deep furrows. His dark eyes were listless and weary, and his cheeks colourless. "Kaya," he said, "are you here? Kaya!" He looked on the couch, but it was empty; behind the curtains, but there was nothing; out of the windows, but there was only the street below. His eyes had a dazed look. "Kaya!" he cried. On the floor lay a boy's cap, torn, rakish, faded with the sun and the snow of their wanderings--a little, green cap. Velasco stared at it for a moment. Then suddenly he snatched it to his lips with a sob, and buried his head in his arms. THE BLACK CROSS PART II CHAPTER XIV Ehrestadt lies in a plain. The walls of the old city have been leveled into broad promenades, shaded with nut-trees, encircling the town as with a girdle of green. Beyond, a new city has sprung up, spreading like a mushroom; but within the girdle the streets are narrow and crooked, and the houses gabled; leaning to one another as if seeking support for their ancient foundations, with only a line of sky in between. At the corner of the promenade, just where the old city and the new city meet, is a tumble-down mill. It is called the Nonnen-Mühle, and it has been there ever since Ehrestadt first came into existence, as is evident from the bulging of the walls, and the wood of the casements, rotten and worm-eaten. The river winds underneath it, and the great spoked wheel turns slowly, tossing the water into a cloud of yellow foam, flinging the spray afar into the dark, flowing stream, catching it again; playing with it, half sportive, half fierce, like some monster alive. As the wheel turns, the sound of its teeth grinding is steady and rhythmical, like a theme in the bass; and the river splashes the accompaniment, gurgling and sighing in a minor key, as if in complaint. It was Johannestag.[1] The citizens of Ehrestadt were walking on the promenade, dressed in their best; the men strutting, the women hanging on their arms, the children toddling behind. In the square a band was playing; the nut trees were in full leaf, and the air was warm and sweet with the scent of the rose buds. The wheel of the mill had stopped. Just under the peak of the roof was a small window gabled, with a broad sill, and casements that opened outwards, overlooking the promenade. The sill was scarlet with geraniums, and the window itself was grown partly over and half smothered in a veiling of ivy. Behind the window was a garret, small like a cell; the roof sloping to the eaves. There was nothing in the garret excepting a pallet-bed in the corner, under the eaves, and in the opposite corner a box on which stood a pitcher and basin; the basin was cracked; the pitcher was without a handle. On the wall hung a few articles of clothing on pegs; and the slope of the roof was grey and misty with cob-webs. Otherwise the garret was bare. Sitting by the window with her elbows on the sill, framed by the ivy and the geraniums, was a girl. Her head was propped in her hands, and her hair glittered gold in the warm sun-light against the green and the scarlet. She was gazing eagerly over the throngs on the promenade, and her blue eyes were alert as if searching for some one. She was young and slim, and her gown was shabby, turned back at the throat as if she suffered from the heat; and her hair was cropped, lying in little tendrils of gold on her neck, curling thickly about her ears and her brow. Her cheeks were quite pale, and there was a pinched look about the lips, dark shadows under the eyes. She gazed steadily. "If I could only see him," she murmured to herself, half aloud, "just once--if I could see him!" Her lip trembled a little and she caught it between her teeth: "It is seventeen weeks--a hundred and nineteen days--since we parted," she said, "At daybreak on Thursday it will be a third of a year--a third of a year!" She moved her head uneasily on her hands, and hid her eyes for a moment against the leaves of the ivy, as if blinded by the sun-beams; "Sooner or later he was sure to come here," she murmured, "All musicians come here; but when I saw his face on the bill-board to-day--and his name--!" She crouched closer against the sill, and the leaves of the ivy fluttered from the hurried breath that came through her lips, shaking them as with a storm. "If he were there on the promenade," she said, "and I saw him walking, with his violin, his head thrown back and his eyes dreaming--Ah!" She drew in her breath quickly and a little twist came in her throat, like a screw turned. She half closed her eyes. "Ah--Velasco! My arms would go out to you in spite of my will; my lips would cry to you! I would clinch my teeth--I would pinion my arms to my side. I would hide here behind the casement and gaze at you between the leaves of the geraniums--and you would never know! You would never--know!" She put both hands to her bare throat as if to tear something away that was suffocating, compelling; then she laughed: "He is an artist," she said, "a great musician, fêted, adored; he is rich and happy. He will forget. Perhaps he has forgotten already. It would be better if he had forgotten--already." She laughed again strangely, glancing about the garret with its low eaves, and the cob-webs hanging; at the pallet, and the cracked basin, and the pitcher with its handle missing. The doves came flying about the mill, twittering and chirping as if seeking for food on the sill; clinging to the ivy with their tiny, pink claws, looking at her expectantly out of their bright, roving eyes, pruning their feathers. The girl shook her head: "I have nothing for you," she said, "No--not a crumb. The last went yesterday. Poor birds! It is terrible to be hungry, to have your head swim, and your limbs tremble, and the world grow blind and dim before your eyes. Is it so with you, dear doves?" She rose slowly and a little unsteadily, crossing the garret to the pegs where the clothes hung. "There may be a few Pfennigs left," she said, "without touching that. No--no, there is nothing!" She felt in the pockets of the cloak, pressing deep into the corners with the tips of her fingers, searching. "No," she repeated helplessly, "there is--nothing; still I can't touch the other--not to-day! I will go out and try again." She took down the cloak from the peg and wrapped it about her, in spite of the heat, covering her throat. There was a hat also on the peg; she put it on, hiding her yellow curls, and drew the veil over her face. "If I could only get a hearing!" she said to herself, "There must be someone in Ehrestadt, who would listen to my voice and give me an opening. I will try once more, and then--" She buttoned the cloak with her fingers trembling, and went out. "Is the Herr Kapellmeister in?" "Yes, Madame." The rosy cheeked maid hesitated a little, and her eyes wandered doubtfully from the veil to the cloak and the shabby skirt. "Kapellmeister Felix Ritter, I mean." "He is in, Madame, but he is engaged." "May I come in and wait?" The maid hesitated again: "What name shall I say, Madame?" "My name," said Kaya, "is Mademoiselle de--de Poussin." The German words came stumbling from her lips. She crossed the threshold and entered a large salon, divided by curtains from a room beyond. There was a grand piano in the corner of the salon, and about the walls were shelves piled high with music; propped against the piano stood a cello. Kaya looked at the instrument; then she sank down on the divan close to the piano, and put out her fingers, touching it caressingly. From the next room, beyond the curtain, came the sound of cups rattling, and a sweet, rich aroma as of coffee, mingling with the fragrance of cigars freshly lighted. The girl threw back her veil, scenting it as a doe the breeze when it is thirsty and cannot drink. She smiled a little, still caressing the keys with her fingers. "It is strange to be hungry," she said, "The Countess Mezkarpin was never hungry!" Then suddenly she started and turned white to the lips, swaying forward with her eyes dilated. From behind the curtain came voices talking together; one was harsh and rather loud, and the other-- Kaya's eyes were fixed on the curtain; she rose slowly from the divan and crept forward on tip-toe, a step at a time. The other!--She listened. No, it was the harsh voice talking rapidly, loudly in German, and what he was saying she could not understand; then came the clatter of cups again, and silence, and a fresh whiff of cigar smoke floating, wafted through the curtain. She crept closer, still listening, her hands clasped together, the cloak flung back from her shoulders. "The other--there!" She put out her hand and touched the curtain, pulling it aside slightly, timidly, and pressing her face, her eyes to the opening. She was faint for a moment and could see nothing; there was a mist before her eyes and the smoke filled the room; then gradually, out of the mist, she saw a grey-haired man with his back to the curtain, and he was bending forward with a coffee cup to his lips. Beside him, facing her, leaning far back in his chair, with his cigar poised and his eyes half closed, his dark head pressing restlessly against the cushion was-- "Oh, my God!" she breathed, "My God, it is Velasco!" For a moment she thought she had screamed; and she covered her eyes waiting, sick, frightened, her heart throbbing. Then she forgot where she was and thought only of him, and a strange little thrill went over her; she shivered slightly, and it seemed to her as if already she was in his arms; and when she heard his voice, it was calling to her, crying her name. "Yes--yes, it is Kaya!--I am here!" she was saying, "Come to me--Velasco! Velasco!" Already she was stumbling into his arms; she was clinging to him--and then she awoke. Her brain cleared suddenly and she knew that she had not moved; no sound had come from her lips. She was standing like a statue, dumb, with her hands clasped, gazing; and Velasco lay back in his chair with his eyes half closed, blowing a wreath from his cigar, watching it idly as it floated away, listening as the harsh voice of his host talked on--not five feet away! If she stretched out her hand, if she sighed--or moved the curtain--Ah! She struggled with herself. She was faint; she was weak with hunger; she was alone and desolate--and he loved her. She fought madly, desperately. It was as if two creatures were within her fighting for life; and they both loved him. When the one grew stronger, her eyes brightened and her pulses quickened; it was as if she would leap through the curtain, and her heart was sick for the touch of his hand. Then she beat down the longing and stifled it, and the other self came to the front and gripped her scornfully, pointing to her hands with the blood on them, her soul with its curse. Was her life to mingle with his and ruin it, and bring it to shame? "Never," she breathed, "Never! So long as I live!" And the self of her that loved him the most crushed the other self and smothered it--strangled it. She gazed at him through the curtain, and it seemed to her that something within her was gasping and dying. And suddenly she turned and ran from the curtain, clasping her cloak to her bosom and running, stumbling, out of the room, the house, the street. The promenades were gay with people and crowded. The men strutting along in their Sunday clothes, the women hanging on their arms, the children toddling behind. The band was playing on the square. It was warm and the sun was shining; the air was sweet with the scent of the rose buds. Kaya fled past them all like a wraith. They turned and stared after her, but she was gone. She climbed the stairs of the mill to the roof, and opened the door, and shut it again, and fell on her knees before the box. The pitcher was there without a handle, and the basin cracked. She lifted them away and opened the box. In it lay a velveteen jacket folded, a scarf, scarlet and spotted. Inside the scarf lay a mass of coins, copecks, ten, twenty--hundreds of them, and roubles round and heavy. She fingered them tenderly, one after the other, then thrust them aside. "To-morrow--" she said, "I have come to that--to live on a gypsey's wages! I can sing no longer; I can only dance and pass the cap--and give the copecks for bread--for bread! I thought some day when I was old,--when we were both old, I would show them to--Velasco, and he would remember and laugh: 'Ah, that was long ago,' he would say, 'when I was a boy, and you were a boy, and we tramped together through the cold and the snow--and I loved you, and you--loved me! Ah--it was sweet, Kaya! I have lived a long life since then, with plenty of fame, and success, and happiness--and the years have been full; but nothing quite so sweet as that! Nothing--quite so sweet--as that!'" She was sobbing now and staring into the box: "To-morrow," she said, "I will buy some bread and feed the doves--and soon it will be gone!" She began to count the coins rapidly, dropping them through her fingers into the scarf; and as she counted she smiled through her tears. "We earned it together--he and I!" she said, "He played and I danced. He would like me to live on it as long as I can, and then--after that--he will not--blame me!" Her body swayed slightly and she fell forward against the box. The sun shone on the geraniums; and on the sill, the doves pecked at the worm-eaten casement, clinging to the ivy with their tiny claws, gazing about with their bright, roving eyes and cooing. Below, the water splashed against the wheel; but it was silent. [1] St. John's day. CHAPTER XV. The stage of the Opera House was crowded with the chorus. It was ten o'clock in the morning, but the day was rainy and the light that came from the windows at the back of the proscenium was feeble and dim, and the House itself was quite dark. The seats stretched out bare and ghostly, row after row; and beyond a dark cavern seemed yawning, mysterious and empty, the sound of the voices echoing and resounding through spaces of silence. In the centre of the stage stood the Conductor, mounted on a small platform with his desk before him; and around him were the chorus, huddled and watchful as sheep about a shepherd. He was tapping the desk with his baton and calling out to them, and the voices had ceased. "Meine Herren--meine Damen!" he cried, "How you sing! It is like the squealing of guinea-pigs--and the tenors are false! Mein Gott! Stick to the notes, gentlemen, and sing in the middle of the tone. There now, once more. Begin on the D." Kapellmeister Ritter glanced over his chorus with a fierce, compelling motion of his baton. He was like a general, compact and trim of figure with a short, pointed beard, and hair also short that was swiftly turning to grey. The only thing that suggested the musician was the heaviness and swelling of his brows, and the delicacy of his hands and wrists, which were white, like a woman's, of an extraordinary suppleness and full of power; hands that were watched instinctively and obeyed. The eyes of the entire chorus were fixed on them now, gazing as if hypnotized, and hanging on every movement of his beat. "Na--na!" he cried, "Was that F, I ask you? You bellow like bulls! Again--again, I tell you! On the D and approach the note softly. "Hist-st!--Pianissimo!" He stamped his foot in vexation and the baton struck the desk sharply: "Again--the sopranos alone! Hist! Piano--piano I say! Potztausend!" The chorus glanced at one another sheepishly and a flush crept over the faces of the sopranos. The Kapellmeister was in a bad mood to-day; nothing suited him, and he beat the desk as if he would have liked to strike them all and fling the baton at their heads. "Sheep!" he said, "Oxen--cows! You have no temperament, no feeling--nothing--nothing! Where are your souls? Haven't you any souls? Don't you hear what I say? Piano! P-i-a-n-o! When I say piano, do I mean forte?" He shrugged his shoulders, and his eyes flashed scornfully over the stage and the singers. "Now ladies, attention if you please! Look at me--keep your eyes on my baton! Now--piano!" The voices of the sopranos rose softly. "Crescendo!" They increased. "Donnerwetter! May the devil take you! Crescendo, I say! Crescendo! Do you need all day to make crescendo?" He shrieked at them; and then, in a tempest of rage, he flung the baton down and leaped from the platform. "Enough!" he said, "My teeth are on edge; my ears burn! Sit down.--Is Fraulein Neumann here?" A stout woman in a red blouse stepped timidly forward. "Oh, you are, are you? Well, Madame, you haven't distinguished yourself so far; perhaps you will do better alone. Have you the score?" "Yes, Herr Kapellmeister." "Begin then." The soprano took a long breath and her cheeks grew red like her blouse. She watched the eyes of the leader, and there was a light in them that she mistrusted, a reddish glimmer that boded evil to any who crossed him. She began tremulously. "Stop." She started again. "Your voice quavers like a jews'-harp. What's the matter with you?" "I don't know, Herr Kapellmeister, it was all right when I tried it this morning." "Well, it's all wrong now." The soprano bit her lips: "I am doing my best, Herr Kapellmeister," she said, "It is very difficult to take that high A without the orchestra." Her tone was slightly defiant, but she dropped her eyes when he stared at her. "Humph!" he said, "Very difficult! You expect the orchestra to cover your shake I suppose. Go home and study it, Madame. Siegfried would listen in vain for a bird if you were in the flies. He would never recognize that--pah!" He waved his hand: "Where is the Fraulein who wanted her voice tried?" he said curtly, "If she is present she may come forward." He took out his watch and glanced at it. "The chorus may wait," he said, "Look at your scores meanwhile, meine Herren, meine Damen--and notice the marks! "Ah, Madame." A slim figure with a cloak about her shoulders, bareheaded, approached from the wings; her curls, cut short like a boy's, sparkled and gleamed. The Kapellmeister surveyed her coldly as she drew nearer, and then he turned and seated himself at the piano. "Your voice," he said shortly, "Hm--what?" "Soprano, Monsieur." "We have enough sopranos--too many now! We don't know what to do with them all." The girl shivered a little under the cloak. "Oh!" she faltered, "Then you won't hear me?" "I never said I wouldn't hear you, Madame; I simply warned you. If you were alto now--but for a soprano there is one chance in a thousand, unless--" He struck a chord on the piano. The chorus sat very still. The trying of a new voice was always a diversion; it was more amusing to watch the grilling of a victim than to be scorched themselves; and the Kapellmeister in that mood--oh Je! They smiled warily at one another behind their scores, and stared at the slight, girlish figure beside the pianoforte. She was stooping a little as if near-sighted, looking over the shoulder of the Conductor at the music on the piano rack. "Can you read at sight, Madame?" "Yes," said Kaya. "Have you ever seen this before?" "I studied it--once." "This?" "I studied that too." "So," he said, "Then you either have a voice, or you haven't, one or the other. Where did you study?" The girl hesitated a moment; then she bent lower and whispered to him: "St. Petersburg, Monsieur, with Helmanoff." "The great Helmanoff?" "Yes, Monsieur." "You are not French then, you are Russian? They told me Mademoiselle Pou--Pou--" "That is not my real name." "No?" Kaya quivered a moment: "I am--Russian," she said, "I am an exile. Don't ask, Monsieur--not here! I am--I am afraid." The Kapellmeister went on improvising arpeggios on the piano as if he had not heard. He seemed to be pondering. "That name--" he said, "Pou--Poussin! Someone called on me the other day of that name. I remember it, because when I came in she was gone. Was it you?" The girl stood silent. He turned suddenly and looked at her: "You are young," he said, "and too slim to have a voice. Na--child! You are trembling as if you had a chill, and the House is like an oven. Come--don't be frightened. The chorus are owls; they can stare and screech, but they know nothing. Sit down here by me and sing what you choose. Let your voice out." "Shall I sing a Russian song, Monsieur?" "Very well." The Kapellmeister leaned back in his chair with his arms folded. He gave one fierce glance at the chorus over his shoulder. "Hush!" he cried, "No noise if you please. Attend to your scores, or go out. Now, Fraulein--sing." Kaya pushed the chair to one side and moved closer to the piano, leaning on it and gazing out into the darkened House, at the rows of seats, ghostly and empty, and the black cave beyond. A Volkslied came to her mind, one she had heard as a child and been rocked to, a peasant song, simple and touching. Her lips parted slightly. For a moment there was silence; then the tones came like a breath, soft and pianissimo, clear as the trill of a bird in the forest wooing its mate. It rose and fell, swelling out, filling the spaces, echoing through the vault. "On the mountain-top were two little doves; Their wings were soft, they shimmered and shone. Dear little doves, pray a prayer--a prayer For the son of Fedotjen, Michäel--Michäel, For he is alone--alone." With the last word, repeated, half whispered, the voice died away again; and she stood there, still leaning against the piano and clasping her hands, looking at the Kapellmeister with her blue eyes dark and pleading, like two wells. "Will it do?" she said with her voice faltering, "Will you take me, Herr Director--in the chorus?" The Kapellmeister shrugged his shoulders: "You have no voice for a chorus," he said roughly, "Try this." "I know," said Kaya, "My voice is not as it was. Helmanoff--" she laughed unsteadily, "He would be so angry if he heard me, and tell me to study, just as you told the Mademoiselle who went out; but I will do better, Monsieur, believe me. I will work so hard, and my voice will come back in time after--" She gazed at him and a mist came over her eyes. "Do take me," she said, "I beg you to take me--I beg you." The Kapellmeister passed his hand over his face: "Tschut, child!" he said, "What are you talking about? Be quiet now and sing this as I tell you. You have heard it before?" "Yes, I have heard it." "And sung it perhaps with Helmanoff?" "Yes--Monsieur." He handed her the score, running his fingers over the bird motive of 'Siegfried,' giving her the key. Then he leaned back again and folded his arms. Kaya gave her head a little backward movement as if to free her throat, and threw off the cloak, standing straight. [Illustration: Fragment of "Siegfried"] The tones came out like the sound of a flute, high and pure; they rose in her throat, swelling it out as she sang, pouring through the arch of her lips without effort or strain. "Bravo!" cried the Director, "Um Himmel's Willen, child, you have a voice like a lark rising in the meadows, and you sing--Bravo! Bravo!" He put out his hands and took the girl's trembling ones into his own. "You will take me?" she said, "You see, when I am not so nervous it will go better." The Kapellmeister laughed and took a card out of his pocket: "Write your name here," he said, "Your real one. I won't tell--and your address." Kaya drew back suddenly: "I live in the mill," she said, "You know, the Nonnen-Mühle by the promenade? You won't let any one know, will you, Monsieur, because--" "Are you afraid of spies, child? Tut, the chorus can't hear. I won't tell a soul." "No one?" "On my honour--no one. Now, your name?" She looked away from him a moment; then she took the pencil and wrote on the card in small, running letters: "Marya Pulitsin." "So that's your real name, is it?" Her eyes were clear and blue like a child's. "No," she said, "--no." And she glanced back over her shoulder with her finger to her lips. "Never mind," said the Kapellmeister. "You are white, child, what are you afraid of? There are no spies here! Give me the card. That is a strange place to live in--the Nonnen-Mühle! I didn't know anyone lived there, excepting the old man who takes charge of the mill. Well, in a day or so--perhaps towards the end of the week you will hear from me." He waved to the chorus. "Stand up, meine Herren, meine Damen!" he said, "Get your scores ready. Good-bye now, Fraulein.--Donnerwetter! What ails you?" "If you want to try my voice again," said Kaya timidly, "Would you mind, sir, trying it to-day?--This afternoon, or even this evening?" "Now by all that is holy, why, pray? I have the solos to-night, and this afternoon a rehearsal for 'Siegfried.'" The Kapellmeister frowned: "Do you think I have nothing on earth to do, child, but run after voices?" "Oh!" cried Kaya, "I didn't mean that! I beg your pardon. It doesn't matter--I do beg your pardon, Herr Director." She flushed suddenly, and started away from him, as if to put the piano between them and flee towards the door. He looked at her narrowly, and the harsh lines came back to his face. "A pest on these singers!" he muttered under his breath, "They are all alike--they want coddling. She thinks perhaps she is a Patti and is planning for her salary already. Potztausend! Bewahre!" He turned on his heel curtly and mounted the platform, taking up the baton. "Now," he cried, "The D again--all together! Pia--no!" Kaya stole across the stage swiftly on tiptoe, threading her way through the scenery that was standing in rows, one behind the other, in readiness for the performance that night, and disappeared into the wings. It was dusty there and deserted. An occasional stage-hand hurried by in the distance bent on some errand, and from the back came the sound of hammering. The chorus was singing forte now, and the sound filled the uttermost corner, drowning the noise of the hammer. Kaya stood still for a moment, clinching her hands: "My God," she said, "I have tried the last and it has failed! The end of the week!" she laughed to herself bitterly. "I know what that means. Helmanoff used to get rid of new pupils that way: 'You will hear,' he would say; but they never heard." She took a coin out of her dress and looked at it. "The gypsies' wages are gone," she said, "Only this left to pay for my roof and my bed!" She laughed again and glanced about her stealthily as if fearful of being seen, or tracked. Then she began to breathe quickly: "_Without weakness_," she said, "_without hesitation, or mercy, by mine own hands if needs be_. I have done it to another: I will do it again--to myself. Atone, atone--wipe out the stain! A life for a life! That is right." She swayed and caught one of the scenes for support. "That is--just! God, how my throat burns, and my head, it is dizzy--and my eyes have gone blind! Ah, it is passing--passing! Now I can see. I can--walk!" She clung to the scenery for another second, and then pushed it away and moved to the door, staggering a little like one who is drugged. It was evening. The rain had ceased, and the moon rose full and pale with a halo about it. In the distance clouds were gathering, and the waters under the mill were speckled with light. Kaya sat by the window, leaning on the sill with her arms and gazing down at the wheel: "It is deep there," she said, "A moment of falling through the air--a splash, and it will be over. I am not--afraid." She shuddered a little, and her eyes were fixed on the flashes of silver as if fascinated. She could not tear them away. "How black it is under the wheel!" she murmured, "If I fell on the spokes--" Then she shuddered again. "Perhaps I shall not die," she said, "Perhaps I shall live and be crippled, with my body broken. Oh, God--to live like that! I must--I must aim for the pool beyond, where the water lies deep and the moonlight freckles the--surface." Then she dropped her head on her arms and the words came again: "I have tried my best, Velasco, but the heart is gone out of me. Don't be angry and call me a coward. I tried--but I am weak now and I am afraid. My voice is gone, and there is so little for a woman to do. I tried everything, Velasco, but my strength--is--failing. If I could walk, I would go to you and say good-bye; but I don't know where you are. They say you have gone and I don't know where." She leaned a little further forward on the sill, still hiding her eyes. "He won't know," she whispered under her breath, "He will never know. Velasco! Velasco--good-bye." Her body lay across the sill now, and she opened her heavy lids and gazed downwards, half eagerly, half fearfully. The water was dark and the moon-light on the surface glittered. The wheel was below, huge and gaunt like a spectre; silent, with its spokes dipping into the pool. CHAPTER XVI "Fräulein, Fräulein--open the door! There is a gentleman here who would speak with you!--Fräulein!" The blows redoubled on the stout oak, growing louder and more persistent. "Fräulein! It is very strange, Herr Kapellmeister. I saw her go in with my own eyes, some two hours back, and she has not come out, for I was below in the mill with my pipe and my beer, sitting in the very doorway itself, and no flutter of petticoats passed me, or I should have heard." The old miller rubbed his wizen cheeks and smoothed the wisps of hair on his chin, nervously as a young man does his mustache. "Na--!" said the Kapellmeister. "It is late and she may be asleep. I came after rehearsal and it must be nine, or past. Knock louder!" The miller struck the oak again with his fist, calling out; and then they both listened. "There is no light through the key-hole," said the miller, peeping, "only the moon-rays which lie on the floor, and when I hark with my hand to my ear, I hear no sound but the water splashing." The Kapellmeister paced the narrow corridor impatiently. "Donnerwetter!" he exclaimed, "The matter is important, or I shouldn't have come. I must have an answer to-night. Try the door, and if it is unlocked, open it and shout. You have a voice like a saw; it would raise the dead." The miller put his hand to the latch and it yielded: "Fräulein--!" The garret was in shadow, and across the floor lay the moonbeams glittering; the casement was open, and the geraniums were outlined dark against the sky, their colour dimmed. "There is something in the window!" said the miller, peering; and the door opened wider. "There is something black across the sill; it is lying over the geraniums and crushing them, and it looks like a woman! Jesus--Maria!" He took a step forward, staring: "It is the Fräulein, and she is--" "Get out of the way, you fool!" cried the Kapellmeister sharply, and he pushed the man back and strode forward: "The child has fainted! She lies here with her head on her arms, and her cheek is white as the moon itself." He lifted her gently and put his arm under her shoulders, supporting her: "Get some Kirsch at once," he cried to the miller, "Stop gaping, man! She's not dead I tell you--her heart flutters and the pulse in her wrist is throbbing!" He slipped his hand in his pocket, and tossed the miller a gulden. "Now run," he said, "run as if the devil were after you. The Rathskeller is only a square away! Brandy and food--food, do you hear?" The old man caught the gulden greedily between his fingers, and examined it for a moment, weighing it. "I will go," he mumbled, "certainly I will go. Kirsch--you say, sir, and bread perhaps?" "Be off, you fool!" The Kapellmeister watched the door grimly as it shut behind the miller, and then he glanced about the garret. "Poor," he said, "Humph! A place for a beggar!" His eyes roved from the pallet in the corner to the pitcher and the basin, the clothes on the pegs, the cobwebs hanging, the geraniums crushed on the sill. Then he lifted the girl's head and held it between his hands, looking down at her face, supporting her in his arms. The lashes lay heavy on her cheeks and the tendrils of hair, curly and golden, lay on her neck and her forehead. Her throat was bare; it was white and full. The Kapellmeister held her gently and a film came over his eyes as he gazed: "How young she is!" he murmured, "like some beautiful boy. Her chin is firm--there is will power there. Her brows are intelligent; her whole personality is one of feeling and temperament. It is a face in a thousand. What is her name, her history? How has she suffered? Why is she alone? There are lines of pain about the mouth--the eyes!" He raised her suddenly in his arms and started to his feet; and as he did so, she opened her lids slowly and gazed at him. "Velasco--" she murmured. Her voice was low and feeble, and the Kapellmeister bent his head lower: "What is it, child?" he said, "I can't hear you. In a moment you will have some brandy in your throat and that will rouse you. I will carry you now to that pallet over yonder, a poor place, no doubt, and hard as a board." He strode across the floor and laid the girl gently on the bed, smoothing the pillow, and covering her lightly with the blanket. Kaya opened her eyes again, and put out her hands as if seeking someone. "I was falling," she said, "Why did you bring me back?" The Kapellmeister sat down by the edge of the bed and began to whistle softly; he whistled a theme once, and then he repeated it a semi-tone higher. "I suspected as much," he said, "Was it because you had no money?" Kaya turned her face away. "Were you starving?--Tschut! You needn't answer. Your eyes show it. I might have seen for myself this morning, if I had not been in a temper with the chorus, and my mind absorbed in other matters. Be still now, here is the miller--the dotard!" The Kapellmeister went over to the door, and took from the old man a small flask and a newspaper wrapping some rolls. "So," he said grimly, "Now go, and keep the rest of the gulden for yourself. No thanks! Pischt--be off! Go back to your doorway and finish your beer, do you hear me? I will look after the Fräulein; she is conscious now, and I have business with her." He motioned the old man back from the door and closed it behind him; then he returned to the pallet. "I'm not much of a nurse," he said, "You will have to put up with some awkwardness, child; but there--raise your head a little, so--and lean on my shoulder! Now drink!" Kaya swallowed a few drops of the brandy. "That is enough," she said faintly. "No.--Drink!" He held the glass to her lips, and she obeyed him, for his hands were strong and his eyes compelled her. Then he broke the roll, and dipped it into the brandy, and fed her piece by piece. When she tried to resist him, he said "Eat, child--eat! Do as I tell you--eat!" and held it to her mouth until she yielded. She thought of Velasco and how he had fed her in the studio, and the pulse in her wrist beat quicker. When she had finished the roll, he put down the glass and the newspaper, and she felt his eyes searching hers, keen and sharp, two daggers, as if they would pierce through her secret. "Don't speak," he said curtly, "Listen to me and answer my questions: Why were you discouraged? I told you this morning you would hear from me; why didn't you wait?" The tears rose slowly into Kaya's eyes, and she hid her face in the pillow. "You didn't believe me," said the Kapellmeister, "but you see I was better than my word--I have come myself. Why do you suppose I have come?" She lay silent. "If I hadn't come," he said grimly, "You would be lying in that pool yonder, by now, broken to pieces against the wheel; and I should have sought for my bird in vain." He saw how the pillow rose and fell with her breath, and how she listened. "I wanted a bird for my Siegfried on Saturday," he went on, "Some one to sit far aloft in the flies and sing, as you sang this morning, high and pure, in the middle of the tone. Helmanoff has trained you well, child, you take the notes as if nature herself had been your teacher. Neumann is gone; she screeches like an owl! Elle a son congé!" He continued to look at the pillow and the gold curls spread across it. "Will you come and be my bird, child? I suppose you can't act as yet; but up in the flies you will be hidden, and only your prototype will flutter across the stage on its wires. When I heard you this morning, I said to myself: 'Ha--my bird at last! Siegfried's bird!'" He laughed softly, and bent over and stroked the curls: "I came to-night because the Neumann went off in a huff. She made a scene at rehearsal, or rather I did. I told her to go and darn stockings for a living, and she seemed to resent it!" He paused for a moment. "Saturday is only day after to-morrow--and we have no bird!" The girl lay motionless, and the Kapellmeister went on stroking her curls. "If you sing, you will be paid, you know!" he said, "and then you need not try to kill the poor bird for lack of a crumb. Why didn't you tell me this morning, little one?" Kaya raised her head feebly and gazed at him: "My voice is gone!" she said, "My voice is--gone!" "Bah!" said the Kapellmeister, "With a throat like that! It is only beginning to come. The Lehmann's voice was as yours in her youth, light at first and colorature; and it grew! Mein Gott, how it grew and deepened, and swelled, and soared!--Get strong, child, and your voice will ripen like fruit in the sun." He stooped over the pillow and looked into her eyes: "Come, child," he said, "Will you be my bird? Promise me! You won't think of that again--I can trust you? If I leave you now--" Kaya put out her hands and clung to him suddenly, clasping his arm with her fingers. "I won't," she said, "I will live, and study, and do my best--and some day you think I shall be a singer? Oh, tell me truly! That is just what Helmanoff said, but when I asked them to hear me--I went to so many, so many!--they were always engaged, or--" She caught her breath a little, stumbling over the words: "You think so--truly?" "I think so truly," said the Kapellmeister, "You must come to see me at the Opera-House to-morrow and rehearse your part, and I will teach you. You shall have your honorarium to-night in advance; and you must eat and grow strong." "I will," said Kaya. There was a new resolve in her tone, fresh hope, and she put her hand to her throat instinctively, as if to imprison the voice inside and keep it from escaping. "Has the miller gone?" she asked. "Yes," said Ritter, "He is gone and the door is closed; we are alone." "Then put your head lower," whispered the girl, "and I will tell you. Perhaps, when you--know!" "Go on," said the Kapellmeister, "I am here, child, close to you, and no one shall hurt you. Don't tremble." "Do you see my hands?" said the girl, "Look at them. They are stained with blood--stained with-- Ah, you draw away!" "Go on," said Ritter, "You drew away yourself, child. What do you mean? What could you do with a hand like that, a rose leaf? Ha!" He laughed and clasped it with his own to give her courage: "Go on." "You are not Russian," said the girl, "so you can't understand. When one is not Russian--to be an anarchist, to kill--that is terrible, unpardonable! But with us--My father is Mezkarpin," she whispered, "You have heard of him--yes? The great General, the friend of the Tsar! And I am the Countess Kaya, his--his daughter!" Her voice broke, and she was silent for a moment, leaning against the pillow. Then she went on: "There is a society," she whispered, "in St. Petersburg. It is called 'The Black Cross'; and whosoever is a member of that order must obey the will of the order; and when they pass judgment, the sentence must be fulfilled. They are just and fair. When a man, an official, has sinned only once, they pass him by; but when he has committed crime after crime, they take up his case and deliberate together, and he is judged and condemned. Sometimes it is the sentence of death, and then--" she hesitated, "and then we draw lots. The lot fell to--me." She shut her eyes, and as the Kapellmeister watched her face, he saw that it was convulsed in agony, and the boyish look was gone. "He was warned," she whispered, "three times he was warned, according to rule, and I--I killed him." The lines deepened in her face, and she half rose, leaning on her elbow, staring straight ahead of her as though at a vision, her lips moving: "_In the name of the Black Cross I do now pledge myself an instrument in the service of Justice and Retribution. On whomsoever the choice of Fate shall fall, I vow the sentence of death shall be fulfilled, by mine own hands if needs be, without weakness, or hesitation, or mercy; and if by any untoward chance this hand should fall, I swear--I swear, before the third night shall have passed, to die instead--to die--instead._" She struggled up on the bed, kneeling. "I killed him!" she cried in a whisper, "I killed him! I see him lying on the floor there--on his face! There--there! Look! With his arms outstretched--and the blood in a pool!" She was leaning forward over the edge of the bed, staring with her eyes dilated, pointing into the shadows and shuddering: "Don't you see him--there?" The Kapellmeister was white and his hands shook. He took her strongly by the shoulders. "Lie down," he said, "You are dreaming. There is nothing there. Look me in the eyes! I tell you there is nothing there, and your hands are not stained. Lie down." Kaya gazed at him for a moment in bewilderment: "Where am I?" she said, passing her hand over her eyes. "Who are you? I thought you were-- Why no, I must have been dreaming as you say." "The hunger has made you delirious," said the Kapellmeister: "Look me in the eyes as I tell you, and I will smooth away those lines from your forehead. Sleep now--sleep!" The girl sank reluctantly back on the pillows and the Kapellmeister sat beside her, his gaze fixed on hers with a strained attention, unblinking. He was passing his hand over her forehead slowly and lightly, scarcely touching her: "Sleep--" he said, "Sleep." Her lids wavered and drooped slowly, and she sighed and stirred against the pillows, turning on her side. "Sleep--" he said. The garret was still, and only the moonbeams danced on the floor. The doves in the eaves slept with their heads tucked under their wings, and the spiders were motionless in the midst of the webs; only the water was splashing below. The Kapellmeister watched the girl on the pallet. He sat leaning back with his arms folded, his head in the shadow, and his face was grim. "She will sleep now," he said to himself, "sleep until I wake her. She is young and strong, and there is no harm done; but she has had some fearful shock, and it has shaken her like a slender birch struck by a storm. I will send my old Marta, and she will look after her--poor little bird!" Kaya lay on her side with her face half turned to the pillow; her cheek was flushed and her breath came gently through the arch of her lips. Her curls were like a halo about her, and her right hand lay on the blanket limp, small and white with the fingers relaxed. "I am getting to be an old man," said the Kapellmeister to himself, "and my heart is seared; but if I had a daughter, and she looked like that--I would throw over the Tsar and all his kingdom. The great Juggernaut of Autocracy has gone over her, and her wings are bruised. It is only her voice that can save her now." He rose to his feet slowly, and in the dim light of the moon his hair was silvered, and he seemed weary and worn. He stood by the pallet, looking down at the slim, still figure for a moment; and his hand stole out and touched a strand of her hair. Then he covered her gently. "Sleep," he said, "Sleep!" And he turned and went out, closing the door. CHAPTER XVII "Is it only a week that I have been ill, Marta? It seems like a month." "A week and a day, Fräulein; but you are better now, and to-morrow, the Doctor says you shall go out on the promenade and smell of the rose buds." Kaya was half lying, half seated on the pallet, with her hands clasped behind her head; she was dressed in a blue gown, worn and shabby but spotlessly neat, and her throat and her arms were bare. "But how soon can I sing, Marta? Did he say when? Did you hear him?" The old nurse sat by the bed-side, knitting and counting her stitches aloud to herself from time to time. "One--two--four--seven!" she mumbled, "Sing, Fräulein? Ah, who can tell! You are weak yet." "No," said Kaya, "I am strong; see my arms. I can stand up quite well and walk about the room with the help of your shoulder; you know I can, Marta." The old woman gave her a glance over her spectacles: "Seven--ten!" she repeated, "If it were your spirit, Fräulein, you would be Samson himself; but your body--" She shook her head: "Na, when the master comes, ask him yourself. It is he who has talked with the Doctor, not I." "He is coming now," said Kaya. "I hear his step on the stairs, quick and firm like his beat. Don't you hear it, Marta?--Now he has stopped and is talking with the miller." She leaned back on the pillows and her eyes watched the door. "Eh, Fräulein! Nein, I hear nothing! What an ear you have--keen as a doe's when the wind is towards her! At home, in the forest, where the deer run wild and they come in the dawn to the Schneide to graze--whischt! The crackle of a leaf and they are off flying, with their muzzles high and their eyes wild. Na! I hear nothing but the wheel below grinding and squeaking, and the splash of the water." "He is coming up the stairs," cried Kaya, "Open the door for him, Marta, and let the Kapellmeister in." The old woman rolled up her knitting slowly: "It was just at the turn of the chain," she grumbled, "and I have lost a stitch in the counting. The master can come in by himself." Kaya gave a gleeful laugh like a child, and slipped her feet to the floor: "Oh, you cross Marta, you dear humbug!" she cried, "As if you wouldn't let the master walk over you and never complain! Go on with that wonderful muffler of his, and I will let him in myself. No, don't touch me! Let me go alone and surprise him." She steadied herself with her hand to the bed-post, then caught at the chair: "Don't touch me--Marta! I am quite strong--now, and able to--walk!" A knock came on the door, and she made a little run forward and opened it, clinging to the handle. "Du himmlische Güte!" exclaimed the Kapellmeister, "If the bird isn't trying its wings! Behüte, child!" He put a strong arm about her, looking down at her sternly and shaking his head: "Do you call this obedience?" he said grimly, "I thought I told you not to leave that couch alone--eh?" "Don't scold me," said Kaya, "I feel so well to-day, and there is something leaping in my throat. Herr Kapellmeister--it is begging to come out; let me try to sing, won't you?" She clung to his arm and her eyes plead with him: "Don't scold me. You have put 'Siegfried' off twice now because you had no bird. Let me try to-day." The Kapellmeister frowned. Her form was like a lily swaying against the trunk of an oak. "Tschut--" he said, "Bewahre! Marta, go down and bring up her soup. When your cheeks are red, child, and the shadows are gone from under your eyes, then we will see." Kaya pushed away his arm gently, and there was a firmness about her chin as of a purpose new-born. "You have paid for my lodging and my food, Herr Kapellmeister," she said proudly, "You have sent me your own servant, and she has been to me like a foster mother. You have cared for me, and the Doctor and the medicines are all at your cost." She steadied herself, still rejecting his hand, "And I--" she said, "I have earned nothing; I have been like a beggar. If you will not let me sing, Herr Kapellmeister, then--" He looked at her for a moment in a wounded way and his brow darkened: "Well--?" he said. "Then you must take away your servant and the Doctor, and--and your kindness," said Kaya bravely, "and let me starve again." "You are proud--eh? You remember that you are a Countess?" The Kapellmeister laughed harshly. "I am not a Countess any more," said Kaya, "but I am proud. Will you let me sing?" "When you are strong again and your voice has come back," he returned dryly, "you can sing, and not before. As for paying your debts-- There is time enough for that. Now will you have the goodness to return to the couch, Fräulein, or do you prefer to faint on the floor?" Kaya glanced at the stern face above her, and her lip quivered: "You are angry," she said, "I have hurt you. I didn't mean to hurt you." "The Doctor will be in presently," continued Ritter coldly, "I daresay he can restore you, if you faint, better than I. Perhaps you will obey his orders as you reject mine." There was something brutal in the tone of his voice that stung the girl like a lash. She turned and tottered back to the couch, the Kapellmeister following, his arms half extended as if to catch her if she fell; but she did not fall. He was still frowning, and he seemed moody, distraught. "Shall I cover you?" he said. Kaya put out her hand timidly and touched his: "You have been so kind to me," she whispered, "Every day you have come, and when I was delirious I heard your voice; and Marta told me afterwards how you sat by the bed and quieted me, and put me to sleep.--Don't be angry." All of a sudden she stooped and put her lips to his sleeve. He snatched his hand away roughly. "You have nothing to be grateful for," he cried, "Pah! If a man picks up a bird with a broken wing and nurses it to life again for the sake of its voice, is that cause for gratitude? I do it for my own ends, child. Tschut!" He turned his back on her and went over to the window. "If you want to know when you can sing, ask the Doctor. If he says you may--" "You are still angry," said Kaya, "Don't be angry. If you don't want me to sing, I will lie here as you tell me and--try to get stronger." She moved her head restlessly on the pillow, "Yes--I will!" Ritter began to strum on the window-panes with his strong fingers: "The Doctor is here," he said, "ask him. I don't want you breaking down and spoiling the opera, that is all. The rest is nothing to me. Come in!" There was a certain savageness in his tone, and he went on strumming the motive on the panes. "Come in, Doctor." The door opened and a young man came forward. He was short of stature, and slight, with spectacles, and he stooped as if from much bending over folios. "My patient is up?" he said. "Walking about the room!" interrupted the Kapellmeister curtly. The Doctor sat down by the pallet and took the girl's wrist between his fingers: "Why does it throb like this?" he said, "What is troubling you?" "I want to sing," persisted Kaya defiantly, "If I sit in the flies with cushions behind me, and only a small, small part--couldn't I do it, Doctor?" The young man glanced at the Kapellmeister's rugged shoulders, and shrugged his own: "Why should it hurt you?" he said, "You have a throat like a tunnel, and a sounding board like the arch of a bridge. Your voice should come tumbling through it like a stream, without effort. Don't tire yourself and let the part be short; it may do you good." Kaya's eyes began to glisten and sparkle: "It is only the bird's part!" she cried, "and I am hidden in the flies, so no one can see me. Ah--I am happy! I am well, Doctor--you have made me well!" Presently the old woman brought in the soup and the Doctor rose: "Will you come with me, Herr Kapellmeister?" he said, "We can smoke below in the mill, while the Fräulein eats. I have still a few minutes." Then the Kapellmeister left the window, and the two men went out together. "Marta!" cried the girl, "I can sing! Did you hear him say it? Give me the soup quickly, while it is hot. I feel so strong--so well!" She began taking the soup with one hand, and rubbing her cheek with the other: "Now, isn't it red, Marta? Look--tell me! Nurse, while you knit, tell me--did you see how angry he was, and how he went out without a word? It is he himself who asked me to sing, so why should he be angry now?" The old woman clicked her knitting needles: "How do I know!" she said, "He lives alone so much, and he is crusty and crabbed, they say. I nursed him when he was a child, just as I nurse you now. He has a temper--Jesus-Maria--the master! But his heart is of gold. His wife--" she hesitated, "She was a singer, and she ran away and left him. They say she ran away with the famous tenor, Brondi, who used to sing Tristan. Since then the master has been soured-like!" "That is strange," said Kaya dreamily, "to run away from some one you love, when you can be with him night and day and never leave him! Sometimes there is a curse, and you are torn by your love, whether to go or stay. But if you love him enough, you go--and that is the best love--to save him from the curse and suffer yourself alone. Perhaps there was a curse." "What are you saying?" cried the old woman, "When you were delirious, it was always a curse you raved of, and stains on your hands. Mein Gott! My blood ran cold just to hear you, and the Kapellmeister used to come--" Kaya turned white: "He came?" she said, "and he heard me? What did I say, Marta, tell me! Tell me quickly!" She caught the old woman's hands and wrung them between her own. "Jesus-Maria! My knitting!--What you said, Fräulein? How do I remember! Stuff and nonsense mostly! You were crazy with fever, and your eyes used to shine so, it made me afraid. Then the Kapellmeister would come and put you to sleep with his eyes.--Let go of my hands, Fräulein, you are crushing the wool! Is it the fever come back?-- Oh Je!" "No," said Kaya, "No. You don't remember, Marta, whether I said any name--any particular name? I didn't--did I?" The nurse pondered for a moment, then she went on knitting: "I can't remember," she said, "There was something you used to repeat, over and over, a single word--it might have been a name. Won't you finish your soup, Fräulein?" "No," said Kaya, "I am tired. Will you go down, Marta, and ask the Kapellmeister if he will come for a moment? I have something to ask him." The nurse rose: "They are smoking still," she said, "Yes, I smell their cigars! If you have finished the soup, I will take the tray. Jesus-Maria! You are flushed, Fräulein, and before you were so white! You are sure it is not the fever come back?" "Feel my hands," said Kaya, "Is that fever?" Then she shut her eyes. She heard clumsy footsteps descending the stairs, and then a pause; and after a moment or two steps coming back, but they were firm and quick, and her heart kept time to them. "What did I say in my ravings?" she cried to herself, "What did he hear?" "Nun?" said the Kapellmeister. "I see now what hurt you," said Kaya, without raising her eyes, "You thought I wanted to repay your kindness that can never be repaid; that I was narrow and little, and was too proud to take from your hands what you gave me. Forgive me." The Kapellmeister crossed the room and sat down on the chair that the nurse had left. He said nothing, and Kaya felt through her closed lids that he was looking at her. "How shall I ask him?" she was saying to herself, "How shall I put it into words when perhaps he understood nothing after all?" "If you think your voice is there," said the Kapellmeister, "fresh, and not too strained for the high notes, why you can try it now. If it goes all right, I daresay we could announce 'Siegfried' for the end of the week." "Will you give me the note?" said Kaya, "Is it F#, or G, I forget?" "I will hum you the preceding bars where Siegfried first hears the bird." Ritter began softly, half speaking, half singing the words in his deep voice, taking the tenor notes falsetto. "Now--on the F#. The bird must be heard far away in the branches, and you must move your head so--as it flutters from leaf to leaf." Kaya lifted herself from the pillows until she sat upright, supporting herself with one hand. She began to sing, and then she stopped and gave a cry. "It is there!" she said pitifully, "I feel it, but it won't come!--I can't make it come! It is as if there were a gate in my throat and it was barred!" Tears sprang to her eyes. She opened her lips farther, but the sound that came was strange and muffled; and she listened to it as if it were some changeling given to her by a mischievous demon in exchange for her own. "That isn't my voice," she said, "You know as well as I--it never sounded like that before! What is it? Tell me--" The Kapellmeister laughed a little, mockingly: "I told you, child," he said, "I warned you. Don't look like that! When you are stronger, it will come with a burst, and be bigger and fresher than ever before. Siegfried must wait for his bird, that is all." Kaya clasped her throat with both hands as if to tear away the obstruction: "I will sing--I will!" she cried, "It is there--I feel it! Why won't it come out?" She gave a little moan, and threw herself back on the pillows. The Kapellmeister stooped suddenly; a look half fierce, half pitying came in his face. He bent over her until his eyes were close to hers, and he forced her to look at him: "What is that word you say? When you were raving, you repeated it again and again: 'Velasco--Velasco.' There is a violinist by that name, a musician." "A--musician!" stammered Kaya. She was staring at him with eyes wide-open and frightened. "His name is Velasco." "Ve--las--co?" The syllables came through her lips like a breath. "No--no!" she cried suddenly, hoarsely, "I don't know him! I--I never saw him!" She struggled with the lie bravely, turning white to the lips and gazing. "It was some one I knew in Russia; some one I--I loved." She sat up suddenly and wrung her hands together: "You don't believe me?" "No," said the Kapellmeister, "You can't lie with eyes like that." Kaya gazed at him desperately: "Don't tell him," she breathed, "Ah--don't let him know--I implore you!" Ritter gave a sharp exclamation and caught the little figure in his arms. "She has fainted!" he cried, "Potztausend, what a brute I was!" He laid her back on the pillow and stood staring down at her, breathing heavily and clenching his hands. "If I were Velasco!" he muttered, "Ah Gott--I am mad! Marta--Marta!" CHAPTER XVIII The day was very warm and sultry, and the visitors, who flocked to Ehrestadt for the opera season, fanned themselves resignedly as they sat in the shaded gardens, drinking beer and liqueurs, and gossiping about the singers. The performance of 'Siegfried' was to be given that night for the second time, and they discussed it together. "The tenor--ah, what a voice he had, and what acting, but Brünnhilde--bah!" They shook their heads. "The Schultz was growing old, and her voice was thin in the upper register; it struck against the roof of her mouth when she forced it, and sounded like tin. In the love-scene, when Brünnhilde wakes from her sleep--Tschut! What a pity a singer should ever grow old; and a still greater pity--a Jammerschade that she should go on singing!" "The Conductor was in despair, and so were the Directors; but the contract was signed, it was too late. Ach bewahre, poor Ritter! He was in such a pique," they said, "der Arme! The bird--that was poor too, shrill and cheap! Die Neumann, who was she? Someone out of the chorus perhaps. But the Mime was splendid." And then they went back to the great Siegfried again and praised him--"Perron! He was worth the rest of the performance together, he and the orchestra; but when he had sung it with the Lehmann last year, ach--that was a different matter. He had gone through the part like a Siegfried inspired, and she--ah divine! There was no Brünnhilde to compare with her now. What a night it had been! Do you recall it?" they said--"Do you remember it?" And then the opera-goers closed their eyes ecstatically. "The season before was better, far better!--Tschut!" And then they went on drinking their beer and liqueurs, and fanning themselves resignedly. "If the heat did not break before night-fall there would be a thunder-storm." The clouds were gathering far in the West, and the insects were humming. The air was heavy with the scent of blossoms; and the waitresses ran to and fro, dressed in Tyrolese costume; the prettier they were the more they ran. "One beer!--Three liqueurs!" "Sogleich, meine Herren!" The garden was shady, and the glasses clinked; the tongues wagged. "You are not afraid; you are comfortable, child, swung up there in the tree-tops?" Kaya's eyes shone like two stars down from the green. "My heart beats," she said, "but it is only stage fright; it will pass. Is the House full?" "Packed to the roof!" "I am only a bird," said Kaya softly, "They won't think of me. It is Siegfried they have come to hear, and Brünnhilde. How glorious to be a Brünnhilde!" The Kapellmeister took out his watch: "I must go," he said, "Good-bye, little one; remember what I told you, and let your voice come out without effort; not too loud, or too soft! When your part is over, one of the stage-hands will let you down again." Kaya nodded, swinging herself childishly. "It is sweet to be a bird," she said, "I think I shall stay here always, and Siegfried will never find me." "No--he shall never find you!" said the Kapellmeister suddenly and sharply. Their eyes met for a moment. "Are you all right?" he repeated, "You are pale." Kaya shrank back into the leaves that were painted, and they trembled slightly as if a breeze had passed; and the great drop-curtain blew out, bulging. "Keep the windows shut," called the voice of the stage manager, "Quick--before the curtain goes up. A storm is coming, and the draughts--oh Je!" He went hurrying past. Ritter glanced at his watch again mechanically; then he crossed the stage to the left, and hurried down a small, winding stair-case to the pit, where the orchestra waited. A sharp tap of the baton--a glance over his men--then the second Act began. Kaya sat very still under the leaves with the painted branches about her. She was perched on a swing, high aloft in the flies; and when she looked up, she saw nothing but ropes, and machinery, and darkness; and when she looked down, there was Mime below her, crouched by a stone; the sun was rising, the shadows were breaking, and Siegfried lay stretched at the foot of the Linden. He had long, light hair and fur about his shoulders, and he was big and splendid to look at in his youth and his wrath. He was threatening Mime, and the dwarf was muttering and cursing. Beyond was the pit with the orchestra, the footlights, the House. Kaya listened, and her thoughts went back to St. Petersburg and the class of Helmanoff. She was singing to him, and when she had finished, he had taken her hands. "If you were not a Countess," he said, "you could be a Lehmann in time, another Lehmann." Kaya leaned her curls against the rope of the swing dreamily. "How long ago that seems," she said to herself, "before--before I--" Then she thought of the weeks since her illness, and how her voice had come back suddenly, over night as it were, only bigger and fuller; and how she had worked and studied, day after day, rehearsing with Ritter. Her brow clouded a little as she remembered. He had been severe, the Kapellmeister, caustic, even irritable. How hard he was to satisfy! When she sang her best, he shrugged his shoulders; when she sang badly, he was furious. Occasionally he was kind as to-day, but not often. . . . Siegfried was alone now, carving his reed, trying to mimic the song of the wood birds. . . . The Kapellmeister had said nothing of Lehmann; perhaps she had lost her voice after all. Her thoughts rambled on as she waited for her cue. . . . Siegfried's horn was to his lips and he was blowing it; a splendid figure, eager, expectant. . . . Kaya stretched her throat like a bird: "If it should be barred," she said to herself, "as it was before, and the orchestra began with the theme, and I couldn't sing!" She trembled a little. So the first scene passed; and the second. The Dragon was on the stage now, and Siegfried was fighting him. The hot breath poured from the great, red nostrils; the sword flashed. The battle grew fiercer. . . . Kaya leaned over, stooping in the swing, and gazing. "Siegfried has wounded him," she whispered,--"in a moment the sword will have reached his heart. . . . Ah, now--it has struck him--he is dying! As soon as he is dead! As soon as he is--dead." The orchestra was playing passionately, and she knew every note; the bird motive came nearer and nearer. Already her prototype was being prepared in the flies, and the wires made ready. She clung to the rope, swinging. . . . Ah, how good the Kapellmeister had been to her; how good! It was his very interest in her that had made him severe, she knew that. She must sing her best, and not wound him by failure. The motive came nearer. Siegfried was standing just below her now. She took a deep breath and her lips parted. He was peering up at her, searching through the leaves, and the bird on its wire fluttered across the stage. . . . She was singing. The notes, high and pure, poured out of her throat. The bird fluttered past. [Illustration: Fragment of "Siegfried"] She swayed, with her head leaning back against the ropes, and sang--and sang. Her throat was like a tunnel and her voice was like a stream running through it, clear and glorious. Siegfried looked up and started. The orchestra played on. "Has the Fräulein gone home?" "No," said Marta, yawning, "She is in one of the dressing-rooms. I begged her to come, but she wouldn't." The Kapellmeister laid his hand on her shoulder carelessly: "If you are sleepy," he said, "go back to the mill; I will bring her myself presently. The House is dark now, and the people are going." He gave a curt nod, dismissing the old woman, and strode on through the wings. One person after another stopped him: "Ha, Kapellmeister, where did that nightingale hail from?" "I snared it for you, Siegfried; were you satisfied?" "Ach, mein Gott! I thought I was back on the Riviera, and it was moon-light.-- Snare me another Brünnhilde, can't you?" The great tenor laughed and put his finger to his lips: "Singing with the Lehmann spoils one," he said, "Bah--! It was frightful to-night! She grows always worse. Would the bird were a goddess instead." He waved his hand: "Good-night!" "Good-night," said the Kapellmeister, hurrying on. "Ritter--hey! Stop a moment! What has come over the Neumann?" "Nothing, Jacobs--nothing! She is dead." Mime straightened his back that was stiff from much crouching: "Ausgeworfen?" "Ja wohl." "Then who is the lark?" "An improvement you think--eh?" The singer laughed: "The way Perron jumped! Did you see him? With the first note he gaped open-mouthed into the branches, and came within an ace of dropping his sword. I chuckled aloud in the wings. Who is she, Kapellmeister?" "Good-night--good-night!" cried Ritter, "excuse me, but I am late and in a hurry. This opera conducting is frightfully wearing; I am limp as a rag. Good-night!" he ran on. The doors of the dressing-rooms stood open, and he peered into them, one after the other. In some the electric light was still on, and the costumes were scattered about on the open trunks. The principals were gone already, and most of the chorus; and the men of the orchestra went hurrying by like shadows, with their instruments under their arms. In the House itself, behind the asbestos curtain, which was lowering slowly, came the sound of seats swinging back, and the voices of the ushers as they rushed to and fro. "Kaya!" called the Kapellmeister softly, "Where are you?" He hurried from room to room. The dressing-room of Madame Schultz was on the second floor, up a short, winding stair-case, and the lights were turned low. Ritter paused in the doorway. The prima-donna was standing before the pier-glass, still in costume; her soft, white robes trailed over the floor, and her red-blonde hair hung to her waist. The helmet glittered on her head, and she held her spear aloft as if about to utter the Walküre cry. The figure was superb, magnificent; a goddess at bay. And as the Kapellmeister stared at her in astonishment, he saw that she was tense with emotion. "Madame," he stammered, "You! You--still here?" Her face was to the glass, her back to the door; she wheeled about quickly and faced him: "Yes, I am here!" she cried, "Brünnhilde is here! The House was cold to me to-night--they clapped Perron. It was all Siegfried. They would have hissed me if they had dared." The spear shook in her trembling hand. "When my voice broke in the top notes, you could hear them whispering in the loggias; didn't you hear them? 'She is old,' they said, 'she can't sing any more, or act! She has no business to be here. Get us another Brünnhilde!' And the stage hands looked at me pityingly. I saw! Do you think I am blind and deaf as well as old? Look at me as I stand here! I am Brünnhilde!" The form of the singer was rigid, drawn to its height; the head thrown back and the helmet glittering on her red-blonde hair. Her eyes were proud and scornful. "Am I not--Brünnhilde?" "Yes--yes!" cried Ritter, drawing back in a dazed way: "You are magnificent, Madame. If you had acted like that tonight, you would have had the House at your feet." The singer took a step forward. "It is not I," she cried, "It is Brünnhilde herself! Come, let her sing to you! The scene is still there on the stage, the rocks and the fir-tree--and Brünnhilde's couch. The fire motive seethes in my brain, and the flames are springing. Come--and waken me!" She grasped his sleeve with her fingers, and drew him: "You are not the Kapellmeister!" she cried, "You are Siegfried, and you must sing the part in falsetto. Come!" Ritter gave a quick glance about. The stage hands were gone, and the singers. The stage was in semi-darkness, half lighted, and the scene was unchanged. He could see it from the top of the balustrade. There was no one in the House behind, or in front, and the foot-lights were out; only the porter watched below, half asleep and waiting. He was alone with a mad woman; Brünnhilde gone crazy and frantic with grief because she was old and her voice was gone. She was dragging at his hand, and pulling him towards the stair-case. He followed her dumbly. "Come--come!" she panted, "You think the Schultz has gone mad! No--no! It is only her youth come back, and her voice is leaping in her throat. She must sing--must sing! There is the couch. See, I fling myself on it! I am covered with the shield, and the spear lies beside me. You have wakened me, Siegfried, with your kiss; and now I raise myself slowly. I am dazed--I stare blindly about! Hark, how the fire is leaping and crackling!" The singer was seated upright now on the couch, and Ritter was standing helpless beside her. As she acted, the blood ran cold in his veins. It was true what she had said. She was no longer the Schultz: she was Brünnhilde herself, the goddess, and the kiss of Siegfried was on her lips. She was singing now; she had sprung to her feet with the spear in her hand, and the music poured from her throat. It was not the voice of Schultz; it was richer and fuller, and the tones were deep and strong, and pure and high; and it rang out and filled the empty stage like a clarion trumpet, silver-toned. She held her hands high above her head, waving the spear; coming nearer to him and nearer. "O Siegfried, Herrliche Hort der Welt! Leben der Erde, lachender Held!" Her red-blonde hair shone in the light and the helmet glittered: "Siegfried! Siegfried!" It was the Lehmann come back! Ah, no--it was more than the Lehmann! Ritter gazed and listened, and his heart gave a leap. It was Brünnhilde herself, the goddess come to life; and the stage was no longer there: it was night on the mountain-top; they were surrounded by fires crackling and leaping; the flash of flames curling, and light and smoke. The violins were playing. Instinctively his fingers clutched the air as if grasping the baton. "Siegfried!" The cry came big and passionate as from the throat of a Walküre, without limit or strain. The Kapellmeister staggered and covered his eyes. "Gott!" he cried, "Am I dreaming? Where am I? Madame--stop! Are you the Schultz, or are you--? I thought you were mad, stark mad; but it is I--I! When I looked at you now, you were Brünnhilde alive--your voice is the voice of the goddess herself!" He sank down on the couch and covered his face with his hands. The blood rushed to his ears and seethed there, and the music beat against his brain. Then the faintness passed, and he looked up. Brünnhilde stood a little apart, still grasping the spear. The light fell on her helmet, and it shone; her lips were arched as if the tones were still in her throat, dying away. She was gazing at him and her breast was panting. The light fell full on her face. "Ach--mein Gott!" he cried, "It is Kaya!" CHAPTER XIX "Yes, it is I," said Kaya. She put up both hands, lifting the helmet from her head, and the red-blonde hair fell back from her short, gold curls. The spear dropped with a clang to the stage and lay extended between them, glittering. "My voice was there," she said softly, "in my throat, leaping and bounding, and the gate was unbarred." She seemed half afraid, and drew back in the shadow. Ritter still sat on the edge of the couch, where Brünnhilde had lain, and where Siegfried had kissed her. His face had a dazed look, and he passed his hand over his eyes several times, as if the dusk were too dim for his sight. "I thought you were the Schultz gone mad!" he murmured. "Gott! What an actress you are!" A laugh came to him out of the darkness. "You are no bird," said Ritter, "You are a Walküre born. Take the helmet again and the spear. As you stood in the shadow, gazing downward, you were like a young warrior watching his shield." He sprang to his feet and came toward her, placing the spear in her hand, the helmet again on her head. "Sing," he said, "Let me hear it again. Your voice is a marvel! The timbre is silver and the tones are of bronze. Let me look at your throat! Gott--but the roof of your mouth is arched like a dome and the passage is as the nave of a cathedral, wide and deep!" His hand grasped her shoulder, trembling: "Did Helmanoff know you had a voice like that?" he cried, "Tell me, child, did he train you? The part is most difficult to act and to sing. Tell me--or am I dreaming still?" Kaya fingered the spear dreamily: "My voice is bigger and fuller," she said; "it came so all of a sudden, but he taught me the part, and he told me, some day, if I were not a Countess I could become the Brünnhilde." Her form stiffened suddenly and she threw off his grasp, springing forward and crouching: "You are Wotan and you are angry," she whispered, "The Brünnhilde is your child and she has sinned. You have threatened her, and now she is pleading: 'Wotan--Father!'" Her voice rose, and her form shook as though with sobs. She crept closer, still crouching, and lay at his feet, and her voice was like something crying and wrestling. "Hier bin ich Vater: Gebiete die Strafe . . . Du verstösest mich? Versteh' ich den Sinn? Nimmst du mir alles was einst du gabst?" Her voice sobbed, dying away into a tone pure, soft, heart-breaking, like a breath; yet it penetrated and filled the stage, the wings, and came echoing back. "Hier bin ich Vater; Gebiete die Strafe . . . Du verstösest mich?" For a moment she lay as if exhausted; then she covered her head with her hands as if fearing and trembling: "Now curse me," she whispered, "Curse me! I hear the flames now beginning to crackle!" The Kapellmeister put out his hand and took hers, and lifted her: "If the House were full," he said, "and you acted like that, they would go stark mad; they would shower bouquets at your feet and carry you on their shoulders. The Lehmann was the great Brünnhilde, but you are greater, Kaya. Your voice has the gift of tears. When you let it out, one is thrilled and shaken, and there is no end to the glory and power; it encircles one as with a wreath of tones. But when you lower it suddenly and breathe out the sound--child--little one, what have you suffered to sing like that? You are young. What must you have suffered!" He clasped her hands tenderly between his own, and stared down into her eyes. "Don't touch me," she said brokenly, "I told you--there is blood on them! I am cursed like Brünnhilde. The curse is in my voice and you hear it, and it is that that makes you tremble and shudder--just as I tremble and shudder--at night--when I dream, and I see the body beside me on the floor--and the red pool--widening. Helmanoff used to tell me my voice was cold and pure like snow; there was no feeling, no warmth, no abandon. You see--if I have learned it, it is not Helmanoff who has taught me--but suffering." Her eyes were like two fires burning, and she put her hand to her throat. "To have the gift of tears you must have shed them," she whispered, looking at him strangely: "You must have--shed them." "Is it the curse alone," said the Kapellmeister, "that keeps you and Velasco apart, little one? Forgive me! Don't start like that! Don't--don't tremble." Kaya backed away from him, snatching away her hands. Her lips were quivering and her eyes half closed. "Ah--" she breathed, "You are cruel. Take the spear and strike me, but don't prod a wound that is open and will not--heal! Have you no wound of your own hidden that you must needs bare mine?" "It is love that has taught you," said the Kapellmeister, "You love him--Velasco!" She gave a low moan and flung her arms up, covering her face. The Kapellmeister stared at her for a moment. The stage was dark, and only a bulb of light, here and there, gleamed in the distance. Below, the watchman was pacing the corridor, waiting, and the smell of his pipe came up through the wings. The scenery looked grim and ghostly; the couch of Brünnhilde lay bare. Above were ropes and machinery dangling, and darkness. He clinched his teeth suddenly and a sound escaped him, half a cry, half a groan; but smothered, as though seized and choked back. "Come," he said. He went to her roughly and took the helmet from her head, and the shield, and the spear; she standing there heedless with her arms across her face. They fell to the floor with a crash, first one, then the other, and the sound was like a blow, repeating itself in loud echoes. "Go and take off your things," he said hurriedly, "It is midnight--past, and the watchman is waiting to lock the stage door. Rouse yourself--go! I will wait for you here." He heard the sound of her footsteps crossing the stage, ascending the stair-case; and he walked backwards and forwards, forwards and backwards, in and out among the rocks and the trees. His forehead was scarred with lines, and his shoulders were bent. The look of the victorious General about him had changed into the look of one who has met the enemy face to face, and has fought with his strength and his might, and been beaten, with his forces slain and a bullet in his breast. His eyes were fierce and his face set, his feet stumbled; he was white as death and weary. He heard her coming back and he walked on, backwards and forwards, without looking or heeding. "Have you your cloak?" "Yes." "An umbrella?" "No." "It is raining. Don't you hear it, and the thunder in the distance? The storm has broken. Come, we will take a cab." He strode across the stage and down the staircase; she following. He nodded to the watchman: "Still rehearsing," he said shortly, "Sorry to keep you up. Whistle, will you, for a Droschke? Gott! The rain is terrific; hear it! Come." There was the sound of wheels, of horses' hoofs. He went forward and opened the door of the Droschke, and Kaya crept in. She was no longer the Brünnhilde; she was a little figure, slight and pale, and wrapped in a cloak; and she sat in the corner against the cushions, staring out at the rain, quivering at the thunder crashes. Ritter stepped in behind her and closed the door. "Nonnen-Mühle!" he cried, "and drive fast. We are chilled to the bone! The storm grows worse; it is devilish late!" He flung himself back in the opposite corner, and the Droschke rolled on. It was still in the carriage. From outside came the sound of the rain falling, and the hoofs of the horses trotting. Kaya shut her eyes. The rhythmical sound caught her senses. She was in St. Petersburg again, and driving in the darkness through the night and the storm; and Velasco was beside her--Velasco! They were driving to the church to be--married. "Don't do that again," cried the Kapellmeister fiercely, "I can't bear it." "W--what?" "You moaned." Kaya crept closer into the corner, and clasped the cloak to her breast and throat. "It is like seeing a bird with a shot in its breast--in torture," he said, "And when you sing, it is like a swan song. Your soul is on your lips, crying out, imploring.--Kaya!" He bent over the shrinking form in the corner: "I was brutal to you; my heart was sore, seeing you suffer. The words came out like a lash; they cut you. I saw how they hurt you. Little one--if I bare the wound to the air again, forgive me--forgive me! No--don't shrink away. If you love him like that, my God--I know him! He comes to my house! Only a few weeks ago he was there, and he's coming again; soon, I tell you, soon. I swear I will bring him to you! If he won't come, I will force him; with my hands I will drag him if he refuses." The girl gave a cry: "Drag him!" she cried, "Force him! Ah, he'd fly at a word--he'd fly to me!" She caught her breath: "Bózhe moi!" she said suddenly, and laughed: "What are you talking about, dear Master? Velasco--he's nothing to me! A musician, you said--a violinist! You forget I am Brünnhilde to-night. We talked of a curse--not love. Siegfried is still behind the flames and cannot get past." She laughed again, a sound like a trill: "You forget, don't you?" she said, "I was acting a part! It wasn't real; I was only playing--pretending. How the Schultz cheated you! Ah, dear Master--you thought she had lost her wits and her size all at once. You never noticed how she had shrunken; and that was because I stood on tip-toe, and held myself straight with the helmet. If the light hadn't fallen full on my face, you would never have guessed! I laughed to myself; how I laughed! I--laughed!" "Child," said the Kapellmeister suddenly. "You are sobbing!" "I am not--I am laughing, dear Master. Look at me! There is the mill across the promenade. How gaunt the wheel looks, and strange, with its spokes dripping, and the rain lashing down! And there is a light in my window--a candle, see? Old Marta is waiting, and how she will scold. Tell me, Master--dear Master, before we get there, tell me--some day may I act Brünnhilde and sing, when the curtain is up, and the House is full, and Siegfried is there, and you at the baton--and the orchestra playing? Tell me!" She drew closer to him, and the last words came out in a whisper, breathless and eager. "Put those other thoughts out of your mind, dear Kapellmeister. Ve--Velasco is only a name--nothing more! "If I can sing I will be happy; I promise you. The sting of the curse will--pass. You are silent and cold!" she cried, "You won't tell me, and we are almost there--at the mill! Master!" The Kapellmeister started: "The mill?" he stammered, "What were you saying, Kaya? How cold your hand is, little one! Of course you shall sing. You shall be our great Brünnhilde and the visitors will flock to Ehrestadt, and you will be famous and beloved." He hesitated: "I can't see you, only your eyes gleaming, Kaya. How bright they are, little one, like live coals! Where did you get that name--'Master'? Did Marta teach you? My pupils say that, the chorus, the orchestra, and the singers; but you never used it before. It is because I am old now and my hair is grey, and you are a child. I must seem to you like your father, Kaya." "No," said the girl quickly, "not my father! He was hard and cruel; he was a friend of the Tsar. I--I never loved him." "Nor me," cried the Kapellmeister hoarsely, "Nor me!" The words sprang to his lips in spite of himself; they were low, and he thought she did not hear; but her ear was keen. She bent forward taking his hand, and kissed it swiftly, holding it between her own. "Dear Kapellmeister! Dear Master!" she cried, half laughing, half with a sob: "You know I love you. When I was ill and alone, and desperate, and helpless, longing to die, you came to me. You saved me and helped me; and I was nothing to you but a stranger. You were father and mother to me; and now, you are my master, and teacher, and friend." She lifted his hand again to her lips and caressed it: "I love you," she cried, "dear Master, I love you with all my heart!" Ritter stirred against the cushions; his hand lay limp in her clasp. "Yes, little one," he said, "Yes. Your heart is like your voice, fathomless and pure. The carriage has stopped now, and there is the candle, burning up yonder under the eaves. Can you find your way alone, without help? I am strangely weary." His voice was low, and the words came slowly, with an effort. He passed his hand over his face: "Good-night--Brünnhild'!" He held her hands and drew her towards him: "Good-night, little one. There are shadows under your eyes, and your lip quivers; you are pale.--Good-night." He held her for a moment in a strong grasp, staring down into her face; then she was gone and the door closed behind her. His hands were empty, and the horses had turned, and were galloping back through the rain and the night. CHAPTER XX It was dusk, and the lights of the Rathskeller began to twinkle out one by one. The Keller was long and rambling, divided into innumerable small alcoves and corners, partitioned by strange and antique carvings. The ceiling was low, with octagonal vaults like a cloister. On the smoke-grimed walls, here and there, were mural paintings of knights in armour, and fat peasants drinking, dimmed and half obliterated. Beneath were legends and proverbs, printed in quaint, old-German characters; while across one end, like a frieze, ran a ledge carven with gargoyles, rude and misshapen. On the ledge were beer mugs of every size and description, with queer tops and crooked handles. Above, suspended from the ceiling by chains, hung a huge Fass; and from the throats of the gargoyles, dragon and devil alike, dripped the beer, turned on by small taps hidden. In and out, among the tables, sped the waitresses in their Tyrolese costume with its picturesque head-dress; and beyond lay the garden, innumerable bulbs of light gleaming like fire-flies among the trees. "Bitte um zwei Münchener!" "Sogleich, meine Herren." "Ein Chartreuse und ein Pilsener!" "Jawohl! Sofort!" And the waitresses sped, vying with one another, coquetting with their patrons, smiling gayly with sharp retorts; their eyes bright, their trays laden with foaming beer mugs. In one of the alcoves, far back in the shadow, sat two gentlemen. The younger had removed his hat, and was pushing the hair impatiently back from his brows. His eyes were dark and sleepy, half covered by the brows, weighed down by the lids. He was leaning on one elbow and responded languidly to his companion, half heeding, toying with his hands, and strumming on the table with his fingers, which were white, and supple, and full of magnetism. Beside him lay a violin. "You are nervous to-night, Velasco?" "I am always nervous." "What shall we eat and drink?" "Donnerwetter--what you please! If I eat, I cannot play. Bring me some of that Rhine wine, Fräulein, the white in the slanting bottles, and a plate of Pretzeln. No beer--bewahre!" The Musician raised his hands with a shrug of his shoulders, and then sank back in his former listless attitude. "That is your Polish taste, Velasco. Try a bit of Schinken with me, or a Stückchen of Cervelat with cheese--eh? If you eat, you will be less nervous, and your fingers will become warm. When you play, you are abstinent as a priest before the mass." The older man smoothed his beard, which was fast turning grey, and lifted the beer mug to his lips. "Ich danke!" said Velasco with irony: "My dear Kapellmeister, I am not as those who would serve Art with a bottle of champagne under each arm. I want no fumes in my brain and no clod between my fingers when I meet the Muse face to face." "You are right there," said Ritter thoughtfully, lowering his glass: "It is like a pearl coming out of the throat of a swine to hear the tones from Bauermann's fingers, when he can scarce keep himself at the pianoforte, and his head rocks between his shoulders like a top falling. His sense of beauty is all that is left of him, and that seems over ripe, like a fruit left too long in the sun. Materialism is the artist's curse. Their heads are in the clouds and their feet are in the slough.--Pah!" The Kapellmeister tapped his glass sharply with the edge of his knife, and called without turning: "Hey--a Münchener, Fräulein!" He scanned the face of his companion curiously. The Violinist seemed to be dreaming; he held the Rhine wine in his hand, gazing down into its liquid gold as if a vision lay at the bottom of the glass. "Velasco!" The Musician half raised his lids and then lowered them again. "Are you asleep, Velasco?" "Potztausend--no! I hear what you say! You speak of musicians and swine in the same breath. It is true. You ought to know, who wave the baton over them year in and year out. They rise like a balloon and then they fall--!" He dropped his hands on the table with an expressive gesture. "They give out through the senses; they take in the same way." He lifted the glass, staring into it again: "But it is not through pleasure, not pleasure, Ritter, never pleasure, that their senses are developed, and they learn to feel, and give back what they have felt. They think it is pleasure, and they fall into the error, and their art dies within them sooner or later. It is like some fell thing clutching at their feet, and when they try to rise, it seizes them and drags them back, and they sink finally--they sink!" The Kapellmeister leaned forward on the table, scanning the young face opposite him: "A year ago, Velasco, your chin was round and full; from the look of your mouth one could tell that you had lived and enjoyed. You were like the Faun, happy and careless, and your art was to you like a plaything. You cared only for your Stradivarius, and when you were not playing, you were nothing, not even a man. All your genius was concentrated there in your brows where the music lies hidden. Your virility was in your tones, and your strength in your fingers. What has come over you?" "Am I changed?" said Velasco. His throat contracted. He held the glass to his lips, but he did not drink. The Kapellmeister gazed at him strangely: "Yes, you are changed. In one year you have grown ten. What it is I cannot tell, but the look of your face is different. The mouth has grown rugged and harsh; there are lines under your eyes, and your lips are firm, not full. It is as if a storm had burst on a young birch, and torn it from its bank amid the grass and the heather, and an oak had grown up in its place, brought into life by the wind and the gale." Velasco tossed off the Moselle and laughed bitterly: "I have done with pleasure," he said, "I have lived and I know life; that is all. There is nothing in it but work and music." "Tell me, Velasco," said the Kapellmeister slowly, "Don't be offended if I ask, or think that I am trying to pry into your affairs. When you were rehearsing this morning it occurred to me.--There was something new in the quality of your tone. Before, you were a virtuoso; your technique was something to gaze at and harken to, and there was no technique like it in Europe; now--" "Well--now?" cried Velasco, "Was I clumsy this morning? Was anything the matter? Potztausend!--why didn't you tell me?" His eyes gleamed suddenly under his brows and he twirled his fingers, toying with them nervously. "Gott--Kapellmeister! Why didn't you tell me at once?" "Now--" said the Kapellmeister: He looked up at the Bierfass, hanging by its chains, and his gaze wandered slowly over the legends on the wall, the gargoyles dripping; the mugs with their quaint tops and their handles twisted, the roof in its octagonal vaults, smoky, begrimed; and then back again to the table, and the flask before Velasco, yellow and slanting. "Now--" he said, "you are no longer a virtuoso, you are an artist, and that, as you know, is something infinitely greater and higher and more difficult of attainment. All the great violins of my time I have heard; most of them I have conducted." Ritter's voice lowered suddenly to a whisper, and he leaned forward, touching the other's hand with his own: "I tell you, Velasco, and I know what I say--you played to-day at rehearsal as none of them played, not even Sarasati, king of virtuosi; or Joachim, prince of artists. You played as if the violin were yourself, and your bow were tearing your own heart strings. . . . Don't move! Don't get up! What is it, Velasco? You are white as death and your eyes are staring! Listen to my question and answer it, or not, as you please. This is not an age of miracles. The birch was not torn from the bank without reason, or the oak transplanted. Tell me--have you ever loved a woman?" There was a sudden silence in the Rathskeller. It was almost deserted, and the waitresses were all in the garden, running forward and backward under the trees. From outside came the sound of voices and glasses clinking; and close by, from the ledge, the slow trickle of the beer through the throats of the gargoyles. "Look at them!" said Velasco dreamily: "It is the Pilsener that runs through the dragons' mouths, and the Münchener through the devils'; a bizarre fancy that!" He stooped and struck a match against the table edge, lighting his cigarette. "These are Russian, Kapellmeister, extra brand! Try one! I prefer them to Turkish myself." He leaned his head against the carvings of the partition, and drew the smoke in through his nostrils slowly, his eyes half closed. "It is a quarter to eight now," said Ritter, "but there is plenty of time.--I shouldn't have asked that question perhaps, Velasco. Forgive me. My own affairs have turned my thoughts too much on that subject." "Was it several years ago?" said Velasco, "I don't remember." He passed his hand over his forehead several times as if chafing his memory. Ritter pushed away his plate, and leaned forward with his head on his hands, staring down at the table, and tracing out the pattern of the wood with his fingers. "Fourteen years to-night, Velasco. I have never spoken of it to any one; but somehow to-night it would be a relief to talk. Brondi was staying at my house; he was the Tristan. One night he gave out he was ill, and some one else took the part. When I returned from the opera, he was gone and she was gone, and the house was dark and deserted." Ritter was silent for a moment. "Fourteen years to-night, Velasco, and I feel as if it were yesterday." The Violinist shaded his eyes from the light as if it hurt him: "When you came back," he said, "When you found out--what was it you felt, love or hate?" The Kapellmeister made a swift, repelling gesture as if some reptile had touched him: "Love!" he cried, "Hate! Velasco--man, there is many a sin at my door; I am far from a saint heaven knows; but to deceive one who has trusted--to desert one who has loved and been loyal! God! There is no worse crime than that, or more despicable! Can one love, or hate, where there is only contempt?" He clenched his fist, and his eyes were like two sword points boring into the face opposite. "Contempt--" he said, "It has eaten into my heart like a poisonous drug and killed all else. There is nothing left." The Kapellmeister took a long breath, then he continued hoarsely: "But I am a man; with a woman it is different. Her heart is young and she knows nothing of the world. It is like a stab in the dark from a hand she loves, and her heart is torn. If she is brave, facing the world with a smile on her lips, she bleeds inwardly. She is like a swan, swooping in circles lower and lower, with a song in her throat, until the great wings droop, and the eyes grow dim, and she falls finally, and the song is stilled. But the last beat of her heart and the last echo of her voice is for him--for him who fired the shot in her breast!" He half rose in his seat with his hands trembling, and then sank back again. "Have you ever loved a woman and left her, Velasco? Tell me--have you a deed like that on your conscience?" "I--?" The Musician laughed aloud and took his hand from his face: "You are talking in riddles, Kapellmeister! The beer has gone to your head, and you are drunk! Look at the clock over yonder!-- What is love? A will-o'-the-wisp! You chase it and it eludes you; you clasp it and it melts into air! There is nothing in life, I tell you, but music and work." He poured out another glass of the wine: "Here's to your health, Kapellmeister! Prosit--my friend! Put those grim thoughts from your mind, and women from your heart. We must be off." He was quaffing the liquor at a gulp. "Prosit, Kapellmeister!" Ritter made no answer. He sat staring moodily down at the table. "You are young, Velasco, to be bitter. Is it music, or work, that has carven those lines in your face?" There was a sting in his voice. The Violinist threw back his head like a horse at the touch of the spur. His eyes blazed defiantly at the Kapellmeister for a moment, and then the light went out of them as flame from a coal. The glass fell from his hand and lay shattered in fragments on the floor. He stood looking down at them wearily: "That is my life," he said, "It is broken like the glass; and the wine is my love. There is nothing left of it but a stain. It has gone from me and is dead. Come!" He lifted his violin, and the two men took their hats and went out, side by side, silently, without speaking. The room was empty. Slowly from the throats of the gargoyles trickled the beer; and the Fass was like a great shadow hung from the ceiling by its chains. From outside came the clamour of voices and laughter, and the waitresses sped to and fro. The lights twinkled gayly under the spreading of the leaves, and the glasses clinked. CHAPTER XXI. The Friedrichs-Halle was old and shabby and had originally been a market. The entrance was under an arcade, and there was an underground passage, connecting the green-room with the stage-door of the Opera House; a passage narrow and ill-smelling, without windows or light; but dear to the hearts of musicians by reason of its associations. Mendelssohn had walked there, and Schumann, and Brahms; and the air, as it could not be changed, was the same. The very microbes were musical, and the walls were smudged with snatches of motives, jotted down for remembrance. "Is there a seat left in the top gallery--just one?" "Standing room only, Madame." The ticket-seller, who sat in a box-like room under the arcade, handed out a slip of green paste-board, and then shut the window with a slam. The gesture of his hand expressed the fact that his business was now over. Standing room also had ceased, and the long line of people waiting turned away with muttered exclamations. The foyer was like an ant-hill in commotion; people running forwards and backwards, trying vainly to bribe an entrance, until the noise was like hornets buzzing; while from behind came the sound of the orchestra tuning, faint raspings of the cellos, and the wails of the wood-winds, and above them the cry of a trumpet muffled. Kaya took the green paste-board hastily in her hand, clasping it, as if afraid it might in some way be snatched from her, and sped up the narrow stone stairway to the right, running fast until her breath failed her. Still another turn, and another flight, and she stood in the Concert Hall, high up under the roof, where the students go, and the air is warm and heavy, and the stage looks far away. The gallery was crowded. On the stage the orchestra were assembling, still tuning occasionally here and there where an instrument was refractory. The scores lay open and ready on the desks. A hum of excitement was over the House, and one name was on every lip: "Velasco!"--the Polish violinist, the virtuoso, the artist, whose fame had spread over all Europe. In Berlin he had had a furore; in Dresden the orchestra had carried him on their shoulders, shouting and hurrahing; in Leipzig, even Leipzig, where the critics are cold, and they have been fed music from their cradles, the glory of him had taken them all by storm. "Velasco!" The orchestra stood quietly now, expectant, each behind his desk. A hush crept over the House. The people leaned forward watching. It was past the hour. Kaya stood wrapped in her cloak, leaning against the wall. Her head was bare, and her hair was like a boy's, curling in rings and shining in the light. Her eyes were fixed on the little door at the end of the stage. Every time it opened slightly she started, and her heart gave a throb. The air grew heavier. When it finally opened, it was Ritter who came out. He strode hastily across the Stage, nodding shortly as if aware that the ripple of applause was not for him; then he took his place on the Conductor's stand with his back to the House, and waited, the baton between his fingers. The door opened again. Kaya covered her eyes for a moment, and a little thrill went through her veins. She swayed and leaned heavily against the wall. God! It was seven months and a day since that night in the inn. She was in his arms again, and he was bending over her, whispering hoarsely, his voice full of repressed anger and emotion: "Lie still, Kaya, lie still in my arms! The gods only know why you said it, but it isn't the truth! You love me--say you love me; say it, Kaya! Let me hear you, my beloved!" He was pressing his lips to hers. "Take away your lips--Velasco!" Then she recovered herself with a start, and took her hand from her eyes. The door was ajar. Velasco was coming through it carelessly, gracefully, with his violin under his arm; and as he came, he bowed with a half smile on his lips, tossing his hair from his brow. The audience was nothing to him; they were mere puppets, and as they shouted and clapped, welcoming him with their lips and their hands, he bowed again, slightly, indifferently, and laid the Stradivarius to his shoulder, caressing the bow with his fingers. Ritter struck the desk sharply with his baton and the orchestra began to play, drowning the applause; and it ceased gradually, dying away into silence. Then Velasco raised his bow. There was a hush, a stillness in the air, and he drew it over the strings--one tone, deep and pure with a rainbow of colours, shading from fortissimo, filling the House, to the faintest piano--pianissimo, delicate, elusive; breathing it out, and pressing on the string with his finger until it penetrated the air like an echo, and the bow was still drawing slowly, quiveringly. He swayed as he played, laying his cheek to the violin; the waves of dark hair falling over his brows. His fingers danced over the strings, and his bow began to leap and sparkle. The audience listened spellbound, without a whisper or movement. The orchestra accompanied, but the sound of the violins in unison was as nothing to the single cry of the Stradivarius. It sang and soared, it was deep and soft; it was like the sighing of the wind through the forest, and the tones were like a voice. From his instrument, his bow, his fingers, himself, went out a strange, mesmeric influence that seemed to stretch over the House, the audience, bending it, forcing it to his will; compelling it to his mood. As he played on and on, the influence grew stronger, more pervading, until his personality was as a giant and the audience pigmies at his feet, sobbing as his Stradivarius sobbed; laughing when it laughed; crying out with joy, or with pain, with frenzy or delight, as his bow rent the strings. He scarcely heeded them. His eyes were closed and he rocked the violin in his arms, swaying as in a trance. Kaya crouched against the wall; and as she listened, she gazed until it seemed as if her eyes were blinded, and she could no longer make out the slim lines of his figure, the dark head, and the bow leaping. The tones struck against her brain with a thrill of concussion like hail against a roof. It was as if he were calling to her, pleading with her, embracing her. She stretched out her arms to him and the tears ran down her face. "Velasco!" she murmured, "Velasco--come back! Put your arms around me! Don't look at me like that! I love you--come back!" But no sound left her throat, and the cloak pinioned her arms. She was crouching against the wall, and gazing and trembling: "Velasco--!" How different he was! When he had played at the Mariínski, and she had tossed the violets from her loggia, he was a boy, a virtuoso. Life and fame were before him; and he sprang out on the stage like a young Apollo, eager and daring. And now-- She searched his face. There were lines there; shadows under his eyes, and his cheeks were thin. The lower part of his face was like a rock, firm and harsh; and his brows were heavy and swollen. Before, he had played with his fingers, and toyed with his art; now he played with his heart and his soul. His youth was gone; he was a man. He had known life and suffered. She stared at him, and her hands were convulsed, clasping one another under the cloak. An impulse came over her to throw herself from the gallery at his feet, as she had flung the violets; and she crouched closer against the wall, clinging to it. "Velasco!--Velasco!" A roar went up from the House. The sound of the clapping was like rain falling; a mighty volume of sound, deafening, frightening. Kaya crouched still lower. He had taken the violin from his cheek and was bowing; his eyes scanned the House with a nonchalant air. "Bravo--Velasco!" The people were standing now and stamping, and screaming his name. They hid him, and she could not see. Kaya leaned forward, her gold hair gleaming in the light, her eyes fixed. "Velasco--Velasco!" Suddenly he started. He looked up at the gallery and his bow slipped from his hand. He stared motionless. The first violin stooped and picked up the bow. "Monsieur--" he whispered, "Monsieur Velasco, are you ill?" "No--no!" The Violinist passed his hand over his eyes. "No--I am not ill! It was a vision--an illusion! A trick of the senses! It is gone now!" He bowed again mechanically, taking the bow, lifting the violin again to his cheek. "An illusion!" he muttered: "A trick of the senses! God, how it haunts me!" He nodded to the Kapellmeister. They went on. * * * * * * "Let me out!" said Kaya, "I am faint--let me out! Let me--out!" She struggled to the door, through the crowd, pressing her way slowly, painfully. Her cheeks were white and she was panting. "Ah--for God's sake! Let me out!" "Come this way, Velasco, this way through the passage. The din in the House is terrific--you have driven them mad! Hark to your name, how they shout it and stamp! They will be rushing to the stage door presently, as soon as the ushers have turned out the lights and the hope of your reappearance is gone. No wonder, man--you played like a god! You were like one inspired! Shall you risk it; or will you come through to my room in the Opera House, where we can wait and smoke quietly until the clamour is past?" "Anywhere, Ritter, only to get away from that horrible noise!" The Musician covered his ears with his hands and shuddered: "That is the worst of being an artist--there is no peace, no privacy! The people consider one a music-box to wind up at their pleasure! A pest on it all!" The two men quickened their footsteps, hurrying down the long corridor, and presently a door shut behind them. "There--thank heaven!" cried Ritter, "Around to the left now, Velasco, and then at the top of the stairs is my den. Let me go first and open the door." The room was a small one, half filled with the bulk of a grand piano. About the walls ran shelf after shelf of music; opera scores and presentation copies in manuscript. A bust of Wagner stood in the corner, and on the wall behind the pianoforte was a large painting in sepia, dim, with strong lights and shadows. The window was open, and below it lay the street, still in the darkness; above, the heavens were clear and the stars were shining. Ritter pulled forward an arm-chair and motioned the Musician towards it: "Sit down, Velasco. Will you have a pipe, or cigar? You look exhausted, man! This fasting before is too much for you; you are pale as death. Shall I send out the watchman for food, or shall we wait and go to the Keller together?" Velasco nodded and sank back in the chair, covering his eyes with his hand: "Is it usual for musicians to go mad?" he said. "Heavens!" exclaimed the Kapellmeister, "What are you talking about? Usual? Of course not! Some do. What is the matter with you, Velasco? You are overwrought to-night." "No," he said, "No. When you hear themes in your head, and rhythms throbbing in your pulses--is that a sign?" "Behüte! We all have that. After an opera my head goes round like a buzz-saw, and the motives spring about inside like demons. If that is all, Velasco, you are not mad. Take a cigarette." "Thank you, Ritter. Tell me--when you conduct, is it as if force and power were going from you, oozing away with the music; and you were in a trance and someone else were wielding the baton, interpreting, playing on the instruments, not yourself?" The Kapellmeister shook his head grimly: "Sometimes, Velasco, but not often; we are not all like you. That is Genius speaking through you." "Afterwards," continued the Violinist, "it is as if one had had an illness. To-night I am weary--Bózhe moi! My body is numb, I can scarcely lift my feet, or my hands; only my nerves are alive, and they are like electric wires scintillating, jumping. The liquid runs through my veins like fire! Is that a--?" "Bewahre--bewahre! You throw yourself into your playing headlong, body and soul. It wrecks one mentally and physically to listen; how much more then to play! If you were like others, Velasco, you would drink yourself to drowsiness and drown those sensations; or else you would seek pleasure, distraction. When Genius has been with you, guiding your brain and your fingers, and you are left suddenly with an empty void, what else can you expect but reaction, nausea of life and of art? Bewahre, man! That is no madness! It is sanity--normal conditions returning. You are mad when the Genius is with you, you are mad when you play; but now--now you are sane; you are like other men, Velasco, and you don't recognize yourself!" The Kapellmeister laughed, drawing whiffs from his cigar. Velasco uncovered his eyes: "You don't understand," he said slowly: "I see things--I have illusions! It is something that comes and dances before me as I play, the same thing always. I saw it to-night." "What sort of thing?" Velasco stared suddenly at the opposite wall. "What is that painting there, Ritter?" "The one over the piano? I bought it in St. Petersburg years ago, when I was touring: a copy of the Rembrandt in the 'Hermitage.' Don't you know it?" "What is it?" "The Knight with the Golden Helmet' I call it; but it is really a 'Pallas Athene.'" "The Knight--the Knight with the Golden Helmet! That is no knight--it is the head of a woman, a girl; look at the oval of the cheek, the lips, the eyes! That is no knight, nor is it a 'Pallas Athene'!-- My God! I am going mad, I tell you! Wherever I look, I see it before me--an illusion, a trick of the senses! It is madness!" Velasco sprang to his feet with a cry. "I can't bear it," he cried, "open the door! Damn you, Ritter, get out of the way!" Velasco sprang forward, struggling for a moment with the Kapellmeister, and then Ritter fell back. The clutch on his shoulder was like iron. He fell back, and the door slammed. "Potztausend!" he cried, "What is there in my painting to start him like that? These musicians have nerves like live wires! It is true what he said--he is mad!" The Kapellmeister went over to the painting on the wall and looked at it. "A girl's head," he murmured, "he is right. It is more like a 'Pallas Athene' than a knight; but if it were not for the helmet glittering, and the spear--" Suddenly a remembrance came to him, and he struck his breast with his hand, crying out: "It is no knight! It is Brünnhilde, young and fair, with her eyes downcast! The light has fallen full on her face. She is standing there, and the stage is dim; her voice is still in her throat, dying away!" Memory caught him then and he came nearer, shading his eyes with his hand, staring. "She has hung on my wall for years and I never knew it! It is she--it is her living image--her eyes and her brow--her lips arched and quivering! It is herself!" "Brünnhild'!" He lifted his arms: "Brünnhild'!" CHAPTER XXII The sun came shining in through the garret windows, dancing over the floor in cones of light, caressing the geraniums until they gleamed a rich scarlet against the green of the ivy; and the cobwebs glistened like silk under the eaves. About the mill the doves flew in circles, alighting on the sill, clinging to the ivy with their pink claws, cooing gently, and pecking at the worm-eaten casement. "Dear doves," said Kaya, "You are hungry, and when you come to me for bread you find nothing but the stone. Chrr-rp!" She whistled softly and held her hands over the sill, dropping crumbs: "Chrr-rp! Come, pretty doves, and eat!" The birds came nearer, eying her out of their bright eyes with little runs forward, then circling and cooing again. "Chrr-rp!" she called,--"Chrr-rp! Come!" And she held out her hands as if coaxing: "Come, my doves! Chrr-rp!" One with fawn-coloured wings came flying and lighted on her shoulder; another followed. "Come--chrr-rp!" The soft little bodies huddled against one another on the sill, pressing closer; some on her arm and some eating out of her hand. She stroked their bright plumage, holding a crumb between her teeth. "Chrr-rp--chrr-rp!" The dove on her shoulder stretched his wings, pressing against her cheek with his breast, tipping forward on his pink feet, until his beak reached the crumb and he took it from her lips. "Chrr-rp--chrr-rp!" Kaya laughed softly, rubbing her cheek against the down of the bird; whistling and coaxing with her hands. The doves flew about her, lighting, struggling for footing on her shoulder and curls; and she shook her head, laughing: "Chrr-rp--away with you! Would you pluck my hair and line your nests with my curls! Pischt--away with you!" she flung out the crumbs again. "There--eat, my pretty ones--eat!" Below, the great wheel turned and splashed in the water with a whirr, buzzing. Kaya gazed down at it, and as she gazed she forgot the doves, and a strange little shudder went over her, so that the one on her shoulder lifted his wings in affright. The water was deep in the pool, and there were little ripples under the spokes where the sun-beams were dancing. She dropped on her knees before the window and began to sing, still gazing at the wheel, the doves all about her, pianissimo--on the lower note of the scale, singing up, and then in arpeggios; each note distinct and separate like the link in a chain, pure, soft, hardly above a breath. As she sang, her voice rose gradually, deepening and increasing in power. The doves pecked the crumbs on the sill, huddling against her and eating from her hands. She began to trill from one note to another, and in trilling, her thoughts ran hither and thither even as her voice, and her eyes wandered from the wheel, resting dreamily on the promenade, and the people walking under the trees. The rhythm of a mazurka was in her ears and she sang louder, trying to drown it. She was in a great hall vaulted, dome-like with marble columns; violins were playing and the sound rose and fell, invisible as from the clouds. There was the perfume of flowers, heavy and languorous, and snatches of laughter, and the gleaming of jewels. The floor was shining and polished like a mirror, reflecting the forms of the dancers as they whirled to and fro. The light was dazzling and the colour. She was dancing. Her feet flew in time to the rhythm. . . . Now it was dark and she was lying back on a divan, faint, helpless. The voice of the Prince was in her ears and he was bending over her; his eyes were crossed. . . . Ah, the clock was striking! It was midnight and someone had opened the door! Someone was crossing the room and bending over papers on the desk! . . . There was the sound of a shot! She was holding the pistol in her hand . . . It was smoking and through the vapoury wreathes she saw on the floor a body lying . . . a man on his face with his arms outstretched! She shuddered again and the doves rose uneasily, circling about her, and lighting with fluttering wings. "I have tried to atone," she whispered to the birds, "Come back! God knows--I have tried to atone!" Then she went on trilling high up in the scale, her eyes gazing dreamily and her hands amongst the doves, stroking them, playing with them. Suddenly the door opened. "Is it you, Marta?" "No, it is I." The voice was that of a man, deep and harsh, and the steps were firm. They crossed the room and stopped behind the kneeling figure. "Hush!" said Kaya, "Not too near, dear Master! You will frighten the doves! See, how they press against me with their breasts and their wings--and how they flutter! They were hungry this morning, but they have eaten now and are happy. Once they came to me and I had nothing for them. If they knew better, poor doves, it is you they would fly to, and your hands they would eat from; since it is you who have fed them, not I." "You were practising," said the Kapellmeister, "That is well, Kaya. I heard you from the promenade and I saw you. Your curls were like a halo of gold in the sun, and the doves circled, cooing. One was on your shoulder. Ah, it has gone now--I have startled it! It was close to your cheek, and you were feeding it from your lips." "Yes," said Kaya, "Yes. It is sweet to be able to feed them. You have fed us both, dear Master." She turned her head slightly, smiling up at him. "Turn your head further, Kaya; let me see your face." "The dove has come back. How can I? There--move a little, my dove--chrr-rp! Go away! No, he clings! See--I cannot! The down on his breast is so soft and his feathers so warm. He presses so close." "Tell me, little one, how is your voice today? The same--full and strong as it was that night? Are you Kaya to-day, or Brünnhild'?" The girl smiled again. "Look at me, child. I have come to talk to you. There is a rehearsal this morning for 'Siegfried.'" "Ah--yes!" "The performance is advertized for tomorrow." "--Yes?" "Are you listening, Kaya? Your voice has a dreamy sound. What are you thinking about?" She started. "Nothing!" "What are you thinking about? Tell me." "Russia!" The Kapellmeister gave a sharp exclamation: "That is why you would not turn your head! It was not the dove, I knew. Are you still--" "Yes," said Kaya, "Yes, it never leaves me. The curse, the curse of the--Cross!" She pressed her cheek against the dove, hiding her eyes. "It must leave you!" said the Kapellmeister roughly, "There is work for you to do! Rouse yourself, Kaya! Drive away the doves now or I will do it myself. If you brood, you will ruin your voice--do you hear me?" "Pischt!" said Kaya, "Now they are gone--! I will not think any more of Russia to-day." The Kapellmeister went to the window and laid his hand where the dove had been, pressing the slender shoulder and forcing her to turn. "I want you," he said, "Now--this morning! I have come for you!" Kaya rose to her feet slowly: "To sit aloft in the flies and sing while Siegfried seeks me?" She smiled up at him; "You have come for your bird?" "No." Her eyes searched his. "No," she faltered, "did I sing badly? I--I thought--" "Kaya, the Schultz is ill." The colour rushed to the girl's face and then fled away again, leaving her pale. "Ill!" she stammered, "You look at me so strangely, dear Master!" "The Directors have authorized me to wire to Dresden for another soprano." "Yes--?" "I refused." Kaya raised her blue eyes. "I told them I had a Brünnhilde here on the spot. Can you do it? I have taken the risk. Can you do it? If you sing as you did that night--!" "I will," cried Kaya, "I will!" She pressed against him like the doves, clasping her hands together. "It is only the one scene, Master; I know it so well, every note! Many times I rehearsed it with Helmanoff, many times. Bring me the helmet and the spear--bring me Siegfried!" Her eyes were shining. "Then come with me now," cried the Kapellmeister, "As you are! Is that your hat on the nail? Put it on. The placards are out--and the orchestra sits in the pit, waiting. I have promised them a Walküre with a voice like a bell! Come, Kaya--come! You are not nervous, little one, or afraid?" Kaya ran lightly to the peg and took down her hat. She was laughing, and her face was alight as if the sun-beams had touched it; her lips were parted and the dimples came and went in her cheeks: "Now--my cloak!" she cried, "Quick! Help me--the right sleeve, dear master, can you find it? Yes--yes! And my gloves--here they are!" "Kaya, your face is like a rose and your feet are dancing." She blushed. "You don't know," she said, "I have dreamed all my life of being Brünnhilde. When I feel the helmet and the shield on my breast, and the touch of the spear--it is like wine!" She stopped suddenly and passed her hand over her face. "What is it, Kaya?" "I forgot," she said, "I forgot--! Take my cloak; take my hat! I cannot sing. I forgot!" Ritter stared at her: "What do you mean, child; what are you talking about? Is it fright? Tschut! It will pass." He took the cloak again and laid it about her shoulders: "Come now, the orchestra will be growing impatient. It is ten o'clock past." "I cannot," said Kaya, and her lip trembled: "Telegraph to Dresden, dear Master--quickly!" "Potztausend--and why?" She backed slowly away from him and the cloak fell to the ground. "Kaya, you shake as if you had a chill!" "Can Brünnhilde sit aloft in the flies?" she said, "She is there in front of the footlights and everyone sees her. Oh--I forgot!" "Donnerwetter! Of course she is seen! Is it the sight of the audience that will frighten you?" "No," she said, "not the audience." Ritter made an impatient movement forward: "What then? Sacrement! You were full of joy not a moment ago; there was no fear in your eyes, and now--it is as if someone had struck you!" He followed her to the corner where she had retreated step by step; and when she could go no further, he laid his hands on her shoulders. "Look at me," he said, "straight in the eyes, Kaya, straight in the eyes. You must." "I--cannot!" "I tell you you must." He bent over her, and she felt his hands bearing heavily on her shoulders; his eyes were flashing, insistent, determined: "You must." "I cannot." "Come." She shook her head. "Kaya--! You have been like my child! I--I love you as my own daughter! Your career, your success is dear to me. I have ventured more than you know on this chance--that you might have it. The town is crowded with strangers. The House will be full. They will hear you and your fame may be made in a night! What is the matter with you, little one?" "I cannot," said Kaya. His grasp grew heavier. "If you throw away this chance--listen to me--it may be years before you have another. You are young, and managers are hard to approach; you found that yourself. It is the merest accident of fate that the Schultz should be ill just now, while no other soprano is on hand, and you know the part. You sang it for me, Kaya, that night, and your voice was Brünnhilde's own. Would you be a coward now? Come, and let me cover you with the shield and the helmet; when you feel the spear in your hand the fright will leave you. It is not like you to be afraid, Kaya. Your eyes are like a doe's! Don't be frightened, little one." She looked at him and tried to speak, but no words came. "If I yielded to you, Kaya, if I let you be conquered by the stage-terror once, it would be a rock in your path forever. Come with me! My will is strong, stronger than yours, and I swear you shall come! If I have to carry you in my arms to the stage, you shall come; and you will thank me for it afterwards when the terror has passed." "No--no!" The girl pressed closer against the wall, "Don't, dear Master, take your hands from my shoulders. I cannot!" "Come." "No." He stared down into the blue eyes: "I tell you you shall come. You are throwing away the chance of a lifetime; do you understand? If you have no care for your own future, I shall care for it for you. Kaya!" "No." "Come, I tell you!" His eyes were hard and cold, and her form was slight; it reeled in his grasp. She gazed at him and her chin was set like his own. "If you care for me, Kaya, if you are grateful--" he hesitated, "Ah, come with me, Kaya! It is not fear I see in your eyes; it is something else. What is it? Tell me!" He put his arm about her shoulders suddenly, and the harsh look left his face: "Confide in me, little one, I won't try to force you. You are slight and frail, but your will is like iron; it is useless. If I carried you it would be useless." Kaya took a quick breath. "Dear Master," she said, "It is not the audience I fear, not the audience, but it is someone in the audience. If that someone should see me and--and recognize me!" "You forget, Kaya; did I recognize you?" "No, but the foot-lights were not in my face. When the House is crowded and the curtain is up, and the glare is full in my eyes, then--" "You are disguised by the hair red-blonde, and the helmet covering. No one could tell! At a distance you are not Kaya, you are Brünnhilde. Brünnhilde is always the same. When your eyes are hidden, Kaya, and your curls--the House is large--no one could tell!" He was drawing her slowly toward the door. "You did not," said Kaya, "but--if he were there he would know." "Who?" She looked at him mutely, and he took his hand from her shoulder. "Whoever it is," exclaimed Ritter harshly, "from the House, I swear to you, your own mother would not know you, unless she had seen you before in the part. That is nonsense! From the orchestra perhaps, from the conductor's stand--but not from the House. Kaya, you hurt me, child; you hurt me sorely if you refuse!" He stood before her with his arms folded. "My heart is set on your success," he said, "and if--" Kaya, looking up suddenly, saw that there were tears in his eyes. "Master," she cried. And then her will broke suddenly like iron in a furnace, red-hot under the stroke of the hammer. "You are sure?" she cried, "From the House no one would know me? You are sure?" "I am sure." She hesitated, looking away from him. "No one?" she repeated, "not even--" Then she raised her eyes and came closer to the Kapellmeister, looking up in his face. "He loves me," she stammered, "And I--I love him! But the curse is between us--if he should find me again--! Ah, it is myself I am afraid of--myself!" Her breath came in sobs and her face quivered. The Kapellmeister lifted the cloak from the floor and put it around her shoulders. There was a strange light in his eyes. He gazed at her for a moment; then he caught her by the hand and drew her toward the door. "Come!" he said, "Trust me, Kaya. I understand--at last I understand. Come!" She yielded without a word. They were both trembling. CHAPTER XXIII The second Act was over. The curtain had descended slowly, hiding the singers; the lights had flashed up, revealing the House. It was crowded from the pit to the gallery. The double row of loggias was ablaze with colour; and from them came a light ripple of talk and of laughter, broken loose as the curtain fell, a sound like the running of water over smooth pebbles. The Schultz was ill. So it was advertized all over the foyer on huge yellow placards; and a new Brünnhilde was to take her place. The name was unknown; a young singer doubtless, brought forward under the stress of the dilemma. The audience whispered together and the ripple grew louder. In the next Act, the final scene, she would appear. The moments were passing. Suddenly the door at the back of one of the loggias opened, and an usher ran hurriedly in. He gave a hasty glance over the occupants, and then bent and whispered to a gentleman in the rear. "Monsieur Velasco?" The gentleman nodded. "Sir--the Kapellmeister has been seized with a sudden attack of giddiness and is unable to continue with the performance. He begs earnestly that you will conduct the last Act in his place." "I--?" said Velasco. "There is no other musician in the House, sir, who could do it. The Kapellmeister is in great distress. The minutes are passing." "Tell him I will come," said Velasco, "I will come." He rose and followed the usher from the loggia. When the curtain went up for the third Act, a young, slender figure appeared in the orchestra pit, mounting the platform; only his head with the dark hair falling, the arm raised, and the baton, were visible. The House was in darkness; a hush had crept over it. The Act was progressing. Already the smoke was in wreaths about the couch of Brünnhilde, hiding it, enveloping the stage in a grey, misty veil. Flames flashed up here and there, licking in tongues of fire about the rocks and the trees. As they rose and fell and the smoke grew denser, the music became more vivid, intense, full of strange running melodies, until the violins were to the ear as the flames to the eye. The stage was a billow of smoke curling, and the sound of the orchestra was as fire, crackling, leaping. The smoke grew denser like a thick, grey fog, rolling in wreaths. The music was a riot of tones sparkling, and the hearts of the audience beat fast to the rhythm. Suddenly through the veil, dim, indistinct, showed the couch of Brünnhilde, shrouded in the billows and puffs of the smoke; the goddess herself stretched lifeless, asleep; and the form of Siegfried, breaking through the ring of the fire, leaping forward, the sword in his hand. He sprang to the couch, gazing down at the sleeping Walküre, straight and still, covered with the shimmering steel of the buckler, the spear by her side and the helmet on her head, motionless, glittering in the flare of the flames. "Brünnhilde--Brünnhilde!" Siegfried lifted his voice and sang to her--he had taken the shield from her now and was bending lower, clasping his hands as if in ecstasy. The House was like a black pit, silent, without movement or rustle, hanging on the notes, watching the glittering, prostrate form and Siegfried stooping. . . . Presently she stirred. The smoke had grown lighter, more vapoury, translucent. Her form stirred slowly, dreamily, raising itself from the couch. The magic was broken; the goddess was aroused at last. Brünnhilde opened her eyes--and half kneeling, half reclining, she stared about her, dazed, half conscious. Siegfried hung over her. The flames, the smoke were dying away. She seemed in a trance; and then, as she gazed at the sky and the sunlight, the rocks and the trees, her lips parted suddenly; she raised her arms, half in bewilderment half in ecstasy, stretching them upwards, and began to sing. It was like a lark, disturbed by the reapers, rising from its nest in the meadows. The notes came softly, dreamily from her throat; and then as she rose slowly to her feet, clasping the spear, it was as if a floodgate had been opened and the sounds poured out, full, glorious, irresistible, ringing through the darkness and the silence of the House. Drawn to her height she stood, the helmet tipped back on her red-blonde hair, the white robes trailing about her, the spear uplifted. As she sang her throat swelled, her voice came like a torrent: above the wood-winds and strings, the brass and the basses, the single voice soared higher and higher, deeper and richer, full of passion and pure. "Heil dir, Sonne! Heil dir, Licht! Heil dir, leuchtender Tag!" The "Heil" was like a clarion note ringing through space; like the sound of an echo through mountain passes. The audience listened and gazed as under a spell; the orchestra played as it had never played before; the baton waved. Siegfried sang to her and she responded; their voices rising and mingling together, every note a glory. On the stage, still dim with the smoke and the flames, the light grew stronger, illuminating the helmet of Brünnhilde, the tip of her spear, falling full on her face and her eyes. She drew nearer the foot-lights, still singing, her sight half blinded, gazing unconsciously into the pit of the House and the darkness. She was clasping her spear, and her voice rose high above the violins. Her eyes sought the baton, the face of her Master; and then as she stood, she trembled suddenly. Her voice died away in her throat; her steps faltered. The Conductor leaned over the desk, the baton moving mechanically as if the fingers were stiffened. The orchestra played on. A shudder ran over the House. What had happened? Brünnhilde had stopped singing. Siegfried was trying in vain to cover her part, singing his own. The Walküre stood motionless, transfixed, her eyes riveted on the Conductor. A slight murmur ran over the House: "Was she ill--struck with sudden paralysis? Or was it the stage-terror, pitiless, irresistible, benumbing her faculties?" She stood there; and then she stretched out her hands, trembling; her voice came back. "Velasco!" she cried. "Kaya--Kaya!" But the audience thought she had called out to Siegfried, and to encourage her they applauded, clapping and stamping with their feet and their hands. The sound revived her suddenly like the dash of cold water on the face of a sleep-walker. "I must go on!" she said to herself, "Whatever happens I must go on!" Her eyes were still riveted. The face of Velasco was white as death; great drops stood out on his brows, his fingers quivered over the baton. He moved it mechanically, gazing, and he swayed in his seat as if faint and oppressed. The other hand was stretched trembling toward her as if a vision had come in his path suddenly and he was blinded. Her lips moved again, and his. For a moment it seemed as if he were about to leap to the stage over the foot-lights. Brünnhilde fell back. "For God's sake!" whispered Siegfried, "What is it? Are you mad? Sing--sing! Let out your voice--take up your cue! Go on!" Again she cried out; but this time her voice was in the tone, and the emotion of it, the longing, rent the air as with passion unveiled and bared. She shook the spear aloft in her hands, brandishing it, until the gleam from the flames lit it up like a spark, and fell on her helmet. Siegfried besought her and she answered, they sang together; but as she answered, singing, her eyes were still fixed, and she sang as one out of herself and inspired. "Siegfried!" "Brünnhilde!" "Siegfried! Siegfried! seliger Held! Pu Wecker des Lebens, siegendes Licht!" The tempo quickened and the rhythm; and the tones grew higher and richer, ringing, more passionate. Such acting--such singing! It was as if the Walküre herself had come out of the trance back to life, and the audience saw Brünnhilde in the flesh. The House reverberated to the sound of her voice; it was a glory, a revelation. She sang on and on, and Siegfried answered; but the eyes of the Singer, and her hands lifted, were toward the House, the orchestra pit, the desk, the baton--the head with its dark hair falling and the arm outstretched. The curtain fell slowly. "Brünnhilde! Brünnhilde!" With the flaring up of the lights the House was in an uproar. "Who was she? What was she? Where did she come from? Ah--h! Brünnhilde!" They clapped and stamped, and shouted themselves hoarse, calling her name: "Brünnhilde!" * * * * * * "She is there!" cried the Kapellmeister, "Go to her, Velasco; go to her quickly! Gott! I thought the Opera would have come to a standstill! My heart was in my mouth!--Go!" He pushed the Violinist towards the door and closed it behind him; then he fell back against the wall and listened. The noise in the House was like a mob let loose. "Brünnhilde! Why doesn't she come? Bring her before the curtain! . . . Brünnhilde!" "I must go," he said, "I must speak to them--tell them anything--she is ill--she is exhausted! Something--it doesn't matter! I must go and quiet the tumult!" The Kapellmeister leaned for a moment against the background of the scenery; he looked at the door and listened. The House was going mad: "Brünnhilde! Brünnhilde!" Then, staggering a little, with his hands to his face, he went out on the stage. CHAPTER XXIV. "Kaya!" "Velasco! Ah, Velasco! Don't come--don't touch--me!" He sprang forward. She was still in the Brünnhilde dress with the helmet on her head and the white robes trailing. The spear lay at her feet. He trampled on it as he sprang, snatching her into his arms: "Kaya!" His grip was like a band of steel and he wound his arms about her, pressing her to him: "Kaya, my beloved! Ah, my beloved--speak to me! Open your eyes! Look at me!" He tore the helmet from her head and flung it to the ground. The red-blonde hair fell back, and he kissed her cheek and her curls. He was like a whirlwind wooing, and she like a lily blown by the gale. She lay in his arms. Her lips quivered as he kissed them, but she lay without motion or sign. "Are you faint?" he cried, "Have you swooned? Kaya! It is as if the world had gone to pieces suddenly and this were chaos, and only you and I--only you and I." He kissed her eyelids. "Open them, Kaya, they are blue as the sky." He kissed her throat. "It swells like a bird's when it trills, and the sound of it is as a nightingale in the twilight." He kissed her lips. "Ah, they are warm; they quiver and tremble!" His arms were so strong she was pinioned, and she panted as she breathed. He kissed her again and again as one who is starving and thirsty, and she stirred in his arms, lifting her face: "Velasco--my husband--my--self! To lie in your arms--it is heaven, and to leave them is hell! Let me go--Velasco! I love you--I love you! Let me--go!" "So long as the world lasts and there is strength in my body--never! Say you love me again." "I love you." "You will never leave me? You will stay with me always while we live? Say it, Kaya! Your cheeks are white like a sea-shell; they flush like a rose when I press them with my lips! Say it, Kaya! You are trembling--you are sobbing!" "I must leave you, Velasco--I cannot stay. It is like leaving one's life and one's soul!" He laughed: "Leave me then! Can you stir from my arms? They are strong. I will hold you forever." He laid his dark, curly head against the gold of her curls, and she felt his breath against her throat. She opened her eyes: "My hands, Velasco--they are stained with blood; have you forgotten? How can I stay with you when there is--blood on my--hands?" He pressed her closer: "Give them to me; let me kiss the stains!" "I am cursed, Velasco, I am cursed! I have taken the life of a man!" He held his breath suddenly, moving his face until he could see into her eyes. "Ah," he said, "Is that why you left me, Kaya, because of the curse?" "Yes--Velasco." "You loved me then! It was a lie? Kaya, tell me!" "I loved you, Velasco, I loved you!" "And now--?" She clung to him and his arms tightened. Suddenly he laughed again. "Hark!" he cried, "You hear the shouting? They are shouting for you! They are stamping and clapping for you; they are calling your name!" He threw back his head, laughing madly: "Come--Kaya! Let us go together and peep through the curtain. The first time I saw you, you were there in the House, and I behind on the stage alone, with your violets. Now we are together. You will leave me, you say? Come, Kaya, and look at the House through the curtain. You are trembling, little one; and when I put you down on your feet you can scarcely stand. You are sorry to leave me? It is like tearing one's heart from one's body while one still lives! Will you tear it, beloved? Come--and look through the hole in the curtain." He put his arm about her, drawing her forward, looking down at her curls. "You are weak, Kaya; your form sways like the stem of a flower. Lean against me. Let me lead you. It is because your heart is so loyal and true; to kill it will be killing yourself! Don't sob, Kaya! Look through the curtain! Hark at the stamping! Look--dear beloved--lean on my shoulder and look!" "Ah, Velasco, it is like a great mob; the Kapellmeister is there before the curtain. He tries to speak, but they will not listen! They are calling: 'Brünnhilde--Brünnhilde!' Is that for me?" "For you." "Why should I look, Velasco--why should I listen? My heart is breaking. I cannot bear it--Velasco!" "Lean on my shoulder; look again, Kaya, put your eyes to the hole. Do you see a loggia above to the left, full of people standing, and in front some one tall and in uniform?" "No, Velasco--I see nothing!" "It is the tears in your eyes, Kaya! Brush them away and look once again. Don't you see him--in uniform, tall with a beaked nose, a grey mustache and his eyes crossed?" "His eyes crossed--Velasco! Are you mad? He is dead! I tell you, Velasco, he is--dead! The Grand-Duke Stepan!--I killed him!" "He is not dead." "The Grand-Duke Ste--" "He is not dead. He lives and he stands there before you--clapping and shouting your name." She gazed up at him with trembling lips: "There is no curse, Velasco--he lives? There is--no curse--no stain on my hands? Am I mad? No curse of the Cross--the Black Cross?" "Kaya--my beloved!" She fell back slowly against his breast and his arms closed around her. 
17028	----	Eastern Standard Tribe Cory Doctorow Copyright 2004 Cory Doctorow doctorow@craphound.com http://www.craphound.com/est Tor Books, March 2004 ISBN: 0765307596 -- ======= Blurbs: ======= "Utterly contemporary and deeply peculiar -- a hard combination to beat (or, these days, to find)." - William Gibson, Author of Neuromancer -- "Cory Doctorow knocks me out. In a good way." - Pat Cadigan, Author of Synners -- "Cory Doctorow is just far enough ahead of the game to give you that authentic chill of the future, and close enough to home for us to know that he's talking about where we live as well as where we're going to live; a connected world full of disconnected people. One of whom is about to lobotomise himself through the nostril with a pencil. Funny as hell and sharp as steel." - Warren Ellis, Author of Transmetropolitan -- ======================= A note about this book: ======================= Last year, in January 2003, my first novel [ http://craphound.com/down ] came out. I was 31 years old, and I'd been calling myself a novelist since the age of 12. It was the storied dream-of-a-lifetime, come-true-at-last. I was and am proud as hell of that book, even though it is just one book among many released last year, better than some, poorer than others; and even though the print-run (which sold out very quickly!) though generous by science fiction standards, hardly qualifies it as a work of mass entertainment. The thing that's extraordinary about that first novel is that it was released under terms governed by a Creative Commons [ http://creativecommons.org ] license that allowed my readers to copy the book freely and distribute it far and wide. Hundreds of thousands of copies of the book were made and distributed this way. *Hundreds* of *thousands*. Today, I release my second novel, and my third [ http://www.argosymag.com/NextIssue.html ], a collaboration with Charlie Stross is due any day, and two [ http://www.fantasticmetropolis.com/show.html?fn.preview_doctorow ] more [ http://www.craphound.com/usrbingodexcerpt.txt ] are under contract. My career as a novelist is now well underway -- in other words, I am firmly afoot on a long road that stretches into the future: my future, science fiction's future, publishing's future and the future of the world. The future is my business, more or less. I'm a science fiction writer. One way to know the future is to look good and hard at the present. Here's a thing I've noticed about the present: MORE PEOPLE ARE READING MORE WORDS OFF OF MORE SCREENS THAN EVER BEFORE. Here's another thing I've noticed about the present: FEWER PEOPLE ARE READING FEWER WORDS OFF OF FEWER PAGES THAN EVER BEFORE. That doesn't mean that the book is *dying* -- no more than the advent of the printing press and the de-emphasis of Bible-copying monks meant that the book was dying -- but it does mean that the book is changing. I think that *literature* is alive and well: we're reading our brains out! I just think that the complex social practice of "book" -- of which a bunch of paper pages between two covers is the mere expression -- is transforming and will transform further. I intend on figuring out what it's transforming into. I intend on figuring out the way that some writers -- that *this writer*, right here, wearing my underwear -- is going to get rich and famous from his craft. I intend on figuring out how *this writer's* words can become part of the social discourse, can be relevant in the way that literature at its best can be. I don't know what the future of book looks like. To figure it out, I'm doing some pretty basic science. I'm peering into this opaque, inscrutable system of publishing as it sits in the year 2004, and I'm making a perturbation. I'm stirring the pot to see what surfaces, so that I can see if the system reveals itself to me any more thoroughly as it roils. Once that happens, maybe I'll be able to formulate an hypothesis and try an experiment or two and maybe -- just maybe -- I'll get to the bottom of book-in-2004 and beat the competition to making it work, and maybe I'll go home with all (or most) of the marbles. It's a long shot, but I'm a pretty sharp guy, and I know as much about this stuff as anyone out there. More to the point, trying stuff and doing research yields a non-zero chance of success. The alternatives -- sitting pat, or worse, getting into a moral panic about "piracy" and accusing the readers who are blazing new trail of "the moral equivalent of shoplifting" -- have a *zero* percent chance of success. Most artists never "succeed" in the sense of attaining fame and modest fortune. A career in the arts is a risky long-shot kind of business. I'm doing what I can to sweeten my odds. So here we are, and here is novel number two, a book called Eastern Standard Tribe, which you can walk into shops all over the world and buy [ http://craphound.com/est/buy.php ] as a physical artifact -- a very nice physical artifact, designed by Chesley-award-winning art director Irene Gallo and her designer Shelley Eshkar, published by Tor Books, a huge, profit-making arm of an enormous, multinational publishing concern. Tor is watching what happens to this book nearly as keenly as I am, because we're all very interested in what the book is turning into. To that end, here is the book as a non-physical artifact. A file. A bunch of text, slithery bits that can cross the world in an instant, using the Internet, a tool designed to copy things very quickly from one place to another; and using personal computers, tools designed to slice, dice and rearrange collections of bits. These tools demand that their users copy and slice and dice -- rip, mix and burn! -- and that's what I'm hoping you will do with this. Not (just) because I'm a swell guy, a big-hearted slob. Not because Tor is run by addlepated dot-com refugees who have been sold some snake-oil about the e-book revolution. Because you -- the readers, the slicers, dicers and copiers -- hold in your collective action the secret of the future of publishing. Writers are a dime a dozen. Everybody's got a novel in her or him. Readers are a precious commodity. You've got all the money and all the attention and you run the word-of-mouth network that marks the difference between a little book, soon forgotten, and a book that becomes a lasting piece of posterity for its author, changing the world in some meaningful way. I'm unashamedly exploiting your imagination. Imagine me a new practice of book, readers. Take this novel and pass it from inbox to inbox, through your IM clients, over P2P networks. Put it on webservers. Convert it to weird, obscure ebook formats. Show me -- and my colleagues, and my publisher -- what the future of book looks like. I'll keep on writing them if you keep on reading them. But as cool and wonderful as writing is, it's not half so cool as inventing the future. Thanks for helping me do it. Here's a summary of the license: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0 Attribution. The licensor permits others to copy, distribute, display, and perform the work. 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This License may not be modified without the mutual written agreement of the Licensor and You. -- Dedication For my parents. For my family. For everyone who helped me up and for everyone I let down. You know who you are. Sincerest thanks and most heartfelt apologies. Cory -- 1. I once had a Tai Chi instructor who explained the difference between Chinese and Western medicine thus: "Western medicine is based on corpses, things that you discover by cutting up dead bodies and pulling them apart. Chinese medicine is based on living flesh, things observed from vital, moving humans." The explanation, like all good propaganda, is stirring and stilted, and not particularly accurate, and gummy as the hook from a top-40 song, sticky in your mind in the sleep-deprived noontime when the world takes on a hallucinatory hypperreal clarity. Like now as I sit here in my underwear on the roof of a sanatorium in the back woods off Route 128, far enough from the perpetual construction of Boston that it's merely a cloud of dust like a herd of distant buffalo charging the plains. Like now as I sit here with a pencil up my nose, thinking about homebrew lobotomies and wouldn't it be nice if I gave myself one. Deep breath. The difference between Chinese medicine and Western medicine is the dissection versus the observation of the thing in motion. The difference between reading a story and studying a story is the difference between living the story and killing the story and looking at its guts. School! We sat in English class and we dissected the stories that I'd escaped into, laid open their abdomens and tagged their organs, covered their genitals with polite sterile drapes, recorded dutiful notes *en masse* that told us what the story was about, but never what the story *was*. Stories are propaganda, virii that slide past your critical immune system and insert themselves directly into your emotions. Kill them and cut them open and they're as naked as a nightclub in daylight. The theme. The first step in dissecting a story is euthanizing it: "What is the theme of this story?" Let me kill my story before I start it, so that I can dissect it and understand it. The theme of this story is: "Would you rather be smart or happy?" This is a work of propaganda. It's a story about choosing smarts over happiness. Except if I give the pencil a push: then it's a story about choosing happiness over smarts. It's a morality play, and the first character is about to take the stage. He's a foil for the theme, so he's drawn in simple lines. Here he is: 2. Art Berry was born to argue. There are born assassins. Bred to kill, raised on cunning and speed, they are the stuff of legend, remorseless and unstoppable. There are born ballerinas, confectionery girls whose parents subject them to rigors every bit as intense as the tripwire and poison on which the assassins are reared. There are children born to practice medicine or law; children born to serve their nations and die heroically in the noble tradition of their forebears; children born to tread the boards or shred the turf or leave smoking rubber on the racetrack. Art's earliest memory: a dream. He is stuck in the waiting room of one of the innumerable doctors who attended him in his infancy. He is perhaps three, and his attention span is already as robust as it will ever be, and in his dream -- which is fast becoming a nightmare -- he is bored silly. The only adornment in the waiting room is an empty cylinder that once held toy blocks. Its label colorfully illustrates the blocks, which look like they'd be a hell of a lot of fun, if someone hadn't lost them all. Near the cylinder is a trio of older children, infinitely fascinating. They confer briefly, then do *something* to the cylinder, and it unravels, extruding into the third dimension, turning into a stack of blocks. Aha! thinks Art, on waking. This is another piece of the secret knowledge that older people possess, the strange magic that is used to operate cars and elevators and shoelaces. Art waits patiently over the next year for a grownup to show him how the blocks-from-pictures trick works, but none ever does. Many other mysteries are revealed, each one more disappointingly mundane than the last: even flying a plane seemed easy enough when the nice stew let him ride up in the cockpit for a while en route to New York -- Art's awe at the complexity of adult knowledge fell away. By the age of five, he was stuck in a sort of perpetual terrible twos, fearlessly shouting "no" at the world's every rule, arguing the morals and reason behind them until the frustrated adults whom he was picking on gave up and swatted him or told him that that was just how it was. In the Easter of his sixth year, an itchy-suited and hard-shoed visit to church with his Gran turned into a raging holy war that had the parishioners and the clergy arguing with him in teams and relays. It started innocently enough: "Why does God care if we take off our hats, Gran?" But the nosy ladies in the nearby pews couldn't bear to simply listen in, and the argument spread like ripples on a pond, out as far as the pulpit, where the priest decided to squash the whole line of inquiry with some half-remembered philosophical word games from Descartes in which the objective truth of reality is used to prove the beneficence of God and vice-versa, and culminates with "I think therefore I am." Father Ferlenghetti even managed to work it into the thread of the sermon, but before he could go on, Art's shrill little voice answered from within the congregation. Amazingly, the six-year-old had managed to assimilate all of Descartes's fairly tricksy riddles in as long as it took to describe them, and then went on to use those same arguments to prove the necessary cruelty of God, followed by the necessary nonexistence of the Supreme Being, and Gran tried to take him home then, but the priest -- who'd watched Jesuits play intellectual table tennis and recognized a natural when he saw one -- called him to the pulpit, whence Art took on the entire congregation, singly and in bunches, as they assailed his reasoning and he built it back up, laying rhetorical traps that they blundered into with all the cunning of a cabbage. Father Ferlenghetti laughed and clarified the points when they were stuttered out by some marble-mouthed rhetorical amateur from the audience, then sat back and marveled as Art did his thing. Not much was getting done vis-a-vis sermonizing, and there was still the Communion to be administered, but God knew it had been a long time since the congregation was engaged so thoroughly with coming to grips with God and what their faith meant. Afterwards, when Art was returned to his scandalized, thin-lipped Gran, Father Ferlenghetti made a point of warmly embracing her and telling her that Art was welcome at his pulpit any time, and suggested a future in the seminary. Gran was amazed, and blushed under her Sunday powder, and the clawed hand on his shoulder became a caress. 3. The theme of this story is choosing smarts over happiness, or maybe happiness over smarts. Art's a good guy. He's smart as hell. That's his schtick. If he were a cartoon character, he'd be the pain-in-the-ass poindexter who is all the time dispelling the mysteries that fascinate his buddies. It's not easy being Art's friend. Which is, of course, how Art ("not his real name") ended up sitting 45 stories over the woodsy Massachusetts countryside, hot August wind ruffling his hair and blowing up the legs of his boxers, pencil in his nose, euthanizing his story preparatory to dissecting it. In order to preserve the narrative integrity, Art ("not his real name") may take some liberties with the truth. This is autobiographical fiction, after all, not an autobiography. Call me Art ("not my real name"). I am an agent-provocateur in the Eastern Standard Tribe, though I've spent most of my life in GMT-9 and at various latitudes of Zulu, which means that my poor pineal gland has all but forgotten how to do its job without that I drown it in melatonin precursors and treat it to multi-hour nine-kilolumen sessions in the glare of my travel lantern. The tribes are taking over the world. You can track our progress by the rise of minor traffic accidents. The sleep-deprived are terrible, terrible drivers. Daylight savings time is a widowmaker: stay off the roads on Leap Forward day! Here is the second character in the morality play. She's the love interest. Was. We broke up, just before I got sent to the sanatorium. Our circadians weren't compatible. 4. April 3, 2022 was the day that Art nearly killed the first and only woman he ever really loved. It was her fault. Art's car was running low on lard after a week in the Benelux countries, where the residents were all high-net-worth cholesterol-conscious codgers who guarded their arteries from the depredations of the frytrap as jealously as they squirreled their money away from the taxman. He was, therefore, thrilled and delighted to be back on British soil, Greenwich+0, where grease ran like water and his runabout could be kept easily and cheaply fuelled and the vodka could run down his gullet instead of into his tank. He was in the Kensington High Street on a sleepy Sunday morning, GMT0300h -- 2100h back in EDT -- and the GPS was showing insufficient data-points to even gauge traffic between his geoloc and the Camden High where he kept his rooms. When the GPS can't find enough peers on the relay network to color its maps with traffic data, you know you've hit a sweet spot in the city's uber-circadian, a moment of grace where the roads are very nearly exclusively yours. So he whistled a jaunty tune and swilled his coffium, a fad that had just made it to the UK, thanks to the loosening of rules governing the disposal of heavy water in the EU. The java just wouldn't cool off, remaining hot enough to guarantee optimal caffeine osmosis right down to the last drop. If he was jittery, it was no more so than was customary for ESTalists at GMT+0, and he was driving safely and with due caution. If the woman had looked out before stepping off the kerb and into the anemically thin road, if she hadn't been wearing stylish black in the pitchy dark of the curve before the Royal Garden Hotel, if she hadn't stepped *right in front of his runabout*, he would have merely swerved and sworn and given her a bit of a fright. But she didn't, she was, she did, and he kicked the brake as hard as he could, twisted the wheel likewise, and still clipped her hipside and sent her ass-over-teakettle before the runabout did its own barrel roll, making three complete revolutions across the Kensington High before lodging in the Royal Garden Hotel's shrubs. Art was covered in scorching, molten coffium, screaming and clawing at his eyes, upside down, when the porters from the Royal Garden opened his runabout's upside-down door, undid his safety harness and pulled him out from behind the rapidly flacciding airbag. They plunged his face into the ornamental birdbath, which had a skin of ice that shattered on his nose and jangled against his jawbone as the icy water cooled the coffium and stopped the terrible, terrible burning. He ended up on his knees, sputtering and blowing and shivering, and cleared his eyes in time to see the woman he'd hit being carried out of the middle of the road on a human travois made of the porters' linked arms of red wool and gold brocade. "Assholes!" she was hollering. "I could have a goddamn spinal injury! You're not supposed to move me!" "Look, Miss," one porter said, a young chap with the kind of fantastic dentition that only an insecure teabag would ever pay for, teeth so white and flawless they strobed in the sodium streetlamps. "Look. We can leave you in the middle of the road, right, and not move you, like we're supposed to. But if we do that, chances are you're going to get run over before the paramedics get here, and then you certainly *will* have a spinal injury, and a crushed skull besides, like as not. Do you follow me?" "You!" she said, pointing a long and accusing finger at Art. "You! Don't you watch where you're going, you fool! You could have killed me!" Art shook water off his face and blew a mist from his dripping moustache. "Sorry," he said, weakly. She had an American accent, Californian maybe, a litigious stridency that tightened his sphincter like an alum enema and miraculously flensed him of the impulse to argue. "Sorry?" she said, as the porters lowered her gently to the narrow strip turf out beside the sidewalk. "Sorry? Jesus, is that the best you can do?" "Well you *did* step out in front of my car," he said, trying to marshal some spine. She attempted to sit up, then slumped back down, wincing. "You were going too fast!" "I don't think so," he said. "I'm pretty sure I was doing 45 -- that's five clicks under the limit. Of course, the GPS will tell for sure." At the mention of empirical evidence, she seemed to lose interest in being angry. "Give me a phone, will you?" Mortals may be promiscuous with their handsets, but for a tribalist, one's relationship with one's comm is deeply personal. Art would have sooner shared his underwear. But he *had* hit her with his car. Reluctantly, Art passed her his comm. The woman stabbed at the handset with the fingers of her left hand, squinting at it in the dim light. Eventually, she clamped it to her head. "Johnny? It's Linda. Yes, I'm still in London. How's tricks out there? Good, good to hear. How's Marybeth? Oh, that's too bad. Want to hear how I am?" She grinned devilishly. "I just got hit by a car. No, just now. Five minutes ago. Of course I'm hurt! I think he broke my hip -- maybe my spine, too. Yes, I can wiggle my toes. Maybe he shattered a disc and it's sawing through the cord right now. Concussion? Oh, almost certainly. Pain and suffering, loss of enjoyment of life, missed wages..." She looked up at Art. "You're insured, right?" Art nodded, miserably, fishing for an argument that would not come. "Half a mil, easy. Easy! Get the papers going, will you? I'll call you when the ambulance gets here. Bye. Love you too. Bye. Bye. Bye, Johnny. I got to go. Bye!" She made a kissy noise and tossed the comm back at Art. He snatched it out of the air in a panic, closed its cover reverentially and slipped it back in his jacket pocket. "C'mere," she said, crooking a finger. He knelt beside her. "I'm Linda," she said, shaking his hand, then pulling it to her chest. "Art," Art said. "Art. Here's the deal, Art. It's no one's fault, OK? It was dark, you were driving under the limit, I was proceeding with due caution. Just one of those things. But *you* did hit *me*. Your insurer's gonna have to pay out -- rehab, pain and suffering, you get it. That's going to be serious kwan. I'll go splits with you, you play along." Art looked puzzled. "Art. Art. Art. Art, here's the thing. Maybe you were distracted. Lost. Not looking. Not saying you were, but maybe. Maybe you were, and if you were, my lawyer's going to get that out of you, he's going to nail you, and I'll get a big, fat check. On the other hand, you could just, you know, cop to it. Play along. You make this easy, we'll make this easy. Split it down the middle, once my lawyer gets his piece. Sure, your premiums'll go up, but there'll be enough to cover both of us. Couldn't you use some ready cash? Lots of zeroes. Couple hundred grand, maybe more. I'm being nice here -- I could keep it all for me." "I don't think --" "Sure you don't. You're an honest man. I understand, Art. Art. Art, I understand. But what has your insurer done for you, lately? My uncle Ed, he got caught in a threshing machine, paid his premiums every week for forty years, what did he get? Nothing. Insurance companies. They're the great satan. No one likes an insurance company. Come on, Art. Art. You don't have to say anything now, but think about it, OK, Art?" She released his hand, and he stood. The porter with the teeth flashed them at him. "Mad," he said, "just mad. Watch yourself, mate. Get your solicitor on the line, I were you." He stepped back as far as the narrow sidewalk would allow and fired up his comm and tunneled to a pseudonymous relay, bouncing the call off a dozen mixmasters. He was, after all, in deep cover as a GMTalist, and it wouldn't do to have his enciphered packets' destination in the clear -- a little traffic analysis and his cover'd be blown. He velcroed the keyboard to his thigh and started chording. Trepan: Any UK solicitors on the channel? Gink-Go: Lawyers. Heh. Kill 'em all. Specially eurofag fixers. Junta: Hey, I resemble that remark Trepan: Junta, you're a UK lawyer? Gink-Go: Use autocounsel, dude. L{ia|awye}rs suck. Channel #autocounsel. Chatterbot with all major legal systems on the backend. Trepan: Whatever. I need a human lawyer. Trepan: Junta, you there? Gink-Go: Off raping humanity. Gink-Go: Fuck lawyers. Trepan: /shitlist Gink-Go ##Gink-Go added to Trepan's shitlist. Use '/unshit Gink-Go' to see messages again Gink-Go: <shitlisted> Gink-Go: <shitlisted> Gink-Go: <shitlisted> Gink-Go: <shitlisted> ##Gink-Go added to Junta's shitlist. Use '/unshit Gink-Go' to see messages again ##Gink-Go added to Thomas-hawk's shitlist. Use '/unshit Gink-Go' to see messages again ##Gink-Go added to opencolon's shitlist. Use '/unshit Gink-Go' to see messages again ##Gink-Go added to jackyardbackoff's shitlist. Use '/unshit Gink-Go' to see messages again ##Gink-Go added to freddy-kugel's shitlist. Use '/unshit Gink-Go' to see messages again opencolon: Trolls suck. Gink-Go away. Gink-Go: <shitlisted> Gink-Go: <shitlisted> Gink-Go: <shitlisted> ##Gink-Go has left channel #EST.chatter Junta: You were saying? ##Junta (private) (file transfer) ##Received credential from Junta. Verifying. Credential identified: "Solicitor, registered with the Law Society to practice in England and Wales, also registered in Australia." Trepan: /private Junta I just hit a woman while driving the Kensington High Street. Her fault. She's hurt. Wants me to admit culpability in exchange for half the insurance. Advice? ##Junta (private): I beg your pardon? Trepan: /private Junta She's crazy. She just got off the phone with some kinda lawyer in the States. Says she can get $5*10^5 at least, and will split with me if I don't dispute. ##Junta (private): Bloody Americans. No offense. What kind of instrumentation recorded it? Trepan: /private Junta My GPS. Maybe some secams. Eyewitnesses, maybe. ##Junta (private): And you'll say what, exactly? That you were distracted? Fiddling with something? Trepan: /private Junta I guess. ##Junta (private): You're looking at three points off your licence. Statutory increase in premiums totalling EU 2*10^5 over five years. How's your record? ##Transferring credential "Driving record" to Junta. Receipt confirmed. ##Junta (private): Hmmm. ##Junta (private): Nothing outrageous. _Were_ you distracted? Trepan: /private Junta I guess. Maybe. ##Junta (private): You guess. Well, who would know better than you, right? My fee's 10 percent. Stop guessing. You _were_ distracted. Overtired. It's late. Regrettable. Sincerely sorry. Have her solicitor contact me directly. I'll meet you here at 1000h GMT/0400h EDT and go over it with you, yes? Agreeable? Trepan: /private Junta Agreed. Thanks. ##Junta (private) (file transfer) ##Received smartcontract from Junta. Verifying. Smartcontract "Representation agreement" verified. Trepan: /join #autocounsel counselbot: Welcome, Trepan! How can I help you? ##Transferring smartcontract "Representation agreement" to counselbot. Receipt confirmed. Trepan: /private counselbot What is the legal standing of this contract? ##counselbot (private): Smartcontract "Representation agreement" is an ISO standard representation agreement between a client and a solicitor for purposes of litigation in the UK. ##autocounsel (private) (file transfer) ##Received "representation agreement faq uk 2.3.2 2JAN22" from autocounsel. Trepan: /join #EST.chatter Trepan: /private Junta It's a deal ##Transferring key-signed smartcontract "Representation agreement" to Junta. Receipt confirmed. Trepan: /quit Gotta go, thanks! ##Trepan has left channel #EST.chatter "Gotta go, thanks!" 5. Once the messy business of negotiating EU healthcare for foreign nationals had been sorted out with the EMTs and the Casualty Intake triage, once they'd both been digested and shat out by a dozen diagnostic devices from X-rays to MRIs, once the harried house officers had impersonally prodded them and presented them both with hardcopy FAQs for their various injuries (second-degree burns, mild shock for Art; pelvic dislocation, minor kidney bruising, broken femur, whiplash, concussion and mandible trauma for Linda), they found themselves in adjacent beds in the recovery room, which bustled as though it, too, were working on GMT-5, busy as a 9PM restaurant on a Saturday night. Art had an IV taped to the inside of his left arm, dripping saline and tranqs, making him logy and challenging his circadians. Still, he was the more mobile of the two, as Linda was swaddled in smartcasts that both immobilized her and massaged her, all the while osmosing transdermal antiinflammatories and painkillers. He tottered the two steps to the chair at her bedside and shook her hand again. "Don't take this the wrong way, but you look like hell," he said. She smiled. Her jaw made an audible pop. "Get a picture, will you? It'll be good in court." He chuckled. "No, seriously. Get a picture." So he took out his comm and snapped a couple pix, including one with nightvision filters on to compensate for the dimmed recovery room lighting. "You're a cool customer, you know that?" he said, as he tucked his camera away. "Not so cool. This is all a coping strategy. I'm pretty shook up, you want to know the truth. I could have died." "What were you doing on the street at three AM anyway?" "I was upset, so I took a walk, thought I'd get something to eat or a beer or something." "You haven't been here long, huh?" She laughed, and it turned into a groan. "What the hell is wrong with the English, anyway? The sun sets and the city rolls up its streets. It's not like they've got this great tradition of staying home and surfing cable or anything." "They're all snug in their beds, farting away their lentil roasts." "That's it! You can't get a steak here to save your life. Mad cows, all of 'em. If I see one more gray soy sausage, I'm going to kill the waitress and eat *her*." "You just need to get hooked up," he said. "Once we're out of here, I'll take you out for a genuine blood pudding, roast beef and oily chips. I know a place." "I'm drooling. Can I borrow your phone again? Uh, I think you're going to have to dial for me." "That's OK. Give me the number." She did, and he cradled his comm to her head. He was close enough to her that he could hear the tinny, distinctive ringing of a namerican circuit at the other end. He heard her shallow breathing, heard her jaw creak. He smelled her shampoo, a free-polymer new-car smell, smelled a hint of her sweat. A cord stood out on her neck, merging in an elegant vee with her collarbone, an arrow pointing at the swell of her breast under her paper gown. "Toby, it's Linda." A munchkin voice chittered down the line. "Shut up, OK. Shut up. Shut. I'm in the hospital." More chipmunk. "Got hit by a car. I'll be OK. No. Shut up. I'll be fine. I'll send you the FAQs. I just wanted to say. . ." She heaved a sigh, closed her eyes. "You know what I wanted to say. Sorry, all right? Sorry it came to this. You'll be OK. I'll be OK. I just didn't want to leave you hanging." She sounded groggy, but there was a sob there, too. "I can't talk long. I'm on a shitload of dope. Yes, it's good dope. I'll call you later. I don't know when I'm coming back, but we'll sort it out there, all right? OK. Shut up. OK. You too." She looked up at Art. "My boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. Not sure who's leaving who at this point. Thanks." She closed her eyes. Her eyelids were mauve, a tracery of pink veins. She snored softly. Art set an alarm that would wake him up in time to meet his lawyer, folded up his comm and crawled back into bed. His circadians swelled and crashed against the sides of his skull, and before he knew it, he was out. 6. Hospitals operate around the clock, but they still have their own circadians. The noontime staff were still overworked and harried but chipper and efficient, too, without the raccoon-eyed jitters of the night before. Art and Linda were efficiently fed, watered and evacuated, then left to their own devices, blinking in the weak English sunlight that streamed through the windows. "The lawyers've worked it out, I think," Art said. "Good. Good news." She was dopamine-heavy, her words lizard-slow. Art figured her temper was drugged senseless, and it gave him the courage to ask her the question that'd been on his mind since they'd met. "Can I ask you something? It may be offensive." "G'head. I may be offended." "Do you do. . .this. . .a lot? I mean, the insurance thing?" She snorted, then moaned. "It's the Los Angeles Lottery, dude. I haven't done it before, but I was starting to feel a little left out, to tell the truth." "I thought screenplays were the LA Lotto." "Naw. A good lotto is one you can win." She favored him with half a smile and he saw that she had a lopsided, left-hand dimple. "You're from LA, then?" "Got it in one. Orange County. I'm a third-generation failed actor. Grandpa once had a line in a Hitchcock film. Mom was the ditzy neighbor on a three-episode Fox sitcom in the 90s. I'm still waiting for my moment in the sun. You live here?" "For now. Since September. I'm from Toronto." "Canadia! Goddamn snowbacks. What are you doing in London?" His comm rang, giving him a moment to gather his cover story. "Hello?" "Art! It's Fede!" Federico was another provocateur in GMT. He wasn't exactly Art's superior -- the tribes didn't work like that -- but he had seniority. "Fede -- can I call you back?" "Look, I heard about your accident, and I wouldn't have called, but it's urgent." Art groaned and rolled his eyes in Linda's direction to let her know that he, too, was exasperated by the call, then retreated to the other side of his bed and hunched over. "What is it?" "We've been sniffed. I'm four-fifths positive." Art groaned again. Fede lived in perennial terror of being found out and exposed as an ESTribesman, fired, deported, humiliated. He was always at least three-fifths positive, and the extra fifth was hardly an anomaly. "What's up now?" "It's the VP of HR at Virgin/Deutsche Telekom. He's called me in for a meeting this afternoon. Wants to go over the core hours recommendation." Fede was a McKinsey consultant offline, producing inflammatory recommendation packages for Fortune 100 companies. He was working the lazy-Euro angle, pushing for extra daycare, time off for sick relatives and spouses. The last policy binder he'd dumped on V/DT had contained enough obscure leave-granting clauses that an employee who was sufficiently lawyer-minded could conceivably claim 450 days of paid leave a year. Now he was pushing for the abolishment of "core hours," Corporate Eurospeak for the time after lunch but before afternoon naps when everyone showed up at the office, so that they could get some face-time. Enough of this, and GMT would be the laughingstock of the world, and so caught up in internecine struggles that the clear superiority of the stress-feeding EST ethos would sweep them away. That was the theory, anyway. Of course, there were rival Tribalists in every single management consulting firm in the world working against us. Management consultants have always worked on old-boys' networks, after all -- it was a very short step from interning your frat buddy to interning your Tribesman. "That's it? A meeting? Jesus, it's just a meeting. He probably wants you to reassure him before he presents to the CEO, is all." "No, I'm sure that's not it. He's got us sniffed -- both of us. He's been going through the product-design stuff, too, which is totally outside of his bailiwick. I tried to call him yesterday and his voicemail rolled over to a boardroom in O'Malley House." O'Malley House was the usability lab, a nice old row of connected Victorian townhouses just off Picadilly. It was where Art consulted out of. Also, two-hundred-odd usability specialists, product designers, experience engineers, cog-psych cranks and other tinkerers with the mind. They were the hairface hackers of Art's generation, unmanageable creative darlings -- no surprise that the VP of HR would have cause to spend a little face-time with someone there. Try telling Fede that, though. "All right, Fede, what do you want me to do?" "Just -- Just be careful. Sanitize your storage. I'm pushing a new personal key to you now, too. Here, I'll read you the fingerprint." The key would be an unimaginably long string of crypto-gibberish, and just to make sure that it wasn't intercepted and changed en route, Fede wanted to read him a slightly less long mathematical fingerprint hashed out of it. Once it arrived, Art was supposed to generate a fingerprint from Fede's new key and compare it to the one that Fede wanted him to jot down. Art closed his eyes and reclined. "All right, I've got a pen," he said, though he had no such thing. Fede read him the long, long string of digits and characters and he repeated them back, pretending to be noting them down. Paranoid bastard. "OK, I got it. I'll get you a new key later today, all right?" "Do it quick, man." "Whatever, Fede. Back off, OK?" "Sorry, sorry. Oh, and feel better, all right?" "Bye, Fede." "What was *that*?" Linda had her neck craned around to watch him. He slipped into his cover story with a conscious effort. "I'm a user-experience consultant. My coworkers are all paranoid about a deadline." She rolled her eyes. "Not another one. God. Look, we go out for dinner, don't say a word about the kerb design or the waiter or the menu or the presentation, OK? OK? I'm serious." Art solemnly crossed his heart. "Who else do you know in the biz?" "My ex. He wouldn't or couldn't shut up about how much everything sucked. He was right, but so what? I wanted to enjoy it, suckitude and all." "OK, I promise. We're going out for dinner, then?" "The minute I can walk, you're taking me out for as much flesh and entrails as I can eat." "It's a deal." And then they both slept again. 7. Met cute, huh? Linda was short and curvy, dark eyes and pursed lips and an hourglass figure that she thought made her look topheavy and big-assed, but I thought she was fabulous and soft and bouncy. She tasted like pepper, and her hair smelled of the abstruse polymers that kept it hanging in a brusque bob that brushed her firm, long jawline. I'm getting a sunburn, and the pebbles on the roof are digging into my ass. I don't know if I'm going to push the pencil or not, but if I do, it's going to be somewhere more comfortable than this roof. Except that the roof door, which I had wedged open before I snuck away from my attendants and slunk up the firecode-mandated stairwell, is locked. The small cairn of pebbles that I created in front of it has been strewn apart. It is locked tight. And me without my comm. Ah, me. I take an inventory of my person: a pencil, a hospital gown, a pair of boxer shorts and a head full of bad cess. I am 450' above the summery, muggy, verdant Massachusetts countryside. It is very hot, and I am turning the color of the Barbie aisle at FAO Schwartz, a kind of labial pink that is both painful and perversely cheerful. I've spent my life going in the back door and coming out the side door. That's the way it is now. When it only takes two years for your job to morph into something that would have been unimaginable twenty-four months before, it's not really practical to go in through the front door. Not really practical to get the degree, the certification, the appropriate experience. I mean, even if you went back to university, the major you'd need by the time you graduated would be in a subject that hadn't been invented when you enrolled. So I'm good at back doors and side doors. It's what the Tribe does for me -- provides me with entries into places where I technically don't belong. And thank God for them, anyway. Without the Tribes, *no one* would be qualified to do *anything* worth doing. Going out the side door has backfired on me today, though. Oh. Shit. I peer over the building's edge, down into the parking lot. The cars are thinly spread, the weather too fine for anyone out there in the real world to be visiting with their crazy relatives. Half a dozen beaters are parked down there, methane-breathers that the ESTalists call fartmobiles. I'd been driving something much the same on that fateful Leap Forward day in London. I left something out of my inventory: pebbles. The roof is littered, covered with a layer of gray, round riverstones, about the size of wasabi chickpeas. No one down there is going to notice me all the way up here. Not without that I give them a sign. A cracked windshield or two ought to do it. I gather a small pile of rocks by the roof's edge and carefully take aim. I have to be cautious. Careful. A pebble dropped from this height -- I remember the stories about the penny dropped from the top of the CN Tower that sunk six inches into the concrete below. I select a small piece of gravel and carefully aim for the windshield of a little blue Sony Veddic and it's bombs away. I can only follow the stone's progress for a few seconds before my eyes can no longer disambiguate it from the surrounding countryside. What little I do see of its trajectory is disheartening, though: the wind whips it away on an almost horizontal parabola, off towards Boston. Forgetting all about Newton, I try lobbing and then hurling the gravel downward, but it gets taken away, off to neverneverland, and the windscreens remain whole. I go off to prospect for bigger rocks. You know the sort of horror movie where the suspense builds and builds and builds, partially collapsed at regular intervals by something jumping out and yelling "Boo!" whereupon the heroes have to flee, deeper into danger, and the tension rises and rises? You know how sometimes the director just doesn't know when to quit, and the bogeymen keep jumping out and yelling boo, the wobbly bridges keep on collapsing, the small arms fire keeps blowing out more windows in the office tower? It's not like the tension goes away -- it just get boring. Boring tension. You know that the climax is coming soon, that any minute now Our Hero will face down the archvillain and either kick his ass or have his ass kicked, the whole world riding on the outcome. You know that it will be satisfying, with much explosions and partial nudity. You know that afterward, Our Hero will retire to the space-bar and chill out and collect kisses from the love interest and that we'll all have a moment to get our adrenals back under control before the hand pops out of the grave and we all give a nervous jump and start eagerly anticipating the sequel. You just wish it would *happen* already. You just wish that the little climaces could be taken as read, that the director would trust the audience to know that Our Hero really does wade through an entire ocean of shit en route to the final showdown. I'm bored with being excited. I've been betrayed, shot at, institutionalized and stranded on the roof of a nuthouse, and I just want the fucking climax to come by and happen to me, so that I can know: smart or happy. I've found a half-brick that was being used to hold down the tar paper around an exhaust-chimney. I should've used that to hold the door open, but it's way the hell the other side of the roof, and I'd been really pleased with my little pebbly doorstop. Besides, I'm starting to suspect that the doorjamb didn't fail, that it was sabotaged by some malevolently playful goon from the sanatorium. An object lesson or something. I heft the brick. I release the brick. It falls, and falls, and falls, and hits the little blue fartmobile square on the trunk, punching a hole through the cheap aluminum lid. And the fartmobile explodes. First there is a geyser of blue flame as the tank's puncture wound jets a stream of ignited assoline skyward, and then it blows back into the tank and *boom*, the fartmobile is in one billion shards, rising like a parachute in an updraft. I can feel the heat on my bare, sun-tender skin, even from this distance. Explosions. Partial nudity. Somehow, though, I know that this isn't the climax. 8. Linda didn't like to argue -- fight: yes, argue: no. That was going to be a problem, Art knew, but when you're falling in love, you're able to rationalize all kinds of things. The yobs who cornered them on the way out of a bloody supper of contraband, antisocial animal flesh were young, large and bristling with testosterone. They wore killsport armor with strategic transparent panels that revealed their steroid-curdled muscles, visible through the likewise transparent insets they'd had grafted in place of the skin that covered their abs and quads. There were three of them, grinning and flexing, and they boxed in Art and Linda in the tiny, shuttered entrance of a Boots Pharmacy. "Evening, sir, evening, miss," one said. "Hey," Art muttered and looked over the yob's shoulder, trying to spot a secam or a cop. Neither was in sight. "I wonder if we could beg a favor of you?" another said. "Sure," Art said. "You're American, aren't you?" the third said. "Canadian, actually." "Marvelous. Bloody marvelous. I hear that Canada's a lovely place. How are you enjoying England?" "I live here, actually. I like it a lot." "Glad to hear that, sir. And you, Miss?" Linda was wide-eyed, halfway behind Art. "It's fine." "Good to hear," the first one said, grinning even more broadly. "Now, as to that favor. My friends and I, we've got a problem. We've grown bored of our wallets. They are dull and uninteresting." "And empty," the third one interjected, with a little, stoned giggle. "Oh yes, and empty. We thought, well, perhaps you visitors from abroad would find them suitable souvenirs of England. We thought perhaps you'd like to trade, like?" Art smiled in spite of himself. He hadn't been mugged in London, but he'd heard of this. Ever since a pair of Manchester toughs had been acquitted based on the claim that their robbery and menacing of a Pakistani couple had been a simple cross-cultural misunderstanding, crafty British yobs had been taking off increasingly baroque scores from tourists. Art felt the familiar buzz that meant he was about to get into an argument, and before he knew it, he was talking: "Do you really think that'd hold up in court? I think that even the dimmest judge would be able to tell that the idea of a Canadian being mistaken about trading two wallets full of cash for three empty ones was in no way an error in cross-cultural communication. Really now. If you're going to mug us --" "Mug you, sir? Dear oh dear, who's mugging you?" the first one said. "Well, in that case, you won't mind if we say no, right?" "Well, it would be rather rude," the first said. "After all, we're offering you a souvenir in the spirit of transatlantic solidarity. Genuine English leather, mine is. Belonged to my grandfather." "Let me see it," Art said. "Beg pardon?" "I want to see it. If we're going to trade, I should be able to examine the goods first, right?" "All right, sir, all right, here you are." The wallet was tattered and leather, and it was indeed made in England, as the frayed tag sewn into the billfold attested. Art turned it over in his hands, then, still smiling, emptied the card slot and started paging through the ID. "Lester?" Lester swore under his breath. "Les, actually. Hand those over, please -- they don't come with the wallet." "They don't? But surely a real British wallet is hardly complete without real British identification. Maybe I could keep the NHS card, something to show around to Americans. They think socialized medicine is a fairy tale, you know." "I really must insist, sir." "Fuck it, Les," the second one said, reaching into his pocket. "This is stupid. Get the money, and let's push off." "It's not that easy any more, is it?" the third one said. "Fellow's got your name, Les. 'Sbad." "Well, yes, of course I do," Art said. "But so what? You three are hardly nondescript. You think it'd be hard to pick your faces out of a rogues gallery? Oh, and wait a minute! Isn't this a trade? What happened to the spirit of transatlantic solidarity?" "Right," Les said. "Don't matter if you've got my name, 'cos we're all friends, right, sir?" "Right!" Art said. He put the tattered wallet in his already bulging jacket pocket, making a great show of tamping it down so it wouldn't come loose. Once his hand was free, he extended it. "Art Berry. Late of Toronto. Pleased to meetcha!" Les shook his hand. "I'm Les. These are my friends, Tony and Tom." "Fuck!" Tom, the second one, said. "Les, you stupid cunt! Now they got our names, too!" The hand he'd put in his pocket came out, holding a tazer that sparked and hummed. "Gotta get rid of 'em now." Art smiled, and reached very slowly into his pocket. He pulled out his comm, dislodging Les's wallet so that it fell to the street. Les, Tom and Tony stared at the glowing comm in his hand. "Could you repeat that, Tom? I don't think the 999 operator heard you clearly." Tom stared dumbfounded at the comm, watching it as though it were a snake. The numbers "999" were clearly visible on its display, along with the position data that pinpointed its location to the meter. Les turned abruptly and began walking briskly towards the tube station. In a moment, Tony followed, leaving Tom alone, the tazer still hissing and spitting. His face contorted with frustrated anger, and he feinted with the tazer, barking a laugh when Art and Linda cringed back, then he took off at a good run after his mates. Art clamped the comm to his head. "They've gone away," he announced, prideful. "Did you get that exchange? There were three of them and they've gone away." From the comm came a tight, efficient voice, a male emergency operator. The speech was accented, and it took a moment to place it. Then Art remembered that the overnight emergency call-centers had been outsourced by the English government to low-cost cube-farms in Manila. "Yes, Mr. Berry." His comm had already transmitted his name, immigration status and location, creating a degree of customization more typical of fast-food delivery than governmental bureaucracies. That was bad, Art thought, professionally. GMT polezeidom was meant to be a solid wall of oatmeal-thick bureaucracy, courtesy of some crafty, anonymous PDTalist. "Please, stay at your current location. The police will be on the scene shortly. Very well done, sir." Art turned to Linda, triumphant, ready for the traditional, postrhetorical accolades that witnesses of his verbal acrobatics were wont to dole out, and found her in an attitude of abject terror. Her eyes were crazily wide, the whites visible around the irises -- something he'd read about but never seen firsthand. She was breathing shallowly and had gone ashen. Though they were not an actual couple yet, Art tried to gather her into his arms for some manly comforting, but she was stiff in his embrace, and after a moment, planted her palms on his chest and pushed him back firmly, even aggressively. "Are you all right?" he asked. He was adrenalized, flushed. "*What if they'd decided to kill us*?" she said, spittle flying from her lips. "Oh, they weren't going to hurt us," he said. "No guts at all." "God*dammit*, you didn't know that! Where do you get off playing around with *my* safety? Why the hell didn't you just hand over your wallet, call the cops and be done with it? Macho fucking horseshit!" The triumph was fading, fast replaced by anger. "What's wrong with you? Do you always have to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory? I just beat off those three assholes without raising a hand, and all you want to do is criticize? Christ, OK, next time we can hand over our wallets. Maybe they'll want a little rape, too -- should I go along with that? You just tell me what the rules are, and I'll be sure and obey them." "You fucking *pig*! Where the fuck do you get off raising your voice to me? And don't you *ever* joke about rape. It's not even slightly funny, you arrogant fucking prick." Art's triumph deflated. "Jesus," he said, "Jesus, Linda, I'm sorry. I didn't realize how scared you must have been --" "You don't know what you're talking about. I've been mugged a dozen times. I hand over my wallet, cancel my cards, go to my insurer. No one's ever hurt me. I wasn't the least bit scared until you opened up your big goddamned mouth." "Sorry, sorry. Sorry about the rape crack. I was just trying to make a point. I didn't know --" He wanted to say, *I didn't know you'd been raped*, but thought better of it -- "it was so...*personal* for you --" "Oh, Christ. Just because I don't want to joke about rape, you think I'm some kind of *victim*, that *I've* been raped" -- Art grimaced -- "well, I haven't, shithead. But it's not something you should be using as a goddamned example in one of your stupid points. Rape is serious." The cops arrived then, two of them on scooters, looking like meter maids. Art and Linda glared at each other for a moment, then forced smiles at the cops, who had dismounted and shed their helmets. They were young men, in their twenties, and to Art, they looked like kids playing dress up. "Evening sir, miss," one said. "I'm PC McGivens and this is PC DeMoss. You called emergency services?" McGivens had his comm out and it was pointed at them, slurping in their identity on police override. "Yes," Art said. "But it's OK now. They took off. One of them left his wallet behind." He bent and picked it up and made to hand it to PC DeMoss, who was closer. The cop ignored it. "Please sir, put that down. We'll gather the evidence." Art lowered it to the ground, felt himself blushing. His hands were shaking now, whether from embarrassment, triumph or hurt he couldn't say. He held up his now-empty palms in a gesture of surrender. "Step over here, please, sir," PC McGivens said, and led him off a short ways, while PC Blaylock closed on Linda. "Now, sir," McGivens said, in a businesslike way, "please tell me exactly what happened." So Art did, tastefully omitting the meat-parlor where the evening's festivities had begun. He started to get into it, to evangelize his fast-thinking bravery with the phone. McGivens obliged him with a little grin. "Very good. Now, again, please, sir?" "I'm sorry?" Art said. "Can you repeat it, please? Procedure." "Why?" "Can't really say, sir. It's procedure." Art thought about arguing, but managed to control the impulse. The man was a cop, he was a foreigner -- albeit a thoroughly documented one -- and what would it cost? He'd probably left something out anyway. He retold the story from the top, speaking slowly and clearly. PC McGivens aimed his comm Artwards, and tapped out the occasional note as Art spoke. "Thank you sir. Now, once more, please?" Art blew out an exasperated sigh. His feet hurt, and his bladder was swollen with drink. "You're joking." "No sir, I'm afraid not. Procedure." "But it's stupid! The guys who tried to mug us are long gone, I've given you their descriptions, you have their *identification* --" But they didn't, not yet. The wallet still lay where Art had dropped it. PC McGivens shook his head slowly, as though marveling at the previously unsuspected inanity of his daily round. "All very true, sir, but it's procedure. Worked out by some clever lad using statistics. All this, it increases our success rate. 'Sproven." Here it was. Some busy tribalist provocateur, some compatriot of Fede, had stirred the oats into Her Majesty's Royal Constabulary. Art snuck a look at Linda, who was no doubt being subjected to the same procedure by PC DeMoss. She'd lost her rigid, angry posture, and was seemingly -- amazingly -- enjoying herself, chatting up the constable like an old pal. "How many more times have we got to do this, officer?" "This is the last time you'll have to repeat it to me." Art's professional instincts perked up at the weasel words in the sentence. "To you? Who else do I need to go over this with?" The officer shook his head, caught out. "Well, you'll have to repeat it three times to PC DeMoss, once he's done with your friend, sir. Procedure." "How about this," Art says, "how about I record this last statement to you with my comm, and then I can *play it back* three times for PC DeMoss?" "Oh, I'm sure that won't do, sir. Not really the spirit of the thing, is it?" "And what *is* the spirit of the thing? Humiliation? Boredom? An exercise in raw power?" PC McGivens lost his faint smile. "I really couldn't say, sir. Now, again if you please?" "What if I don't please? I haven't been assaulted. I haven't been robbed. It's none of my business. What if I walk away right now?" "Not really allowed, sir. It's expected that everyone in England -- HM's subjects *and her guests* -- will assist the police with their inquiries. Required, actually." Reminded of his precarious immigration status, Art lost his attitude. "Once more for you, three more times for your partner, and we're done, right? I want to get home." "We'll see, sir." Art recited the facts a third time, and they waited while Linda finished her third recounting. He switched over to PC DeMoss, who pointed his comm expectantly. "Is all this just to make people reluctant to call the cops? I mean, this whole procedure seems like a hell of a disincentive." "Just the way we do things, sir," PC DeMoss said without rancor. "Now, let's have it, if you please?" From a few yards away, Linda laughed at something PC McGivens said, which just escalated Art's frustration. He spat out the description three times fast. "Now, I need to find a toilet. Are we done yet?" "'Fraid not, sir. Going to have to come by the Station House to look through some photos. There's a toilet there." "It can't wait that long, officer." PC DeMoss gave him a reproachful look. "I'm sorry, all right?" Art said. "I lack the foresight to empty my bladder before being accosted in the street. That being said, can we arrive at some kind of solution?" In his head, Art was already writing an angry letter to the *Times*, dripping with sarcasm. "Just a moment, sir," PC DeMoss said. He conferred briefly with his partner, leaving Art to stare ruefully at their backs and avoid Linda's gaze. When he finally met it, she gave him a sunny smile. It seemed that she -- at least -- wasn't angry any more. "Come this way, please, sir," PC DeMoss said, striking off for the High Street. "There's a pub 'round the corner where you can use the facilities." 9. It was nearly dawn before they finally made their way out of the police station and back into the street. After identifying Les from an online rogues' gallery, Art had spent the next six hours sitting on a hard bench, chording desultorily on his thigh, doing some housekeeping. This business of being an agent-provocateur was complicated in the extreme, though it had sounded like a good idea when he was living in San Francisco and hating every inch of the city, from the alleged pizza to the fucking! drivers! -- in New York, the theory went, drivers used their horns by way of shouting "Ole!" as in, "Ole! You changed lanes!" "Ole! You cut me off!" "Ole! You're driving on the sidewalk!" while in San Francisco, a honking horn meant, "I wish you were dead. Have a nice day. Dude." And the body language was all screwed up out west. Art believed that your entire unconscious affect was determined by your upbringing. You learned how to stand, how to hold your face in repose, how to gesture, from the adults around you while you were growing up. The Pacific Standard Tribe always seemed a little bovine to him, their facial muscles long conditioned to relax into a kind of spacey, gullible senescence. Beauty, too. Your local definition of attractive and ugly was conditioned by the people around you at puberty. There was a Pacific "look" that was indefinably off. Hard to say what it was, just that when he went out to a bar or got stuck on a crowded train, the girls just didn't seem all that attractive to him. Objectively, he could recognize their prettiness, but it didn't stir him the way the girls cruising the Chelsea Antiques Market or lounging around Harvard Square could. He'd always felt at a slight angle to reality in California, something that was reinforced by his continuous efforts in the Tribe, from chatting and gaming until the sun rose, dragging his caffeine-deficient ass around to his clients in a kind of fog before going home, catching a nap and hopping back online at 3 or 4 when the high-octane NYC early risers were practicing work-avoidance and clattering around with their comms. Gradually, he penetrated deeper into the Tribe, getting invites into private channels, intimate environments where he found himself spilling the most private details of his life. The Tribe stuck together, finding work for each other, offering advice, and it was only a matter of time before someone offered him a gig. That was Fede, who practically invented Tribal agent-provocateurs. He'd been working for McKinsey, systematically undermining their GMT-based clients with plausibly terrible advice, creating Achilles' heels that their East-coast competitors could exploit. The entire European trust-architecture for relay networks had been ceded by Virgin/Deutsche Telekom to a scrappy band of AT&T Labs refugees whose New Jersey headquarters hosted all the cellular reputation data that Euros' comms consulted when they were routing their calls. The Jersey clients had funneled a nice chunk of the proceeds to Fede's account in the form of rigged winnings from an offshore casino that the Tribe used to launder its money. Now V/DT was striking back, angling for a government contract in Massachusetts, a fat bit of pork for managing payments to rightsholders whose media was assessed at the MassPike's tollbooths. Rights-societies were a fabulous opportunity to skim and launder and spindle money in plenty, and Virgin's massive repertoire combined with Deutsche Telekom's Teutonic attention to detail was a tough combination to beat. Needless to say, the Route 128-based Tribalists who had the existing contract needed an edge, and would pay handsomely for it. London nights seemed like a step up from San Francisco mornings to Art -- instead of getting up at 4AM to get NYC, he could sleep in and chat them up through the night. The Euro sensibility, with its many nap-breaks, statutory holidays and extended vacations seemed ideally suited to a double agent's life. But Art hadn't counted on the Tribalists' hands-on approach to his work. They obsessively grepped his daily feed of spreadsheets, whiteboard-output, memos and conversation reports for any of ten thousand hot keywords, querying him for deeper detail on trivial, half-remembered bullshit sessions with the V/DT's user experience engineers. His comm buzzed and blipped at all hours, and his payoff was dependent on his prompt response. They were running him ragged. Four hours in the police station gave Art ample opportunity to catch up on the backlog of finicky queries. Since the accident, he'd been distracted and tardy, and had begun to invent his responses, since it all seemed so trivial to him anyway. Fede had sent him about a thousand nagging notes reminding him to generate a new key and phone with the fingerprint. Christ. Fede had been with McKinsey for most of his adult life, and he was superparanoid about being exposed and disgraced in their ranks. Art's experience with the other McKinsey people around the office suggested that the notion of any of those overpaid buzzword-slingers sniffing their traffic was about as likely as a lightning strike. Heaving a dramatic sigh for his own benefit, he began the lengthy process of generating enough randomness to seed the key, mashing the keyboard, whispering nonsense syllables, and pointing the comm's camera lens at arbitrary corners of the police station. After ten minutes of crypto-Tourette's, the comm announced that he'd been sufficiently random and prompted him for a passphrase. Jesus. What a pain in the ass. He struggled to recall all the words to the theme song from a CBC sitcom he'd watched as a kid, and then his comm went into a full-on churn as it laboriously re-ciphered all of his stored files with the new key, leaving Art to login while he waited. Trepan: Afternoon! Colonelonic: Hey, Trepan. How's it going? Trepan: Foul. I'm stuck at a copshop in London with my thumb up my ass. I got mugged. Colonelonic: Yikes! You OK? Ballgravy: Shit! Trepan: Oh, I'm fine -- just bored. They didn't hurt me. I commed 999 while they were running their game and showed it to them when they got ready to do the deed, so they took off. ##Colonelonic laughs Ballgravy: Britain==ass. Lon-dong. Colonelonic: Sweet! Trepan: Thanks. Now if the cops would only finish the paperwork... Colonelonic: What are you doing in London, anyway? Ballgravy: Ass ass ass Colonelonic: Shut up, Bgravy Ballgravy: Blow me Trepan: What's wrong with you, Ballgravy? We're having a grown-up conversation here Ballgravy: Just don't like Brits. Trepan: What, all of them? Ballgravy: Whatever -- all the ones I've met have been tight-ass pricks ##Colonelonic: (private) He's just a troll, ignore him private Colonelonic: Watch this Trepan: How many? Ballgravy: How many what? Trepan: Have you met? Ballgravy: Enough Trepan: > 100? Ballgravy: No Trepan: > 50? Ballgravy: No Trepan: > 10? Ballgravy: Around 10 Trepan: Where are you from? Ballgravy: Queens Trepan: Well, you're not going to believe this, but you're the tenth person from Queens I've met -- and you're all morons who pick fights with strangers in chat-rooms Colonelonic: Queens==ass Trepan: Ass ass ass Ballgravy: Fuck you both ##Ballgravy has left channel #EST.chatter Colonelonic: Nicely done Colonelonic: He's been boring me stupid for the past hour, following me from channel to channel Colonelonic: What are you doing in London, anyway? Trepan: Like I said, waiting for the cops Colonelonic: But why are you there in the first place Trepan: /private Colonelonic It's a work thing. For EST. ##Colonelonic: (private) No shit? Trepan: /private Colonelonic Yeah. Can't really say much more, you understand ##Colonelonic: (private) Cool! Any more jobs? One more day at Merril-Lynch and I'm gonna kill someone Trepan: /private Colonelonic Sorry, no. There must be some perks though. ##Colonelonic: (private) I can pick fights with strangers in chat rooms! Also, I get to play with Lexus-Nexus all I want Trepan: /private Colonelonic That's pretty rad, anyway ##Ballgravy has joined channel #EST.chatter Ballgravy: Homos Trepan: Oh Christ, are you back again, Queens? Colonelonic: I've gotta go anyway Trepan: See ya ##Colonelonic has left channel #EST.chatter ##Trepan has left channel #EST.chatter Art stood up and blinked. He approached the desk sergeant and asked if he thought it would be much longer. The sergeant fiddled with a comm for a moment, then said, "Oh, we're quite done with you sir, thank you." Art repressed a vituperative response, counted three, then thanked the cop. He commed Linda. "What's up?" "They say we're free to go. I think they've been just keeping us here for shits and giggles. Can you believe that?" "Whatever -- I've been having a nice chat with Constable McGivens. Constable, is it all right if we go now?" There was some distant, English rumbling, then Linda giggled. "All right, then. Thank you so much, officer! "Art? I'll meet you at the front doors, all right?" "That's great," Art said. He stretched. His ass was numb, his head throbbed, and he wanted to strangle Linda. She emerged into the dawn blinking and grinning, and surprised him with a long, full-body hug. "Sorry I was so snappish before," she said. "I was just scared. The cops say that you were quite brave. Thank you." Art's adrenals dry-fired as he tried to work up a good angry head of steam, then he gave up. "It's all right." "Let's go get some breakfast, OK?" 10. The parking-lot is aswarm with people, fire engines and ambulances. There's a siren going off somewhere down in the bowels of the sanatorium, and still I can't get anyone to look up at the goddamned roof. I've tried hollering myself hoarse into the updrafts from the cheery blaze, but the wind's against me, my shouts rising up past my ears. I've tried dropping more pebbles, but the winds whip them away, and I've learned my lesson about half-bricks. Weirdly, I'm not worried about getting into trouble. I've already been involuntarily committed by the Tribe's enemies, the massed and devious forces of the Pacific Daylight Tribe and the Greenwich Mean Tribe. I am officially Not Responsible. Confused and Prone to Wandering. Coo-Coo for Coco-Puffs. It's not like I hurt anyone, just decremented the number of roadworthy fartmobiles by one. I got up this morning at four, awakened by the tiniest sound from the ward corridors, a wheel from a pharmaceuticals tray maybe. Three weeks on medically prescribed sleepytime drugs have barely scratched the surface of the damage wrought by years of circadian abuse. I'd been having a fragile shadow of a dream, the ghost of a REM cycle, and it was the old dream, the dream of the doctor's office and the older kids who could manage the trick of making a picture into reality. I went from that state to total wakefulness in an instant, and knew to a certainty that I wouldn't be sleeping again any time soon. I paced my small room, smelled the cheerful flowers my cousins brought last week when they visited from Toronto, watched the horizon for signs of a breaking dawn. I wished futilely for my comm and a nice private channel where I could sling some bullshit and have some slung in my direction, just connect with another human being at a nice, safe remove. They chide me for arguing on the ward, call it belligerence and try to sidetrack me with questions about my motivations, a tactic rating barely above ad hominems in my book. No one to talk to -- the other patients get violent or nod off, depending on their medication levels, and the staff just patronize me. Four AM and I'm going nuts, hamsters in my mind spinning their wheels at a thousand RPM, chittering away. I snort -- if I wasn't crazy to begin with, I'm sure getting there. The hamsters won't stop arguing with each other over all the terrible errors of judgment I've made to get here. Trusting the Tribe, trusting strangers. Argue, argue, argue. God, if only someone else were around, I could argue the definition of sanity, I could argue the ethics of involuntary committal, I could argue the food. But my head is full of argument and there's nowhere to spill it and soon enough I'll be talking aloud, arguing with the air like the schizoids on the ward who muttergrumbleshout through the day and through the night. Why didn't I just leave London when I could, come home, move in with Gran, get a regular job? Why didn't I swear off the whole business of secrecy and provocation? I was too smart for my own good. I could always argue myself into doing the sexy, futuristic thing instead of being a nice, mundane, nonaffiliated individual. Too smart to settle down, take a job and watch TV after work, spend two weeks a year at the cottage and go online to find movie listings. Too smart is too restless and no happiness, ever, without that it's chased by obsessive maundering moping about what comes next. Smart or happy? The hamsters have hopped off their wheels and are gnawing at the blood-brain barrier, trying to get out of my skull. This is a good sanatorium, but still, the toilets are communal on my floor, which means that I've got an unlocked door that lights up at the nurses' station down the corridor when I open the door, and goes berserk if I don't reopen it again within the mandated fifteen-minute maximum potty-break. I figured out how to defeat the system the first day, but it was a theoretical hack, and now it's time to put it into practice. I step out the door and the lintel goes pink, deepens toward red. Once it's red, whoopwhoopwhoop. I pad down to the lav, step inside, wait, step out again. I go back to my room -- the lintel is orange now -- and open it, move my torso across the long electric eye, then pull it back and let the door swing closed. The lintel is white, and that means that the room thinks I'm inside, but I'm outside. You put your torso in, you take your torso out, you do the hokey-pokey and you shake it all about. In the corridor. I pad away from the nurses' station, past the closed doors and through the muffled, narcotized groans and snores and farts that are the twilight symphony of night on the ward. I duck past an intersection, head for the elevator doors, then remember the tattletale I'm wearing on my ankle, which will go spectacularly berserk if I try to leave by that exit. Also, I'm in my underwear. I can't just walk nonchalantly into the lobby. The ward is making wakeful sounds, and I'm sure I hear the soft tread of a white-soled shoe coming round the bend. I double my pace, begin to jog at random -- the hamsters, they tell me I'm acting with all the forethought of a crazy person, and why not just report for extra meds instead of all this *mishegas*? There's definitely someone coming down a nearby corridor. The tread of sneakers, the squeak of a wheel. I've seen what they do to the wanderers: a nice chemical straightjacket, a cocktail of pills that'll quiet the hamsters down for days. Time to get gone. There's an EXIT sign glowing over a door at the far end of the corridor. I pant towards it, find it propped open and the alarm system disabled by means of a strip of surgical tape. Stepping through into the emergency stairwell, I see an ashtray fashioned from a wadded up bit of tinfoil, heaped with butts -- evidence of late-night smoke breaks by someone on the ward staff. Massachusetts's harsh antismoking regs are the best friend an escaping loony ever had. The stairwell is gray and industrial and refreshingly hard-edged after three padded weeks on the ward. Down, down is the exit and freedom. Find clothes somewhere and out I go into Boston. From below, then: the huffing, laborious breathing of some goddamned overweight, middle-aged doc climbing the stairs for his health. I peer down the well and see his gleaming pate, his white knuckles on the railing, two, maybe three flights down. Up! Up to the roof. I'm on the twentieth floor, which means that I've got twenty-five more to go, two flights per, fifty in total, gotta move. Up! I stop two or three times and pant and wheeze and make it ten stories and collapse. I'm sweating freely -- no air-conditioning in the stairwell, nor is there anything to mop up the sweat rolling down my body, filling the crack of my ass, coursing down my legs. I press my face to the cool painted cinderblock walls, one cheek and then the other, and continue on. When I finally open the door that leads out onto the pebbled roof, the dawn cool is balm. Fingers of light are hauling the sunrise up over the horizon. I step onto the roof and feel the pebbles dig into the soft soles of my feet, cool as the bottom of the riverbed whence they'd been dredged. The door starts to swing shut heavily behind me, and I whirl and catch it just in time, getting my fingers mashed against the jamb for my trouble. I haul it back open again against its pneumatic closure mechanism. Using the side of my foot as a bulldozer, I scrape up a cairn of pebbles as high as the door's bottom edge, twice as high. I fall into the rhythm of the work, making the cairn higher and wider until I can't close the door no matter how I push against it. The last thing I want is to get stuck on the goddamn roof. There's detritus mixed in with the pebbles: cigarette butts, burnt out matches, a condom wrapper and a bright yellow Eberhard pencil with a point as sharp as a spear, the eraser as pink and softly resilient as a nipple. I pick up the pencil and twiddle it between forefinger and thumb, tap a nervous rattle against the roof's edge as I dangle my feet over the bottomless plummet until the sun is high and warm on my skin. The hamsters get going again once the sun is high and the cars start pulling into the parking lot below, rattling and chittering and whispering, yes o yes, put the pencil in your nose, wouldn't you rather be happy than smart? 11. Art and Linda in Linda's miniscule joke of a flat. She's two months into a six-month house-swap with some friends of friends who have a fourth-storey walkup in Kensington with a partial (i.e. fictional) view of the park. The lights are on timers and you need to race them to her flat's door, otherwise there's no way you'll fit the archaic key into the battered keyhole -- the windows in the stairwell are so grimed as to provide more of a suggestion of light than light itself. Art's ass aches and he paces the flat's three wee rooms and drinks hormone-enhanced high-energy liquid breakfast from the half-fridge in the efficiency kitchen. Linda's taken dibs on the first shower, which is fine by Art, who can't get the hang of the goddamned-English-plumbing, which delivers an energy-efficient, eat-your-vegetables-and-save-the-planet trickle of scalding water. Art has switched off his comm, his frazzled nerves no longer capable of coping with its perennial and demanding beeping and buzzing. This is very nearly unthinkable but necessary, he rationalizes, given the extraordinary events of the past twenty-four hours. And Fede can go fuck himself, for that matter, that paranoid asshole, and then he can fuck the clients in Jersey and the whole of V/DT while he's at it. The energy bev is kicking in and making his heart race and his pulse throb in his throat and he's so unbearably hyperkinetic that he turns the coffee table on its end in the galley kitchen and clears a space in the living room that's barely big enough to spin around in, and starts to work through a slow, slow set of Tai Chi, so slow that he barely moves at all, except that inside he can feel the moving, can feel the muscles' every flex and groan as they wind up release, move and swing and slide. Single whip slides into crane opens wings and he needs to crouch down low, lower than his woolen slacks will let him, and they're grimy and gross anyway, so he undoes his belt and kicks them off. Down low as white crane opens wings and brush knee, punch, apparent closure, then low again, creakingly achingly low into wave hands like clouds, until his spine and his coccyx crackle and give, springing open, fascia open ribs open smooth breath rising and falling with his diaphragm smooth mind smooth and sweat cool in the mat of his hair. He moves through the set and does not notice Linda until he unwinds into a slow, ponderous lotus kick, closes again, breathes a moment and looks around slowly, grinning like a holy fool. She's in a tartan housecoat with a threadbare towel wrapped around her hair, water beading on her bony ankles and long, skinny feet. "Art! God*damn*, Art! What the hell was that?" "Tai chi," he says, drawing a deep breath in through his nostrils, feeling each rib expand in turn, exhaling through his mouth. "I do it to unwind." "It was beautiful! Art! Art. Art. That was, I mean, wow. Inspiring. Something. You're going to show me how to do that, Art. Right? You're gonna." "I could try," Art says. "I'm not really qualified to teach it -- I stopped going to class ten years ago." "Shut, shut up, Art. You can teach that, damn, you can teach that, I know you can. That was, wow." She rushes forward and takes his hands. She squeezes and looks into his eyes. She squeezes again and tugs his hands towards her hips, reeling his chest towards her breasts tilting her chin up and angling that long jawline that's so long as to be almost horsey, but it isn't, it's strong and clean. Art smells shampoo and sandalwood talc and his skin puckers in a crinkle that's so sudden and massive that it's almost audible. They've been together continuously for the past five days, almost without interruption and he's already conditioned to her smell and her body language and the subtle signals of her face's many mobile bits and pieces. She is afire, he is afire, their bodies are talking to each other in some secret language of shifting centers of gravity and unconscious pheromones, and his face tilts down towards her, slowly with all the time in the world. Lowers and lowers, week-old whiskers actually tickling the tip of her nose, his lips parting now, and her breath moistens them, beads them with liquid condensed out of her vapor. His top lip touches her bottom lip. He could leave it at that and be happy, the touch is so satisfying, and he is contented there for a long moment, then moves to engage his lower lip, moving, tilting. His comm rings. His comm, which he has switched off, rings. Shit. "Hello!" he says, he shouts. "Arthur?" says a voice that is old and hurt and melancholy. His Gran's voice. His Gran, who can override his ringer, switch on his comm at a distance because Art is a good grandson who was raised almost entirely by his saintly and frail (and depressive and melodramatic and obsessive) grandmother, and of course his comm is set to pass her calls. Not because he is a suck, but because he is loyal and sensitive and he loves his Gran. "Gran, hi! Sorry, I was just in the middle of something, sorry." He checks his comm, which tells him that it's only six in the morning in Toronto, noon in London, and that the date is April 8, and that today is the day that he should have known his grandmother would call. "You forgot," she says, no accusation, just a weary and disappointed sadness. He has indeed forgotten. "No, Gran, I didn't forget." But he did. It is the eighth of April, 2022, which means that it is twenty-one years to the day since his mother died. And he has forgotten. "It's all right. You're busy, I understand. Tell me, Art, how are you? When will you visit Toronto?" "I'm fine, Gran. I'm sorry I haven't called, I've been sick." Shit. Wrong lie. "You're sick? What's wrong?" "It's nothing. I -- I put my back out. Working too hard. Stress. It's nothing, Gran." He chances to look up at Linda, who is standing where he left her when he dived reflexively for his comm, staring disbelievingly at him. Her robe is open to her navel, and he sees the three curls of pubic hair above the knot in its belt that curl towards her groin, sees the hourglass made by the edges of her breasts that are visible in the vee of the robe, sees the edge of one areole, the left one. He is in a tee shirt and bare feet and boxers, crouching over his trousers, talking to his Gran, and he locks eyes with Linda and shakes his head apologetically, then settles down to sit cross-legged, hunched over an erection he didn't know he had, resolves to look at her while he talks. "Stress! Always stress. You should take some vacation time. Are you seeing someone? A chiropractor?" He's entangled in the lie. "Yes. I have an appointment tomorrow." "How will you get there? Don't take the subway. Take a taxi. And give me the doctor's name, I'll look him up." "I'll take a cab, it'll be fine, he's the only one my travel insurance covers." "The only one? Art! What kind of insurance do you have? I'll call them, I'll find you a chiropractor. Betty Melville, she has family in London, they'll know someone." God. "It's fine, Gran. How are you?" A sigh. "How am I? On this day, how am I?" "How is your health? Are you keeping busy?" "My health is fine. I keep busy. Father Ferlenghetti came to dinner last night at the house. I made a nice roast, and I'll have sandwiches today." "That's good." "I'm thinking of your mother, you know." "I know." "Do you think of her, Art? You were so young when she went, but you remember her, don't you?" "I do, Gran." He remembers her, albeit dimly. He was barely nine when she died. "Of course -- of course you remember your mother. It's a terrible thing for a mother to live longer than her daughter." His Gran says this every year. Art still hasn't figured out how to respond to it. Time for another stab at it. "I'm glad you're still here, Gran." Wrong thing. Gran is sobbing now. Art drops his eyes from Linda's and looks at the crazy weft and woof of the faded old Oriental rug. "Oh, Gran," he says. "I'm sorry." In truth, Art has mourned and buried his mother. He was raised just fine by his Gran, and when he remembers his mother, he is more sad about not being sad than sad about her. "I'm an old lady, you know that. You'll remember me when I go, won't you Art?" This, too, is a ritual question that Art can't answer well enough no matter how he practices. "Of course, Gran. But you'll be around for a good while yet!" "When are you coming back to Toronto?" He'd ducked the question before, but Gran's a master of circling back and upping the ante. *Now that we've established my imminent demise...* "Soon as I can, Gran. Maybe when I finish this contract. September, maybe." "You'll stay here? I can take the sofa. When do you think you'll arrive? My friends all want to see you again. You remember Mrs. Tomkins? You used to play with her daughter Alice. Alice is single, you know. She has a good job, too -- working at an insurance company. Maybe she can get you a better health plan." "I don't know, Gran. I'll *try* to come back after I finish my contract, but I can't tell what'll be happening then. I'll let you know, OK?" "Oh, Art. Please come back soon -- I miss you. I'm going to visit your mother's grave today and put some flowers on it. They keep it very nice at Mount Pleasant, and the trees are just blooming now." "I'll come back as soon as I can, Gran. I love you." "I love you too, Arthur." "Bye, Gran." "I'll call you once I speak to Betty about the chiropractor, all right?" "All right, Gran." He is going to have to go to the chiropractor now, even though his back feels as good as it has in years. His Gran will be checking up on it. "Bye, Arthur. I love you." "Bye, Gran." "Bye." He shakes his head and holsters the comm back in his pants, then rocks back and lies down on the rug, facing the ceiling, eyes closed. A moment later, the hem of Linda's robe brushes his arm and she lies down next to him, takes his hand. "Everything OK?" "It's just my Gran." And he tells her about this date's significance. "How did she die?" "It was stupid. She slipped in the tub and cracked her skull on the tap. I was off at a friend's place for the weekend and no one found her for two days. She lived for a week on life support, and they pulled the plug. No brain activity. They wouldn't let me into the hospital room after the first day. My Gran practically moved in, though. She raised me after that. I think that if she hadn't had to take care of me, she would have just given up, you know? She's pretty lonely back home alone." "What about your dad?" "You know, there used to be a big mystery about that. Gran and Mom, they were always tragic and secretive when I asked them about him. I had lots of stories to explain his absence: ran off with another woman, thrown in jail for running guns, murdered in a bar fight. I used to be a bit of a celeb at school -- lots of kids didn't have dads around, but they all knew where their fathers were. We could always kill an afternoon making up his who and where and why. Even the teachers got into it, getting all apologetic when we had to do a genealogy project. I found out the truth, finally, when I was nineteen. Just looked it up online. It never occurred to me that my mom would be that secretive about something that was so easy to find out, so I never bothered." "So, what happened to him?" "Oh, you know. He and mom split when I was a kid. He moved back in with his folks in a little town in the Thousand Islands, near Ottawa. Four or five years later, he got a job planting trees for a summer up north, and he drowned swimming in a lake during a party. By the time I found out about him, his folks were dead, too." "Did you tell your friends about him, once you found out?" "Oh, by then I'd lost touch with most of them. After elementary school, we moved across town, to a condo my grandmother retired into on the lakeshore, out in the suburbs. In high school, I didn't really chum around much, so there wasn't anyone to talk to. I did tell my Gran though, asked her why it was such a big secret, and she said it wasn't, she said she'd told me years before, but she hadn't. I think that she and Mom just decided to wait until I was older before telling me, and then after my mom died, she just forgot that she hadn't told me. We got into a big fight over that." "That's a weird story, dude. So, do you think of yourself as an orphan?" Art rolls over on his side, face inches from hers, and snorts a laugh. "God, that's so -- *Dickensian*. No one ever asked me that before. I don't think so. You can't really be an adult and be an orphan -- you're just someone with dead parents. And I didn't find out about my dad until I was older, so I always figured that he was alive and well somewhere. What about your folks?" Linda rolls over on her side, too, her robe slipping off her lower breast. Art is aroused by it, but not crazily so -- somewhere in telling his story, he's figured out that sex is a foregone conclusion, and now they're just getting through some nice foreplay. He smiles down at her nipple, which is brown as a bar of Belgian chocolate, aureole the size of a round of individual cheese and nipple itself a surprisingly chunky square of crinkled flesh. She follows his eyes and smiles at him, then puts his hand over her breast, covers it with hers. "I told you about my mom, right? Wanted to act -- who doesn't? But she was too conscious of the cliche to mope about it. She got some little parts -- nothing fab, then went on to work at a Sony dealership. Ten years later, she bought a franchise. Dad and second-wife run a retreat in West Hollywood for sexually dysfunctional couples. No sibs. Happy childhood. Happy adolescence. Largely unsatisfying adulthood, to date." "Wow, you sound like you've practiced that." She tweaks his nose, then drapes her arm across his chest. "Got me. Always writing my autobiography in my head -- gotta have a snappy opener when I'm cornered by the stalkerazzi." He laces his fingers in hers, moves close enough to smell her toothpaste-sweet breath. "Tell me something unrehearsed about growing up." "That's a stupid request." Her tone is snappish, and her fingers stiffen in his. "Why?" "It just is! Don't try to get under my skin, OK? My childhood was fine." "Look, I don't want to piss you off. I'm just trying to get to know you. Because... you know... I like you. A lot. And I try to get to know the people I like." She smiles her lopsided dimple. "Sorry, I just don't like people who try to mess with my head. My problem, not yours. OK, something unrehearsed." She closes her eyes and treats him to the smooth pinkness of her eyelids, and keeps them closed as she speaks. "I once stole a Veddic Series 7 off my mom's lot, when I was fifteen. It had all the girly safety features, including a tracker and a panic button, but I didn't think my mom would miss it. I just wanted to take it out for a drive. It's LA, right? No wheels, no life. So I get as far as Venice Beach, and I'm cruising the Boardwalk -- this was just after it went topless, so I was swinging in the breeze -- and suddenly the engine dies, right in the middle of this clump of out-of-towners, frat kids from Kansas or something. Mom had called in a dealer override and Sony shut down the engine by radio." "Wow, what did you do?" "Well, I put my shirt back on. Then I popped the hood and poked randomly at the engine, pulling out the user-servicables and reseating them. The thing was newer than new, right? How could it be broken already? The fratboys all gathered around and gave me advice, and I played up all bitchy, you know, 'I've been fixing these things since I was ten, get lost,' whatever. They loved it. I was all spunky. A couple of them were pretty cute even, and the attention was great. I felt safe -- lots of people hanging around, they weren't going to try anything funny. Only I was starting to freak out about the car -- it was really dead. I'd reseated everything, self-tested every component, double-checked the fuel. Nothing nothing nothing! I was going to have to call a tow and my mom was going to kill me. "So I'm trying not to let it get to me, trying to keep it all cool, but I'm not doing a great job. The frat guys are all standing too close and they smell like beer, and I'm not trying to be perky anymore, just want them to stay! away! but they won't back off. I'm trying not to cry. "And then the cops showed up. Not real cops, but Sony's Vehicle Recovery Squad. All dressed up in Vaio gear, stylish as a Pepsi ad, packing lots of semilethals and silvery aeorosol shut-up-and-be-still juice, ready to nab the bad, bad perp who boosted this lovely Veddic Series 7 from Mom's lot. Part of the franchise package, that kind of response. It took me a second to figure it out -- Mom didn't know it was *me* who had the car, so she'd called in a theft and bam, I was about to get arrested. The frat rats tried to run away, which is a bad idea, you just don't ever run from cops -- stupid, stupid, stupid. They ended up rolling around on the ground, screaming and trying to pull their faces off. It took, like a second. I threw my hands in the air. 'Don't shoot!' They gassed me anyway. "So then *I* was rolling around on the ground, feeling like my sinuses were trying to explode out of my face. Feeling like my eyeballs were melting. Feeling like my lungs were all shriveled up into raisins. I couldn't scream, I couldn't even breathe. By the time I could even roll over and open my eyes, they had me cuffed: ankles and wrists in zapstraps that were so tight, they felt like piano wire. I was a cool fifteen year old, but not that cool. I started up the waterworks, boohoohoo, couldn't shut it down, couldn't even get angry. I just wanted to die. The Sony cops had seen it all before, so they put a tarp down on the Veddic's backseat upholstery, threw me in it, then rolled it into their recovery truck and drove me to the police station. "I puked on the tarp twice before they got me there, and almost did it a third time on the way to booking. It got up my sinuses and down my throat, too. I couldn't stop gagging, couldn't stop crying, but by now I was getting pissed. I'd been raised on the whole Sony message: 'A Car for the Rest of Us,' gone with Mom to their Empowerment Seminars, wore the little tee shirts and the temporary tats and chatted up the tire-kickers about the Sony Family while Mom was busy. This wasn't the Sony Family I knew. "I was tied up on the floor beside the desk sergeant's counter, and a Sony cop was filling in my paperwork, and so I spat out the crud from my mouth, stopped sniveling, hawked back my spit and put on my best voice. 'This isn't necessary, sir,' I said. 'I'm not a thief. My mother owns the dealership. It was wrong to take the car, but I'm sure she didn't intend for this to happen. Certainly, I don't need to be tied up in here. Please, take off the restraints -- they're cutting off my circulation.' The Sony cop flipped up his goofy little facemask and squinted at me, then shook his head and went back to his paperwork. "'Look,' I said. 'Look! I'm not a criminal. This is a misunderstanding. If you check my ID and call my mother, we can work this all out. Look!' I read his name off his epaulettes. 'Look! Officer Langtree! Just let me up and we'll sort this out like adults. Come on, I don't blame you -- I'm glad! -- you were right to take me in. This is my mom's merchandise; it's good that you went after the thief and recovered the car. But now you know the truth, it's my mother's car, and if you just let me up, I'm sure we can work this out. Please, Officer Langtree. My wallet's in my back pocket. Just get it out and check my ID before you do this.' "But he just went on filling in the paperwork. 'Why? Why won't you just take a second to check? Why not?' "He turned around again, looked at me for a long time, and I was sure he was going to check, that it was all going to be fine, but then he said, 'Look, I've had about as much of your bullshit as I'm going to take, little girl. Shut your hole or I'll gag you. I just want to get out of here and back to my job, all right?' "'What?' I said, and it sounded like a shriek to me. 'What did you say to me? What the hell did you say to me? Didn't you hear what I said? That's my *mother's car* -- she owns the lot I took it off of. Do you honestly think she wants you to do this? This is the stupidest goddamned thing --' "'That's it,' he said, and took a little silver micropore hood off his belt, the kind that you cinch up under the chin so the person inside can't talk? I started squirming away then, pleading with him, and I finally caught the desk sergeant's eye. 'He can't do this! Please! Don't let him do this! I'm in a *police station* -- why are you letting him do this?' "And the cop smiled and said, 'You're absolutely right, little girl. That's enough of that.' The Sony cop didn't pay any attention. He grabbed my head and stuffed it into the hood and tried to get the chin strap in place. I shook my head as best as I could, and then the hood was being taken off my head again, and the Sony cop looked like he wanted to nail the other cop, but he didn't. The desk sergeant bent down and cut my straps, then helped me to my feet. "'You're not going to give me any trouble, are you?' he said, as he led me around to a nice, ergo office chair. "'No sir!' "'You just sit there, then, and I'll be with you in a moment.' "I sat down and rubbed my wrists and ankles. My left ankle was oozing blood from where it had been rubbed raw. I couldn't believe that the Sony Family could inflict such indignities on my cute little person. I was so goddamn self-righteous, and I know I was smirking as the desk sergeant chewed out the Sony cop, taking down his badge number and so on so that I'd have it. "I thanked the cop profusely, and I kept on thanking him as he booked me and printed me and took my mug shots. I was joking and maybe even flirting a little. I was a cute fifteen-year-old and I knew it. After the nastiness with the Sony cops, being processed into the criminal justice system seemed mild and inoffensive. It didn't really occur to me that I was being *arrested* until my good pal the cop asked me to turn out my pockets before he put me in the cell. "'Wait!' I said. 'Sergeant Lorenzi, wait! You don't have to put me in a *cell*, do you, Sergeant Lorenzi? Sergeant Lorenzi! I don't need to go into a cell! Let me call my mom, she'll come down and drop the charges, and I can wait here. I'll help out. I can get coffee. Sergeant Lorenzi!' "For a second, it looked like he was going to go through with it. Then he relented and I spent the next couple hours fetching and filing and even running out for coffee -- that's how much he trusted me -- while we waited for Mom to show up. I was actually feeling pretty good about it by the time she arrived. Of course, that didn't last too long. "She came through the door like Yosemite Sam, frothing at the chops and howling for my blood. She wanted to press charges, see me locked up to teach me a lesson. She didn't care how the Sony cops had gassed and trussed me -- as far as she was concerned, I'd betrayed her and nothing was going to make it right. She kept howling for the sergeant to give her the papers to sign, she wanted to swear out a complaint, and he just let her run out of steam, his face perfectly expressionless until she was done. "'All right then, Mrs. Walchuk, all right. You swear out the complaint, and we'll hold her overnight until her bail hearing. We only got the one holding cell, though, you understand. No juvenile facility. Rough crowd. A couple of biowar enthusiasts in there right now, caught 'em trying to thrax a bus terminal; a girl who killed her pimp and nailed his privates to the door of his hotel room before she took off; a couple of hard old drunks. No telling what else will come in today. We take away their knives and boots and purses, but those girls like to mess up fresh young things, scar them with the bars or their nails. We can't watch them all the time.' He was leaning right across the desk at my mom, cold and still, and then he nudged my foot with his foot and I knew that he was yanking her chain. "'Is that what you want, then, ma'am?' "Mom looked like she wanted to tell him yes, go ahead, call his bluff, but he was too good at it. She broke. 'No, it's not,' she said. 'I'll take her home and deal with her there.' "'That's fundamentally sound,' he said. 'And Linda, you give me a call if you want to file a complaint against Sony. We have secam footage of the Boardwalk and the Station House if you need it, and I have that guy's badge ID, too.' "Mom looked alarmed, and I held out my raw, bruisey wrists to her. 'They gassed me before they took me in.' "'Did you run? You *never* run from the cops, Linda, you should have known better --' "I didn't run. I put my arms in the air and they gassed me and tied me up and took me in.' "'That can't be, Linda. You must have done *something* --' Mom always was ready to believe that I deserved whatever trouble I got into. She was the only one who didn't care how cute I was. "'No mom. I put my hands in the air. I surrendered. They got me anyway. They didn't care. It'll be on the tape. I'll get it from sergeant Lorenzi when I file my complaint.' "'You'll do no such thing. You stole a car, you endangered lives, and now you want to go sniveling to the authorities because Sony played a little rough when they brought you in? You committed a *criminal act*, Linda. You got treated like a criminal.' "I wanted to smack her. I knew that this was really about not embarrassing her in front of the Sony Family, the nosy chattery ladies with the other franchises that Mom competed against for whuffie and bragging rights. But I'd learned something about drawing flies with honey that afternoon. The Sergeant could have made things very hard on me, but by giving him a little sugar, I turned it into an almost fun afternoon. "Mom took me home and screamed herself raw, and I played it all very contrite, then walked over to the minimall so that I could buy some saline solution for my eyes, which were still as red as stoplights. We never spoke of it again, and on my sixteenth birthday, Mom gave me the keys to a Veddic Series 8, and the first thing I did was download new firmware for the antitheft transponder that killed it. Two months later, it was stolen. I haven't driven a Sony since." Linda smiles and then purses her lips. "Unrehearsed enough?" Art shakes his head. "Wow. What a story." "Do you want to kiss me now?" Linda says, conversationally. "I believe I do," Art says, and he does. Linda pulls the back of his head to hers with one arm, and with the other, she half-shrugs out of her robe. Art pulls his shirt up to his armpits, feels the scorching softness of her chest on his, and groans. His erection grinds into her mons through his Jockey shorts, and he groans again as she sucks his tongue into her mouth and masticates it just shy of hard enough to hurt. She breaks off and reaches down for the waistband of his Jockeys and his whole body arches in anticipation. Then his comm rings. Again. "Fuck!" Art says, just as Linda says, "Shit!" and they both snort a laugh. Linda pulls his hand to her nipple again and Art shivers, sighs, and reaches for his comm, which won't stop ringing. "It's me," Fede says. "Jesus, Fede. What *is it*?" "What is it? Art, you haven't been to the office for more than four hours in a week. It's going on noon, and you still aren't here." Fede's voice is hot and unreasoning. Art feels his own temper rise in response. Where the hell did Fede get off, anyway? "So fucking *what*, Fede? I don't actually work for you, you know. I've been taking care of stuff offsite." "Oh, sure. Art, if you get in trouble, I'll get in trouble, and you know *exactly* what I mean." "I'm not *in* trouble, Fede. I'm taking the day off -- why don't you call me tomorrow?" "What the hell does that mean? You can't just 'take the day off.' I *wrote* the goddamned procedure. You have to fill in the form and get it signed by your supervisor. It needs to be *documented*. Are you *trying* to undermine me?" "You are so goddamned *paranoid*, Federico. I got mugged last night, all right? I've been in a police station for the past eighteen hours straight. I am going to take a shower and I am going to take a nap and I am going to get a massage, and I am *not* going into the office and I am *not* going to fill in any forms. This is not about you." Fede pauses for a moment, and Art senses him marshalling his bad temper for another salvo. "I don't give a shit, Art. If you're not coming into the office, you tell me, you hear? The VP of HR is going berserk, and I know exactly what it's about. He is on to us, you hear me? Every day that you're away and I'm covering for your ass, he gets more and more certain. If you keep this shit up, we're both dead." "Hey, fuck you, Fede." Art is surprised to hear the words coming out of his mouth, but once they're out, he decides to go with them. "You can indulge your paranoid fantasies to your heart's content, but don't drag me into them. I got mugged last night. I had a near-fatal car crash a week ago. If the VP of HR wants to find out why I haven't been in the office, he can send me an email and I'll tell him exactly what's going on, and if he doesn't like it, he can toss my goddamned salad. But I don't report to you. If you want to have a discussion, you call me and act like a human goddamned being. Tomorrow. Good-bye, Fede." Art rings the comm off and snarls at it, then switches it off, switches off the emergency override, and briefly considers tossing it out the goddamned window onto the precious English paving stones below. Instead, he hurls it into the soft cushions of the sofa. He turns back to Linda and makes a conscious effort to wipe the snarl off his face. He ratchets a smile onto his lips. "Sorry, sorry. Last time, I swear." He crawls over to her on all fours. She's pulled her robe tight around her, and he slides a finger under the collar and slides it aside and darts in for a kiss on the hollow of her collarbone. She shies away and drops her cheek to her shoulder, shielding the affected area. "I'm not --" she starts. "The moment's passed, OK? Why don't we just cuddle, OK?" 12. Art was at his desk at O'Malley House the next day when Fede knocked on his door. Fede was bearing a small translucent gift-bag made of some cunning combination of rough handmade paper and slick polymer. Art looked up from his comm and waved at the door. Fede came in and put the parcel on Art's desk. Art looked askance at Fede, and Fede just waved at the bag with a go-ahead gesture. Art felt for the catch that would open the bag without tearing the materials, couldn't find it immediately, and reflexively fired up his comm and started to make notes on how a revised version of the bag could provide visual cues showing how to open it. Fede caught him at it and they traded grins. Art probed the bag's orifice a while longer, then happened upon the release. The bag sighed apart, falling in three petals, and revealed its payload: a small, leather-worked box with a simple brass catch. Art flipped the catch and eased the box open. Inside, in a fitted foam cavity, was a gray lump of stone. "It's an axe-head," Fede said. "It's 200,000 years old." Art lifted it out of the box carefully and turned it about, admiring the clean tool marks from its shaping. It had heft and brutal simplicity, and a thin spot where a handle must have been lashed once upon a time. Art ran his fingertips over the smooth tool marks, over the tapered business end, where the stone had been painstakingly flaked into an edge. It was perfect. Now that he was holding it, it was so obviously an axe, so clearly an axe. It needed no instruction. It explained itself. I am an axe. Hit things with me. Art couldn't think of a single means by which it could be improved. "Fede," he said, "Fede, this is incredible --" "I figured we needed to bury the hatchet, huh?" "God, that's awful. Here's a tip: When you give a gift like this, just leave humor out of it, OK? You don't have the knack." Art slapped him on the shoulder to show him he was kidding, and reverently returned the axe to its cavity. "That is really one hell of a gift, Fede. Thank you." Fede stuck his hand out. Art shook it, and some of the week's tension melted away. "Now, you're going to buy me lunch," Fede said. "Deal." They toddled off to Picadilly and grabbed seats at the counter of a South Indian place for a businessmen's lunch of thali and thick mango lassi, which coated their tongues in alkaline sweetness that put out the flames from the spiced veggies. Both men were sweating by the time they ordered their second round of lassi and Art had his hands on his belly, amazed as ever that something as insubstantial as the little platter's complement of veggies and naan could fill him as efficiently as it had. "What are you working on now?" Fede asked, suppressing a curry-whiffing belch. "Same shit," Art said. "There are a million ways to make the service work. The rights-societies want lots of accounting and lots of pay-per-use. MassPike hates that. It's a pain in the ass to manage, and the clickthrough licenses and warnings they want to slap on are heinous. People are going to crash their cars fucking around with the 'I Agree' buttons. Not to mention they want to require a firmware check on every stereo system that gets a song, make sure that this week's copy-protection is installed. So I'm coopering up all these user studies with weasels from the legal departments at the studios, where they just slaver all over this stuff, talking about how warm it all makes them feel to make sure that they're compensating artists and how grateful they are for the reminders to keep their software up to date and shit. I'm modeling a system that has a clickthrough every time you cue up a new song, too. It's going to be perfect: the rights-societies are going to love it, and I've handpicked the peer review group at V/DT, stacked it up with total assholes who love manuals and following rules. It's going to sail through approval." Fede grunted. "You don't think it'll be too obvious?" Art laughed. "There is no such thing as too obvious in this context, man. These guys, they hate the end user, and for years they've been getting away with it because all their users are already used to being treated like shit at the post office and the tube station. I mean, these people grew up with *coin-operated stoves*, for chrissakes! They pay television tax! Feed 'em shit and they'll ask you for second helpings. Beg you for 'em! So no, I don't think it'll be too obvious. They'll mock up the whole system and march right into MassPike with it, grinning like idiots. Don't worry about a thing." "OK, OK. I get it. I won't worry." Art signalled the counterman for their bill. The counterman waved distractedly in the manner of a harried restaurateur dealing with his regulars, and said something in Korean to the busgirl, who along with the Vietnamese chef and the Congolese sous chef, lent the joint a transworld sensibility that made it a favorite among the painfully global darlings of O'Malley House. The bus-girl found a pad and started totting up numbers, then keyed them into a Point-of-Sale terminal, which juiced Art's comm with an accounting for their lunch. This business with hand-noting everything before entering it into the PoS had driven Art to distraction when he'd first encountered it. He'd assumed that the terminal's UI was such that a computer-illiterate busgirl couldn't reliably key in the data without having it in front of her, and for months he'd cited it in net-bullshit sessions as more evidence of the pervasive user-hostility that characterized the whole damned GMT. He'd finally tried out his rant on the counterman, one foreigner to another, just a little Briton-bashing session between two refugees from the Colonial Jackboot. To his everlasting surprise, the counterman had vigorously defended the system, saying that he liked the PoS data-entry system just fine, but that the stack of torn-off paper stubs from the busgirl's receipt book was a good visualization tool, letting him eyeball the customer volume from hour to hour by checking the spike beside the till, and the rubberbanded stacks of yellowing paper lining his cellar's shelves gave him a wonderfully physical evidence of the growing success of his little eatery. There was a lesson there, Art knew, though he'd yet to codify it. User mythology was tricky that way. Every time Art scribbled a tip into his comm and squirted it back at the PoS, he considered this little puzzle, eyes unfocusing for a moment while his vision turned inwards. As his eyes snapped back into focus, he noticed the young lad sitting on the long leg of the ell formed by the counter. He had bully short hair and broad shoulders, and a sneer that didn't quite disappear as he shoveled up the dhal with his biodegradable bamboo disposable spork. He knew that guy from somewhere. The guy caught him staring and they locked eyes for a moment, and in that instant Art knew who the guy was. It was Tom, whom he had last seen stabbing at him with a tazer clutched in one shaking fist, face twisted in fury. Tom wasn't wearing his killsport armor, just nondescript athletic wear, and he wasn't with Lester and Tony, but it was him. Art watched Tom cock his head to jog his memory, and then saw Tom recognize him. Uh-oh. "We have to go. Now," he said to Fede, standing and walking away quickly, hand going to his comm. He stopped short of dialing 999, though -- he wasn't up for another police-station all-nighter. He got halfway up Picadilly before looking over his shoulder, and he saw Fede shouldering his way through the lunchtime crowd, looking pissed. A few paces behind him came Tom, face contorted in a sadistic snarl. Art did a little two-step of indecision, moving towards Fede, then away from him. He met Tom's eyes again, and Tom's ferocious, bared teeth spurred him on. He turned abruptly into the tube station, waved his comm at a turnstile and dove into the thick of the crowd heading down the stairs to the Elephant and Castle platform. His comm rang. "What is *wrong* with you, man?" Fede said. "One of the guys who mugged me," he hissed. "He was sitting right across from us. He's a couple steps behind you. I'm in the tube station. I'll ride a stop and catch a cab back to the office." "He's behind me? Where?" Art's comm lit up with a grainy feed from Fede's comm. It jiggled as Fede hustled through the crowd. "Jesus, Fede, stop! Don't go to the goddamned tube station -- he'll follow you here." "Where do you want me to go? I got to go back to the office." "Don't go there either. Get a cab and circle the block a couple times. Don't lead him back." "This is stupid. Why don't I just call the cops?" "Don't bother. They won't do shit. I've been through this already. I just want to lose that guy and not have him find me again later." "Christ." Art squeaked as Tom filled his screen, then passed by, swinging his head from side to side with saurian rage. "What?" Fede said. "That was him. He just walked past you. He must not know you're with me. Go back to the office, I'll meet you there." "That dipshit? Art, he's all of five feet tall!" "He's a fucking psycho, Fede. Don't screw around with him or he'll give you a Tesla enema." Fede winced. "I hate tazers." "The train is pulling in. I'll talk to you later." "OK, OK." Art formed up in queue with the rest of the passengers and shuffled through the gas chromatograph, tensing up a little as it sniffed his personal space for black powder residue. Once on board, he tore a sani-wipe from the roll in the ceiling, ignoring the V/DT ad on it, and grabbed the stainless steel rail with it, stamping on the drifts of sani-wipe mulch on the train's floor. He made a conscious effort to control his breathing, willed his heart to stop pounding. He was still juiced with adrenaline, and his mind raced. He needed to do something constructive with his time, but his mind kept wandering. Finally, he gave in and let it wander. Something about the counterman, about his slips of paper, about the MassPike. It was knocking around in his brain and he just couldn't figure out how to bring it to the fore. The counterman kept his slips in the basement so that he could sit among them and see how his business had grown, every slip a person served, a ring on the till, money in the bank. Drivers on the MassPike who used traffic jams to download music from nearby cars and then paid to license the songs. Only they didn't. They circumvented the payment system in droves, running bootleg operations out of their cars that put poor old Napster to shame for sheer volume. Some people drove in promiscuous mode, collecting every song in every car on the turnpike, cruising the tunnels that riddled Boston like mobile pirate radio stations, dumping their collections to other drivers when it came time to quit the turnpike and settle up for their music at the toll booth. It was these war-drivers that MassPike was really worried about. Admittedly, they actually made the system go. Your average fartmobile driver had all of ten songs in his queue, and the short-range, broadband connection you had on MassPike meant that if you were stuck in a jam of these cars, your selection would be severely limited. The war-drivers, though, were mobile jukeboxes. The highway patrol had actually seized cars with over 300,000 tracks on their drives. Without these fat caches on the highway, MassPike would have to spend a fortune on essentially replicating the system with their own mobile libraries. The war-drivers were the collective memory of the MassPike's music-listeners. Ooh, there was a tasty idea. The collective memory of MassPike. Like Dark Ages scholars, memorizing entire texts to preserve them against the depredations of barbarism, passing their collections carefully from car to car. He'd investigated the highway patrol reports on these guys, and there were hints there, shadowy clues of an organized subculture, one with a hierarchy, where newbies tricked out their storage with libraries of novel and rare tuneage in a bid to convince the established elite that they were worthy of joining the collective memory. Thinking of war-drivers as a collective memory was like staring at an optical illusion and seeing the vase emerge from the two faces. Art's entire perception of the problem involuted itself in his mind. He heard panting and realized it was him; he was hyperventilating. If these guys were the collective memory of the MassPike, that meant that they were performing a service, reducing MassPike's costs significantly. That meant that they were tastemakers, injecting fresh music into the static world of Boston drivers. Mmmm. Trace that. Find out how influential they were. Someone would know -- the MassPike had stats on how songs migrated from car to car. Even without investigating it, Art just *knew* that these guys were offsetting millions of dollars in marketing. So. So. So. So, *feed* that culture. War-drivers needed to be devoted to make it into the subculture. They had to spend four or five hours a day cruising the freeways to accumulate and propagate their collections. They couldn't *leave* the MassPike until they found someone to hand their collections off to. What if MassPike *rewarded* these guys? What if MassPike charged *nothing* for people with more than, say 50,000 tunes in their cache? Art whipped out his comm and his keyboard and started making notes, snatching at the silver rail with his keyboard hand every time the train jerked and threatened to topple him. That's how the tube cops found him, once the train reached Elephant and Castle and they did their rounds, politely but firmly rousting him. 13. I am already in as much trouble as I can be, I think. I have left my room, hit and detonated some poor cafeteria hash-slinger's fartmobile, and certainly damned some hapless secret smoker to employee Hades for his security lapses. When I get down from here, I will be bound up in a chemical straightjacket. I'll be one of the ward-corner droolers, propped up in a wheelchair in front of the video, tended twice daily for diaper changes, feeding and re-medication. That is the worst they can do, and I'm in for it. This leaves me asking two questions: 1. Why am I so damned eager to be rescued from my rooftop aerie? I am sunburned and sad, but I am more free than I have been in weeks. 2. Why am I so reluctant to take further action in the service of getting someone up onto the roof? I could topple a ventilator chimney by moving the cinderblocks that hold its apron down and giving it the shoulder. I could dump rattling handfuls of gravel down its maw and wake the psychotics below. I could, but I won't. Maybe I don't want to go back just yet. They cooked it up between them. The Jersey customers, Fede, and Linda. I should have known better. When I landed at Logan, I was full of beans, ready to design and implement my war-driving scheme for the Jersey customers and advance the glorious cause of the Eastern Standard Tribe. I gleefully hopped up and down the coast, chilling in Manhattan for a day or two, hanging out with Gran in Toronto. That Linda followed me out made it all even better. We rented cars and drove them from city to city, dropping them off at the city limits and switching to top-grade EST public transit, eating top-grade EST pizza, heads turning to follow the impeccably dressed, buff couples that strolled the pedestrian-friendly streets arm in arm. We sat on stoops in Brooklyn with old ladies who talked softly in the gloaming of the pollution-tinged sunsets while their grandchildren chased each other down the street. We joined a pickup game of street-hockey in Boston, yelling "Car!" and clearing the net every time a fartmobile turned into the cul-de-sac. We played like kids. I got commed during working hours and my evenings were blissfully devoid of buzzes, beeps and alerts. It surprised the hell out of me when I discovered Fede's treachery and Linda's complicity and found myself flying cattle class to London to kick Fede's ass. What an idiot I am. I have never won an argument with Fede. I thought I had that time, of course, but I should have known better. I was hardly back in Boston for a day before the men with the white coats came to take me away. They showed up at the Novotel, soothing and grim, and opened my room's keycard reader with a mental-hygiene override. There were four of them, wiry and fast with the no-nonsense manner of men who have been unexpectedly hammered by outwardly calm psychopaths. That I was harmlessly having a rare cigarette on the balcony, dripping from the shower, made no impression on them. They dropped their faceplates, moved quickly to the balcony and boxed me in. One of them recited a Miranda-esque litany that ended with "Do you understand." It wasn't really a question, but I answered anyway. "No! No I don't! Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my fucking hotel room?" In my heart, though, I knew. I'd lived enough of my life on the hallucinatory edge of sleepdep to have anticipated this moment during a thousand freakouts. I was being led away to the sanatorium, because someone, somewhere, had figured out about the scurrying hamsters in my brain. About time. As soon as I said the f-word, the guns came out. I tried to relax. I knew intuitively that this could either be a routine and impersonal affair, or a screaming, kicking, biting nightmare. I knew that arriving at the intake in a calm frame of mind would make the difference between a chemical straightjacket and a sleeping pill. The guns were nonlethals, and varied: two kinds of nasty aerosol, a dart-gun, and a tazer. The tazer captured my attention, whipping horizontal lightning in the spring breeze. The Tesla enema, they called it in London. Supposedly club-kids used them recreationally, but everyone I knew who'd been hit with one described the experience as fundamentally and uniquely horrible. I slowly raised my hands. "I would like to pack a bag, and I would like to see documentary evidence of your authority. May I?" I kept my voice as calm as I could, but it cracked on "May I?" The reader of the litany nodded slowly. "You tell us what you want packed and we'll pack it. Once that's done, I'll show you the committal document, all right?" "Thank you," I said. They drove me through the Route 128 traffic in the sealed and padded compartment in the back of their van. I was strapped in at the waist, and strapped over my shoulders with a padded harness that reminded me of a rollercoaster restraint. We made slow progress, jerking and changing lanes at regular intervals. The traffic signature of 128 was unmistakable. The intake doctor wanded me for contraband, drew fluids from my various parts, and made light chitchat with me along the way. It was the last time I saw him. Before I knew it, a beefy orderly had me by the arm and was leading me to my room. He had a thick Eastern European accent, and he ran down the house rules for me in battered English. I tried to devote my attention to it, to forget the slack-eyed ward denizens I'd passed on my way in. I succeeded enough to understand the relationship of my legcuff, the door frame and the elevators. The orderly fished in his smock and produced a hypo. "For sleepink," he said. Panic, suppressed since my arrival, welled up and burst over. "Wait!" I said. "What about my things? I had a bag with me." "Talk to doctor in morning," he said, gesturing with the hypo, fitting it with a needle-and-dosage cartridge and popping the sterile wrap off with a thumbswitch. "Now, for sleepink." He advanced on me. I'd been telling myself that this was a chance to rest, to relax and gather my wits. Soon enough, I'd sort things out with the doctors and I'd be on my way. I'd argue my way out of it. But here came Boris Badinoff with his magic needle, and all reason fled. I scrambled back over the bed and pressed against the window. "It's barely three," I said, guessing at the time in the absence of my comm. "I'm not tired. I'll go to sleep when I am." "For sleepink," he repeated, in a more soothing tone. "No, that's all right. I'm tired enough. Long night last night. I'll just lie down and nap now, all right? No need for needles, OK?" He grabbed my wrist. I tried to tug it out of his grasp, to squirm away. There's a lot of good, old-fashioned dirty fighting in Tai Chi -- eye-gouging, groin punches, hold-breaks and come-alongs -- and they all fled me. I thrashed like a fish on a line as he ran the hypo over the crook of my elbow until the vein-sensing LED glowed white. He jabbed down with it and I felt a prick. For a second, I thought that it hadn't taken effect -- I've done enough chemical sleep in my years with the Tribe that I've developed quite a tolerance for most varieties -- but then I felt that unmistakable heaviness in my eyelids, the melatonin crash that signalled the onslaught of merciless rest. I collapsed into bed. I spent the next day in a drugged stupor. I've become quite accustomed to functioning in a stupor over the years, but this was different. No caffeine, for starters. They fed me and I had a meeting with a nice doctor who ran it down for me. I was here for observation pending a competency hearing in a week. I had seven days to prove that I wasn't a danger to myself or others, and if I could, the judge would let me go. "It's like I'm a drug addict, huh?" I said to the doctor, who was used to non sequiturs. "Sure, sure it is." He shifted in the hard chair opposite my bed, getting ready to go. "No, really, I'm not just running my mouth. It's like this: *I* don't think I have a problem here. I think that my way of conducting my life is perfectly harmless. Like a speedfreak who thinks that she's just having a great time, being ultraproductive and coming out ahead of the game. But her friends, they're convinced she's destroying herself -- they see the danger she's putting herself in, they see her health deteriorating. So they put her into rehab, kicking and screaming, where she stays until she figures it out. "So, it's like I'm addicted to being nuts. I have a nonrational view of the world around me. An *inaccurate* view. You are meant to be the objective observer, to make such notes as are necessary to determine if I'm seeing things properly, or through a haze of nutziness. For as long as I go on taking my drug -- shooting up my craziness -- you keep me here. Once I stop, once I accept the objective truth of reality, you let me go. What then? Do I become a recovering nutcase? Do I have to stand ever-vigilant against the siren song of craziness?" The doctor ran his hands through his long hair and bounced his knee up and down. "You could put it that way, I guess." "So tell me, what's the next step? What is my optimum strategy for providing compelling evidence of my repudiation of my worldview?" "Well, that's where the analogy breaks down. This isn't about anything demonstrable. There's no one thing we look for in making our diagnosis. It's a collection of things, a protocol for evaluating you. It doesn't happen overnight, either. You were committed on the basis of evidence that you had made threats to your coworkers due to a belief that they were seeking to harm you." "Interesting. Can we try a little thought experiment, Doctor? Say that your coworkers really *were* seeking to harm you -- this is not without historical precedent, right? They're seeking to sabotage you because you've discovered some terrible treachery on their part, and they want to hush you up. So they provoke a reaction from you and use it as the basis for an involuntary committal. How would you, as a medical professional, distinguish that scenario from one in which the patient is genuinely paranoid and delusional?" The doctor looked away. "It's in the protocol -- we find it there." "I see," I said, moving in for the kill. "I see. Where would I get more information on the protocol? I'd like to research it before my hearing." "I'm sorry," the doctor said, "we don't provide access to medical texts to our patients." "Why not? How can I defend myself against a charge if I'm not made aware of the means by which my defense is judged? That hardly seems fair." The doctor stood and smoothed his coat, turned his badge's lanyard so that his picture faced outwards. "Art, you're not here to defend yourself. You're here so that we can take a look at you and understand what's going on. If you have been set up, we'll discover it --" "What's the ratio of real paranoids to people who've been set up, in your experience?" "I don't keep stats on that sort of thing --" "How many paranoids have been released because they were vindicated?" "I'd have to go through my case histories --" "Is it more than ten?" "No, I wouldn't think so --" "More than five?" "Art, I don't think --" "Have *any* paranoids ever been vindicated? Is this observation period anything more than a formality en route to committal? Come on, Doctor, just let me know where I stand." "Art, we're on your side here. If you want to make this easy on yourself, then you should understand that. The nurse will be in with your lunch and your meds in a few minutes, then you'll be allowed out on the ward. I'll speak to you there more, if you want." "Doctor, it's a simple question: Has anyone ever been admitted to this facility because it was believed he had paranoid delusions, and later released because he was indeed the center of a plot?" "Art, it's not appropriate for me to discuss other patients' histories --" "Don't you publish case studies? Don't those contain confidential information disguised with pseudonyms?" "That's not the point --" "What *is* the point? It seems to me that my optimal strategy here is to repudiate my belief that Fede and Linda are plotting against me -- *even* if I still believe this to be true, even if it *is* true -- and profess a belief that they are my good and concerned friends. In other words, if they are indeed plotting against me, I must profess to a delusional belief that they aren't, in order to prove that I am not delusional." "I read *Catch-22* too, Art. That's not what this is about, but your attitude isn't going to help you any here." The doctor scribbled on his comm briefly, tapped at some menus. I leaned across and stared at the screen. "That looks like a prescription, Doctor." "It is. I'm giving you a mild sedative. We can't help you until you're calmer and ready to listen." "I'm perfectly calm. I just disagree with you. I am the sort of person who learns through debate. Medication won't stop that." "We'll see," the doctor said, and left, before I could muster a riposte. I was finally allowed onto the ward, dressed in what the nurses called "day clothes" -- the civilian duds that I'd packed before leaving the hotel, which an orderly retrieved for me from a locked closet in my room. The clustered nuts were watching slackjaw TV, or staring out the windows, or rocking in place, fidgeting and muttering. I found myself a seat next to a birdy woman whose long oily hair was parted down the middle, leaving a furrow in her scalp lined with twin rows of dandruff. She was young, maybe twenty-five, and seemed the least stuporous of the lot. "Hello," I said to her. She smiled shyly, then pitched forward and vomited copiously and noisily between her knees. I shrank back and struggled to keep my face neutral. A nurse hastened to her side and dropped a plastic bucket in the stream of puke, which was still gushing out of her mouth, her thin chest heaving. "Here, Sarah, in here," the nurse said, with an air of irritation. "Can I help?" I said, ridiculously. She looked sharply at me. "Art, isn't it? Why aren't you in Group? It's after one!" "Group?" I asked. "Group. In that corner, there." She gestured at a collection of sagging sofas underneath one of the ward's grilled-in windows. "You're late, and they've started without you." There were four other people there, two women and a young boy, and a doctor in mufti, identifiable by his shoes -- not slippers -- and his staff of office, the almighty badge-on-a-lanyard. Throbbing with dread, I moved away from the still-heaving girl to the sofa cluster and stood at its edge. The group turned to look at me. The doctor cleared his throat. "Group, this is Art. Glad you made it, Art. You're a little late, but we're just getting started here, so that's OK. This is Lucy, Fatima, and Manuel. Why don't you have a seat?" His voice was professionally smooth and stultifying. I sank into a bright orange sofa that exhaled a cloud of dust motes that danced in the sun streaming through the windows. It also exhaled a breath of trapped ancient farts, barf-smell, and antiseptic, the *parfum de asylum* that gradually numbed my nose to all other scents on the ward. I folded my hands in my lap and tried to look attentive. "All right, Art. Everyone in the group is pretty new here, so you don't have to worry about not knowing what's what. There are no right or wrong things. The only rules are that you can't interrupt anyone, and if you want to criticize, you have to criticize the idea, and not the person who said it. All right?" "Sure," I said. "Sure. Let's get started." "Well, aren't you eager?" the doctor said warmly. "OK. Manuel was just telling us about his friends." "They're not my friends," Manuel said angrily. "They're the reason I'm here. I hate them." "Go on," the doctor said. "I already *told* you, yesterday! Tony and Musafir, they're trying to get rid of me. I make them look bad, so they want to get rid of me." "Why do you think you make them look bad?" "Because I'm better than them -- I'm smarter, I dress better, I get better grades, I score more goals. The girls like me better. They hate me for it." "Oh yeah, you're the cat's ass, pookie," Lucy said. She was about fifteen, voluminously fat, and her full lips twisted in an elaborate sneer as she spoke. "Lucy," the doctor said patiently, favoring her with a patronizing smile. "That's not cool, OK? Criticize the idea, not the person, and only when it's your turn, OK?" Lucy rolled her eyes with the eloquence of teenagedom. "All right, Manuel, thank you. Group, do you have any positive suggestions for Manuel?" Stony silence. "OK! Manuel, some of us are good at some things, and some of us are good at others. Your friends don't hate you, and I'm sure that if you think about it, you'll know that you don't hate them. Didn't they come visit you last weekend? Successful people are well liked, and you're no exception. We'll come back to this tomorrow -- why don't you spend the time until then thinking of three examples of how your friends showed you that they liked you, and you can tell us about it tomorrow?" Manuel stared out the window. "OK! Now, Art, welcome again. Tell us why you're here." "I'm in for observation. There's a competency hearing at the end of the week." Linda snorted and Fatima giggled. The doctor ignored them. "But tell us *why* you think you ended up here." "You want the whole story?" "Whatever parts you think are important." "It's a Tribal thing." "I see," the doctor said. "It's like this," I said. "It used to be that the way you chose your friends was by finding the most like-minded people you could out of the pool of people who lived near to you. If you were lucky, you lived near a bunch of people you could get along with. This was a lot more likely in the olden days, back before, you know, printing and radio and such. Chances were that you'd grow up so immersed in the local doctrine that you'd never even think to question it. If you were a genius or a psycho, you might come up with a whole new way of thinking, and if you could pull it off, you'd either gather up a bunch of people who liked your new idea or you'd go somewhere else, like America, where you could set up a little colony of people who agreed with you. Most of the time, though, people who didn't get along with their neighbors just moped around until they died." "Very interesting," the doctor said, interrupting smoothly, "but you were going to tell us how you ended up here." "Yeah," Lucy said, "this isn't a history lesson, it's Group. Get to the point." "I'm getting there," I said. "It just takes some background if you're going to understand it. Now, once ideas could travel more freely, the chances of you finding out about a group of people somewhere else that you might get along with increased. Like when my dad was growing up, if you were gay and from a big city, chances were that you could figure out where other gay people hung out and go and --" I waved my hands, "be *gay*, right? But if you were from a small town, you might not even know that there was such a thing as being gay -- you might think it was just a perversion. But as time went by, the gay people in the big cities started making a bigger and bigger deal out of being gay, and since all the information that the small towns consumed came from big cities, that information leaked into the small towns and more gay people moved to the big cities, built little gay zones where gay was normal. "So back when the New World was forming and sorting out its borders and territories, information was flowing pretty well. You had telegraphs, you had the Pony Express, you had thousands of little newspapers that got carried around on railroads and streetcars and steamers, and it wasn't long before everyone knew what kind of person went where, even back in Europe and Asia. People immigrated here and picked where they wanted to live based on what sort of people they wanted to be with, which ideas they liked best. A lot of it was religious, but that was just on the surface -- underneath it all was aesthetics. You wanted to go somewhere where the girls were pretty in the way you understood prettiness, where the food smelled like food and not garbage, where shops sold goods you could recognize. Lots of other factors were at play, too, of course -- jobs and Jim Crow laws and whatnot, but the tug of finding people like you is like gravity. Lots of things work against gravity, but gravity always wins in the end -- in the end, everything collapses. In the end, everyone ends up with the people that are most like them that they can find." I was warming to my subject now, in that flow state that great athletes get into when they just know where to swing their bat, where to plant their foot. I knew that I was working up a great rant. "Fast-forward to the age of email. Slowly but surely, we begin to mediate almost all of our communication over networks. Why walk down the hallway to ask a coworker a question, when you can just send email? You don't need to interrupt them, and you can keep going on your own projects, and if you forget the answer, you can just open the message again and look at the response. There're all kinds of ways to interact with our friends over the network: we can play hallucinogenic games, chat, send pictures, code, music, funny articles, metric fuckloads of porn... The interaction is high-quality! Sure, you gain three pounds every year you spend behind the desk instead of walking down the hall to ask your buddy where he wants to go for lunch, but that's a small price to pay. "So you're a fish out of water. You live in Arizona, but you're sixteen years old and all your neighbors are eighty-five, and you get ten billion channels of media on your desktop. All the good stuff -- everything that tickles you -- comes out of some clique of hyperurban club-kids in South Philly. They're making cool art, music, clothes. You read their mailing lists and you can tell that they're exactly the kind of people who'd really appreciate you for who you are. In the old days, you'd pack your bags and hitchhike across the country and move to your community. But you're sixteen, and that's a pretty scary step. "Why move? These kids live online. At lunch, before school, and all night, they're comming in, talking trash, sending around photos, chatting. Online, you can be a peer. You can hop into these discussions, play the games, chord with one hand while chatting up some hottie a couple thousand miles away. "Only you can't. You can't, because they chat at seven AM while they're getting ready for school. They chat at five PM, while they're working on their homework. Their late nights end at three AM. But those are their *local* times, not yours. If you get up at seven, they're already at school, 'cause it's ten there. "So you start to f with your sleep schedule. You get up at four AM so you can chat with your friends. You go to bed at nine, 'cause that's when they go to bed. Used to be that it was stock brokers and journos and factory workers who did that kind of thing, but now it's anyone who doesn't fit in. The geniuses and lunatics to whom the local doctrine tastes wrong. They choose their peers based on similarity, not geography, and they keep themselves awake at the same time as them. But you need to make some nod to localness, too -- gotta be at work with everyone else, gotta get to the bank when it's open, gotta buy your groceries. You end up hardly sleeping at all, you end up sneaking naps in the middle of the day, or after dinner, trying to reconcile biological imperatives with cultural ones. Needless to say, that alienates you even further from the folks at home, and drives you more and more into the arms of your online peers of choice. "So you get the Tribes. People all over the world who are really secret agents for some other time zone, some other way of looking at the world, some other zeitgeist. Unlike other tribes, you can change allegiance by doing nothing more that resetting your alarm clock. Like any tribe, they are primarily loyal to each other, and anyone outside of the tribe is only mostly human. That may sound extreme, but this is what it comes down to. "Tribes are *agendas*. Aesthetics. Ethos. Traditions. Ways of getting things done. They're competitive. They may not all be based on time-zones. There are knitting Tribes and vampire fan-fiction Tribes and Christian rock tribes, but they've always existed. Mostly, these tribes are little more than a sub-culture. It takes time-zones to amplify the cultural fissioning of fan-fiction or knitting into a full-blown conspiracy. Their interests are commercial, industrial, cultural, culinary. A Tribesman will patronize a fellow Tribesman's restaurant, or give him a manufacturing contract, or hire his taxi. Not because of xenophobia, but because of homophilia: I know that my Tribesman's taxi will conduct its way through traffic in a way that I'm comfortable with, whether I'm in San Francisco, Boston, London or Calcutta. I know that the food will be palatable in a Tribal restaurant, that a book by a Tribalist will be a good read, that a gross of widgets will be manufactured to the exacting standards of my Tribe. "Like I said, though, unless you're at ground zero, in the Tribe's native time zone, your sleep sched is just *raped*. You live on sleepdep and chat and secret agentry until it's second nature. You're cranky and subrational most of the time. Close your eyes on the freeway and dreams paint themselves on the back of your lids, demanding their time, almost as heavy as gravity, almost as remorseless. There's a lot of flaming and splitting and vitriol in the Tribes. They're more fractured than a potsherd. Tribal anthropologists have built up incredible histories of the fissioning of the Tribes since they were first recognized -- most of 'em are online; you can look 'em up. We stab each other in the back routinely and with no more provocation than a sleepdep hallucination. "Which is how I got here. I'm a member of the Eastern Standard Tribe. We're centered around New York, but we're ramified up and down the coast, Boston and Toronto and Philly, a bunch of Montreal Anglos and some wannabes in upstate New York, around Buffalo and Schenectady. I was doing Tribal work in London, serving the Eastern Standard Agenda, working with a couple of Tribesmen, well, one Tribesman and my girlfriend, who I thought was unaffiliated. Turns out, though, that they're both double agents. They sold out to the Pacific Daylight Tribe, lameass phonies out in LA, slick Silicon Valley bizdev sharks, pseudo hipsters in San Franscarcity. Once I threatened to expose them, they set me up, had me thrown in here." I looked around proudly, having just completed a real fun little excursion through a topic near and dear to my heart. Mount Rushmore looked back at me, stony and bovine and uncomprehending. "Baby," Lucy said, rolling her eyes again, "you need some new meds." "Could be," I said. "But this is for real. Is there a comm on the ward? We can look it up together." "Oh, *that*'all prove it, all right. Nothing but truth online." "I didn't say that. There're peer-reviewed articles about the Tribes. It was a lead story on the CBC's social science site last year." "Uh huh, sure. Right next to the sasquatch videos." "I'm talking about the CBC, Lucy. Let's go look it up." Lucy mimed taking an invisible comm out of her cleavage and prodding at it with an invisible stylus. She settled an invisible pair of spectacles on her nose and nodded sagely. "Oh yeah, sure, really interesting stuff." I realized that I was arguing with a crazy person and turned to the doctor. "You must have read about the Tribes, right?" The doctor acted as if he hadn't heard me. "That's just fascinating, Art. Thank you for sharing that. Now, here's a question I'd like you to think about, and maybe you can tell us the answer tomorrow: What are the ways that your friends -- the ones you say betrayed you -- used to show you how much they respected you and liked you? Think hard about this. I think you'll be surprised by the conclusions you come to." "What's that supposed to mean?" "Just what I said, Art. Think hard about how you and your friends interacted and you'll see that they really like you." "Did you hear what I just said? Have you heard of the Tribes?" "Sure, sure. But this isn't about the Tribes, Art. This is about you and --" he consulted his comm, "Fede and Linda. They care about you a great deal and they're terribly worried about you. You just think about it. Now," he said, recrossing his legs, "Fatima, you told us yesterday about your mother and I asked you to think about how *she* feels. Can you tell the group what you found out?" But Fatima was off in med-land, eyes glazed and mouth hanging slack. Manuel nudged her with his toe, then, when she failed to stir, aimed a kick at her shin. The doctor held a hand out and grabbed Manuel's slippered toe. "That's all right, let's move on to Lucy." I tuned out as Lucy began an elaborate and well-worn rant about her eating habits, prodded on by the doctor. The enormity of the situation was coming home to me. I couldn't win. If I averred that Fede and Linda were my boon companions, I'd still be found incompetent -- after all, what competent person threatens his boon companions? If I stuck to my story, I'd be found incompetent, and medicated besides, like poor little Fatima, zombified by the psychoactive cocktail. Either way, I was stuck. Stuck on the roof now, and it's getting very uncomfortable indeed. Stuck because I am officially incompetent and doomed and damned to indefinite rest on the ward. Stuck because every passing moment here is additional time for the hamsters to run their courses in my mind, piling regret on worry. Stuck because as soon as I am discovered, I will be stupified by the meds, administered by stern and loving and thoroughly disappointed doctors. I still haven't managed to remember any of their names. They are interchangeable, well shod and endowed with badges on lanyards and soothing and implacable and entirely unappreciative of my rhetorical skills. Stuck. The sheet-metal chimneys stand tall around the roof, unevenly distributed according to some inscrutable logic that could only be understood with the assistance of as-built drawings, blueprints, mechanical and structural engineering diagrams. Surely though, they are optimized to wick hot air out of the giant brick pile's guts and exhaust it. I move to the one nearest the stairwell. It is tarred in place, its apron lined with a double-row of cinderblocks that have pools of brackish water and cobwebs gathered in their holes. I stick my hand in the first and drag it off the apron. I repeat it. Now the chimney is standing on its own, in the middle of a nonsensical cinderblock-henge. My hands are dripping with muck and grotendousness. I wipe them off on the pea gravel and then dry them on my boxer shorts, then hug the chimney and lean forward. It gives, slowly, slightly, and springs back. I give it a harder push, really give it my weight, but it won't budge. Belatedly, I realize that I'm standing on its apron, trying to lift myself along with the chimney. I take a step back and lean way forward, try again. It's awkward, but I'm making progress, bent like an ell, pushing with my legs and lower back. I feel something pop around my sacrum, know that I'll regret this deeply when my back kacks out completely, but it'll be all for naught if I don't keep! on! pushing! Then, suddenly, the chimney gives, its apron swinging up and hitting me in the knees so that I topple forward with it, smashing my chin on its hood. For a moment, I lie down atop it, like a stupefied lover, awestruck by my own inanity. The smell of blood rouses me. I tentatively reach my hand to my chin and feel the ragged edge of a cut there, opened from the tip and along my jawbone almost to my ear. The cut is too fresh to hurt, but it's bleeding freely and I know it'll sting like a bastard soon enough. I go to my knees and scream, then scream again as I rend open my chin further. My knees and shins are grooved with deep, parallel cuts, gritted with gravel and grime. Standing hurts so much that I go back to my knees, holler again at the pain in my legs as I grind more gravel into my cuts, and again as I tear my face open some more. I end up fetal on my side, sticky with blood and weeping softly with an exquisite self-pity that is more than the cuts and bruises, more than the betrayal, more than the foreknowledge of punishment. I am weeping for myself, and my identity, and my smarts over happiness and the thought that I would indeed choose happiness over smarts any day. Too damned smart for my own good. 14. "I just don't get it," Fede said. Art tried to keep the exasperation out of his voice. "It's simple," he said. "It's like a car radio with a fast-forward button. You drive around on the MassPike, and your car automatically peers with nearby vehicles. It grabs the current song on someone else's stereo and streamloads it. You listen to it. If you don't hit the fast-forward button, the car starts grabbing everything it can from the peer, all the music on the stereo, and cues it up for continued play. Once that pool is exhausted, it queries your peer for a list of its peers -- the cars that it's getting its music from -- and sees if any of them are in range, and downloads from them. So, it's like you're exploring a taste-network, doing an automated, guided search through traffic for the car whose owner has collected the music you most want to listen to." "But I hate your music -- I don't want to listen to the stuff on your radio." "Fine. That's what the fast-forward button is for. It skips to another car and starts streamloading off of its drive." Fede started to say something, and Art held up his hand. "And if you exhaust all the available cars, the system recycles, but asks its peers for files collected from other sources. You might hate the songs I downloaded from Al, but the songs I got from Bennie are right up your alley. "The war-drivers backstop the whole system. They've got the biggest collections on the freeway, and they're the ones most likely to build carefully thought-out playlists. They've got entire genres -- the whole history of the blues, say, from steel cylinders on -- on their drives. So we encourage them. When you go through a paypoint -- a toll booth -- we debit you for the stuff that you didn't fast-forward, the stuff you listened to and kept. Unless, that is, you've got more than, say, 10,000 songs onboard. Then you go free. It's counterintuitive, I know, but just look at the numbers." "OK, OK. A radio with a fast-forward button. I think I get it." "But?" "But who's going to want to use this? It's unpredictable. You've got no guarantee you'll get the songs you want to hear." Art smiled. "Exactly!" Fede gave him a go-on wave. "Don't you see? That's the crack-cocaine part! It's the thrill of the chase! Nobody gets excited about beating traffic on a back road that's always empty. But get on the M-5 after a hard day at work and drive it at 100 km/h for two hours without once touching your brakes and it's like God's reached down and parted the Red Seas for you. You get a sense of *accomplishment*! Most of the time, your car stereo's gonna play the same junk you've always heard, just background sound, but sometimes, ah! Sometimes you'll hit a sweet spot and get the best tunes you've ever heard. If you put a rat in a cage with a lever that doesn't give food pellets, he'll push it once or twice and give up. Set the lever to always deliver food pellets and he'll push it when he gets hungry. Set it to *sometimes* deliver food pellets and he'll bang on it until he passes out!" "Heh," Fede said. "Good rant." "And?" "And it's cool." Fede looked off into the middle distance a while. "Radio with a fast-forward button. That's great, actually. Amazing. Stupendous!" He snatched the axe-head from its box on Art's desk and did a little war dance around the room, whooping. Art followed the dance from his ergonomic chair, swiveling around as the interface tchotchkes that branched from its undersides chittered to keep his various bones and muscles firmly supported. His office was more like a three-fifths-scale model of a proper office, in Lilliputian London style, so the war dance was less impressive than it might have been with more room to express itself. "You like it, then," Art said, once Fede had run out of steam. "I do, I do, I do!" "Great." "Great." "So." "Yes?" "So what do we do with it? Should I write up a formal proposal and send it to Jersey? How much detail? Sketches? Code fragments? Want me to mock up the interface and the network model?" Fede cocked an eyebrow at him. "What are you talking about?" "Well, we give this to Jersey, they submit the proposal, they walk away with the contract, right? That's our job, right?" "No, Art, that's not our job. Our job is to see to it that V/DT submits a bad proposal, not that Jersey submits a good one. This is big. We roll this together and it's bigger than MassPike. We can run this across every goddamned toll road in the world! Jersey's not paying for this -- not yet, anyway -- and someone should." "You want to sell this to them?" "Well, I want to sell this. Who to sell it to is another matter." Art waved his hands confusedly. "You're joking, right?" Fede crouched down beside Art and looked into his eyes. "No, Art, I am serious as a funeral here. This is big, and it's not in the scope of work that we signed up for. You and me, we can score big on this, but not by handing it over to those shitheads in Jersey and begging for a bonus." "What are you talking about? Who else would pay for this?" "You have to ask? V/DT for starters. Anyone working on a bid for MassPike, or TollPass, or FastPass, or EuroPass." "But we can't sell this to just *anyone*, Fede!" "Why not?" "Jesus. Why not? Because of the Tribes." Fede quirked him half a smile. "Sure, the Tribes." "What does that mean?" "Art, you know that stuff is four-fifths' horseshit, right? It's just a game. When it comes down to your personal welfare, you can't depend on time zones. This is more job than calling, you know." Art squirmed and flushed. "Lots of us take this stuff seriously, Fede. It's not just a mind-game. Doesn't loyalty mean anything to you?" Fede laughed nastily. "Loyalty! If you're doing all of this out of loyalty, then why are you drawing a paycheck? Look, I'd rather that this go to Jersey. They're basically decent sorts, and I've drawn a lot of pay from them over the years, but they haven't paid for this. They wouldn't give us a free ride, so why should we give them one? All I'm saying is, we can offer this to Jersey, of course, but they have to bid for it in a competitive marketplace. I don't want to gouge them, just collect a fair market price for our goods." "You're saying you don't feel any fundamental loyalty to anything, Fede?" "That's what I'm saying." "And you're saying that I'm a sucker for putting loyalty ahead of personal gain -- after all, no one else is, right?" "Exactly." "Then how did this idea become 'ours,' Fede? I came up with it." Fede lost his nasty smile. "There's loyalty and then there's loyalty." "Uh-huh." "No, really. You and I are a team. I rely on you and you rely on me. We're loyal to something concrete -- each other. The Eastern Standard Tribe is an abstraction. It's a whole bunch of people, and neither of us like most of 'em. It's useful and pleasant, but you can't put your trust in institutions -- otherwise you get Nazism." "And patriotism." "Blind patriotism." "So there's no other kind? Just jingoism? You're either loyal to your immediate circle of friends or you're a deluded dupe?" "No, that's not what I'm saying." "So where does informed loyalty leave off and jingoism begin? You come on all patronizing when I talk about being loyal to the Tribe, and you're certainly not loyal to V/DT, nor are you loyal to Jersey. What greater purpose are you loyal to?" "Well, humanity, for starters." "Really. What's that when it's at home?" "Huh?" "How do you express loyalty to something as big and abstract as 'humanity'?" "Well, that comes down to morals, right? Not doing things that poison the world. Paying taxes. Change to panhandlers. Supporting charities." Fede drummed his fingers on his thighs. "Not murdering or raping, you know. Being a good person. A moral person." "OK, that's a good code of conduct. I'm all for not murdering and raping, and not just because it's *wrong*, but because a world where the social norms include murdering and raping is a bad one for me to live in." "Exactly." "That's the purpose of morals and loyalty, right? To create social norms that produce a world you want to live in." "Right! And that's why *personal* loyalty is important." Art smiled. Trap baited and sprung. "OK. So institutional loyalty -- loyalty to a Tribe or a nation -- that's not an important social norm. As far as you're concerned, we could abandon all pretense of institutional loyalty." Art dropped his voice. "You could go to work for the Jersey boys, sabotaging Virgin/Deutsche Telekom, just because they're willing to pay you to do it. Nothing to do with Tribal loyalty, just a job." Fede looked uncomfortable, sensing the impending rhetorical headlock. He nodded cautiously. "Which means that the Jersey boys have no reason to be loyal to you. It's just a job. So if there were an opportunity for them to gain some personal advantage by selling you out, turning you into a patsy for them, well, they should just go ahead and do it, right?" "Uh --" "Don't worry, it's a rhetorical question. Jersey boys sell you out. You take their fall, they benefit. If there was no institutional loyalty, that's where you'd end up, right? That's the social norm you want." "No, of course it isn't." "No, of course not. You want a social norm where individuals can be disloyal to the collective, but not vice versa." "Yes --" "Yes, but loyalty is bidirectional. There's no basis on which you may expect loyalty from an institution unless you're loyal to it." "I suppose." "You know it. I know it. Institutional loyalty is every bit as much about informed self-interest as personal loyalty is. The Tribe takes care of me, I take care of the Tribe. We'll negotiate a separate payment from Jersey for this -- after all, this is outside of the scope of work that we're being paid for -- and we'll split the money, down the middle. We'll work in a residual income with Jersey, too, because, as you say, this is bigger than MassPike. It's a genuinely good idea, and there's enough to go around. All right?" "Are you asking me or telling me?" "I'm asking you. This will require both of our cooperation. I'm going to need to manufacture an excuse to go stateside to explain this to them and supervise the prototyping. You're going to have to hold down the fort here at V/DT and make sure that I'm clear to do my thing. If you want to go and sell this idea elsewhere, well, that's going to require my cooperation, or at least my silence -- if I turn this over to V/DT, they'll pop you for industrial espionage. So we need each other." Art stood and looked down at Fede, who was a good ten centimeters shorter than he, looked down at Fede's sweaty upper lip and creased brow. "We're a good team, Fede. I don't want to toss away an opportunity, but I also don't want to exploit it at the expense of my own morals. Can you agree to work with me on this, and trust me to do the right thing?" Fede looked up. "Yes," he said. On later reflection, Art thought that the *yes* came too quickly, but then, he was just relieved to hear it. "Of course. Of course. Yes. Let's do it." "That's just fine," Art said. "Let's get to work, then." They fell into their traditional division of labor then, Art working on a variety of user-experience plans, dividing each into subplans, then devising protocols for user testing to see what would work in the field; Fede working on logistics from plane tickets to personal days to budget and critical-path charts. They worked side by side, but still used the collaboration tools that Art had grown up with, designed to allow remote, pseudonymous parties to fit their separate work components into the same structure, resolving schedule and planning collisions where it could and throwing exceptions where it couldn't. They worked beside each other and each hardly knew the other was there, and that, Art thought, when he thought of it, when the receptionist commed him to tell him that "Linderrr" -- freakin' teabags -- was there for him, that was the defining characteristic of a Tribalist. A norm, a modus operandi, a way of being that did not distinguish between communication face-to-face and communication at a distance. "Linderrr?" Fede said, cocking an eyebrow. "I hit her with my car," Art said. "Ah," Fede said. "Smooth." Art waved a hand impatiently at him and went out to the reception area to fetch her. The receptionist had precious little patience for entertaining personal visitors, and Linda, in track pants and a baggy sweater, was clearly not a professional contact. The receptionist glared at him as he commed into the lobby and extended his hand to Linda, who took it, put it on her shoulder, grabbed his ass, crushed their pelvises together and jammed her tongue in his ear. "I missed you," she slurped, the buzz of her voice making him writhe. "I'm not wearing any knickers," she continued, loud enough that he was sure that the receptionist heard. He felt the blush creeping over his face and neck and ears. The receptionist. Dammit, why was he thinking about the receptionist? "Linda," he said, pulling away. Introduce her, he thought. Introduce them, and that'll make it less socially awkward. The English can't abide social awkwardness. "Linda, meet --" and he trailed off, realizing he didn't actually know the receptionist's name. The receptionist glared at him from under a cap of shining candy-apple red hair, narrowing her eyes, which were painted in high style with Kubrick action-figure faces. "My *name* is Tonaishah," she hissed. Or maybe it was *Tanya Iseah*, or *Taneesha*. He still didn't know her goddamned name. "And this is Linda," he said, weakly. "We're going out tonight." "And won't you have a dirty great time, then?" Tonaishah said. "I'm sure we will," he said. "Yes," Tonaishah said. Art commed the door and missed the handle, then snagged it and grabbed Linda's hand and yanked her through. "I'm a little randy," she said, directly into his ear. "Sorry." She giggled. "Someone you have to meet," he said, reaching down to rearrange his pants to hide his boner. "Ooh, right here in your office?" Linda said, covering his hand with hers. "Someone with *two* eyes," he said, moving her hand to his hip. "Ahh," she said. "What a disappointment." "I'm serious. I want you to meet my friend Fede. I think you two will really hit it off." "Wait," Linda said. "Isn't this a major step? Meeting the friends? Are we getting that serious already?" "Oh, I think we're ready for it," Art said, draping an arm around her shoulders and resting his fingertips on the upper swell of her breast. She ducked out from under his arm and stopped in her tracks. "Well, I don't. Don't I get a say in this?" "What?" Art said. "Whether it's time for me to meet your friends or not. Shouldn't I have a say?" "Linda, I just wanted to introduce you to a coworker before we went out. He's in my office -- I gotta grab my jacket there, anyway." "Wait, is he a friend or a coworker?" "He's a friend I work with. Come on, what's the big deal?" "Well, first you spring this on me, then you change your story and tell me he's a coworker, now he's a friend again. I don't want to be put on display for your pals. If we're going to meet your friends, I'll dress for it, put on some makeup. This isn't fair." "Linda," Art said, placating. "No," she said. "Screw it. I'm not here to meet your friends. I came all the way across town to meet you at your office because you wanted to head back to your place after work, and you play headgames with me like this?" "All right," Art said. "I'll show you back out to the lobby and you can wait with Tonaishah while I get my jacket." "Don't take that tone with me," she said. "What tone?" Art said. "Jesus Christ! You can't wait in the hall, it's against policy. You don't have a badge, so you have to be with me or in the lobby. I don't give a shit if you meet Fede or not." "I won't tell you again, Art," she said. "Moderate your tone. I won't be shouted at." Art tried to rewind the conversation and figure out how they came to this pass, but he couldn't. Was Linda really acting *this* nuts? Or was he just reading her wrong or pushing her buttons or something? "Let's start over," he said, grabbing both of her hands in his. "I need to get my jacket from my office. You can come with me if you want to, and meet my friend Fede. Otherwise you can wait in the lobby, I won't be a minute." "Let's go meet Fede," she said. "I hope he wasn't expecting anything special, I'm not really dressed for it." He stifled a snotty remark. After all that, she was going to go and meet Fede? So what the hell were they arguing about? On the other hand, he'd gotten his way, hadn't he? He led her by the hand to his office, and beyond every doorway they passed was a V/DT Experience Designer pretending not to peek at them as they walked by, having heard every word through the tricky acoustics of O'Malley House. "Fede," he said, stiffly, "This is Linda. Linda, this is Fede." Fede stood and treated Linda to his big, suave grin. Fede might be short and he might have paranoid delusions, but he was trim and well groomed, with the sort of finicky moustache that looked like a rotting caterpillar if you didn't trim it every morning. He liked to work out, and had a tight waist and a gut you could bounce a quarter off of, and liked to wear tight shirts that showed off his overall fitness, made him stand out among the spongy mouse-potatoes of the corporate world. Art had never given it much thought, but now, standing with Fede and Linda in his tiny office, breathing in Fede's Lilac Vegetal and Linda's new-car-smell shampoo, he felt paunchy and sloppy. "Ah," Fede said, taking her hand. "The one you hit with your car. It's a pleasure. You seem to be recovering nicely, too." Linda smiled and gave him a peck on the cheek, a few strands of her bobbed hair sticking to his moustache like cobwebs as she pulled away. "It was just a love tap," she said. "I'll be fine." "Fede's from New York," Art said. "We colonials like to stick together around the office. And Linda's from Los Angeles." "Aren't there any, you know, British people in London?" Linda said, wrinkling her nose. "There's Tonaishah," Art said weakly. "Who?" Fede said. "The receptionist," Linda said. "Not a very nice person." "With the eyes?" Fede said, wriggling his fingers around his temples to indicate elaborate eye makeup. "That's her," Linda said. "Nasty piece of work," Fede said. "Never trusted her." "*You're* not another UE person, are you?" Linda said, sizing Fede up and giving Art a playful elbow in the ribs. "Who, me? Nah. I'm a management consultant. I work in Chelsea mostly, but when I come slumming in Piccadilly, I like to comandeer Art's office. He's not bad, for a UE-geek." "Not bad at all," Linda said, slipping an arm around Art's waist, wrapping her fingers around the waistband of his trousers. "Did you need to grab your jacket, honey?" Art's jacket was hanging on the back of his office door, and to get at it, he had to crush himself against Linda and maneuver the door shut. He felt her breasts soft on his chest, felt her breath tickle his ear, and forgot all about their argument in the corridor. "All right," Art said, hooking his jacket over his shoulder with a finger, feeling flushed and fluttery. "OK, let's go." "Lovely to have met you, Fede," Linda said, taking his hand. "And likewise," Fede said. 15. Vigorous sex ensued. 16. Art rolled out of bed at dark o'clock in the morning, awakened by circadians and endorphins and bladder. He staggered to the toilet in the familiar gloom of his shabby little rooms, did his business, marveled at the tenderness of his privates, fumbled for the flush mechanism -- "British" and "Plumbing" being two completely opposite notions -- and staggered back to bed. The screen of his comm, nestled on the end table, washed the room in liquid-crystal light. He'd tugged the sheets off of Linda when he got up, and there she was, chest rising and falling softly, body rumpled and sprawled after their gymnastics. It had been transcendent and messy, and the sheets were coarse with dried fluids. He knelt on the bed and fussed with the covers some, trying for an equitable -- if not chivalrously so -- division of blankets. He bent forward to kiss at a bite-mark he'd left on her shoulder. His back went "pop." Somewhere down in the lumbar, somewhere just above his tailbone, a deep and unforgiving *pop*, ominous as the cocking of a revolver. He put his hand there and it felt OK, so he cautiously lay back. Three-quarters of the way down, his entire lower back seized up, needles of fire raced down his legs and through his groin, and he collapsed. He *barked* with pain, an inhuman sound he hadn't known he could make, and the rapid emptying of his lungs deepened the spasm, and he mewled. Linda opened a groggy eye and put her hand on his shoulder. "What is it, hon?" He tried to straighten out, to find a position in which the horrible, relentless pain returned whence it came. Each motion was agony. Finally, the pain subsided, and he found himself pretzelled, knees up, body twisted to the left, head twisted to the right. He did not dare budge from this posture, terrified that the pain would return. "It's my back," he gasped. "Whah? Your back?" "I -- I put it out. Haven't done it in years. I need an icepack, OK? There're some headache pills in the medicine cabinet. Three of those." "Seriously?" "Look, I'd get 'em myself, but I can't even sit up, much less walk. I gotta ice this down now before it gets too inflamed." "How did it happen?" "It just happens. Tai Chi helps. Please, I need ice." Half an hour later, he had gingerly arranged himself with his knees up and his hips straight, and he was breathing deeply, willing the spasms to unclench. "Thanks," he said. "What now? Should I call a doctor?" "He'd just give me painkillers and tell me to lose some weight. I'll probably be like this for a week. Shit. Fede's going to kill me. I was supposed to go to Boston next Friday, too." "Boston? What for? For how long?" Art bunched the sheets in his fists. He hadn't meant to tell her about Boston yet -- he and Fede hadn't worked out his cover story. "Meetings," he said. "Two or three days. I was going to take some personal time and go see my family, too. Goddamnit. Pass me my comm, OK?" "You're going to *work* now?" "I'm just going to send Fede a message and send out for some muscle-relaxants. There's a twenty-four-hour chemist's at Paddington Station that delivers." "I'll do it, you lie flat." And so it began. Bad enough to be helpless, weak as a kitten and immobile, but to be at the whim of someone else, to have to provide sufficient excuse for every use of his comm, every crawl across the flat... Christ. "Just give me my comm, please. I can do it faster than I can explain how to do it." In thirty-six hours, he was ready to tear the throat out of anyone who tried to communicate with him. He'd harangued Linda out of the flat and crawled to the kitchen floor, painstakingly assembling a nest of pillows and sofa cushions, close to the icemaker and the painkillers and toilet. His landlady, an unfriendly Chinese lady who had apparently been wealthy beyond words in Hong Kong and clearly resented her reduced station, agreed to sign for the supply drops he commed to various retailers around London. He was giving himself a serious crick in his neck and shoulder from working supine, comm held over his head. The painkillers weighted his arms and churned his guts, and at least twice an hour, he'd grog his way into a better position, forgetting the tenderness in his back, and bark afresh as his nerves shrieked and sizzled. Two days later and he was almost unrecognizable, a gamey, unshaven lump in the tiny kitchen, his nest gray with sweat and stiff with spilled take-away curry. He suspected that he was overmedicating, forgetting whether he'd taken his tablets and taking more. In one of his more lucid moments, he realized that there was a feedback cycle at play here -- the more pills he took, the less equipped he was to judge whether he'd taken his pills, so the more pills he took. His mind meandered through a solution to this, a timer-equipped pillcase that reset when you took the lid off and chimed if you took the lid off again before the set interval had elapsed. He reached for his comm to make some notes, found it wedged under one of his hocks, greasy with sweat, batteries dead. He hadn't let his comm run down in a decade, at least. His landlady let Linda in on the fourth day, as he was sleeping fitfully with a pillow over his face to shut out the light from the window. He'd tried to draw the curtains a day -- two days? -- before, but had given up when he tried to pull himself upright on the sill only to collapse in a fresh gout of writhing. Linda crouched by his head and stroked his greasy hair softly until he flipped the pillow off his face with a movement of his neck. He squinted up at her, impossibly fresh and put together and incongruous in his world of reduced circumstances. "Art. Art. Art. Art! You're a mess, Art! Jesus. Why aren't you in bed?" "Too far," he mumbled. "What would your grandmother say? Dear-oh-dearie. Come on, let's get you up and into bed, and then I'm going to have a doctor and a massage therapist sent in. You need a nice, hot bath, too. It'll be good for you and hygienic besides." "No tub," he said petulantly. "I know, I know. Don't worry about it. I'll sort it out." And she did, easing him to his feet and helping him into bed. She took his house keys and disappeared for some unknowable time, then reappeared with fresh linen in store wrappers, which she lay on the bed carefully, making tight hospital corners and rolling him over, nurse-style, to do the other side. He heard her clattering in the kitchen, running the faucets, moving furniture. He reminded himself to ask her to drop his comm in its charger, then forgot. "Come on, time to get up again," she said, gently peeling the sheets back. "It's OK," he said, waving weakly at her. "Yes, it is. Let's get up." She took his ankles and gradually turned him on the bed so that his feet were on the floor, then grabbed him by his stinking armpits and helped him to his feet. He stumbled with her into his crowded living room, dimly aware of the furniture stacked on itself around him. She left him hanging on the door lintel and then began removing his clothes. She actually used a scissors to cut away his stained tee shirt and boxer shorts. "All right," she said, "into the tub." "No tub," he said. "Look down, Art," she said. He did. An inflatable wading pool sat in the middle of his living room, flanked by an upended coffee table and his sofa, standing on its ear. The pool was full of steaming, cloudy water. "There's a bunch of eucalyptus oil and Epsom salts in there. You're gonna love it." That night, Art actually tottered into the kitchen and got himself a glass of water, one hand pressed on his lower back. The cool air of the apartment fanned the mentholated liniment on his back and puckered goose pimples all over his body. After days of leaden limbs, he felt light and clean, his senses singing as though he was emerging from a fever. He drank the water, and retrieved his comm from its cradle. He propped several pillows up on his headboard and fired up his comm. Immediately, it began to buzz and hum and chatter and blink, throwing up alerts about urgent messages, pages and calls pending. The lightness he'd felt fled him, and he began the rotten business of triaging his in-box. One strong impression emerged almost immediately: Fede wanted him in Boston. The Jersey clients were interested in the teasers that Fede had forwarded to them. The Jersey clients were obsessed with the teasers that Fede had forwarded to them. The Jersey clients were howling for more after the teasers that Fede had forwarded to them. Fede had negotiated some big bucks on approval if only Art would go and talk to the Jersey clients. The Jersey clients had arranged a meeting with some of the MassPike decision-makers for the following week, and now they were panicking because they didn't have anything *except* the teasers Fede had forwarded to them. You should really try to go to Boston, Art. We need you in Boston, Art. You have to go to Boston, Art. Art, go to Boston. Boston, Art. Boston. Linda rolled over in bed and peered up at him. "You're *not* working again, are you?" "Shhh," Art said. "It's less stressful if I get stuff done than if I let it pile up." "Then why is your forehead all wrinkled up?" "I have to go to Boston," he said. "Day after tomorrow, I think." "Jesus, are you insane? Trying to cripple yourself?" "I can recover in a hotel room just as well as I can recover here. It's just rest from here on in, anyway. And a hotel will probably have a tub." "I can't believe I'm hearing this. You're not going to *recover* in Boston. You'll be at meetings and stuff. Christ!" "I've got to do this," Art said. "I just need to figure out how. I'll go business class, take along a lumbar pillow, and spend every moment that I'm not in a meeting in a tub or getting a massage. I could use a change of scenery about now, anyway." "You're a goddamned idiot, you know that?" Art knew it. He also knew that here was an opportunity to get back to EST, to make a good impression on the Jersey clients, to make his name in the Tribe and to make a bundle of cash. His back be damned, he was sick of lying around anyway. "I've got to go, Linda." "It's your life," she said, and tossed aside the covers. "But I don't have to sit around watching you ruin it." She disappeared into the hallway, then reemerged, dressed and with her coat on. "I'm out of here." "Linda," Art said. "No," she said. "Shut up. Why the fuck should I care if you don't, huh? I'm going. See you around." "Come on, let's talk about this." East-Coast pizza. Flat Boston twangs. The coeds rushing through Harvard Square and oh, maybe a side trip to New York, maybe another up to Toronto and a roti at one of the halal Guyanese places on Queen Street. He levered himself painfully out of bed and hobbled to the living room, where Linda was arguing with a taxi dispatcher over her comm, trying to get them to send out a cab at two in the morning. "Come on," Art said. "Hang that up. Let's talk about this." She shot him a dirty look and turned her back, kept on ranting down the comm at the dispatcher. "Linda, don't do this. Come on." "I am on the phone!" she said to him, covering the mouthpiece. "Shut the fuck up, will you?" She uncovered the mouthpiece. "Hello? Hello?" The dispatcher had hung up. She snapped the comm shut and slammed it into her purse. She whirled to face Art, snorting angry breaths through her nostrils. Her face was such a mask of rage that Art recoiled, and his back twinged. He clasped at it and carefully lowered himself onto the sofa. "Don't do this, OK?" he said. "I need support, not haranguing." "What's there to say? Your mind's already made up. You're going to go off and be a fucking idiot and cripple yourself. Go ahead, you don't need my permission." "Sit down, please, Linda, and talk to me. Let me explain my plan and my reasons, OK? Then I'll listen to you. Maybe we can sort this out and actually, you know, come to understand each other's point of view." "Fine," she said, and slammed herself into the sofa. Art bounced and he seized his back reflexively, waiting for the pain, but beyond a low-grade throbbing, he was OK. "I have a very large opportunity in Boston right now. One that could really change my life. Money, sure, but prestige and profile, too. A dream of an opportunity. I need to attend one or two meetings, and then I can take a couple days off. I'll get Fede to OK a first-class flight -- we get chits we can use to upgrade to Virgin Upper; they've got hot tubs and massage therapists now. I'll check into a spa -- they've got a bunch on Route 128 -- and get a massage every morning and have a physiotherapist up to the room every night. I can't afford that stuff here, but Fede'll spring for it if I go to Boston, let me expense it. I'll be a good lad, I promise." "I still think you're being an idiot. Why can't Fede go?" "Because it's my deal." "Why can't whoever you're meeting with come here?" "That's complicated." "Bullshit. I thought you wanted to talk about this?" "I do. I just can't talk about that part." "Why not? Are you afraid I'll blab? Christ, Art. Give me some credit. Who the hell would I blab *to*, anyway?" "Look, Linda, the deal itself is confidential -- a secret. A secret's only a secret if you don't tell it to anyone, all right? So I'm not going to tell you. It's not relevant to the discussion, anyway." "Art. Art. Art. Art, you make it all sound so reasonable, and you can dress it up with whatever words you want, but at the end of the day, we both know you're full of shit on this. There's no *way* that doing this is better for you than staying here in bed. If Fede's the problem, let me talk to him." "Jesus, no!" "Why not?" "It's not appropriate, Linda. This is a work-related issue. It wouldn't be professional. OK, I'll concede that flying and going to meeting is more stressful than not flying and not going to meetings, but let's take it as a given that I *really* need to go to Boston. Can't we agree on that, and then discuss the ways that we can mitigate the risks associated with the trip?" "Jesus, you're an idiot," she said, but she seemed to be on the verge of smiling. "But I'm *your* idiot, right?" Art said, hopefully. "Sure, sure you are." She *did* smile then, and cuddle up to him on the sofa. "They don't have fucking *hot tubs* in Virgin Upper, do they?" "Yeah," Art said, kissing her earlobe. "They really do." 17. Once the blood coursing from my shins slows and clots, I take an opportunity to inspect the damage more closely. The cuts are relatively shallow, certainly less serious than they were in my runamuck imagination, which had vivid slashes of white bone visible through the divided skin. I cautiously pick out the larger grit and gravel and turn my attention spinewards. I have done a number on my back, that much is certain. My old friends, the sacroiliac joints, feel as tight as drumheads, and they creak ominously when I shift to a sitting position with my back propped up on the chimney's upended butt, the aluminum skirting cool as a kiss on my skin. They're only just starting to twinge, a hint of the agonies to come. My jaw, though, is pretty bad. My whole face feels swollen, and if I open my mouth the blood starts anew. You know, on sober reflection, I believe that coming up to the roof was a really bad idea. I use the chimney to lever myself upright again, and circle it to see exactly what kind of damage I've done. There's a neat circular hole in the roof where the chimney used to be, gusting warm air into my face as I peer into its depths. The hole is the mouth of a piece of shiny metal conduit about the circumference of a basketball hoop. When I put my head into it, I hear the white noise of a fan, somewhere below in the building's attic. I toss some gravel down the conduit and listen to the report as it *ping*s off the fan blades down below. That's a good, loud sound, and one that is certain to echo through the building. I rain gravel down the exhaust tube by the handful, getting into a mindless, shuffling rhythm, wearing the sides of my hands raw and red as I scrape the pebbles up into handy piles. Soon I am shuffling afield of the fallen chimney, one hand on my lumbar, crouched over like a chimp, knees splayed in an effort to shift stress away from my grooved calves. I'm really beating the shit out of that poor fan, I can tell. The shooting-gallery rattle of the gravel ricocheting off the blades is dulling now, sometimes followed by secondary rattles as the pebbles bounce back into the blades. Not sure what I'll do if the fan gives out before someone notices me up here. It's not an issue, as it turns out. The heavy fire door beyond the chimney swings open abruptly. A hospital maintenance gal in coveralls, roly-poly and draped with tool belts and bandoliers. She's red-faced from the trek up the stairs, and it gives her the aspect of a fairy tale baker or candy-seller. She reinforces this impression by putting her plump hands to her enormous bosom and gasping when she catches sight of me. It comes to me that I am quite a fucking sight. Bloody, sunburnt, wild-eyed, with my simian hunch and my scabby jaw set at a crazy angle to my face and reality both. Not to mention my near nudity, which I'm semipositive is not her idea of light entertainment. "Hey," I say. "I, uh, I got stuck on the roof. The door shut." Talking reopens the wound on my jaw and I feel more blood trickling down my neck. "Unfortunately, I only get one chance to make a first impression, huh? I'm not, you know, really *crazy,* I was just a little bored and so I went exploring and got stuck and tried to get someone's attention, had a couple accidents... It's a long story. Hey! My name's Art. What's yours?" "Oh my Lord!" she said, and her hand jumps to the hammer in its bandolier holster on her round tummy. She claws at it frantically. "Please," I say, holding my hands in front of me. "Please. I'm hurt is all. I came up here to get some fresh air and the door swung shut behind me. I tripped when I knocked over the chimney to get someone's attention. I'm not dangerous. Please. Just help me get back down to the twentieth floor -- I think I might need a stretcher crew, my back is pretty bad." "It's Caitlin," she says. "I beg your pardon?" "My name is Caitlin," she says. "Hi, Caitlin," I said. I extend my hand, but she doesn't move the ten yards she would have to cross in order to take it. I think about moving towards her, but think better of it. "You're not up here to jump, are you?" "Jump? Christ, no! Just stuck is all. Just stuck." Linda's goddamned boyfriend was into all this flaky Getting to Yes shit, subliminal means of establishing rapport and so on. Linda and I once spent an afternoon at the Children's Carousel uptown in Manhattan, making fun of all his newage theories. The one that stood out in my mind as funniest was synching your breathing -- "What you resist persists, so you need to turn resistance into assistance," Linda recounted. You match breathing with your subject for fifteen breaths and they unconsciously become receptive to your suggestions. I have a suspicion that Caitlin might bolt, duck back through the door and pound down the stairs on her chubby little legs and leave me stranded. So I try it, match my breath to her heaving bosom. She's still panting from her trek up the stairs and fifteen breaths go by in a quick pause. The silence stretches, and I try to remember what I'm supposed to do next. Lead the subject, that's it. I slow my breathing down gradually and, amazingly, her breath slows down along with mine, until we're both breathing great, slow breaths. It works -- it's flaky and goofy California shit, but it works. "Caitlin," I say calmly, making it part of an exhalation. "Yes," she says, still wary. "Have you got a comm?" "I do, yes." "Can you please call downstairs and ask them to send up a stretcher crew? I've hurt my back and I won't be able to handle the stairs." "I can do that, yes." "Thank you, Caitlin." It feels like cheating. I didn't have to browbeat her or puncture her bad reasoning -- all it took was a little rapport, a little putting myself in her shoes. I can't believe it worked, but Caitlin flips a ruggedized comm off her hip and speaks into it in a calm, efficient manner. "Thank you, Caitlin," I say again. I start to ease myself to a sitting position, and my back gives way, so that I crash to the rooftop, mewling, hands clutched to my spasming lumbar. And then Caitlin's at my side, pushing my hands away from my back, strong thumbs digging into the spasming muscles around my iliac crests, soothing and smoothing them out, tracing the lines of fire back to the nodes of the joints, patiently kneading the spasms out until the pain recedes to a soft throbbing. "My old man used to get that," she said. "All us kids had to take turns working it out for him." I'm on my back, staring up over her curves and rolls and into her earnest, freckled face. "Oh, God, that feels good," I say. "That's what the old man used to say. You're too young to have a bad back." "I have to agree," I say. "All right, I'm going to prop your knees up and lay your head down. I need to have a look at that ventilator." I grimace. "I'm afraid I did a real number on it," I say. "Sorry about that." She waves a chubby pish-tosh at me with her freckled hand and walks over to the chimney, leaving me staring at the sky, knees bent, waiting for the stretcher crew. When they arrive, Caitlin watches as they strap me onto the board, tying me tighter than is strictly necessary for my safety, and I realize that I'm not being tied *down*, I'm being tied *up*. "Thanks, Caitlin," I say. "You're welcome, Art." "Good luck with the ventilator -- sorry again." "That's all right, kid. It's my job, after all." 18. Virgin Upper's hot tubs were more theoretically soothing than actually so. They had rather high walls and a rather low water level, both for modesty's sake and to prevent spills. Art passed through the miniature sauna/shower and into the tub after his massage, somewhere over Newfoundland, and just as the plane hit turbulence, buffeting him with chlorinated water that stung his eyes and got up his nose and soaked the magazine on offshore investing that he'd found in the back of his seat pocket. He landed at JFK still smelling of chlorine and sandalwood massage oil and the cantaloupe-scented lotion in the fancy toilets. Tension melted away from him as he meandered to the shuttle stop. The air had an indefinable character of homeliness, or maybe it was the sunlight. Amateur Tribal anthropologists were always thrashing about light among themselves, arguing about the sun's character varying from latitude to latitude, filtered through this city's pollution signature or that. The light or the air, the latitude or the smog, it felt like home. The women walked with a reassuring, confident *clack clack clack* of heel on hard tile; the men talked louder than was necessary to one another or to their comms. The people were a riot of ethnicities and their speech was a riotous babel of accents, idioms and languages. Aggressive pretzel vendors vied with aggressive panhandlers to shake down the people waiting on the shuttle bus. Art bought a stale, sterno-reeking pretzel that was crusted with inedible volumes of yellowing salt and squirted a couple bucks at a panhandler who had been pestering him in thick Jamaican patois but thanked him in adenoidal Brooklynese. By the time he boarded his connection to Logan he was joggling his knees uncontrollably in his seat, his delight barely contained. He got an undrinkable can of watery Budweiser and propped it up on his tray table alongside his inedible pretzel and arranged them in a kind of symbolic tableau of all things ESTian. He commed Fede from the guts of the tunnels that honeycombed Boston, realizing with a thrill as Fede picked up that it was two in the morning in London, at the nominal GMT+0, while here at GMT-5 -- at the default, plus-zero time zone of his life, livelihood and lifestyle -- it was only 9PM. "Fede!" Art said into the comm. "Hey, Art!" Fede said, with a false air of chipperness that Art recognized from any number of middle-of-the-night calls. There was a cheap Malaysian comm that he'd once bought because of its hyped up de-hibernate feature -- its ability to go from its deepest power-saving sleepmode to full waking glory without the customary thirty seconds of drive-churning housekeeping as it reestablished its network connection, verified its file system and memory, and pinged its buddy-list for state and presence info. This Malaysian comm, the Crackler, had the uncanny ability to go into suspended animation indefinitely, and yet throw your workspace back on its display in a hot instant. When Art actually laid hands on it, after it meandered its way across the world by slow boat, corrupt GMT+8 Posts and Telegraphs authorities, over-engineered courier services and Revenue Canada's Customs agents, he was enchanted by this feature. He could put the device into deep sleep, close it up, and pop its cover open and poof! there were his windows. It took him three days and an interesting crash to notice that even though he was seeing his workspace, he wasn't able to interact with it for thirty seconds. The auspicious crash revealed the presence of a screenshot of his pre-hibernation workspace on the drive, and he realized that the machine was tricking him, displaying the screenshot -- the illusion of wakefulness -- when he woke it up, relying on the illusion to endure while it performed its housekeeping tasks in the background. A little stopwatch work proved that this chicanery actually added three seconds to the overall wake-time, and taught him his first important user-experience lesson: perception of functionality trumps the actual function. And here was Fede, throwing up a verbal screenshot of wakefulness while he churned in the background, housekeeping himself into real alertness. "Fede, I'm here, I'm in Boston!" "Good Art, good. How was the trip?" "Wonderful. Virgin Upper was fantastic -- dancing girls, midget wrestling, hash brownies..." "Good, very good." "And now I'm driving around under Boston through a land-yacht regatta. The boats are mambo, but I think that banana patch the hotel soon." "Glad to hear it." Art heard water running dimly, realized that Fede was taking a leak. "Meeting with the Jersey boys tomorrow. We're having brunch at a strip club." "OK, OK, very funny," Fede said. "I'm awake. What's up?" "Nothing. I just wanted to check in with you and let you know I arrived safe and sound. How're things in London?" "Your girlfriend called me." "Linda?" "You got another girlfriend?" "What did she want?" "She wanted to chew me out for sending you overseas with your 'crippling back injury.' She told me she'd hold me responsible if you got into trouble over there." "God, Fede, I'm sorry. I didn't put her up to it or anything --" "Don't worry about it. I'm glad that there's someone out there who cares about you. We're getting together for dinner tonight." "Fede, you know, I think Linda's terrific, but she's a little, you know, volatile." "Art, everyone in O'Malley House knows just how volatile she is. 'I won't tell you again, Art. Moderate your tone. I won't be shouted at.'" "Christ, you heard that, too?" "Don't worry about it. She's cool and I like her and I can stand to be shouted at a little. When did you say you were meeting with Perceptronics?" The word shocked him. They never mentioned the name of the Jersey clients. It started as a game, but soon became woven into Fede's paranoid procedures. Now they had reached the endgame. Within a matter of weeks, they'd be turning in their resignations to V/DT and taking the final flight across the Atlantic and back to GMT-5, provocateurs no longer. "Tomorrow afternoon. We're starting late to give me time to get a full night's sleep." The last conference call with Perceptronics had gone fantastically. His normal handlers -- sour men with nasty minds who glommed onto irrelevancies in V/DT's strategy and teased at them until they conjured up shadowy and shrewd conspiracies where none existed -- weren't on that call. Instead, he'd spent a rollicking four hours on the line with the sharp and snarky product designers and engineers, bouncing ideas back and forth at speed. Even over the phone, the homey voices and points of view felt indefinably comfortable and familiar. They'd been delighted to start late in the day for his benefit, and had offered to work late and follow up with a visit to a bar where he could get a burger the size of a baby's head. "We're meeting at Perceptronics' branch office in Acton tomorrow and the day after, then going into MassPike. The Perceptronics guys sound really excited." Just saying the name of the company was a thrill. "That's really excellent, Art. Go easy, though --" "Oh, don't worry about me. My back's feeling miles better." And it was, loose and supple the way it did after a good workout. "That's good, but it's not what I meant. We're still closing this deal, still dickering over price. I need another day, maybe, to settle it. So go easy tomorrow. Give me a little leverage, OK?" "I don't get it. I thought we had a deal." "Nothing's final till it's vinyl, you know that. They're balking at the royalty clause" -- Fede was proposing to sell Perceptronics an exclusive license on the business-model patent he'd filed for using Art's notes in exchange for jobs, a lump-sum payment and a royalty on every sub-license that Perceptronics sold to the world's toll roads -- "and we're renegotiating. They're just playing hardball, is all. Another day, tops, and I'll have it sorted." "I'm confused. What do you want me to do?" "Just, you know, *stall* them. Get there late. Play up your jetlag. Leave early. Don't get anything, you know, *done*. Use your imagination." "Is there a deal or isn't there, Fede?" "There's a deal, there's a deal. I'll do my thing, you'll do your thing, and we'll both be rich and living in New York before you know it. Do you understand?" "Not really." "OK, that'll have to be good enough for now. Jesus, Art, I'm doing my best here, all right?" "Say hi to Linda for me, OK?" "Don't be pissed at me, Art." "I'm not pissed. I'll stall them. You do your thing. I'll take it easy, rest up my back." "All right. Have a great time, OK?" "I will, Fede." Art rang off, feeling exhausted and aggravated. He followed the tunnel signs to the nearest up-ramp, wanting to get into the sunlight and architecture and warm himself with both. A miniscule BMW Flea blatted its horn at him when he changed lanes. Had he cut the car off? He was still looking the wrong way, still anticipating oncoming traffic on the right. He raised a hand in an apologetic wave. It wasn't enough for the Flea's driver. The car ran right up to his bumper, then zipped into the adjacent lane, accelerated and cut him off, nearly causing a wreck. As it was, Art had to swerve into the parking lane on Mass Ave -- how did he get to Mass Ave? God, he was lost already -- to avoid him. The Flea backed off and switched lanes again, then pulled up alongside of him. The driver rolled down his window. "How the fuck do you like it, jackoff? Don't *ever* fucking cut me off!" He was a middle aged white guy in a suit, driving a car that was worth a year's wages to Art, purple-faced and pop-eyed. Art felt something give way inside, and then he was shouting back. "When I want your opinion, I'll squeeze your fucking head, you sack of shit! As it is, I can barely contain my rage at the thought that a scumbag like you is consuming *air* that the rest of us could be breathing! Now, roll up your goddamned window and drive your fucking bourge-mobile before I smash your fucking head in!" He shut his mouth, alarmed. What the hell was he saying? How did he end up standing here, outside of his car, shouting at the other driver, stalking towards the Flea with his hands balled into fists? Why was he picking a fight with this goddamned psycho, anyway? A year in peaceful, pistol-free London had eased his normal road-rage defense systems. Now they came up full, and he wondered if the road-rager he'd just snapped at would haul out a Second-Amendment Special and cap him. But the other driver looked as shocked as Art felt. He rolled up his window and sped off, turning wildly at the next corner -- Brookline, Art saw. Art got back into his rental, pulled off to the curb and asked his comm to generate an optimal route to his hotel, and drove in numb silence the rest of the way. 19. They let me call Gran on my second day here. Of course, Linda had already called her and briefed her on my supposed mental breakdown. I had no doubt that she'd managed to fake hysterical anxiety well enough to convince Gran that I'd lost it completely; Gran was already four-fifths certain that I was nuts. "Hi, Gran," I said. "Arthur! My God, how are you?" "I'm fine, Gran. It's a big mistake is all." "A mistake? Your lady friend called me and told me what you'd done in London. Arthur, you need help." "What did Linda say?" "She said that you threatened to kill a coworker. She said you threatened to kill *her*. That you had a knife. Oh, Arthur, I'm so worried --" "It's not true, Gran. She's lying to you." "She told me you'd say that." "Of course she did. She and Fede -- a guy I worked with in London -- they're trying to get rid of me. They had me locked up. I had a business deal with Fede, we were selling one of my ideas to a company in New Jersey. Linda talked him into selling to some people she knows in LA instead, and they conspired to cut me out of the deal. When I caught them at it, they got me sent away. Let me guess, she told you I was going to say this, too, right?" "Arthur, I know --" "You know that I'm a good guy. You raised me. I'm not nuts, OK? They just wanted to get me out of the way while they did their deal. A week or two and I'll be out again, but it will be too late. Do you believe that you know me better than some girl I met a month ago?" "Of *course* I do, Arthur. But why would the hospital take you away if --" "If I wasn't crazy? I'm in here for observation -- they want to find *out* if I'm crazy. If *they're* not sure, then you can't be sure, right?" "All right. Oh, I've been sick with worry." "I'm sorry, Gran. I need to get through this week and I'll be free and clear and I'll come back to Toronto." "I'm going to come down there to see you. Linda told me visitors weren't allowed, is that true?" "No, it's not true." I thought about Gran seeing me in the ward amidst the pukers and the screamers and the droolers and the *fondlers* and flinched away from the phone. "But if you're going to come down, come for the hearing at the end of the week. There's nothing you can do here now." "Even if I can't help, I just want to come and see you. It was so nice when you were here." "I know, I know. I'll be coming back soon, don't worry." If only Gran could see me now, on the infirmary examination table, in four-point restraint. Good thing she can't. A doctor looms over me. "How are you feeling, Art?" "I've had better days," I say, with what I hope is stark sanity and humor. Aren't crazy people incapable of humor? "I went for a walk and the door swung shut behind me." "Well, they'll do that," the doctor says. "My name is Szandor," he says, and shakes my hand in its restraint. "A pleasure to meet you," I say. "You're a *doctor* doctor, aren't you?" "An MD? Yup. There're a couple of us around the place." "But you're not a shrink of any description?" "Nope. How'd you guess?" "Bedside manner. You didn't patronize me." Dr. Szandor tries to suppress a grin, then gives up. "We all do our bit," he says. "How'd you get up on the roof without setting off your room alarm, anyway?" "If I tell you how I did it, I won't be able to repeat the trick," I say jokingly. He's swabbing down my shins now with something that stings and cools at the same time. From time to time, he takes tweezers in hand and plucks loose some gravel or grit and plinks it into a steel tray on a rolling table by his side. He's so gentle, I hardly feel it. "What, you never heard of doctor-patient confidentiality?" "Is that thing still around?" "Oh sure! We had a mandatory workshop on it yesterday afternoon. Those are always a lot of fun." "So, you're saying that you've got professional expertise in the keeping of secrets, huh? I suppose I could spill it for you, then." And I do, explaining my little hack for tricking the door into thinking that I'd left and returned to the room. "Huh -- now that you explain it, it's pretty obvious." "That's my job -- figuring out the obvious way of doing something." And we fall to talking about my job with V/DT, and the discussion branches into the theory and practice of UE, only slowing a little when he picks the crud out of the scrape down my jaw and tugs through a couple of quick stitches. It occurs to me that he's just keeping me distracted, using a highly evolved skill for placating psychopaths through small talk so that they don't thrash while he's knitting their bodies back together. I decide that I don't care. I get to natter on about a subject that I'm nearly autistically fixated on, and I do it in a context where I know that I'm sane and smart and charming and occasionally mind-blowing. "...and the whole thing pays for itself through EZPass, where we collect the payments for the music downloaded while you're on the road." As I finish my spiel, I realize *I've* been keeping *him* distracted, standing there with the tweezers in one hand and a swab in the other. "Wow!" he said. "So, when's this all going to happen?" "You'd use it, huh?" "Hell, yeah! I've got a good twenty, thirty thousand on my car right now! You're saying I could plunder anyone else's stereo at will, for free, and keep it, while I'm stuck in traffic, and because I'm a -- what'd you call it, a super-peer? -- a super-peer, it's all free and legal? Damn!" "Well, it may be a while before you see it on the East Coast. It'll probably roll out in LA first, then San Francisco, Seattle..." "What? Why?" "It's a long story," I say. "And it ends with me on the roof of a goddamned nuthouse on Route 128 doing a one-man tribute to the Three Stooges." 20. Three days later, Art finally realized that something big and ugly was in the offing. Fede had repeatedly talked him out of going to Perceptronics's offices, offering increasingly flimsy excuses and distracting him by calling the hotel's front desk and sending up surprise massage therapists to interrupt Art as he stewed in his juices, throbbing with resentment at having been flown thousands of klicks while injured in order to check into a faceless hotel on a faceless stretch of highway and insert this thumb into his asshole and wait for Fede -- *who was still in fucking London!* -- to sort out the mess so that he could present himself at the Perceptronics Acton offices and get their guys prepped for the ever-receding meeting with MassPike. "Jesus, Federico, what the fuck am I *doing* here?" "I know, Art, I know." Art had taken to calling Fede at the extreme ends of circadian compatibility, three AM and eleven PM and then noon on Fede's clock, as a subtle means of making the experience just as unpleasant for Fede as it was for Art. "I screwed up," Fede yawned. "I screwed up and now we're both paying the price. You handled your end beautifully and I dropped mine. And I intend to make it up to you." "I don't *want* more massages, Fede. I want to get this shit done and I want to come home and see my girlfriend." Fede tittered over the phone. "What's so funny?" "Nothing much," Fede said. "Just sit tight there for a couple minutes, OK? Call me back once it happens and tell me what you wanna do, all right?" "Once what happens?" "You'll know." It was Linda, of course. Knocking on Art's hotel room door minutes later, throwing her arms -- and then her legs -- around him, and banging him stupid, half on and half off the hotel room bed. Riding him and then being ridden in turns, slurping and wet and energetic until they both lay sprawled on the hotel room's very nice Persian rugs, dehydrated and panting and Art commed Fede, and Fede told him it could take a couple weeks to sort things out, and why didn't he and Linda rent a car and do some sight-seeing on the East Coast? That's exactly what they did. Starting in Boston, where they cruised Cambridge, watching the cute nerdyboys and geekygirls wander the streets, having heated technical debates, lugging half-finished works of technology and art through the sopping summertime, a riot of townie accents and highbrow engineerspeak. Then a week in New York, where they walked until they thought their feet would give out entirely, necks cricked at a permanent, upward-staring angle to gawp at the topless towers of Manhattan. The sound the sound the sound of Manhattan rang in their ears, a gray and deep rumble of cars and footfalls and subways and steampipes and sirens and music and conversation and ring tones and hucksters and schizophrenic ranters, a veritable Las Vegas of cacophony, and it made Linda uncomfortable, she who was raised in the white noise susurrations of LA's freeway forests, but it made Art feel *wonderful*. He kept his comm switched off, though the underfoot rumble of the subway had him reaching for it a hundred times a day, convinced that he'd left it on in vibe-alert mode. They took a milk-run train to Toronto, chuffing through sleepy upstate New York towns, past lakes and rolling countryside in full summer glory. Art and Linda drank ginger beer in the observation car, spiking it with rum from a flask that Linda carried in a garter that she wore for the express purpose of being able to reach naughtily up her little sundress and produce a bottle of body-temperature liquor in a nickel-plated vessel whose shiny sides were dulled by the soft oil of her thigh. Canada Customs and Immigration separated them at the border, sending Art for a full inspection -- a privilege of being a Canadian citizen and hence perennially under suspicion of smuggling goods from the tax havens of the US into the country -- and leaving Linda in their little Pullman cabin. When Art popped free of the bureaucracy, his life thoroughly peered into, he found Linda standing on the platform, leaning against a pillar, back arched, one foot flat against the bricks, corresponding dimpled knee exposed to the restless winds of the trainyard. From Art's point of view, she was a gleaming vision skewered on a beam of late day sunlight that made her hair gleam like licorice. Her long and lazy jaw caught and lost the sun as she talked animatedly down her comm, and Art was struck with a sudden need to sneak up behind her and run his tongue down the line that began with the knob of her mandible under her ear and ran down to the tiny half-dimple in her chin, to skate it on the soft pouch of flesh under her chin, to end with a tasting of her soft lips. Thought became deed. He crept up on her, smelling her new-car hair products on the breeze that wafted back from her, and was about to begin his tonguing when she barked, "Fuck *off*! Stop calling me!" and closed her comm and stormed off trainwards, leaving Art standing on the opposite side of the pillar with a thoroughly wilted romantic urge. More carefully, he followed her into the train, back to their little cabin, and reached for the palm-pad to open the door when he heard her agitated comm voice. "No, goddamnit, no. Not yet. Keep calling me and not *ever*, do you understand?" Art opened the door. Linda was composed and neat and sweet in her plush seat, shoulders back, smile winning. "Hey honey, did the bad Customs man finally let you go?" "He did! That sounded like a doozy of a phone conversation, though. What's wrong?" "You don't want to know," she said. "All right," Art said, sitting down opposite her, knee-to-knee, bending forward to plant a kiss on the top of her exposed thigh. "I don't." "Good." He continued to kiss his way up her thigh. "Only..." "Yes?" "I think I probably do. Curiosity is one of my worst failings of character." "Really?" "Quite so," he said. He'd slid her sundress right up to the waistband of her cotton drawers, and now he worried one of the pubic hairs that poked out from the elastic with his teeth. She shrieked and pushed him away. "Someone will see!" she said. "This is a border crossing, not a bordello!" He sat back, but inserted a finger in the elastic before Linda straightened out her dress, so that his fingertip rested in the crease at the top of her groin. "You are *naughty*," she said. "And curious," Art agreed, giving his fingertip a playful wiggle. "I give up. That was my fucking ex," she said. "That is how I will refer to him henceforth. 'My fucking ex.' My fucking, pain-in-the-ass, touchy-feely ex. My fucking ex, who wants to have the Talk, even though it's been months and months. He's figured out that I'm stateside from my calling times, and he's offering to come out to meet me and really Work Things Out, Once And For All." "Oh, my," Art said. "That boy's got too much LA in him for his own good. There's no problem that can't be resolved through sufficient dialog." "We never really talked about him," Art said. "Nope, we sure didn't." "Did you want to talk about him now, Linda?" "'Did you want to talk about him now, Linda?' Why yes, Art, I would. How perceptive of you." She pushed his hand away and crossed her arms and legs simultaneously. "Wait, I'm confused," Art said. "Does that mean you want to talk about him, or that you don't?" "Fine, we'll talk about him. What do you want to know about my fucking ex?" Art resisted a terrible urge to fan her fires, to return the vitriol that dripped from her voice. "Look, you don't want to talk about him, we won't talk about him," he managed. "No, let's talk about my fucking ex, by all means." She adopted a singsong tone and started ticking off points on her fingers. "His name is Toby, he's half-Japanese, half-white. He's about your height. Your dick is bigger, but he's better in bed. He's a user-experience designer at Lucas-SGI, in Studio City. He never fucking shuts up about what's wrong with this or that. We dated for two years, lived together for one year, and broke up just before you and I met. I broke it off with him: He was making me goddamned crazy and he wanted me to come back from London and live with him. I wanted to stay out the year in England and go back to my own apartment and possibly a different boyfriend, and he made me choose, so I chose. Is that enough of a briefing for you, Arthur?" "That was fine," Art said. Linda's face had gone rabid purple, madly pinched, spittle flecking off of her lips as she spat out the words. "Thank you." She took his hands and kissed the knuckles of his thumbs. "Look, I don't like to talk about it -- it's painful. I'm sorry he's ruining our holiday. I just won't take his calls anymore, how about that?" "I don't care, Linda, Honestly, I don't give a rat's ass if you want to chat with your ex. I just saw how upset you were and I thought it might help if you could talk it over with me." "I know, baby, I know. But I just need to work some things out all on my own. Maybe I will take a quick trip out west and talk things over with him. You could come if you want -- there are some wicked bars in West Hollywood." "That's OK," Art said, whipsawed by Linda's incomprehensible mood shifts. "But if you need to go, go. I've got plenty of old pals to hang out with in Toronto." "You're so understanding," she cooed. "Tell me about your grandmother again -- you're sure she'll like me?" "She'll love you. She loves anything that's female, of childbearing years, and in my company. She has great and unrealistic hopes of great-grandchildren." "Cluck." "Cluck?" "Just practicing my brood-hen." 21. Doc Szandor's a good egg. He's keeping the shrinks at bay, spending more time with me than is strictly necessary. I hope he isn't neglecting his patients, but it's been so long since I had a normal conversation, I just can't bear to give it up. Besides, I get the impression that Szandor's in a similar pit of bad conversation with psychopaths and psychotherapists and is relieved to have a bit of a natter with someone who isn't either having hallucinations or attempting to prevent them in others. "How the hell do you become a user-experience guy?" "Sheer orneriness," I say, grinning. "I was just in the right place at the right time. I had a pal in New York who was working for a biotech company that had made this artificial erectile tissue." "Erectile tissue?" "Yeah. Synthetic turtle penis. Small and pliable and capable of going large and rigid very quickly." "Sounds delightful." "Oh, it was actually pretty cool. You know the joke about the circumcisionist's wallet made from foreskins?" "Sure, I heard it premed -- he rubs it and it becomes a suitcase, right?" "That's the one. So these guys were thinking about making drawbridges, temporary shelters, that kind of thing out of it. They even had a cute name for it: 'Ardorite.'" "Ho ho ho." "Yeah. So they weren't shipping a whole lot of product, to put it mildly. Then I spent a couple of weeks in Manhattan housesitting for my friend while he was visiting his folks in Wisconsin for Thanksgiving. He had a ton of this stuff lying around his apartment, and I would come back after walking the soles off my shoes and sit in front of the tube playing with it. I took some of it down to Madison Square Park and played with it there. I liked to hang out there because it was always full of these very cute Icelandic *au pairs* and their tots, and I was a respectable enough young man with about 200 words of Icelandic I'd learned from a friend's mom in high school and they thought I was adorable and I thought they were blond goddesses. I'd gotten to be friends with one named Marta, oh, Marta. Bookmark Marta, Szandor, and I'll come back to her once we're better acquainted. "Anyway, Marta was in charge of Machinery and Avarice, the spoiled monsterkinder of a couple of BBD&O senior managers who'd vaulted from art school to VPdom in one year when most of the gray eminences got power-thraxed. Machinery was three and liked to bang things against other things arythmically while hollering atonally. Avarice was five, not toilet trained, and prone to tripping. I'd get Marta novelty coffee from the Stinkbucks on Twenty-third and we'd drink it together while Machinery and Avarice engaged in terrible, life-threatening play with the other kids in the park. "I showed Marta what I had, though I was tactful enough not to call it *synthetic turtle penis*, because while Marta was earthy, she wasn't *that* earthy and, truth be told, it got me kinda hot to watch her long, pale blue fingers fondling the soft tissue, then triggering the circuit that hardened it. "Then Machinery comes over and snatches the thing away from Marta and starts pounding on Avarice, taking unholy glee in the way the stuff alternately softened and stiffened as he squeezed it. Avarice wrestled it away from him and tore off for a knot of kids and by the time I got there they were all crowded around her, spellbound. I caught a cab back to my buddy's apartment and grabbed all the Ardorite I could lay hands on and brought it back to the park and spent the next couple hours running an impromptu focus group, watching the kids and their bombshell nannies play with it. By the time that Marta touched my hand with her long cool fingers and told me it was time for her to get the kids home for their nap, I had twenty-five toy ideas, about eight different ways to use the stuff for clothing fasteners, and a couple of miscellaneous utility uses, like a portable crib. "So I ran it down for my pal that afternoon over the phone, and he commed his boss and I ended up eating Thanksgiving dinner at his boss's house in Westchester." "Weren't you worried he'd rip off your ideas and not pay you anything for them?" Szandor's spellbound by the story, unconsciously unrolling and re-rolling an Ace bandage. "Didn't even cross my mind. Of course, he tried to do just that, but it wasn't any good -- they were engineers; they had no idea how normal human beings interact with their environments. The stuff wasn't self-revealing -- they added a million cool features and a manual an inch thick. After prototyping for six months, they called me in and offered me a two-percent royalty on any products I designed for them." "That musta been worth a fortune," says Szandor. "You'd think so, wouldn't you? Actually, they folded before they shipped anything. Blew through all their capital on R&D, didn't have anything left to productize their tech with. But my buddy *did* get another gig with a company that was working on new kitchen stuff made from one-way osmotic materials and he showed them the stuff I'd done with the Ardorite and all of a sudden I had a no-fooling career." "Damn, that's cool." "You betcha. It's all about being an advocate for the user. I observe what users do and how they do it, figure out what they're trying to do, and then boss the engineers around, getting them to remove the barriers they've erected because engineers are all basically high-functioning autistics who have no idea how normal people do stuff." The doctor chuckles. "Look," he says, producing a nicotine pacifier, one of those fake cigs that gives you the oral fix and the chemical fix and the habit fix without the noxious smoke, "it's not my area of specialty, but you seem like a basically sane individual, modulo your rooftop adventures. Certainly, you're not like most of the people we've got here. What are you doing here?" Doctor Szandor is young, younger even than me, I realize. Maybe twenty-six. I can see some fancy tattoo-work poking out of the collar of his shirt, see some telltale remnant of a fashionable haircut in his grown-out shag. He's got to be the youngest staff member I've met here, and he's got a fundamentally different affect from the zombies in the lab coats who maintain the zombies in the felt slippers. So I tell him my story, the highlights, anyway. The more I tell him about Linda and Fede, the dumber my own actions sound to me. "Why the hell did you stick with this Linda anyway?" Szandor says, sucking on his pacifier. "The usual reasons, I guess," I say, squirming. "Lemme tell you something," he says. He's got his feet up on the table now, hands laced behind his neck. "It's the smartest thing my dad ever said to me, just as my high-school girl and me were breaking up before I went away to med school. She was nice enough, but, you know, *unstable.* I'd gotten to the point where I ducked and ran for cover every time she disagreed with me, ready for her to lose her shit. "So my dad took me aside, put his arm around me, and said, 'Szandor, you know I like that girlfriend of yours, but she is crazy. Not a little crazy, really crazy. Maybe she won't be crazy forever, but if she gets better, it won't be because of you. Trust me, I know this. You can't fuck a crazy girl sane, son.'" I can't help smiling. "Truer words," I say. "But harsh." "Harsh is relative," he says. "Contrast it with, say, getting someone committed on trumped-up evidence." It dawns on me that Doc Szandor believes me. "It dawns on me that you believe me." He gnaws fitfully at his pacifier. "Well, why not? You're not any crazier than I am, that much is clear to me. You have neat ideas. Your story's plausible enough." I get excited. "Is this your *professional* opinion?" "Sorry, no. I am not a mental health professional, so I don't have professional opinions on your mental health. It is, however, my amateur opinion." "Oh, well." "So where are you at now, vis-a-vis the hospital?" "Well, they don't tell me much, but as near as I can make out, I am stuck here semipermanently. The court found me incompetent and ordered me held until I was. I can't get anyone to explain what competency consists of, or how I achieve it -- when I try, I get accused of being 'difficult.' Of course, escaping onto the roof is a little beyond difficult. I have a feeling I'm going to be in pretty deep shit. Do they know about the car?" "The car?" "In the parking lot. The one that blew up." Doc Szandor laughs hard enough that his pacifier shoots across the room and lands in a hazmat bucket. "You son of a bitch -- that was you?" "Yeah," I say, and drum my feet against the tin cupboards under the examination table. "That was *my fucking car*!" "Oh, Christ, I'm sorry," I say. "God." "No no no," he says, fishing in his pocket and unwrapping a fresh pacifier. "It's OK. Insurance. I'm getting a bike. Vroom, vroom! What a coincidence, though," he says. Coincidence. He's making disgusting hamster-cage noises, grinding away at his pacifier. "Szandor, do you sometimes sneak out onto the landing to have a cigarette? Use a bit of tinfoil for your ashtray? Prop the door open behind you?" "Why do you ask?" "'Cause that's how I got out onto the roof." "Oh, shit," he says. "It's our secret," I say. "I can tell them I don't know how I got out. I'm incompetent, remember?" "You're a good egg, Art," he says. "How the hell are we going to get you out of here?" "Hey what?" "No, really. There's no good reason for you to be here, right? You're occupying valuable bed space." "Well, I appreciate the sentiment, but I have a feeling that as soon as you turn me loose, I'm gonna be doped up to the tits for a good long while." He grimaces. "Right, right. They like their meds. Are your parents alive?" "What? No, they're both dead." "Aha. Died suddenly?" "Yeah. Dad drowned, Mom fell --" "Ah ah ah! Shhh. Mom died suddenly. She was taking Haldol when it happened, a low antianxiety dose, right?" "Huh?" "Probably she was. Probably she had a terrible drug interaction. Sudden Death Syndrome. It's hereditary. And you say she fell? Seizure. We'll sign you up for a PET scan, that'll take at least a month to set up. You could be an epileptic and not even know it. Shaking the radioisotopes loose for the scan from the AEC, woah, that's a week's worth of paperwork right there! No Thorazine for you young man, not until we're absolutely sure it won't kill you dead where you stand. The hospital counsel gave us all a very stern lecture on this very subject not a month ago. I'll just make some notes in your medical history." He picked up his comm and scribbled. "Never woulda thought of that," I say. "I'm impressed." "It's something I've been playing with for a while now. I think that psychiatric care is a good thing, of course, but it could be better implemented. Taking away prescription pads would be a good start." "Or you could keep public stats on which doctors had prescribed how much of what and how often. Put 'em on a chart in the ward where the patients' families could see 'em." "That's *nasty*!" he says. "I love it. We're supposed to be accountable, right? What else?" "Give the patients a good reason to wear their tracking bracelets: redesign them so they gather stats on mobility and vitals and track them against your meds and other therapies. Create a dating service that automatically links patients who respond similarly to therapies so they can compare notes. Ooh, by comparing with location data from other trackers, you could get stats on which therapies make people more sociable, just by counting the frequency with which patients stop and spend time in proximity to other patients. It'd give you empirical data with which you track your own progress." "This is great stuff. Damn! How do you do that?" I feel a familiar swelling of pride. I like it when people understand how good I am at my job. Working at V/DT was hard on my ego: after all, my job there was to do a perfectly rotten job, to design the worst user experiences that plausibility would allow. God, did I really do that for two whole goddamned years? "It's my job," I say, and give a modest shrug. "What do you charge for work like that?" "Why, are you in the market?" "Who knows? Maybe after I figure out how to spring you, we can go into biz together, redesigning nuthatches." 22. Linda's first meeting with Art's Gran went off without a hitch. Gran met them at Union Station with an obsolete red cap who was as ancient as she was, a vestige of a more genteel era of train travel and bulky luggage. Just seeing him made Art's brain whir with plans for conveyor systems, luggage escalators, cart dispensers. They barely had enough luggage between the two of them to make it worth the old man's time, but he dutifully marked their bags with a stub of chalk and hauled them onto his cart, then trundled off to the service elevators. Gran gave Art a long and teary hug. She was less frail than she'd been in his memory, taller and sturdier. The smell of her powder and the familiar acoustics of Union Station's cavernous platform whirled him back to his childhood in Toronto, to the homey time before he'd gotten on the circadian merry-go-round. "Gran, this is Linda," he said. "Oh, it's so *nice* to meet you," Gran said, taking Linda's hands in hers. "Call me Julie." Linda smiled a great, pretty, toothy smile. "Julie, Art's told me all about you. I just *know* we'll be great friends." "I'm sure we will. Are you hungry? Did they feed you on the train? You must be exhausted after such a long trip. Which would you rather do first, eat or rest?" "Well, *I'm* up for seeing the town," Linda said. "Your grandson's been yawning his head off since Buffalo, though." She put her arm around his waist and squeezed his tummy. "What a fantastic couple you make," Gran said. "You didn't tell me she was so *pretty*, Arthur!" "Here it comes," Art said. "She's going to ask about great-grandchildren." "Don't be silly," Gran said, cuffing him gently upside the head. "You're always exaggerating." "Well *I* think it's a splendid idea," Linda said. "Shall we have two? Three? Four?" "Make it ten," Art said, kissing her cheek. "Oh, I couldn't have ten," Linda said. "But five is a nice compromise. Five it will be. We'll name the first one Julie if it's a girl, or Julius if it's a boy." "Oh, we *are* going to get along," Gran said, and led them up to the curb, where the red cap had loaded their bags into a cab. They ate dinner at Lindy's on Yonge Street, right in the middle of the sleaze strip. The steakhouse had been there for the better part of a century, and its cracked red-vinyl booths and thick rib eyes smothered in horseradish and HP Sauce were just as Art had remembered. Riding up Yonge Street, the city lights had seemed charming and understated; even the porn marquees felt restrained after a week in New York. Art ate a steak as big as his head and fell into a postprandial torpor whence he emerged only briefly to essay a satisfied belch. Meanwhile, Gran and Linda nattered away like old friends, making plans for the week: the zoo, the island, a day trip to Niagara Falls, a ride up the CN Tower, all the touristy stuff that Art had last done in elementary school. By the time Art lay down in his bed, belly tight with undigested steak, he was feeling wonderful and at peace with the world. Linda climbed in beside him, wrestled away a pillow and some covers, and snuggled up to him. "That went well," Art said. "I'm really glad you two hit it off." "Me too, honey," Linda said, kissing his shoulder through his tee shirt. He'd been able to get his head around the idea of sharing a bed with his girlfriend under his grandmother's roof, but doing so nude seemed somehow wrong. "We're going to have a great week," he said. "I wish it would never end." "Yeah," she said, and began to snore into his neck. The next morning, Art woke stiff and serene. He stretched out on the bed, dimly noted Linda's absence, and padded to the bathroom to relieve his bladder. He thought about crawling back into bed, was on the verge of doing so, when he heard the familiar, nervewracking harangue of Linda arguing down her comm. He opened the door to his old bedroom and there she was, stark naked and beautiful in the morning sun, comm in hand, eyes focused in the middle distance, shouting. "No, goddamnit, no! Not here. Jesus, are you a moron? I said *no*!" Art reached out to touch her back, noticed that it was trembling, visibly tense and rigid, and pulled his hand back. Instead, he quietly set about fishing in his small bag for a change of clothes. "This is *not* a good time. I'm at Art's grandmother's place, all right? I'll talk to you later." She threw her comm at the bed and whirled around. "Everything all right?" Art said timidly. "No, goddamnit, no it isn't." Art pulled on his pants and kept his eyes on her comm, which was dented and scratched from a hundred thousand angry hang ups. He hated it when she got like this, radiating anger and spoiling for a fight. "I'm going to have to go, I think," she said. "Go?" "To California. That was my fucking ex again. I need to go and sort things out with him." "Your ex knows who I am?" She looked blank. "You told him you were at my grandmother's place. He knows who I am?" "Yeah," she said. "He does. I told him, so he'd get off my back." "And you have to go to California?" "Today. I have to go to California today." "Jesus, today? We just got here!" "Look, you've got lots of catching up to do with your Gran and your friends here. You won't even miss me. I'll go for a couple days and then come back." "If you gotta go," he said. "I gotta go." He explained things as best as he could to Gran while Linda repacked her backpack, and then saw Linda off in a taxi. She was already savaging her comm, booking a ticket to LA. He called Fede from the condo's driveway. "Hey, Art! How's Toronto?" "How'd you know I was in Toronto?" Art said, but he knew, he *knew* then, though he couldn't explain how he knew, he knew that Linda and Fede had been talking. He *knew* that Linda had been talking to Fede that morning, and not her fucking ex (God, he was thinking of the poor schmuck that way already, "fucking ex"). Christ, it was *five in the morning* on the West Coast. It couldn't be the ex. He just knew. "Lucky guess," Fede said breezily. "How is it?" "Oh, terrific. Great to see the old hometown and all. How're things with Perceptronics? When should I plan on being back in Boston?" "Oh, it's going all right, but slow. Hurry up and wait, right? Look, don't worry about it, just relax there, I'll call you when the deal's ready and you'll go back to Boston and we'll sort it out and it'll all be fantastic and don't worry, really, all right?" "Fine, Fede." Art wasn't listening any more. Fede had gone into bullshit mode, and all Art was thinking of was why Linda would talk to Fede and then book a flight to LA. "How're things in London?" he said automatically. "Fine, fine," Fede said, just as automatically. "Not the same without you, of course." "Of course," Art said. "Well, bye then." "Bye," Fede said. Art felt an unsuspected cunning stirring within him. He commed Linda, in her cab. "Hey, dude," he said. "Hey," she said, sounding harassed. "Look, I just spoke to my Gran and she's really upset you had to go. She really liked you." "Well, I liked her, too." "Great. Here's the thing," he said, and drew in a breath. "Gran made you a sweater. She made me one, too. She's a knitter. She wanted me to send it along after you. It looks pretty good. So, if you give me your ex's address, I can FedEx it there and you can get it." There was a lengthy pause. "Why don't I just pick it up when I see you again?" Linda said, finally. *Gotcha*, Art thought. "Well, I know that'd be the *sensible* thing, but my Gran, I dunno, she really wants me to do this. It'd make her so happy." "I dunno -- my ex might cut it up or something." "Oh, I'm sure he wouldn't do that. I could just schedule the delivery for after you arrive, that way you can sign for it. What do you think?" "I really don't think --" "Come on, Linda, I know it's nuts, but it's my Gran. She *really* likes you." Linda sighed. "Let me comm you the address, OK?" "Thanks, Linda," Art said, watching the address in Van Nuys scroll onto his comm's screen. "Thanks a bunch. Have a great trip -- don't let your ex get you down." Now, armed with Linda's fucking ex's name, Art went to work. He told Gran he had some administrative chores to catch up on for an hour or two, promised to have supper with her and Father Ferlenghetti that night, and went out onto the condo's sundeck with his keyboard velcroed to his thigh. Trepan: Hey! Colonelonic: Trepan! Hey, what's up? I hear you're back on the East Coast! Trepan: True enough. Back in Toronto. How's things with you? Colonelonic: Same as ever. Trying to quit the dayjob. Trepan: /private Colonelonic Are you still working at Merril-Lynch? ## Colonelonic (private): Yeah. Trepan: /private Colonelonic Still got access to Lexus-Nexus? ## Colonelonic (private): Sure -- but they're on our asses about abusing the accounts. Every search is logged and has to be accounted for. Trepan: /private Colonelonic Can you get me background on just one guy? ## Colonelonic (private): Who is he? Why? Trepan: /private Colonelonic It's stupid. I think that someone I know is about to go into biz with him, and I don't trust him. I'm probably just being paranoid, but... ## Colonelonic (private): I don't know, man. Is it really important? Trepan: /private Colonelonic Oh, crap, look. It's my girlfriend. I think she's screwing this guy. I just wanna get an idea of who he is, what he does, you know. ## Colonelonic (private): Heh. That sucks. OK -- check back in a couple hours. There's a guy across the hall who never logs out of his box when he goes to lunch. I'll sneak in there and look it up on his machine. Trepan: /private Colonelonic Kick ass. Thanks. ##Transferring addressbook entry "Toby Ginsburg" to Colonelonic. Receipt confirmed. Trepan: /private Colonelonic Thanks again! ## Colonelonic (private): Check in with me later -- I'll have something for you then. Art logged off, flushed with triumph. Whatever Fede and Linda were cooking up, he'd get wise to it and then he'd nail 'em. What the hell was it, though? 23. My cousins visited me a week after I arrived at the nuthouse. I'd never been very close to them, and certainly our relationship had hardly blossomed during the week I spent in Toronto, trying to track down Linda and Fede's plot. I have two cousins. They're my father's sister's kids, and I didn't even meet them until I was about twenty and tracking down my family history. They're Ottawa Valley kids, raised on government-town pork, aging hippie muesli, and country-style corn pone. It's a weird mix, and we've never had a conversation that I would consider a success. Ever met a violent, aggressive hippie with an intimate knowledge of whose genitals one must masticate in order to get a building permit or to make a pot bust vanish? It ain't pretty. Cousin the first is Audie. She's a year older than me, and she's the smart one on that side of the family, the one who ended up at Queen's University for a BS in Electrical Engineering and an MA in Poli Sci, and even so finished up back in Ottawa, freelancing advice to clueless MPs dealing with Taiwanese and Sierra Leonese OEM importers. Audie's married to a nice fella whose name I can never remember and they're gonna have kids in five years; it's on a timetable that she actually showed me once when I went out there on biz and stopped in to see her at the office. Cousin the second is Alphie -- three years younger than me, raised in the shadow of his overachieving sister, he was the capo of Ottawa Valley script kiddies, a low-rent hacker who downloaded other people's code for defeating copyright use-control systems and made a little biz for himself bootlegging games, porn, music and video, until the WIPO bots found him through traffic analysis and busted his ass, bankrupting him and landing him in the clink for sixty days. Audie and Alfie are blond and ruddy and a little heavyset, all characteristics they got from their father's side, so add that to the fact that I grew up without being aware of their existence and you'll understand the absence of any real fellow-feeling for them. I don't dislike them, but I have so little in common with them that it's like hanging out with time travelers from the least-interesting historical era imaginable. But they came to Boston and looked me up in the nuthatch. They found me sitting on the sofa in the ward, post-Group, arms and ankles crossed, dozing in a shaft of sunlight. It was my habitual napping spot, and I found that a nap between Group and dinner was a good way to sharpen my appetite and anasthetize my taste buds, which made the mealtime slop bearable. Audie shook my shoulder gently. I assumed at first that she was one of the inmates trying to get me involved in a game of Martian narco-checkers, so I brushed her hand away. "They've probably got him all doped up," Audie said. The voice was familiar and unplaceable and so I cracked my eyelid, squinting up at her silhouette in the afternoon sun. "There he is," she said. "Come on, up and at 'em, tiger." I sat up abruptly and scrubbed at my eyes. "Audie?" I asked. "Yup. And Alphie." Alphie's pink face hove into view. "Hi, Art," he mumbled. "Jesus," I said, getting to my feet. Audie put out a superfluous steadying hand. "Wow." "Surprised?" Audie said. "Yeah!" I said. Audie thrust a bouquet of flowers into my arms. "What are you doing here?" "Oh, your grandmother told me you were here. I was coming down to Boston for work anyway, so I flew in a day early so I could drop in. Alphie came down with me -- he's my assistant now." I almost said something about convicted felons working for government contractors, but I held onto my tongue. Consequently, an awkward silence blossomed. "Well," Audie said, at last. "Well! Let's have a look at you, then." She actually took a lap around me, looking me up and down, making little noises. "You look all right, Art. Maybe a little skinny, even. Alphie's got a box of cookies for you." Alphie stepped forward and produced the box, a family pack of President's Choice Ridiculous Chocoholic Extra Chewies, a Canadian store brand I'd been raised on. Within seconds of seeing them, my mouth was sloshing with saliva. "It's good to see you, Audie, Alphie." I managed to say it without spitting, an impressive feat, given the amount of saliva I was contending with. "Thanks for the care package." We stared at each other blankly. "So, Art," Alphie said, "So! How do you like it here?" "Well, Alphie," I said. "I can't say as I do, really. As far as I can tell, I'm sane as I've ever been. It's just a bunch of unfortunate coincidences and bad judgment that got me here." I refrain from mentioning Alphie's propensity for lapses in judgment. "Wow," Alphie said. "That's a bummer. We should do something, you know, Audie?" "Not really my area of expertise," Audie said in clipped tones. "I would if I could, you know that, right Art? We're family, after all." "Oh, sure," I say magnanimously. But now that I'm looking at them, my cousins who got into a thousand times more trouble than I ever did, driving drunk, pirating software, growing naughty smokables in the backyard, and got away from it unscathed, I feel a stirring of desperate hope. "Only..." "Only what?" Alphie said. "Only, maybe, Audie, do you think you could, that is, if you've got the time, do you think you could have a little look around and see if any of your contacts could maybe set me up with a decent lawyer who might be able to get my case reheard? Or a shrink, for that matter? Something? 'Cause frankly it doesn't really seem like they're going to let me go, ever. Ever." Audie squirmed and glared at her brother. "I don't really know anyone that fits the bill," she said at last. "Well, not *firsthand,* sure, why would you? You wouldn't." I thought that I was starting to babble, but I couldn't help myself. "You wouldn't. But maybe there's someone that someone you know knows who can do something about it? I mean, it can't hurt to ask around, can it?" "I suppose it can't," she said. "Wow," I said, "that would just be fantastic, you know. Thanks in advance, Audie, really, I mean it, just for trying, I can't thank you enough. This place, well, it really sucks." There it was, hanging out, my desperate and pathetic plea for help. Really, there was nowhere to go but down from there. Still, the silence stretched and snapped and I said, "Hey, speaking of, can I offer you guys a tour of the ward? I mean, it's not much, but it's home." So I showed them: the droolers and the fondlers and the pukers and my horrible little room and the scarred ping-pong table and the sticky decks of cards and the meshed-in TV. Alphie actually seemed to dig it, in a kind of horrified way. He started comparing it to the new Kingston Pen, where he'd done his six-month bit. After seeing the first puker, Audie went quiet and thin-lipped, leaving nothing but Alphie's enthusiastic gurgling as counterpoint to my tour. "Art," Audie said finally, desperately, "do you think they'd let us take you out for a cup of coffee or a walk around the grounds?" I asked. The nurse looked at a comm for a while, then shook her head. "Nope," I reported. "They need a day's notice of off-ward supervised excursions." "Well, too bad," Audie said. I understood her strategy immediately. "Too bad. Nothing for it, then. Guess we should get back to our hotel." I planted a dry kiss on her cheek, shook Alphie's sweaty hand, and they were gone. I skipped supper that night and ate cookies until I couldn't eat another bite of rich chocolate. # "Got a comm?" I ask Doc Szandor, casually. "What for?" "Wanna get some of this down. The ideas for the hospital. Before I go back out on the ward." And it *is* what I want to do, mostly. But the temptation to just log on and do my thing -- oh! "Sure," he says, checking his watch. "I can probably stall them for a couple hours more. Feel free to make a call or whatever, too." Doc Szandor's a good egg. 24. Father Ferlenghetti showed up at Art's Gran's at 7PM, just as the sun began to set over the lake, and Art and he shared lemonade on Gran's sunporch and watched as the waves on Lake Ontario turned harshly golden. "So, Arthur, tell me, what are you doing with your life?" the Father said. He had grown exquisitely aged, almost translucent, since Art had seen him last. In his dog collar and old-fashioned aviator's shades, he looked like a waxworks figure. Art had forgotten all about the Father's visit until Gran stepped out of her superheated kitchen to remind him. He'd hastily showered and changed into fresh slacks and a mostly clean tee shirt, and had agreed to entertain the priest while his Gran finished cooking supper. Now, he wished he'd signed up to do the cooking. "I'm working in London," he said. "The same work as ever, but for an English firm." "That's what your grandmother tells me. But is it making you happy? Is it what you plan to do with the rest of your life?" "I guess so," Art said. "Sure." "You don't sound so sure," Father Ferlenghetti said. "Well, the *work* part's excellent. The politics are pretty ugly, though, to tell the truth." "Ah. Well, we can't avoid politics, can we?" "No, I guess we can't." "Art, I've always known that you were a very smart young man, but being smart isn't the same as being happy. If you're very lucky, you'll get to be my age and you'll look back on your life and be glad you lived it." Gran called him in for dinner before he could think of a reply. He settled down at the table and Gran handed him a pen. "What's this for?" he asked. "Sign the tablecloth," she said. "Write a little something and sign it and date it, nice and clear, please." "Sign the tablecloth?" "Yes. I've just started a fresh one. I have everyone sign my tablecloth and then I embroider the signatures in, so I have a record of everyone who's been here for supper. They'll make a nice heirloom for your children -- I'll show you the old ones after we eat." "What should I write?" "It's up to you." While Gran and the Father looked on, Art uncapped the felt-tip pen and thought and thought, his mind blank. Finally, he wrote, "For my Gran. No matter where I am, I know you're thinking of me." He signed it with a flourish. "Lovely. Let's eat now." Art meant to log in and see if Colonelonic had dredged up any intel on Linda's ex, but he found himself trapped on the sunporch with Gran and the Father and a small stack of linen tablecloths hairy with embroidered wishes. He traced their braille with his fingertips, recognizing the names of his childhood. Gran and the Father talked late into the night, and the next thing Art knew, Gran was shaking him awake. He was draped in a tablecloth that he'd pulled over himself like a blanket, and she folded it and put it away while he ungummed his eyes and staggered off to bed. Audie called him early the next morning, waking him up. "Hey, Art! It's your cousin!" "Audie?" "You don't have any other female cousins, so yes, that's a good guess. Your Gran told me you were in Canada for a change." "Yup, I am. Just for a little holiday." "Well, it's been long enough. What do you do in London again?" "I'm a consultant for Virgin/Deutsche Telekom." He has this part of the conversation every time he speaks with Audie. Somehow, the particulars of his job just couldn't seem to stick in her mind. "What kind of consultant?" "User experience. I help design their interactive stuff. How's Ottawa?" "They pay you for that, huh? Well, nice work if you can get it." Art believed that Audie was being sincere in her amazement at his niche in the working world, and not sneering at all. Still, he had to keep himself from saying something snide about the lack of tangible good resulting from keeping MPs up to date on the poleconomy of semiconductor production in PacRim sweatshops. "They sure do. How's Ottawa?" "Amazing. And why London? Can't you find work at home?" "Yeah, I suppose I could. This just seemed like a good job at the time. How's Ottawa? "Seemed, huh? You going to be moving back, then? Quitting?" "Not anytime soon. How's Ottawa?" "Ottawa? It's beautiful this time of year. Alphie and Enoch and I were going to go to the trailer for the weekend, in Calabogie. You could drive up and meet us. Swim, hike. We've built a sweatlodge near the dock; you and Alphie could bake up together." "Wow," Art said, wishing he had Audie's gift for changing the subject. "Sounds great. But. Well, you know. Gotta catch up with friends here in Toronto. It's been a while, you know. Well." The image of sharing a smoke-filled dome with Alphie's naked, cross-legged, sweat-slimed paunch had seared itself across his waking mind. "No? Geez. Too bad. I'd really hoped that we could reconnect, you and me and Alphie. We really should spend some more time together, keep connected, you know?" "Well," Art said. "Sure. Yes." Relations or no, Audie and Alphie were basically strangers to him, and it was beyond him why Audie thought they should be spending time together, but there it was. *Reconnect, keep connected.* Hippies. "We should. Next time I'm in Canada, for sure, we'll get together, I'll come to Ottawa. Maybe Christmas. Skating on the canal, OK?" "Very good," Audie said. "I'll pencil you in for Christmas week. Here, I'll send you the wish lists for Alphie and Enoch and me, so you'll know what to get." Xmas wishlists in July. Organized hippies! What planet did his cousins grow up on, anyway? "Thanks, Audie. I'll put together a wishlist and pass it along to you soon, OK?" His bladder nagged at him. "I gotta run now, all right?" "Great. Listen, Art, it's been, well, great to talk to you again. It really makes me feel whole to connect with you. Don't be a stranger, all right?" "Yeah, OK! Nice to talk to you, too. Bye!" "Safe travels and wishes fulfilled," Audie said. "You too!" 25. Now I've got a comm, I hardly know what to do with it. Call Gran? Call Audie? Call Fede? Login to an EST chat and see who's up to what? How about the Jersey clients? There's an idea. Give them everything, all the notes I built for Fede and his damned patent application, sign over the exclusive rights to the patent for one dollar and services rendered (i.e., getting me a decent lawyer and springing me from this damned hole). My last lawyer was a dickhead. He met me at the courtroom fifteen minutes before the hearing, in a private room whose fixtures had the sticky filthiness of a bus-station toilet. "Art, yes, hello, I'm Allan Mendelson, your attorney. How are you? He was well over 6'6", but weighed no more than 120 lbs and hunched over his skinny ribs while he talked, dry-washing his hands. His suit looked like the kind of thing you'd see on a Piccadilly Station homeless person, clean enough and well-enough fitting, but with an indefinable air of cheapness and falsehood. "Well, not so good," I said. "They upped my meds this morning, so I'm pretty logy. Can't concentrate. They said it was to keep me calm while I was transported. Dirty trick, huh?" "What?" he'd been browsing through his comm, tapping through what I assumed was my file. "No, no. It's perfectly standard. This isn't a trial, it's a hearing. We're all on the same side, here." He tapped some more. "Your side." "Good," Art said. "My grandmother came down, and she wants to testify on my behalf." "Oooh," the fixer said, shaking his head. "No, not a great idea. She's not a mental health professional, is she?" "No," I said. "But she's known me all my life. She knows I'm not a danger to myself or others." "Sorry, that's not appropriate. We all love our families, but the court wants to hear from people who have qualified opinions on this subject. Your doctors will speak, of course." "Do I get to speak?" "If you *really* want to. That's not a very good idea, either, though, I'm afraid. If the judge wants to hear from you, she'll address you. Otherwise, your best bet is to sit still, no fidgeting, look as sane and calm as you can." I felt like I had bricks dangling from my limbs and one stuck in my brain. The new meds painted the world with translucent whitewash, stuffed cotton in my ears and made my tongue thick. Slowly, my brain absorbed all of this. "You mean that my Gran can't talk, I can't talk, and all the court hears is the doctors?" "Don't be difficult, Art. This is a hearing to determine your competency. A group of talented mental health professionals have observed you for the past week and they've come to some conclusions based on those observations. If everyone who came before the court for a competency hearing brought out a bunch of irrelevant witnesses and made long speeches, the court calendar would be backlogged for decades. Then other people who were in for observation wouldn't be able to get their hearings. It wouldn't work for anyone. You see that, right?" "Not really. I really think it would be better if I got to testify on my behalf. I have that right, don't I?" He sighed and looked very put-upon. "If you insist, I'll call you to speak. But as your lawyer, it's my professional opinion that you should *not* do this." "I really would prefer to." He snapped his comm shut. "I'll meet you in the courtroom, then. The bailiff will take you in." "Can you tell my Gran where I am? She's waiting in the court, I think." "Sorry. I have other cases to cope with -- I can't really play messenger, I'm afraid." When he left the little office, I felt as though I'd been switched off. The drugs weighted my eyelids and soothed my panic and outrage. Later, I'd be livid, but right then I could barely keep from folding my arms on the grimy table and resting my head on them. The hearing went so fast I barely even noticed it. I sat with my lawyer and the doctors stood up and entered their reports into evidence -- I don't think they read them aloud, even, just squirted them at the court reporter. My Gran sat behind me, on a chair that was separated from the court proper by a banister. She had her hand on my shoulder the whole time, and it felt like an anvil there to my dopey muscles. "All right, Art," my jackass lawyer said, giving me a prod. "Here's your turn. Stand up and keep it brief." I struggled to my feet. The judge was an Asian woman about my age, a small round head set atop a shapeless robe and perched on a high seat behind a high bench. "Your Honor," I said. I didn't know what to say next. All my wonderful rhetoric had fled me. The judge looked at me briefly, then went back to tapping her comm. Maybe she was playing solitaire or looking at porn. "I asked to have a moment to address the Court. My lawyer suggested that I not do this, but I insisted. "Here's the thing. There's no way for me to win here. There's a long story about how I got here. Basically, I had a disagreement with some of my coworkers who were doing something that I thought was immoral. They decided that it would be best for their plans if I was out of the way for a little while, so that I couldn't screw them up, so they coopered this up, told the London police that I'd gone nuts. "So I ended up in an institution here for observation, on the grounds that I was dangerously paranoid. When the people at the institution asked me about it, I told them what had happened. Because I was claiming that the people who had me locked up were conspiring to make me look paranoid, the doctors decided that I *was* paranoid. But tell me, how could I demonstrate my non-paranoia? I mean, as far as I can tell, the second I was put away for observation, I was guaranteed to be found wanting. Nothing I could have said or done would have made a difference." The judge looked up from her comm and gave me another once-over. I was wearing my best day clothes, which were my basic London shabby chic white shirt and gray wool slacks and narrow blue tie. It looked natty enough in the UK, but I knew that in the US it made me look like an overaged door-to-door Mormon. The judge kept looking at me. *Call to action,* I thought. *End your speeches with a call to action*. It was another bit of goofy West Coast Vulcan Mind Control, courtesy of Linda's fucking ex. "So here's what I wanted to do. I wanted to stand up here and let you know what had happened to me and ask you for advice. If we assume for the moment that I'm *not* crazy, how should I demonstrate that here in the court?" The judge rolled her head from shoulder to shoulder, making glossy black waterfalls of her hair. The whole hearing is very fuzzy for me, but that hair! Who ever heard of a civil servant with good hair? "Mr. Berry," she said, "I'm afraid I don't have much to tell you. It's my responsibility to listen to qualified testimony and make a ruling. You haven't presented any qualified testimony to support your position. In the absence of such testimony, my only option is to remand you into the custody of the Department of Mental Health until such time as a group of qualified professionals see fit to release you." I expected her to bang a gavel, but instead she just scritched at her comm and squirted the order at the court reporter and I was led away. I didn't even have a chance to talk to Gran. 26. ##Received address book entry "Toby Ginsburg" from Colonelonic. ## Colonelonic (private): This guy's up to something. Flew to Boston twice this week. Put a down payment on a house in Orange County. _Big_ house. _Big_ down payment. A car, too: vintage T-bird convertible. A gas burner! Bought CO2 credits for an entire year to go with it. Trepan: /private Colonelonic Huh. Who's he working for? ## Colonelonic (private): Himself. He Federally incorporated last week, something called "TunePay, Inc." He's the Chairman, but he's only a minority shareholder. The rest of the common shares are held by a dummy corporation in London. Couldn't get any details on that without using a forensic accounting package, and that'd get me fired right quick. Trepan: /private Colonelonic It's OK. I get the picture. I owe you one, all right? ## Colonelonic (private): sweat.value==0 Are you going to tell me what this is all about someday? Not some bullshit about your girlfriend? Trepan: /private Colonelonic Heh. That part was true, actually. I'll tell you the rest, maybe, someday. Not today, though. I gotta go to London. Art's vision throbbed with his pulse as he jammed his clothes back into his backpack with one hand while he booked a ticket to London on his comm with the other. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he ordered the taxi while scribbling a note to Gran on the smart-surface of her fridge. He was verging on berserk by the time he hit airport security. The guard played the ultrasound flashlight over him and looked him up and down with his goggles, then had him walk through the chromatograph twice. Art tried to breathe calmly, but it wasn't happening. He'd take two deep breaths, think about how he was yup, calming down, pretty good, especially since he was going to London to confront Fede about the fact that his friend had screwed him stabbed him in the back using his girlfriend to distract him and meanwhile she was in Los Angeles sleeping with her fucking ex who was going to steal his idea and sell it as his own that fucking prick boning his girl right then almost certainly laughing about poor old Art, dumbfuck stuck in Toronto with his thumb up his ass, oh Fede was going to pay, that's right, he was -- and then he'd be huffing down his nose, hyperventilating, really losing his shit right there. The security guard finally asked him if he needed a doctor. "No," Art said. "That's fine. I'm just upset. A friend of mine died suddenly and I'm flying to London for the funeral." The guard seemed satisfied with this explanation and let him pass, finally. He fought the urge to get plastered on the flight and vibrated in his seat instead, jiggling his leg until his seatmate -- an elderly businessman who'd spent the flight thus far wrinkling his brow at a series of spreadsheets on his comm -- actually put a hand on Art's knee and said, "Switch off the motor, son. You're gonna burn it out if you idle it that high all the way to Gatwick." Art nearly leapt out of his seat when the flight attendant wheeled up the duty-free cart, bristling with novelty beakers of fantastically old whiskey shaped like jigging Scotchmen and drunken leprechauns swinging from lampposts. By the time he hit UK customs he was supersonic, ready to hammer an entire packet of Player's filterless into his face and light them with a blowtorch. It wasn't even 0600h GMT, and the Sikh working the booth looked three-quarters asleep under his turban, but he woke right up when Art stepped past the red line and slapped both palms on the counter and used them as a lever to support him as he pogoed in place. "Your business in England, sir?" "I work for Virgin/Deutsche Telekom. Let me beam you my visa." His hands were shaking so badly he dropped his comm to the hard floor with an ominous clatter. He snatched it up and rubbed at the fresh dent in the cover, then flipped it open and stabbed at it with a filthy fingernail. "Thank you, sir. Door number two, please." Art took one step towards the baggage carousel when the words registered. Customs search! Godfuckingdammit! He jittered in the private interview room until another Customs officer showed up, overrode his comm and read in his ID and credentials, then stared at them for a long moment. "Are you quite all right, sir?" "Just a little wound up," Art said, trying desperately to sound normal. He thought about telling the dead friend story again, but unlike a lowly airport security drone, the Customs man had the ability and inclination to actually verify it. "Too much coffee on the plane. Need to have a slash like you wouldn't believe." The Customs man grimaced slightly, then chewed a corner of his little moustache. "Everything else is all right, though?" "Everything's fine. Back from a business trip to the States and Canada, all jetlagged. You know. Can you believe the bastards actually expect me at the office today?" This might work. Piss and moan about the office until he gets bored and lets him go. "I mean, you work your guts out, fly halfway around the world and do it some more, get strapped into a torture seat -- you think Virgin springs for business-class tickets for its employees? Hell no! -- for six hours, then they want you at the goddamned office." "Virgin?" the Customs man said, eyebrows going up. "But you flew in on BA, sir." Shit. Of course he hadn't booked a Virgin flight. That's what Fede'd be expecting him to do, he'd be watching for Art to use his employee discount and hop a flight back. "Yes, can you believe it?" Art thought furiously. "They called me back suddenly, wouldn't even let me wait around for one of their own damned planes. One minute I'm eating breakfast, the next I'm in a taxi heading for the airport. I forgot half of my damned underwear in the hotel room! You'd think they could cope with *one little problem* without crawling up my cock, wouldn't you?" "Sir, please, calm down." The Customs man looked alarmed and Art realized that he'd begun to pace. "Sorry, sorry. It just sucks. Bad job. Time to quit, I think." "I should think so," the Customs man said. "Welcome to England." Traffic was early-morning light and the cabbie drove like a madman. Art kept flinching away from the oncoming traffic, already unaccustomed to driving on the wrong side of the road. England seemed filthy and gray and shabby to him now, tiny little cars with tiny, anal-retentive drivers filled with self-loathing, vegetarian meat-substitutes and bad dentistry. In his rooms in Camden Town, Art took a hasty and vengeful census of his stupid belongings, sagging rental furniture and bad art prints hanging askew (not any more, not after he smashed them to the floor). Bad English clothes (toss 'em onto the floor, looking for one thing he'd be caught dead wearing in NYC, and guess what, not a single thing). Stupid keepsakes from the Camden market, funny novelty lighters, retro rave flyers preserved in glassine envelopes. He was about to overturn his ugly little pressboard coffee table when he realized that there was something on it. A small, leather-worked box with a simple brass catch. Inside, the axe-head. Two hundred thousand years old. Heavy with the weight of the ages. He hefted it in his hand. It felt ancient and lethal. He dropped it into his jacket pocket, instantly deforming the jacket into a stroke-y left-hanging slant. He kicked the coffee table over. Time to go see Fede. 27. I have wished for a comm a hundred thousand times an hour since they stuck me in this shithole, and now that I have one, I don't know who to call. Not smart. Not happy. I run my fingers over the keypad, think about all the stupid, terrible decisions that I made on the way to this place in my life. I feel like I could burst into tears, like I could tear the hair out of my head, like I could pound my fists bloody on the floor. My fingers, splayed over the keypad, tap out the old nervous rhythms of the phone numbers I've know all my life, my first house, my Mom's comm, Gran's place. Gran. I tap out her number and hit the commit button. I put the phone to my head. "Gran?" "Arthur?" "Oh, Gran!" "Arthur, I'm so worried about you. I spoke to your cousins yesterday, they tell me you're not doing so good there." "No, no I'm not." The stitches in my jaw throb in counterpoint with my back. "I tried to explain it all to Father Ferlenghetti, but I didn't have the details right. He said it didn't make any sense." "It doesn't. They don't care. They've just put me here." "He said that they should have let you put your own experts up when you had your hearing." "Well, of *course* they should have." "No, he said that they *had* to, that it was the law in Massachusetts. He used to live there, you know." "I didn't know." "Oh yes, he had a congregation in Newton. That was before he moved to Toronto. He seemed very sure of it." "Why was he living in Newton?" "Oh, he moved there after university. He's a Harvard man, you know." "I think you've got that wrong. Harvard doesn't have a divinity school." "No, this was *after* divinity school. He was doing a psychiatry degree at Harvard." Oh, my. "Oh, my." "What is it, Arthur?" "Do you have Father Ferlenghetti's number, Gran?" 28. Tonaishah's Kubrick-figure facepaint distorted into wild grimaces when Art banged into O'Malley House, raccoon-eyed with sleepdep, airline crud crusted at the corners of his lips, whole person quivering with righteous smitefulness. He commed the door savagely and yanked it so hard that the gas-lift snapped with a popping sound like a metal ruler being whacked on a desk. The door caromed back into his heel and nearly sent him sprawling, but he converted its momentum into a jog through the halls to his miniature office -- the last three times he'd spoken to Fede, the bastard had been working out of his office -- stealing his papers, no doubt, though that hadn't occurred to Art until his plane was somewhere over Ireland. Fede was halfway out of Art's chair when Art bounded into the office. Fede's face was gratifyingly pale, his eyes thoroughly wide and scared. Art didn't bother to slow down, just slammed into Fede, bashing foreheads with him. Art smelled a puff of his own travel sweat and Fede's spicy Lilac Vegetal, saw blood welling from Fede's eyebrow. "Hi, pal!" he said, kicking the door shut with a crash that resounded through the paper-thin walls. "Art! Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell is wrong with you?" Fede backed away to the far corner of the office, sending Art's chair over backwards, wheels spinning, ergonomic adjustment knobs and rods sticking up in the air like the legs of an overturned beetle. "TunePay, Inc.?" Art said, booting the chair into Fede's shins. "Is that the best fucking name you could come up with? Or did Toby and Linda cook it up?" Fede held his hands out, palms first. "What are you talking about, buddy? What's wrong with you?" Art shook his head slowly. "Come on, Fede, it's time to stop blowing smoke up my cock." "I honestly have no idea --" "*Bullshit!*" Art bellowed, closing up with Fede, getting close enough to see the flecks of spittle flying off his lips spatter Fede's face. "I've had enough bullshit, Fede!" Abruptly, Fede lurched forward, sweeping Art's feet out from underneath him and landing on Art's chest seconds after Art slammed to the scratched and splintered hardwood floor. He pinned Art's arms under his knees, then leaned forward and crushed Art's windpipe with his forearm, bearing down. "You dumb sack of shit," he hissed. "We were going to cut you in, after it was done. We knew you wouldn't go for it, but we were still going to cut you in -- you think that was your little whore's idea? No, it was mine! I stuck up for you! But not anymore, you hear? Not anymore. You're through. Jesus, I gave you this fucking job! I set up the deal in Cali. Fuck-off heaps of money! I'm through with you, now. You're done. I'm ratting you out to V/DT, and I'm flying to California tonight. Enjoy your deportation hearing, you dumb Canuck boy-scout." Art's vision had contracted to a fuzzy black vignette with Fede's florid face in the center of it. He gasped convulsively, fighting for air. He felt his bladder go, and hot urine stream down his groin and over his thighs. An instant later, Fede sprang back from him, face twisted in disgust, hands brushing at his urine-stained pants. "Damn it," he said, as Art rolled onto his side and retched. Art got up on all fours, then lurched erect. As he did, the axe head in his pocket swung wildly and knocked against the glass pane beside his office's door, spiderwebbing it with cracks. Moving with dreamlike slowness, Art reached into his pocket, clasped the axe head, turned it in his hand so that the edge was pointing outwards. He lifted it out of his pocket and held his hand behind his back. He staggered to Fede, who was glaring at him, daring him to do something, his chest heaving. Art windmilled his arm over his head and brought the axe head down solidly on Fede's head. It hit with an impact that jarred his arm to the shoulder, and he dropped the axe head to the floor, where it fell with a thud, crusted with blood and hair for the first time in 200,000 years. Fede crumpled back into the office's wall, slid down it into a sitting position. His eyes were open and staring. Blood streamed over his face. Art looked at Fede in horrified fascination. He noticed that Fede was breathing shallowly, almost panting, and realized dimly that this meant he wasn't a murderer. He turned and fled the office, nearly bowling Tonaishah over in the corridor. "Call an ambulance," he said, then shoved her aside and fled O'Malley House and disappeared into the Piccadilly lunchtime crowd. 29. I am: sprung. Father Ferlenghetti hasn't been licensed to practice psychiatry in Massachusetts for forty years, but the court gave him standing. The judge actually winked at me when he took the stand, and stopped scritching on her comm as the priest said a lot of fantastically embarrassing things about my general fitness for human consumption. The sanitarium sent a single junior doc to my hearing, a kid so young I'd mistaken him for a hospital driver when he climbed into the van with me and gunned the engine. But no, he was a doctor who'd apparently been briefed on my case, though not very well. When the judge asked him if he had any opinions on Father Ferlenghetti's testimony, he fumbled with his comm while the Father stared at him through eyebrows thick enough to hide a hamster in, then finally stammered a few verbatim notes from my intake interview, blushed, and sat down. "Thank you," the judge said, shaking her head as she said it. Gran, seated beside me, put one hand on my knee and one hand on the knee of Doc Szandor's brother-in-law, a hotshot Harvard Law post-doc whom we'd retained as corporate counsel for a new Limited Liability Corporation. We'd signed the articles of incorporation the day before, after Group. It was the last thing Doc Szandor did before resigning his post at the sanitarium to take up the position of Chief Medical Officer at HumanCare, LLC, a corporation with no assets, no employees, and a sheaf of shitkicking ideas for redesigning mental hospitals using off-the-shelf tech and a little bit of UE mojo. 30. Art was most of the way to the Tube when he ran into Lester. Literally. Lester must have seen him coming, because he stepped right into Art's path from out of the crowd. Art ploughed into him, bounced off of his dented armor, and would have fallen over had Lester not caught his arm and steadied him. "Art, isn't it? How you doin', mate?" Art gaped at him. He was thinner than he'd been when he tried to shake Art and Linda down in the doorway of the Boots, grimier and more desperate. His tone was just as bemused as ever, though. "Jesus Christ, Lester, not now, I'm in a hurry. You'll have to rob me later, all right?" Lester chuckled wryly. "Still a clever bastard. You look like you're having some hard times, my old son. Maybe that you're not even worth robbing, eh?" "Right. I'm skint. Sorry. Nice running into you, now I must be going." He tried to pull away, but Lester's fingers dug into his biceps, emphatically, painfully. "Hear you ran into Tom, led him a merry chase. You know, I spent a whole week in the nick on account of you." Art jerked his arm again, without effect. "You tried to rob me, Les. You knew the job was dangerous when you took it, all right? Now let me go -- I've got a train to catch." "Holidays? How sweet. Thought you were broke, though?" A motorized scooter pulled up in the kerb lane beside them. It was piloted by a smart young policewoman with a silly foam helmet and outsized pads on her knees and elbows. She looked like the kid with the safety-obsessed mom who inflicts criminally dorky fashions on her daughter, making her the neighborhood laughingstock. "Everything all right, gentlemen?" Lester's eyes closed, and he sighed a put-upon sigh that was halfway to a groan. "Oh, yes, officer," Art said. "Peter and I were just making some plans to see our auntie for supper tonight." Lester opened his eyes, then the corners of his mouth incremented upwards. "Yeah," he said. "'Sright. Cousin Alphonse is here all the way from Canada and Auntie's mad to cook him a proper English meal." The policewoman sized them up, then shook her head. "Sir, begging your pardon, but I must tell you that we have clubs in London where a gentleman such as yourself can find a young companion, legally. We thoroughly discourage making such arrangements on the High Street. Just a word to the wise, all right?" Art blushed to his eartips. "Thank you, Officer," he said with a weak smile. "I'll keep that in mind." The constable gave Lester a hard look, then revved her scooter and pulled into traffic, her arm slicing the air in a sharp turn signal. "Well," Lester said, once she was on the roundabout, "*Alphonse*, seems like you've got reason to avoid the law, too." "Can't we just call it even? I did you a favor with the law, you leave me be?" "Oh, I don't know. P'raps I should put in a call to our friend PC McGivens. He already thinks you're a dreadful tosser -- if you've reason to avoid the law, McGivens'd be bad news indeed. And the police pay very well for the right information. I'm a little financially embarrassed, me, just at this moment." "All right," Art said. "Fine. How about this: I will pay you 800 Euros, which I will withdraw from an InstaBank once I've got my ticket for the Chunnel train to Calais in hand and am ready to get onto the platform. I've got all of fifteen quid in my pocket right now. Take my wallet and you'll have cabfare home. Accompany me to the train and you'll get a month's rent, which is more than the police'll give you." "Oh, you're a villain, you are. What is it that the police will want to talk to you about, then? I wouldn't want to be aiding and abetting a real criminal -- could mean trouble." "I beat the piss out of my coworker, Lester. Now, can we go? There's a plane in Paris I'm hoping to catch." 31. I have a brand-new translucent Sony Veddic, a series 12. I bought it on credit -- not mine, mine's sunk; six months of living on plastic and kiting balance-payments with new cards while getting the patents filed on the eight new gizmos that constitute HumanCare's sole asset has blackened my good name with the credit bureaus. I bought it with the company credit card. The *company credit card*. Our local Baby Amex rep dropped it off himself after Doc Szandor faxed over the signed contract from the Bureau of Health. Half a million bucks for a proof-of-concept install at the very same Route 128 nuthatch where I'd been "treated." If that works, we'll be rolling out a dozen more installs over the next year: smart doors, public drug-prescription stats, locator bracelets that let "clients" -- I've been learning the nuthouse jargon, and have forcibly removed "patient" from my vocabulary -- discover other clients with similar treatment regimens on the ward, bells and whistles galore. I am cruising the MassPike with HumanCare's first-ever employee, who is, in turn, holding onto HumanCare's first-ever paycheck. Caitlin's husband has been very patient over the past six months as she worked days fixing the ailing machinery at the sanitarium and nights prototyping my designs. He's been likewise patient with my presence on his sagging living-room sofa, where I've had my nightly ten-hour repose faithfully since my release. Caitlin and I have actually seen precious little of each other considering that I've been living under her roof. (Doc Szandor's Cambridge apartment is hardly bigger than my room at the hospital, and between his snoring and the hard floor, I didn't even last a whole night there.) We've communicated mostly by notes commed to her fridge and prototypes left atop my suitcase of day-clothes and sharp-edged toiletries at the foot of my makeshift bed when she staggered in from her workbench while I snored away the nights. Come to think of it, I haven't really seen much of Doc Szandor, either -- he's been holed up in his rooms, chatting away on the EST channels. I am well rested. I am happy. My back is loose and my Chi is flowing. I am driving my few belongings to a lovely two-bedroom -- one to sleep in, one to work in -- flat overlooking Harvard Square, where the pretty co-eds and their shaggy boyfriends tease one another in the technical argot of a dozen abstruse disciplines. I'm looking forward to picking up a basic physics, law, medicine and business vocabulary just by sitting in my window with my comm, tapping away at new designs. We drive up to a toll plaza and I crank the yielding, human-centric steering wheel toward the EZPass lane. The dealer installed the transponder and gave me a brochure explaining the Sony Family's approach to maximum driving convenience. But as I approach the toll gate, it stays steadfastly down. The Veddic's HUD flashes an instruction to pull over to the booth. A bored attendant leans out of the toll booth and squirts his comm at me, and the HUD comes to life with an animated commercial for the new, improved TunePay service, now under direct MassPike management. The TunePay scandal's been hot news for weeks now. Bribery, corruption, patent disputes -- I'd been gratified to discover that my name had been removed from the patent applications, sparing me the nightly hounding Fede and Linda and her fucking ex had been subjected to on my comm as the legal net tightened around them. I end up laughing so hard that Caitlin gets out of the car and walks around to my side, opens the door, and pulls me bodily to the passenger side. She serenely ignores the blaring of the horns from the aggravated, psychotic Boston drivers stacked up behind us, walks back to the driver's side and takes the wheel. "Thanks," I tell her, and lay a hand on her pudgy, freckled arm. "You belong in a loony bin, you know that?" she says, punching me in the thigh harder than is strictly necessary. "Oh, I know," I say, and dial up some music on the car stereo. -- Acknowledgements This novel was workshopped by the Cecil Street Irregulars, the Novelettes and the Gibraltar Point gang, and received excellent feedback from the first readers on the est-preview list (especially Pat York). Likewise, I'm indebted to all the people who read and commented on this book along the way. Thanks go to my editor, Patrick Nielsen Hayden, for reading this so quickly -- minutes after I finished it! Likewise to my agent, Don Maass, thank you. Thanks to Irene Gallo and Shelley Eshkar for knocking *two* out of the park with their cover-designs for my books. Thanks to my co-editors at Boing Boing and all the collaborators I've written with, who've made me a better writer. Thanks, I suppose, to the villains in my life, who inspired me to write this book rather than do something ugly that I'd regret. Thanks to Paul Boutin for commissioning the *Wired* article of the same name. Thanks to the readers and bloggers and Tribespeople who cared enough to check out my first book and liked it enough to check out this one. Thanks to Creative Commons for the licenses that give me the freedom to say "Some Rights Reserved." -- Bio Cory Doctorow (www.craphound.com) is the author of Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom, A Place So Foreign and Eight More, and The Complete Idiot's Guide to Publishing Science Fiction (with Karl Schroeder). He was raised in Toronto and lives in San Francisco, where he works for the Electronic Frontier Foundation (www.eff.org), a civil liberties group. He's a journalist, editorialist and blogger. Boing Boing (boingboing.net), the weblog he co-edits, is the most linked-to blog on the Net, according to Technorati. He won the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer at the 2000 Hugos. You can download this book for free from craphound.com/est. -- ========================== Machine-readable metadata: ========================== <rdf:RDF xmlns="http://web.resource.org/cc/" xmlns:dc="http://purl.org/dc/elements/1.1/" xmlns:rdf="http://www.w3.org/1999/02/22-rdf-syntax-ns#"> <Work rdf:about="http://craphound.com/est"> <dc:title>Eastern Standard Tribe</dc:title> <dc:date>2004-2-9</dc:date> <dc:description>A novel by Cory Doctorow </dc:description> <dc:creator><Agent> <dc:title>Cory Doctorow</dc:title> </Agent></dc:creator> <dc:rights><Agent> <dc:title>Cory Doctorow</dc:title> </Agent></dc:rights> <dc:type rdf:resource="http://purl.org/dc/dcmitype/Text" /> <license rdf:resource="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0" /> </Work> <License rdf:about="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0"> <requires rdf:resource="http://web.resource.org/cc/Attribution" /> <permits rdf:resource="http://web.resource.org/cc/Reproduction" /> <permits rdf:resource="http://web.resource.org/cc/Distribution" /> <prohibits rdf:resource="http://web.resource.org/cc/CommercialUse" /> <requires rdf:resource="http://web.resource.org/cc/Notice" /> </License> </rdf:RDF> eof 
38785	----	_UNDER THE SUPERINTENDENCE OF THE SOCIETY FOR THE DIFFUSION OF USEFUL KNOWLEDGE._ THE LIBRARY OF ENTERTAINING KNOWLEDGE. SECRET SOCIETIES OF THE MIDDLE AGES. COMMITTEE. _Chairman._--The Right Hon. LORD BROUGHAM, F.R.S., Member of the National Institute of France. _Vice-Chairman._--JOHN WOOD, Esq. _Treasurer._--WILLIAM TOOKE, Esq., M.P., F.R.S. W. Allen. Esq., F.R. and R.A.S. Capt. F. Beaufort, R.N., F.R. and R.A.S., Hydrographer to the Admiralty. G. Burrows, M.D. Peter Stafford Carey, Esq., A.M. William Coulson, Esq. R. D. Craig, Esq. J. Frederick Daniell, Esq., F.R.S. J. F. Davis, Esq., F.R.S. H. T. Delabeche, Esq., F.R.S. The Rt. Hon. Lord Denman. Samuel Duckworth, Esq. B. F. Dupfca, Esq. The Right Rev. the Bishop of Durham, D.D. The Rt. Hon. Visc. Ebrington, M.P. Sir Henry Ellis, F.R.S., Prin. Lib. Brit. Mus. T. F. Ellis, Esq., A.M., F.R.A.S. John Elliotson, M.D., F.R.S. Thomas Falconer, Esq. I. L. Goldsmid, Esq., F.R., and R.A.S. B. Gompertz, Esq., F.R., and R.A.S. G. B. Greenough, Esq., F.R., and L.S. M.D. Hill, Esq. Rowland Hill, Esq., F.R.A.S. The Rt. Hon. Sir J.C. Hobhouse, Bart., M.P. David Jardine, Esq., A.M. Henry B. Ker, Esq. Thos. Hewitt Key, Esq., A.M. J. T. Leader, Esq., M.P. George C. Lewis, Esq., A.M. Thomas Henry Lister, Esq. James Loch, Esq., M.P., F.G.S. George Long, Esq., A.M. J. W. Lubbock, Esq., A.M., F.R., R.A., and L.S.S. Sir Fred. Madden, K.C.H. H. Malden, Esq., A.M. A. T. Malkin, Esq., A.M. James Manning, Esq. J. Herman Merivale, Esq., A.M., F.A.S. Sir William Molesworth, Bart., M.P. The Right Hon. Lord Nugent. W. H. Ord, Esq., M.P. The Right Hon. Sir H. Parnell, Bt., M.P. Dr. Roget, Sec. R.S., F.R.A.S. Edw. Romilly, Esq., A.M. Right Hon. Lord J. Russell, M.P. Sir M. A. Shee, P.R.A., F.R.S. John Abel Smith, Esq., M.P. The Right Hon. Earl Spencer. John Taylor, Esq., F.R.S. Dr. A. T. Thompson, F.L.S. Thomas Vardon, Esq. H. Waymouth, Esq. J. Whishaw, Esq., A.M., F.R.S. John Wrottesley, Esq., A.M., F.R.A.S. Thomas Wyse, Esq., M.P. J. A. Yates, Esq. THOMAS COATES, Esq., _Secretary_, No. 59, Lincoln's Inn Fields. _THE LIBRARY OF ENTERTAINING KNOWLEDGE._ [Keightley (Thomas) handwritten] SECRET SOCIETIES OF THE MIDDLE AGES. LONDON: CHARLES KNIGHT & Co., LUDGATE-STREET. MDCCCXXXVII. LONDON: Printed by WILLIAM CLOWES and SONS, Stamford Street. CONTENTS. Page Introduction 1 THE ASSASSINS. CHAPTER I. State of the World in the Seventh Century--Western Empire--Eastern Empire--Persia--Arabia--Mohammed--His probable Motives--Character of his Religion--The Koran 13 CHAPTER II. Origin of the Khalifat--The first Khalifs--Extent of the Arabian Empire--Schism among the Mohammedans--Soonees and Sheähs--Sects of the latter--The Keissanee--The Zeidites--The Ghoollat--The Imamee--Sects of the Imamee--Their political Character--The Carmathites--Origin of the Fatimite Khalifs--Secret Society at Cairo--Doctrines taught in it--Its Decline 24 CHAPTER III. Ali of Rei--His son Hassan Sabah--Hassan sent to study at Nishaboor--Meets there Omar Khiam and Nizam-al-Moolk--Agreement made by them--Hassan introduced by Nizam to Sultan Malek Shah--Obliged to leave the Court--Anecdote of him--His own account of his Conversion--Goes to Egypt--Returns to Persia--Makes himself Master of Alamoot 43 CHAPTER IV. Description of Alamoot--Fruitless attempts to recover it--Extension of the Ismaïlite Power--The Ismaïlites in Syria--Attempt on the Life of Aboo-Hard Issa--Treaty made with Sultan Sanjar--Death of Hassan--His Character 56 CHAPTER V. Organization of the Society--Names given to the Ismaïlites--Origin of the name Assassin--Marco Polo's description of the Paradise of the Old Man of the Mountain--Description of it given by Arabian writers--Instances of the obedience of the Fedavee 66 CHAPTER VI. Keäh Buzoorg Oomeid--Affairs of the Society in Persia--They acquire the Castle of Banias in Syria--Attempt to betray Damascus to the Crusaders--Murders committed during the reign of Keäh Buzoorg 84 CHAPTER VII. Keäh Mohammed--Murder of the Khalif--Castles gained in Syria--Ismaïlite Confession of Faith--Mohammed's Son Hassan gives himself out for the promised Imam--His followers punished--Succession of Hassan--He abolishes the Law--Pretends to be descended from the Prophet--Is murdered 93 CHAPTER VIII. Mohammed II.--Anecdote of the Imam Fakhr-ed-deen--Noor-ed-deen--Conquest of Egypt--Attempt on the Life of Saladin 102 CHAPTER X. Jellal-ed-deen--Restoration of Religion--His Harem makes the Pilgrimage to Mecca--Marries the Princess of Ghilan--Geography of the Country between Roodbar and the Caspian--Persian Romance--Zohak and Feridoon--Kei Kaoos and Roostem--Ferdoosee's Description of Mazanderan--History of the Shah Nameh--Proof of the Antiquity of the Tales contained in it. 131 CHAPTER XI. Death of Jellal-ed-deen--Character of Ala-ed-deen, his successor--The Sheikh Jemal-ed-deen--The Astronomer Nasir-ed-deen--The Vizir Sheref-al-Moolk--Death of Ala-ed-deen--Succession of Rukn-ed-deen, the last Sheikh-al-Jebal 148 CHAPTER XII. The Mongols--Hoolagoo sent against the Ismaïlites--Rukn-ed-deen submits--Capture of Alamoot--Destruction of the Library--Fate of Rukn-ed-deen--Massacre of the Ismaïlites--St. Louis and the Assassins--Mission for the Conversion of the People of Kuhistan--Conclusion 156 THE TEMPLARS. CHAPTER I. Introduction--The Crusades--Wrong Ideas respecting their Origin--True Causes of them--Pilgrimage--Pilgrimage of Frotmond--Of the Count of Anjou--Striking Difference between the Christianity of the East and that of the West--Causes of their different Characters--Feudalism--The Extent and Force of this Principle 169 CHAPTER II. First Hospital at Jerusalem--Church of Santa Maria de Latina--Hospital of St. John--The Hospitallers--Origin of the Templars--Their original Poverty--They acquire Consideration--St. Bernard--His Character of the Templars--The Order approved of and confirmed by the Council of Troyes--Proofs of the Esteem in which they were held 185 CHAPTER III. Return of the Templars to the East--Exoneration and Refutation of the Charge of a Connection with the Ismaïlites--Actions of the Templars--Crusade of Louis VII.--Siege of Ascalon--Sale of Nassir-ed-deen--Corruption of the Hospitallers--The Bull, _Omne Datum Optimum_--Refusal of the Templars to march against Egypt--Murder of the Ismaïlite Envoy 199 CHAPTER IV. Heroism of the Templars and Hospitallers--Battle of Hittin--Crusade of Richard of England and Philip of France--Corruption of the Order--Pope Innocent III. writes a Letter of Censure--Frederic II.--Great Slaughter of the Templars--Henry III. of England and the Templars--Power of the Templars in Moravia--Slaughter of them by the Hospitallers--Fall of Acre 210 CHAPTER V. Classes of the Templars--The Knights--Their Qualifications--Mode of Reception--Dress and Arms of the Knight--Mode of Burial--The Chaplains--Mode of Reception--Dress--Duties and Privileges--The Serving-Brethren--Mode of Reception--Their Duties--The Affiliated--Causes and Advantages of Affiliation--The Donates and Oblates 221 CHAPTER VI. Provinces of the Order--Eastern Provinces--Jerusalem--Houses of this Province--Tripolis--Antioch--Cyprus--Western Provinces--Portugal--Castile and Leon--Aragon--France and Auvergne--Normandy--Aquitaine--Provence--England--Germany--Upper and Central Italy--Apulia and Sicily 242 CHAPTER VII. Officers of the Order--The Master--Mode of Election--His Rights and Privileges--Restraints on him--The Seneschal--The Marshal--The Treasurer--The Draper--The Turcopilar--Great-Priors--Commanders--Visitors--Sub- Marshal--Standard-bearer 253 CHAPTER VIII. Chapters--Mode of holding them--Templars' Mode of Living--Amusements--Conduct in War 266 CHAPTER IX. Molay elected Master--Last attempt of the Christians in Syria--Conduct of the Three Military Orders--Philip the Fair and Pope Boniface VIII.--Seizure of the Pope--Election of Clement V.--The Papal See removed to France--Causes of Philip's enmity to the Templars--Arrival of Molay in France--His interviews with the Pope--Charges made against the Templars--Seizure of the Knights--Proceedings in England--Nature of the Charges against the Order 276 CHAPTER X. Examination of the captive Knights--Different kinds of Torture--Causes of Confession--What Confessions were made--Templars brought before the Pope--Their Declarations--Papal Commission--Molay brought before it--Ponsard de Gisi--Defenders of the Order--Act of Accusation--Heads of Defence--Witnesses against the Order--Fifty-four Templars committed to the Flames at Paris--Remarkable words of Aymeric de Villars-le-Duc--Templars burnt in other places--Further Examinations--The Head worshipped by the Templars--John de Pollincourt--Peter de la Palu 293 CHAPTER XI. Examinations in England--Germany--Spain--Italy--Naples and Provence--Sicily--Cyprus--Meeting of the Council of Vienne--Suppression of the Order--Fate of its Members--Death of Molay 317 THE SECRET TRIBUNALS OF WESTPHALIA. CHAPTER I. Introduction--The Original Westphalia--Conquest of the Saxons by Charlemagne--His Regulations--Dukes of Saxony--State of Germany--Henry the Lion--His Outlawry--Consequences of it--Origin of German Towns--Origin of the Fehm-gerichte, or Secret Tribunals--Theories of their Origin--Origin of their Name--Synonymous Terms 332 CHAPTER II. The Tribunal-Lord--The Count--The Schöppen--The Messengers--The Public Court--The Secret Tribunal--Extent of its Jurisdiction--Places of holding the Courts--Time of holding them--Proceedings in them--Process where the Criminal was caught in the fact--Inquisitorial Process 346 CHAPTER III. Accusatorial Process--Persons liable to it--Mode of Citation--Mode of Procedure--Right of Appeal 360 CHAPTER IV. The General Chapter--Rights of the Emperor--Of his Lieutenant--Of the Stuhlherrn, or Tribunal-Lords 372 CHAPTER V. Fehm-courts at Celle--At Brunswick--Tribunal of the Knowing in the Tyrol--The Castle of Baden--African Purrahs 377 CHAPTER VI. The Emperor Lewis the Bavarian--Charles IV.--Wenceslaus--Rupertian Reformation--Encroachments of the Fehm-courts--Case of Nickel Weller and the Town of Görlitz--Of the City of Dantzig--Of Hans David and the Teutonic Knights--Other instances of the presumption of the Free-counts--Citation of the Emperor Frederic III.--Case of the Count of Teckenburg 385 CHAPTER VII. Cause of the degeneracy of the Fehm-courts--Attempts at reformation--Causes of their high reputation--Case of the Duke of Würtemberg--Of Kerstian Kerkerink--Causes of the Decline of the Fehm-jurisdiction 398 SECRET SOCIETIES OF THE MIDDLE AGES. INTRODUCTION. If we had the means of investigating historically the origin of Secret Societies, we should probably find that they began to be formed almost as soon as any knowledge had been accumulated by particular individuals beyond what constituted the common stock. The same thing has happened to knowledge that has happened to all other human possessions,--its actual holders have striven to keep it to themselves. It is true that in this case the possessor of the advantage does not seem to have the same reason for being averse to share it with others which naturally operates in regard to many good things of a different kind; he does not, by imparting it to those around him, diminish his own store. This is true, in so far as regards the possession of knowledge considered in its character of a real good; the owner of the treasure does not impoverish himself by giving it away, as he would by giving away his money, but remains as rich as ever, even after he has made ever so many others as rich as himself. But still there is one thing that he loses, and a thing upon which the human mind is apt to set a very high value; he loses the distinction which he derived from his knowledge. This distinction really serves, in many respects, the same purpose that money itself does. Like money, it brings observation and worship. Like money, it is the dearest of all things, power. Knowledge, however held, is indeed essentially power; to _ken_, that is, to know, is the same word and the same thing with to _can_, that is, to be able. But there is an additional and a different species of power conferred by knowledge when it exists as the distinction of a few individuals in the midst of general ignorance. Here it is power not only to do those things the methods of doing which it teaches; it is, besides, the power of governing other men through your comparative strength and their weakness. So strong is the motive thus prompting the possessor of knowledge to the exclusive retention of his acquisitions, that unless it had been met by another motive appealing in like manner directly to our self-interest, it appears probable that scarcely any general dissemination of knowledge would ever have taken place. The powerful counteracting motive in question is derived from the consideration that in most cases one of the most effective ways which the possessor of knowledge can take of exciting the admiration of others, is to communicate what he knows. The light must give itself forth, and illuminate the world, even that it may be itself seen and admired. In the very darkest times, the scholar or philosopher may find his ambition sufficiently gratified by the mere reputation of superior attainments, and the stupid wonder, or it may be superstitious terror, of the uninquiring multitude. But as soon as any thing like a spirit of intelligence or of curiosity has sprung up in the general mind, all who aspire to fame or consideration from their learning, their discoveries, or their intellectual powers, address themselves to awaken the admiration of their fellow-men, not by concealing, but by displaying their knowledge--not by sealing up the precious fountain, but by allowing its waters to flow freely forth, that all who choose may drink of them. From this time science ceases almost to have any secrets; and, all the influences to which it is exposed acting in the same direction, the tendency of knowledge becomes wholly diffusive. But in the preceding state of things the case was altogether the reverse. Then there was little or no inducement to the communication of knowledge, and every motive for those who were in possession of it to keep it to themselves. There was not intelligence enough abroad to appreciate, or even to understand, the truths of philosophy if they had been announced in their simplicity, and explained according to their principles; all that was cared for, all that was capable of arousing the vulgar attention, was some display, made as surprising and mysterious as possible, of their practical application. It would even have been attended with danger in many cases to attempt to teach true philosophy openly, or to make open profession of it; it was too much in opposition to some of the strongest prejudices which everywhere held sway. It is not, then, to be wondered at, that its cultivators should have sought to guard and preserve it by means of secret associations, which, besides excluding the multitude from a participation in the thing thus fenced round and hidden, answered also divers other convenient purposes. They afforded opportunities of free conference, which could not otherwise have been obtained. There was much in the very forms of mystery and concealment thus adopted calculated to impress the popular imagination, and to excite its reverence and awe. Finally, the veil which they drew around their proceedings enabled the members of these secret societies to combine their efforts, and arrange their plans, in security and without interruption, whenever they cherished any designs of political innovation, or other projects, the open avowal and prosecution of which the established authorities would not have tolerated. The facilities afforded by the system of secret association, and it may even be said the temptations which it presents, to the pursuit of political objects forbidden by the laws, are so great as to justify all governments in prohibiting it, under whatever pretence it may be attempted to be introduced. It is nothing to the purpose to argue that under bad governments valuable political reforms have sometimes been effected by such secret associations which would not otherwise have been attained. The same mode of proceeding, in the nature of the thing, is equally efficacious for the overthrow of a good government. Bad men are as likely to combine in the dark for their objects as good men are for theirs. In any circumstances, a secret association is an _imperium in imperio_, a power separate from, and independent of, that which is recognized as the supreme power in the state, and therefore something essentially disorganizing, and which it is contrary to the first principles of all government for any state to tolerate. In the case of a bad government, indeed, all means are fairly available for its overthrow which are not morally objectionable, the simple rule for their application being that it shall be directed by considerations of prudence and discretion. In such a case a secret association of the friends of reform may sometimes be found to supply the most effective means for accomplishing the desired end; but that end, however desirable it may be, is not one which the constitution of the state itself can rationally contemplate. The constitution cannot be founded upon the supposition that even necessary alterations of it are to be brought about through agencies out of itself, and forming no part of its regular mechanism. Whenever such agencies are successfully brought into operation, there is a revolution, and the constitution is at an end. Even the amendment of the constitution so effected is its destruction. Yet most of the more remarkable secret associations which have existed in different ages and countries have probably either been originally formed to accomplish some political end, or have come to contemplate such an object as their chief design. Even when nothing more than a reformation of the national religion has been, as far as can be discovered, the direct aim of the association, it may still be fairly considered as of a political character, from the manner in which religion has been mixed up in almost every country with the civil institutions of the state. The effect which it was desired to produce upon the government may in many cases have been very far from extending to its complete abolition, and the substitution of another form of polity; an alteration in some one particular may have been all that was sought, or the object of the association may even have been to support some original principle of the constitution against the influence of circumstances which threatened its subversion or modification. Whether directed to the alteration or to the maintenance of the existing order of things, the irregular and dangerous action of secret combinations is, as we have said, a species of force which no state can reasonably be expected to recognize. But it may nevertheless have happened at particular emergencies, and during times of very imperfect civilization, that valuable service has been rendered by such combinations to some of the most important interests of society, and that they have to a considerable extent supplied the defects of the rude and imperfect arrangements of the ordinary government. The system of secret association is, indeed, the natural resource of the friends of political reform, in times when the general mind is not sufficiently enlightened to appreciate or to support their schemes for the improvement of the existing institutions and order of things. To proclaim their views openly in such circumstances would be of no more use than haranguing to the desert. They might even expose themselves to destruction by the attempt. But, united in a secret association, and availing themselves of all the advantages at once of their superior knowledge and intelligence, and of their opportunities of acting in concert, a very few individuals may work with an effect altogether out of proportion to their number. They may force in a wedge which in time shall even split and shiver into fragments the strength of the existing social system, no matter by how many ages of barbarism it may be consolidated. Or, in the absence of a more regular law and police, they may maintain the empire of justice by stretching forth the arm of their own authority in substitution for that of the state, which lies paralysed and powerless, and turning to account even the superstitions and terrors of the popular imagination by making these, as excited by their dark organization and mysterious forms of procedure, the chain whereby to secure the popular obedience. On the whole, the system of secret association for political objects, even when there is no dispute about the desirableness of the ends sought to be accomplished, may be pronounced to be a corrective of which good men will avail themselves only in times of general ignorance, or under governments that sin against the first principles of all good government, by endeavouring to put a stop to the advancement of society through the prohibition of the open expression of opinion; but, in countries where the liberty of discussion exists, and where the public mind is tolerably enlightened, as entirely unsuited to the circumstances of the case as it is opposed to the rules and maxims on which every government must take its stand that would provide for its own preservation. In these happier circumstances the course for the friends of social improvement to follow is to come forward into the full light of day as the only place worthy of their mission, and to seek the realization of their views by directly appealing to the understandings of their fellow-citizens. One evil to which secret societies are always exposed is the chance of the objects and principles of their members being misrepresented by those interested in resisting their power and influence. As the wakeful eyes of the government, and of those concerned in the maintenance of the actual system, will be ever upon them, they must strictly confine the knowledge of their real views and proceedings to the initiated, and as their meetings must for the same reason be held in retired places, and frequently by night, an opportunity, which is rarely neglected, is afforded to their enemies of spreading the most calumnious reports of their secret practices, which, though conscious of innocence, they may not venture openly to confute. By arts of this kind the suspicions and aversion of the people are excited, and they are often thus made to persecute their best friends, and still to bow beneath the yoke of their real foes. The similarity of the accusations made against secret associations in all parts of the world is a sufficient proof of their falsehood, and we should always listen to them with the utmost suspicion, recollecting the quarter from which they proceed. Of the spotless purity of the Christian religion when first promulgated through the Roman world no one can entertain a doubt; yet when persecution obliged its professors to form as it were a secret society, the same charges of Thyestian banquets, and of the promiscuous intercourse of the sexes, were made against them, which they themselves afterwards brought, and with probably as little truth, against the various sects of the Gnostic heresy. Wherever there is secrecy there will be suspicion, and charges of something unable to bear the light of day will be made. The ancient world presents one secret society of a professedly political character--that of the Pythagoreans. Of religious ones it might be expected to yield a rich harvest to the inquirer, when we call to mind all that has been written in ancient and modern times concerning the celebrated mysteries. But the original Grecian mysteries, such as those of Eleusis, appear to have been nothing more than public services of the gods, with some peculiar ceremonies performed at the charge of the state, and presided over by the magistrates, in which there were no secrets communicated to the initiated, no revelation of knowledge beyond that which was generally attainable. The _private_ mysteries, namely, the Orphic, Isiac, and Mithraic, which were introduced from the East, were merely modes employed by cunning and profligate impostors for taking advantage of the weakness and credulity of the sinful and the superstitious, by persuading them that by secret and peculiar rites, and the invocation of strange deities, the apprehended punishment of sin might be averted. The nocturnal assemblies for the celebration of these mysteries were but too often scenes of vice and debauchery, and they were discountenanced by all good governments. It is to these last, and not to the Eleusinian mysteries, that the severe strictures of the fathers of the church apply[1]. [Footnote 1: See Lobeck's excellent work "Aglaophamus."] The history of Pythagoras and his doctrines is extremely obscure. The accounts of this sage which have come down to us were not written till many centuries after his death, and but little reliance is to be placed on their details. Pythagoras was a Samian by birth; he flourished in the sixth century before Christ, at the time when Egypt exercised so much influence over Greece, and its sages sought the banks of the Nile in search of wisdom. There is, therefore, no improbability in the tradition of Pythagoras also having visited that land of mystery, and perhaps other parts of the East, and marked the tranquil order of things where those who were esteemed the wise ruled over the ignorant people. He may therefore have conceived the idea of uniting this sacerdotal system with the rigid morals and aristocratic constitution of the Dorian states of Greece. His native isle, which was then under the tyranny of Polycrates, not appearing to him suited for the introduction of his new system of government, he turned his eyes to the towns of Magna Græcia, or Southern Italy, which were at that time in a highly flourishing condition, whose inhabitants were eager in the pursuit of knowledge, and some of which already possessed written codes of law. He fixed his view on Croton, one of the wealthiest and most distinguished of those towns. Aristocracy was the soul of the Dorian political constitutions, and the towns of Magna Græcia were all Dorian colonies; but in consequence of their extensive commerce the tendency of the people was at that time towards democracy. To preserve the aristocratic principle was the object of Pythagoras; but he wished to make the aristocracy not merely one of birth; he desired that, like the sacerdotal castes of the East, it should also have the supremacy in knowledge. As his system was contrary to the general feeling, Pythagoras saw that it was only by gaining the veneration of the people that he could carry it into effect; and by his personal advantages of beauty of form, skill in gymnastic exercises, eloquence, and dignity, he drew to himself the popular favour by casting the mantle of mystery over his doctrines. He thus at once inspired the people with awe for them, and the nobles with zeal to become initiated in his secrets. The most perfect success, we are told, attended the project of the philosopher. A total change of manners took place in Croton; the constitution became nearly Spartan; a body of 300 nobles, rendered by the lessons of the sage as superior to the people in knowledge of every kind as they were in birth, ruled over it. The nobles of the other states flocked to Croton to learn how to govern by wisdom; Pythagorean missionaries went about everywhere preaching the new political creed; they inculcated on the people religion, humility, and obedience; such of the nobles as were deemed capable were initiated in the wisdom of the order, and taught its maxims and principles; a golden age, in which power was united with wisdom and virtue, seemed to have begun upon earth. But, like every thing which struggles against the spirit of the age, such a political system was not fated to endure. While Croton was the chief seat of Pythagoreanism, luxury had fixed her throne in the neighbouring city of Sybaris. The towns were rivals: one or the other must fall. It was little more than thirty years after the arrival of Pythagoras in Croton that a furious war broke out between them. Led by Milo and other Pythagoreans, who were as expert in military affairs as skilled in philosophy, the Crotoniates utterly annihilated the power of their rivals, and Sybaris sank to rise no more. But with her sank the power of the Pythagoreans. They judged it inexpedient to give a large share of the booty to the people; the popular discontent rose; Cylon, a man who had been refused admittance into the order, took advantage of it, and urged the people on; the Pythagoreans were all massacred, and a democracy established. All the other towns took example by Croton, a general persecution of the order commenced, and Pythagoras himself was obliged to seek safety in flight, and died far away from the town which once had received him as a prophet. The Pythagoreans never made any further attempts at attaining political power, but became a mere sect of mystic philosophers, distinguished by peculiarities of food and dress. Ancient times present us with no other society of any importance to which we can properly apply the term _secret_. The different sects of the Gnostics, who are by the fathers of the church styled heretics, were to a certain extent secret societies, as they did not propound their doctrines openly and publicly; but their history is so scanty, and so devoid of interest, that an examination of it would offer little to detain ordinary readers. The present volume is devoted to the history of three celebrated societies which flourished during the middle ages, and of which, as far as we know, no full and satisfactory account is to be found in English literature. These are the Assassins, or Ismaïlites, of the East, whose name has become in all the languages of Europe synonymous with murderer, who _were_ a secret society, and of whom we have in general such vague and indistinct conceptions; the military order of the Knights Templars, who were most barbarously persecuted under the pretext of their holding a secret doctrine, and against whom the charge has been renewed at the present day; and, finally, the Secret Tribunals of Westphalia, in Germany, concerning which all our information has hitherto been derived from the incorrect statements of dramatists and romancers[2]. [Footnote 2: Since the present work was prepared, a translation of Von Hammer's History of the Assassins has been published by Dr. Oswald Charles Wood.] It is the simplicity of truth, and not the excitement of romance, that the reader is to expect to find in the following pages,--pictures of manners and modes of thinking different from our own,--knowledge, not _mere_ entertainment, yet as large an infusion of the latter as is consistent with truth and instruction. THE ASSASSINS[3]. [Footnote 3: Hammer's _Geschichte der Assassinen_ (History of the Assassins), and the same writer's _Fundgruben des Orients_ (Mines of the East), M. Jourdain's _Extrait de l'Ouvrage de Mirkhond sur la Dynastie des Ismaelites_, and Malcolm's History of Persia, are the principal authorities for the following account of the Assassins.] CHAPTER I. State of the World in the 7th Century--Western Empire--Eastern Empire--Persia--Arabia--Mohammed--His probable Motives--Character of his Religion--The Koran. At the commencement of the 7th century of the Christian era a new character was about to be impressed on a large portion of the world. During the two centuries which preceded, the Goths, Vandals, Huns, and other martial tribes of the Germanic race, had succeeded in beating down the barriers opposed to them, and in conquering and dismembering the Western Empire. They brought with them and retained their love of freedom and spirit of dauntless valour, but abandoned their ancient and ferocious superstitions, and embraced the corrupt system which then degraded the name of Christianity. This system, hardened, as it were, by ideas retained and transferred from the original faith of its new disciples, which ideas were fostered by those passages of the books of the Hebrew Scriptures which accorded with their natural sentiments, afterwards, when allied with feudalism, engendered the spirit which poured the hosts of Western Europe over the mountains and plains of Asia for the conquest of the Holy Land. A different picture was at this time presented by the empire of the East. It still retained the extent assigned to it by Theodosius; and all the countries from the Danube, round the east and south coasts of the Mediterranean, to the straits of Gades, yielded a more or less perfect obedience to the successors of Constantine. But a despotism more degrading, though less ferocious, than those of Asia paralyzed the patriotism and the energy of their subjects; and the acuteness, the contentiousness, and the imagination of the Greeks, combined with mysticism and the wild fancy of the Asiatics to transform the simplicity of the religion of Christ into a revolting system of intricate metaphysics and gross idolatry, which aided the influence of their political condition in chilling the martial ardour of the people. The various provinces of the empire were held together by the loosest and feeblest connexion, and it was apparent that a vigorous shock would suffice to dissolve the union. The mountains of Armenia and the course of the Euphrates separated the Eastern Empire from that of Persia. This country had been under the dominion of the people named Parthians at the time when the eagles of the Roman republic first appeared on the Euphrates, and defeat had more than once attended the Roman armies which attempted to enter their confines. Like every dominion not founded on the freedom of the people, that of the Arsacides (the Parthian royal line) grew feeble with time, and after a continuance of nearly five centuries the sceptre of Arsaces passed from the weak hand of the last monarch of his line to that of Ardeshir Babegan (that is the son of Babec), a valiant officer of the royal army, and a pretended descendant of the ancient monarchs of Persia. Ardeshir, to accomplish this revolution, availed himself of the religious prejudices of the Persian people. The Parthian monarchs had inclined to the manners and the religion of the Greeks, and the Light-religion--the original faith of Persia, and one of the purest and most spiritual of those to which a divine origin may not be assigned--had been held in slight estimation, and its priests unvisited by royal favour. It was the pride and the policy of Ardeshir to restore the ancient religion to the dignity which it had enjoyed under the descendants of Cyrus, and Religion, in return, lent her powerful aid to his plans of restoring the royal dignity to its pristine vigour, and of infusing into the breast of the people the love of country and the ardour for extending the Persian dominion to what it had been of old; and for 400 years the Sassanides[4] were the most formidable enemies of the Roman empire. But their dominion had, at the period of which we write, nearly attained the greatest limit allotted to Oriental dynasties; and though Noosheerwan the Just had attained great warlike fame, and governed with a vigour and justice that have made his name proverbial in the East, and Khoosroo Purveez displayed a magnificence which is still the theme of Persian poetry and romance, and carried his victorious arms over Syria and Egypt, and further along the African coast than even those of Darius I. had been able to advance, yet defeat from the gallant Emperor Heraclius clouded his latter days, and the thirteenth year after his death, by showing the Persian armies in flight, and the palladium of the empire, the jewel-set apron of the blacksmith Kawah, in the hands of the rovers of the deserts, revealed the secret that her strength was departed from Persia. The brilliancy of the early part of the reign of Khoosroo Purveez had been but the flash before death which at times is displayed in empires as in individuals. The vigour was gone which was requisite to stem the torrent of fanatic valour about to burst forth from the wilds of Arabia. [Footnote 4: The name given to the dynasty founded by Ardeshir, from his pretended ancestor Sassan, a grandson of Isfundear, a hero greatly celebrated in the ancient history of Persia. Isfundear was the son of Gushtasp, who is supposed to be the Darìus Hystaspes of the Greek historians. Sir John Malcolm has endeavoured to identify Isfundear with the Xerxes of the Greeks.] It is the boast of Arabia that it has never been conquered. This immunity from subjugation has, however, been only partial, and is owing to the nature of the country; for although the barren sands of the Hejaz and Nejed have always baffled the efforts of hostile armies, yet the more inviting region of Yemen, the Happy Arabia of the ancients, has more than once allured a conqueror, and submitted to his sway. The inhabitants of this country have been the same in blood and in manners from the dawn of history. Brave, but not sanguinary, robbers, but kind and hospitable, of lively and acute intellect, we find the Arabs, from the days of Abraham to the present times, leading the pastoral and nomadic life in the desert, agriculturists in Yemen, traders on the coasts and on the confines of Syria and Egypt. Their foreign military operations had hitherto been confined to plundering expeditions into the last-mentioned countries, unless they were the Hycsos, or Shepherd Kings, who, according to tradition, once made the conquest of Egypt. Arabia forming a kind of world in itself, its various tribes were in ceaseless hostility with each other; but it was apparent that if its brave and skilful horsemen could be united under one head, and animated by motives which would inspire constancy and rouse valour, they might present a force capable of giving a fatal shock to the empires of Persia and of Rome. It is impossible, on taking a survey of the history of the world, not to recognize a great predisposing cause, which appoints the time and circumstances of every event which is to produce any considerable change in the state of human affairs. The agency of this overruling providence is nowhere more perceptible than in the present instance. The time was come for the Arabs to leave their deserts and march to the conquest of the world, and the man was born who was to inspire them with the necessary motives. Mohammed (_Illustrious_[5]) was the son of Abd-Allah (_Servant of God_), a noble Arab of the tribe of Koreish, which had the guardianship of the Kaaba (_Square House of Mecca_), the _Black Stone_ contained in which (probably an aerolite) had been for ages an object of religious veneration to the tribes of Arabia. His mother was Amineh, the daughter of a chief of princely rank. He was early left an orphan, with the slender patrimony of five camels and a female Æthiopian slave. His uncle, Aboo Talib, brought him up. At an early age the young Mohammed accompanied his uncle to the fair of Bozra, on the verge of Syria, and in his 18th year he signalized his valour in an engagement between the Koreish and a hostile tribe. At the age of 25 he entered the service of Khadijah, a wealthy widow, with whose merchandise he visited one of the great fairs of Syria. Mohammed, though poor, was noble, handsome, acute, and brave; Khadijah, who was fifteen years his senior, was inspired with love; her passion was returned; and the gift of her hand and wealth gave the nephew of Aboo Talib affluence and consideration. [Footnote 5: The Oriental proper names being mostly all significant, we shall translate them when we first employ them. As, however, it is not always that it can be discovered what the original Arabic characters are of an eastern word which we meet in Roman letters, we shall be sometimes obliged to leave names unexplained, and at other times to hazard conjectural explanations. In the last case, we shall affix a mark of doubt.] Mohammed's original turn of mind appears to have been serious, and it is not unlikely that the great truth of the Unity of the Deity had been early impressed on his mind by his mother or his Jewish kindred. The Koreish and the rest of his countrymen were idolaters; Christianity was now corrupted by the intermixture of many superstitions; the fire-worship of the Persians was a worshipping of the Deity under a material form; the Mosaic religion had been debased by the dreams and absurd distinctions of the Rabbis. A simpler form than any of these seemed wanted for man. God, moreover, was believed to have at sundry times sent prophets into the world for its reformation, and might do so again; the Jews still looked for their promised Messiah; many Christians held that the Paraclete was yet to come. Who can take upon him to assert that Mohammed may not have believed himself to be set apart to the service of God, and appointed by the divine decree to be the preacher of a purer faith than any which he then saw existing? Who will say that in his annual seclusions of fifteen days in the cave of Hira he may not have fallen into ecstatic visions, and that in one of these waking dreams the angel Gabriel may not have appeared to his distempered fancy to descend to nominate him to the office of a prophet of God, and present to him, in a visible form, that portion of his future law which had probably already passed through his mind[6]? A certain portion of self-delusion is always mingled with successful imposture; the impostor, as it were, makes his first experiment on himself. It is much more reasonable to conclude that Mohammed had at first no other object than the dissemination of truth by persuasion, and that he may have beguiled himself into a belief of his being the instrument selected for that purpose, than that the citizen of a town in the secluded region of Arabia beheld in ambitious vision from his mountain-cave his victorious banners waving on the banks of the Oxus and the Ebro, and his name saluted as that of the Prophet of God by a fourth part of the human race. Still we must not pass by another, and perhaps a truer supposition, namely, that, in the mind of Mohammed, as in that of so many others, the end justified the means, and that he deemed it lawful to feign a vision and a commission from God in order to procure from men a hearing for the truth. [Footnote 6: The Kubla Khan of Coleridge (Poetical Works, vol. i. p. 266) is a fine instance of this power of the mind, withdrawn from the contemplation of material objects. The reader will probably recollect the sign given from heaven to Lord Herbert of Cherbury, on the occasion of his work written against revealed religion. The writer has lately heard an instance of a lady of fortune, to whom, as she reclined one day on a sofa, a voice seemed to come from heaven, announcing to her that she was selected as the instrument for accomplishing a great work in the hands of God; and giving, as a sign, that, for a certain number of months, she should be unable to leave the sofa on which she was lying. Such is the power of imagination, that the supposed intimation in regard to the sign actually took effect; she believed herself to have lost the power of motion, and therefore did in reality lose it.] Whatever the ideas and projects of Mohammed may originally have been, he waited till he had attained his fortieth year (the age at which Moses showed himself first to the Israelites), and then revealed his divine commission to his wife Khadijah, his slave Zeid, his cousin Ali, the son of Aboo Talib, and his friend, the virtuous and wealthy Aboo Bekr. It is difficult to conceive any motive but conviction to have operated on the minds of these different persons, who at once acknowledged his claim to the prophetic office; and it speaks not a little for the purity of the previous life of the new Prophet, that he could venture to claim the faith of those who were most intimately acquainted with him. The voice of wisdom has assured us that a prophet has no honour in his own country and among his own kindred, and the example of Mohammed testified the truth of the declaration. During thirteen years the new religion made but slow and painful progress in the town of Mecca; but the people of Yathreb, a town afterwards dignified with the appellation of the City of the Prophet (_Medinat-en-Nabi_), were more susceptive of faith; and when, on the death of Aboo Talib, who protected his nephew, though he rejected his claims, his celebrated Flight (_Hejra_) brought him to Yathreb, the people of that town took arms in his defence against the Koreish. It was probably now that new views opened to the mind of the Prophet. Prince of Yathreb, he might hope to extend his sway over the ungrateful Mecca; and those who had scoffed at his arguments and persuasions might be taught lessons of wisdom by the sword. These anticipations were correct, and in less than ten years after the battle of Bedr (the first he fought) he saw his temporal power and his prophetic character acknowledged by the whole of the Arabian peninsula. It commonly happens that, when a new form of religion is proposed for the acceptance of mankind, it surpasses in purity that which it is intended to supersede. The Arabs of the days of Mohammed were idolaters; 300 is said to have been the number of the images which claimed their adoration in the Caaba. A gross licentiousness prevailed among them; their polygamy had no limits assigned to it[7]. For this the Prophet substituted the worship of One God, and placed a check on the sensual propensities of his people. His religion contained descriptions of the future state of rewards and punishments, by which he allured to obedience and terrified from contumacy or opposition. The pains of hell which he menaced were such as were most offensive to the body and its organs; the joys of Paradise were verdant meads, shady trees, murmuring brooks, gentle airs, precious wines in cups of gold and silver, stately tents, and splendid sofas; the melody of the songs of angels was to ravish the souls of the blessed; the black-eyed Hoories were to be the ever-blooming brides of the faithful servants of God. Yet, though sensual bliss was to be his ultimate reward, the votary was taught that its attainment demanded self-denial on earth; and it has been justly observed that "a devout Mussulman exhibits more of the Stoical than of the Epicurean character[8]." As the Prophet had resolved that the sword should be unsparingly employed for the diffusion of the truth, the highest degree of the future bliss was pronounced to be the portion of the martyrs, i. e., of those who fell in the holy wars waged for the dissemination of the faith. "Paradise," says the Prophet, "is beneath the shadow of swords." At the day of judgment the wounds of the fallen warrior were to be resplendent as vermilion, and odoriferous as musk; and the wings of angels were to supply the loss of limbs. The religion of Mohammed was entitled Islam (_resignation_), whence its votaries were called by the Arabs Moslems, and in Persian Mussulmans. Its articles of belief were five--belief in God, in his angels, in his Prophet, in the last day, and in predestination. Its positive duties were also five--purification, prayer, fasting, alms, and the pilgrimage to Mecca. Various rites and observances which the Arabs had hitherto practised were retained by the Prophet, either out of regard for the prejudices of his followers, or because he did not, or could not, divest his own mind of respect for usages in which he had been reared up from infancy. [Footnote 7: See, in Sir J. Malcolm's History of Persia, the dialogue between the Persian king Yezdijird and the Arab envoy. "Whatever," said the latter, "thou hast said regarding the former condition of the Arabs is true. Their food was green lizards; they buried their infant daughters alive; nay, some of them feasted on dead carcasses and drank blood, while others slew their relations, and thought themselves great and valiant when, by such an act, they became possessed of more property. They were clothed with hair garments, knew not good from evil, and made no distinction between that which is lawful and that which is unlawful. Such was our state. But God in his mercy has sent us by a holy prophet a sacred volume, which teaches us the true faith," &c.] [Footnote 8: Hallam, Middle Ages, ii. 165.] Such is a slight sketch of the religion which Mohammed substituted for the idolatry of Arabia. It contained little that was original; all its details of the future state were borrowed from Judaism or from the Magian system of Persia. The book which contains it, entitled the Koran (_reading_), was composed in detached pieces, during a long series of years, by the _illiterate_ Prophet, and taken down from his lips by his scribes. His own account of its origin was that each Sura, or revelation, was brought to him from heaven by the angel Gabriel. It is regarded by the Mohammedan East, and by most European Orientalists, as the masterpiece of Arabian literature; and when we make due allowance for the difference of European and Arabian models and taste, and consider that the rhyme[9] which in prose is insufferable to the former, may to the latter sound grateful, we may allow that the praises lavished on it are not unmerited. Though tedious and often childish legends, and long and tiresome civil regulations, occupy the greater part of it, it is pervaded by a fine strain of fervid piety and humble resignation to the will of God, not unworthy of the inspired seers of Israel; and the sublime doctrine of the Unity of God runs like a vein of pure gold through each portion of the mass, giving lustre and dignity to all. Might we not venture to say that Christianity itself has derived advantage from the imposture of Mohammed, and that the clear and open profession of the Divine Unity by their Mohammedan enemies kept the Christians of the dark ages from smothering it beneath the mass of superstition and fable by which they corrupted and deformed so much of the majestic simplicity of the Gospel? No one, certainly, would dream of comparing the son of Abd-Allah with the Son of God, of setting darkness by the side of light; but still we may confess him to have been an agent in the hands of the Almighty, and admit that his assumption of the prophetic office was productive of good as well as of evil. [Footnote 9: The Hebrews, as appears from the poetic parts of the Scriptures, had the same delight in the clang of rhyme as the Arabs. See particularly Isaiah in the original.] The Mohammedan religion is so intimately connected with history, law, manners, and opinions, in the part of the East of which we are about to write, that this brief view of its origin and nature was indispensable. We now proceed to our history. CHAPTER II. Origin of the Khalifat--The first Khalifs--Extent of the Arabian Empire--Schism among the Mohammedans--Soonees and Sheähs--Sects of the latter--The Keissanee--The Zeidites--The Ghoollat--The Imamee--Sects of the Imamee--Their political Character--The Carmathites--Origin of the Fatimite Khalifs--Secret Society at Cairo--Doctrines taught in it--Its Decline. The civil and ecclesiastical dignities were united in the person of Mohammed. As Emir (_prince_) he administered justice and led his followers to battle; as Imam (_director_) he on every Friday (the Mohammedan sabbath) taught the principles and duties of religion from his pulpit. Though his wives were numerous, the Prophet had no male issue surviving at the time when he felt the approaches of death; but his daughter Fatima was married to his cousin Ali, his early and faithful disciple, and it was naturally to be expected that the expiring voice of the Prophet would nominate him as his Khalif (_successor_) over the followers of his faith. But Ayesha, the daughter of Aboo Bekr, Mohammed's youthful and best beloved wife, was vehemently hostile to the son of Aboo Talib, and she may have exerted all the influence of a revengeful woman over the mind of the dying Prophet. Or perhaps Mohammed, like Alexander, perplexed with the extent of dominion to which he had attained, and aware that only a vigour of character similar to his own would avail to retain and enlarge it, and, it may be, thinking himself answerable to God for the choice he should make, deemed it the safest course to leave the matter to the free decision of his surviving followers. His appointing Aboo Bekr, a few days before his death, to officiate in his pulpit, might seem to indicate an intention of conferring the khalifat on him; and he is said to have at one time declared that the strength of character displayed by his distinguished follower, Omar, evinced his possession of the virtues of a prophet and a khalif. Tradition records no equally strong declaration respecting the mild and virtuous Ali. At all events the Prophet expired without having named a successor, and the choice devolving on his companions dissension was ready to break out, when Omar, abandoning his own claims, gave his voice for Aboo Bekr. All opposition was thus silenced, and the father of Ayesha reigned for two years over the faithful. Ali at first refused obedience, but he finally acknowledged the successor of the Prophet. When dying, Aboo Bekr bequeathed the sceptre to Omar, as the worthiest, and when, twelve years afterwards, Omar perished by the dagger of an assassin, six electors conferred the vacant dignity on Othman, who had been the secretary of the Prophet. Age having enfeebled the powers of Othman, the reins of authority were slackened, and a spirit of discord pervaded all Arabia, illustrative of the Prophet's declaration of vigour being essential to a khalif. A numerous body of rebels besieged the aged Othman in Medina, and he was slain, holding the Koran in his lap, by a band of murderers, headed by the brother of Ayesha, who, the firebrand of Islam, it is probable had been secretly active in exciting the rebellion. The popular choice now fell upon Ali, but the implacable Ayesha stimulated to revolt against his authority two powerful Arab chiefs, named Telha and Zobeir, who raised their standards in the province of Arabian Irak. Ayesha, mounted on a camel, appeared in the thickest of the battle, in which the rebel chiefs were defeated and slain. The generous Ali sent her to dwell at the tomb of the Prophet, where she passed in tranquillity the remainder of her days. The khalif himself was less fortunate. Moawiya, the Governor of Syria, son of Aboo Sofian, the most violent of the opponents of the Prophet, assumed the office of the avenger of Othman, whose death he charged on Ali and his party, and, declaring himself to be the rightful khalif, roused Syria to arms against the Prophet's son-in-law. In the war success was on the side of Ali, till the superstition of his troops obliged him to agree to a treaty; and shortly afterwards he was murdered by a fanatic in the mosk of Coofa. His son Hassan was induced by Moawiya to resign his claims and retire to the city of Medina; but his more high-spirited brother, Hussein, took arms against the khalif Yezid, the son of Moawiya; and the narrative of his death is one of the most pathetic and best related incidents of Oriental history[10]. The sisters and children of Hussein were spared by the clemency of the victorious Yezid, and from them descend a numerous race, glorying in the blood of Ali and the Prophet. [Footnote 10: See Ockley's History of the Saracens.] The Arabian empire was now of immense extent. Egypt, Syria, and Persia had been conquered in the reign of Omar. Under the first khalifs of the dynasty of the Ommiades (so called from Ommiyah, the great-grandfather of Moawiya), the conquest of Africa and Spain was achieved, and the later princes of this family ruled over the most extensive empire of the world. The great schism of the Mohammedan church (we must be permitted to employ this term, the only one our language affords) commences with the accession of the house of Ommiyah. The Mohammedans have, as is generally known, been from that time to the present day divided into two great sects, the Soonees and the Sheähs, the orthodox and the dissenters, as we might venture to call them, whose opposite doctrines, like those of the Catholics and the Protestants of the Christian church, are each the established faith of great and independent nations. The Ottoman and the Usbeg Turks hold the Soonee faith; the Persians are violent Sheähs; and national and religious animosity concur in making them the determined and inveterate foes of each other. The Soonees hold that the first four khalifs were all legitimate successors of the Prophet; but as their order was determined by their degree of sanctity, they assign the lowest rank to Ali. The Sheähs, on the contrary, maintain that the dignity of the Prophet rightfully descended to the son of his uncle and the husband of his daughter. They therefore regard Aboo Bekr, Omar, and Othman, as usurpers, and curse and revile their memory, more especially that of the rigid Omar, whose murderer they venerate as a saint. It must be steadily kept in mind, in every discussion respecting the Mohammedan religion, that Mohammed and his successors succeeded in establishing what the lofty and capacious mind of Gregory VII. attempted in vain--the union of the civil and ecclesiastical powers in the same person. Unlike the schisms of the eastern and western, of the Catholic and Protestant churches, which originated in difference of opinion on points of discipline or matters of doctrine, that of the Mohammedans arose solely from ambition and the struggle for temporal power. The sceptre of the greatest empire of the world was to be the reward of the party who could gain the greatest number of believers in his right to grasp the staff and ascend the pulpit of the Prophet of God. Afterwards, when the learning of the Greeks and the Persians became familiar to the Arabs, theological and metaphysical niceties and distinctions were introduced, and the two great stems of religion threw out numerous sectarian branches. The Soonees are divided into four main sects, all of which are, however, regarded as orthodox, for they agree in the main points, though they differ in subordinate ones. The division of the Sheähs is also into four sects, the point of agreement being the assertion of the right of Ali and his descendants to the imamat, or supreme ecclesiastical dignity; the point of difference being the nature of the proof on which his rights are founded, and the order of succession among his descendants. These four sects and their opinions are as follows:-- I. The first and most innocuous of the sects which maintained the rights of the family of Ali were the Keissanee, so named from Keissan, one of his freed-men. These, who were subdivided into several branches, held that Ali's rights descended, not to Hassan or Hussein, but to their brother, Mohammed-ben-Hanfee. One of these branch-sects maintained that the imamat _remained_[11] in the person of this Mohammed, who had never died, but had since appeared, from time to time, on earth, under various names. Another branch, named the Hashemites, held that the imamat descended from Mohammed-ben-Hanfee to his son Aboo-Hashem, who transmitted it to Mohammed, of the family of Abbas, from whom it descended to Saffah, the founder of the Abbasside dynasty of khalifs[12]. It is quite evident that the object of this sect was to give a colour to the claims of the family of Abbas, who stigmatized the family of Ommiyah as usurpers, and insisted that the khalifat belonged of right to themselves. Aboo-Moslem, the great general who first gave dominion to the family of Abbas, was a real or pretended maintainer of the tenets of this sect, the only branch, by the way, of the Sheähs which supported the house of Abbas. [Footnote 11: Hence they were named the Standing (_Wakfiyah_).] [Footnote 12: Abbas, the ancestor of this family, was one of the uncles of the Prophet. They obtained possession of the khalifat A.D. 750, and retained it through an hereditary succession of princes for 500 years. Al-Mansoor, the second khalif of this dynasty, transferred the royal residence from Damascus, where the Ommiades had dwelt, to Bagdad, which he founded on the banks of the Tigris. This city, also named the City of Peace, the Vale of Peace, the House of Peace, has acquired, beyond what any other town can claim, a degree of romantic celebrity by means of the inimitable Thousand and One Nights. Such is the ennobling power of genius!] II. A second branch of the Sheähs was named Zeidites. These held that the imamat descended through Hassan and Hussein to Zein-al-Abedeen, the son of this last, and thence passed to Zeid (whence their name), the son of Zein; whereas most other Sheähs regarded Mohammed Bakir, the brother of Zeid, as the lawful imam. The Zeidites differed from the other Sheähs in acknowledging the three first khalifs to have been legitimate successors of the Prophet. Edris, who wrested a part of Africa from the Abbasside khalifs, and founded the kingdom of Fez, was a real or pretended descendant of Zeid. III. The Ghoollat (_Ultras_), so named from the extravagance of their doctrines, which, passing all bounds of common sense, were held in equal abomination by the other Sheähs and by the Soonees. This sect is said to have existed as early as the time of Ali himself, who is related to have burnt some of them on account of their impious and extravagant opinions. They held, as we are told, that there was but one imam, and they ascribed the qualities of divinity to Ali. Some maintained that there were two natures (the divine and the human) in him, others that the last alone was his. Some again said that this perfect nature of Ali passed by transmigration through his descendants, and would continue so to do till the end of all things; others that the transmission stopped with Mohammed Bakir, the son of Zein-al-Abedeen, who still abode on earth, but unseen, like Khizer, the Guardian of the Well of Life, according to the beautiful eastern legend[13]. Others, still more bold, denied the transmission, and asserted that the divine Ali sat enthroned in the clouds, where the thunder was the voice and the lightning the scourge wherewith he terrified and chastised the wicked. This sect presents the first (though a very early) instance of the introduction into Islam of that mysticism which appears to have had its original birth-place in the dreamy groves of India. As a political party the Ghoollat never seem to have been formidable. [Footnote 13: Khizer, by some supposed, but perhaps erroneously, to be the prophet Elias, is regarded by the Mohammedans in the light of a beneficent genius. He is the giver of youth to the animal and the vegetable world. He is clad in garments of the most brilliant green, and he stands as keeper of the Well of Life in the Land of Darkness. According to the romances of the East, Iskander, that is, Alexander the Great, resolved to march into the West, to the Land of Darkness, that he might drink of the water of immortality. During seven entire days he and his followers journeyed through dark and dismal deserts. At length they faintly discerned in the distance the green light which shone from the raiment of Khizer. As they advanced it became more and more resplendent, like the brightest and purest emeralds. As the monarch approached, Khizer dipped a cup in the verdant Water of Life, and reached it to him; but the impatience of Iskander was so great that he spilt the contents of the cup, and the law of fate did not permit the guardian of the fount to fill it for him again. The moral of this tale is evident. Its historic foundation is the journey of the Macedonian to the temple of Ammon.] IV. Such, however, was not the case with the Imamee, the most dangerous enemies of the house of Abbas. Agreeing with the Ghoollat in the doctrine of an _invisible_ imam, they maintained that there had been a series of _visible_ imams antecedent to him, who had vanished. One branch of this sect (thence called the Seveners--_Sebiïn_) closed the series with Ismaïl, the grandson of Mohammed Bakir, the _seventh_ imam, reckoning Ali himself the first. These were also called Ismaïlites, from Ismaïl. The other branch, called Imamites, continued the series from Ismaïl, through his brother Moosa Casim, down to Askeree, the twelfth imam. These were hence called the Twelvers (_Esnaashree_). They believed that the imam Askeree had vanished in a cavern at Hilla, on the banks of the Euphrates, where he would remain invisible till the end of the world, when he would again appear under the name of the Guide (_Mehdee_) to lead mankind into the truth. The Imamee, wherever they might stop in the series of the visible imams, saw that, for their political purposes, it was necessary to acknowledge a kind of _locum tenentes_ imams; but, while the Zeidites, who agreed with them in this point, required in these princes the royal virtues of valour, generosity, justice, knowledge, the Imamee declared themselves satisfied if they possessed the saintly ones of the practice of prayer, fasting, and alms-giving. Hence artful and ambitious men could set up any puppet who was said to be descended from the last of the visible imams, and aspire to govern the Mohammedan world in his name. The Twelvers were very near obtaining possession of the khalifat in the time of the first Abbassides; for the celebrated Haroon Er-Rasheed's son, Al-Mamoon, the eighth khalif of that house, moved either by the strength or preponderance which the Sheäh party had arrived at, or, as the eastern historians tell us, yielding to the suggestions of his vizir, who was devoted to that sect, named Ali Riza, the eighth imam, to be his successor on the throne. He even laid aside the black habiliments peculiar to his family, and wore green, the colour of Ali and the Prophet. But the family of Abbas, which now numbered 30,000 persons, refused their assent to this renunciation of the rights of their line. They rose in arms, and proclaimed as khalif Al-Mamoon's uncle Ibrahim. The obnoxious vizir perished, and the opportune death of Ali Riza (by poison, as was said) relieved the son of Haroon Er-Rasheed from embarrassment. Ali Riza was interred at Meshed, in the province of Khorasan; and his tomb is, to the present day, a place of pilgrimage for devout Persians[14]. [Footnote 14: See Frazer's Khorasan.] The Ismaïlites were more successful in their attempts at obtaining temporal power; and, as we shall presently see, a considerable portion of their dominions was wrested from the house of Abbas. Religion has, in all ages, and in all parts of the world, been made the mask of ambition, for which its powerful influence over the minds of the ignorant so well qualifies it. But the political influence of religion among the calmer and more reasoning nations of Europe is slight compared with its power over the more ardent and susceptible natives of Asia. Owing to the effects of this principle the despotism of the East has never been of that still, undisturbed nature which we might suppose to be its character. To say nothing of the bloody wars and massacres which have taken place under the pretext of religion in the countries from Japan to the Indus, the Mohammedan portion of the East has been, almost without ceasing, the theatre of sanguinary dramas, where ambition, under the disguise of religion, sought for empire; and our own days have seen, in the case of the Wahabees, a bold though unsuccessful attempt of fanaticism to achieve a revolution in a part of the Ottoman empire. It was this union of religion with policy which placed the Suffavee family on the throne of Persia in the fifteenth century; and it was this also which, at a much earlier period, established the dominion of the Fatimite khalifs of Egypt. The progress of this last event is thus traced by oriental historians[15]:-- [Footnote 15: Lari and Macrisi, quoted by Hammer.] The encouragement given to literature and science by the enlightened Al-Mamoon had diffused a degree of boldness of speculation and inquiry hitherto unknown in the empire of the Arabs. The subtile philosophy of the Greeks was now brought into contact with the sublime but corrupted theology of the Persians, and the mysticism of India secretly mingled itself with the mass of knowledge. We are not, perhaps, to give credit to the assertion of the Arab historian that it was the secret and settled plan of the Persians to undermine and corrupt the religion, and thus sap the empire, of those who had overcome them in the field; but it is not a little remarkable that, as the transformation of the Mosaic religion into Judaism may be traced to Persia, and as the same country sent forth the monstrous opinions which corrupted the simplicity of the Gospel, so it is in Persia that we find the origin of most of the sects which have sprung up in Islam. Without agreeing with those who would derive all knowledge from India, it may be held not improbable that the intricate metaphysics and mysticism of that country have been the source of much of the corruption of the various religions which have prevailed in Cis-Indian Asia. It is at least remarkable that the north-east of Persia, the part nearest to India, has been the place where many of the impostors who pretended to intercourse with the Deity made their appearance. It was here that Mani (_Manes_), the head of the Manichæans, displayed his arts, and it was in Khorasan (_Sun-land_) that Hakem, who gave himself out for an incarnation of the Deity, raised the standard of revolt against the house of Abbas. But, be this as it may, on surveying the early centuries of Islam, we may observe that all the rebellions which agitated the empire of the khalifs arose from a union of the claims of the family of Ali with the philosophical doctrines current in Persia. We are told that, in the ninth century of the Christian era, Abdallah, a man of Persian lineage, residing at Ahwaz, in the south of Persia, conceived the design of overturning the empire of the khalifs by secretly introducing into Islam a system of atheism and impiety. Not to shock deep-rooted prejudices in favour of the established religion and government, he resolved to communicate his doctrines gradually, and he fixed on the mystic number seven as that of the degrees through which his disciples should pass to the grand revelation of the vanity of all religions and the indifference of all actions. The political cloak of his system was the assertion of the claims of the descendants of Mohammed, the son of Ismaïl, to the imamat, and his missionaries (_dais_) engaged with activity in the task of making proselytes throughout the empire of the khalifs. Abdallah afterwards removed to Syria, where he died. His son and grandsons followed up his plans, and in their time a convert was made who speedily brought the system into active operation[16]. [Footnote 16: Macrisi is Hammer's authority for the preceding account of Abdallah. It is to be observed that this Abdallah is unnoticed by Herbelot.] The name of this person was Carmath, a native of the district of Koofa, and from him the sect was called Carmathites. He made great alterations in the original system of Abdallah; and as the sect was now grown numerous and powerful, he resolved to venture on putting the claims of the descendants of Ismaïl to the test of the sword. He maintained that the indefeasible right to earthly dominion lay with what he styled the imam Maässoom (_spotless_), a sort of ideal of a perfect prince, like the wise man of the Stoics; consequently all the reigning princes were usurpers, by reason of their vices and imperfections; and the warriors of the perfect prince were to precipitate them all, without distinction, from their thrones. Carmath also taught his disciples to understand the precepts and observances of Islam in a figurative sense. Prayer signified obedience to the imam Maässoom, alms-giving was paying the tithe due to him (that is, augmenting the funds of the society), fasting was keeping the political secrets relating to the imam and his service. It was not the tenseel, or outward word of the Koran, which was to be attended to; the taweel, or exposition, was alone worthy of note. Like those of Mokanna, and other opponents of the house of Abbas, the followers of Carmath distinguished themselves by wearing white raiment to mark their hostility to the reigning khalifs, whose garments and standards retained the black hue which they had displayed against the white banners of the house of Ommiyah. A bloody war was renewed at various periods during an entire century between the followers of Carmath and the troops of the khalifs, with varying success. In the course of this war the holy city of Mecca was taken by the sectaries (as it has been of late years by the Wahabees), after the fall of 30,000 Moslems in its defence. The celebrated black stone was taken and conveyed in triumph to Hajar, where it remained for two-and-twenty years, till it was redeemed for 50,000 ducats by the emir of Irak, and replaced in its original seat. Finally, like so many of their predecessors, the Carmathites were vanquished by the yet vigorous power of the empire, and their name, though not their principles, was extinguished. During this period of contest between the house of Abbas and the Carmathites, a dai (_missionary_) of the latter, named Abdallah, contrived to liberate from the prison into which he had been thrown by the khalif Motadhad a real or pretended descendant of Fatima, named Obeid-Allah[17], whom he conveyed to Africa, and, proclaiming him to be the promised Mehdi (_guide_), succeeded in establishing for him a dominion on the north coast of that country. The gratitude of Obeid-Allah was shown by his putting to death him to whom he was indebted for his power; but talent and valour can exist without the presence of virtue, and Obeid-Allah and his two next descendants extended their sway to the shores of the Atlantic. Moez-ladin-Allah, his great-grandson, having achieved the conquest of Egypt and Syria, wisely abandoned his former more distant dominions along the coast of the Mediterranean, his eye being fixed on the more valuable Asiatic empire of the Abbassides. This dynasty of Fatimite khalifs, as they were called, reigned during two centuries at Cairo, on the Nile, the foes and rivals of those who sat in Bagdad, on the banks of the Tigris. Like every other eastern dynasty, they gradually sank into impotence and imbecility, and their throne was finally occupied by the renowned Koord Saladin. [Footnote 17: The genuineness of the descent of Obeid-Allah has been a great subject of dispute among the eastern historians and jurists. Those in the interests of the house of Abbas strained every nerve to make him out an impostor.] Obeid-Allah derived his pedigree from Ismaïl, the seventh imam. His house, therefore, looked to the support of the whole sect of the Seveners, or Ismaïlites, in their projects for extending their sway over the Mohammedan world; and it was evidently their interest to increase the numbers and power of that sect as much as possible. We are accordingly justified in giving credit to the assurances of the eastern historians, that there was a secret institution at Cairo, at the head of which was the Fatimite khalif, and of which the object was the dissemination of the doctrines of the sect of the Ismaïlites, though we may be allowed to hesitate as to the correctness of some of the details. This society, we are told, comprised both men and women, who met in separate assemblies, for the common supposition of the insignificance of the latter sex in the east is erroneous. It was presided over by the chief missionary (Dai-al-Doat[18]), who was always a person of importance in the state, and not unfrequently supreme judge (_Kadhi-al-kodhat_[19]). Their assemblies, called Societies of Wisdom (_Mejalis-al-hicmet_), were held twice a-week, on Mondays and Wednesdays. All the members appeared clad in white. The president, having first waited on the khalif, and read to him the intended lecture, or, if that could not be done, having gotten his signature on the back of it, proceeded to the assembly and delivered a written discourse. At the conclusion of it those present kissed his hand and reverently touched with their forehead the hand-writing of the khalif. In this state the society continued till the reign of that extraordinary madman the khalif Hakem-bi-emr-illah (_Judge by the command of God_), who determined to place it on a splendid footing. He erected for it a stately edifice, styled the House of Wisdom (_Dar-al-hicmet_), abundantly furnished with books and mathematical instruments. Its doors were open to all, and paper, pens, and ink were profusely supplied for the use of those who chose to frequent it. Professors of law, mathematics, logic, and medicine were appointed to give instructions; and at the learned disputations which were frequently held in presence of the khalif, these professors appeared in their state caftans (_Khalaä_), which, it is said, exactly resembled the robes worn at the English universities. The income assigned to this establishment, by the munificence of the khalif, was 257,000 ducats annually, arising from the tenths paid to the crown. [Footnote 18: That is, _Missionary of Missionaries_.] [Footnote 19: _Cadhi of Cadhis._] The course of instruction in this university proceeded, according to Macrisi, by the following nine degrees:--1. The object of the first, which was long and tedious, was to infuse doubts and difficulties into the mind of the aspirant, and to lead him to repose a blind confidence in the knowledge and wisdom of his teacher. To this end he was perplexed with captious questions; the absurdities of the literal sense of the Koran, and its repugnance to reason, were studiously pointed out, and dark hints were given that beneath this shell lay a kernel sweet to the taste and nutritive to the soul. But all further information was most rigorously withheld till he had consented to bind himself by a most solemn oath to absolute faith and blind obedience to his instructor. 2. When he had taken the oath he was admitted to the second degree, which inculcated the acknowledgment of the imams appointed by God as the sources of all knowledge. 3. The third degree informed him what was the number of these blessed and holy imams; and this was the mystic seven; for, as God had made seven heavens, seven earths, seas, planets, metals, tones, and colours, so seven was the number of these noblest of God's creatures. 4. In the fourth degree the pupil learned that God had sent _seven_ lawgivers into the world, each of whom was commissioned to alter and improve the system of his predecessor; that each of these had _seven_ helpers, who appeared in the interval between him and his successor; these helpers, as they did not appear as public teachers, were called the mute (_samit_), in contradistinction to the _speaking_ lawgivers. The seven lawgivers were Adam, Noah, Abraham, Moses, Jesus, Mohammed, and Ismaïl, the son of Jaaffer; the seven principal helpers, called Seats (_soos_), were Seth, Shem, Ishmael (the son of Abraham), Aaron, Simon, Ali, and Mohammed, the son of Ismaïl. It is justly observed[20] that, as this last personage was not more than a century dead, the teacher had it in his power to fix on whom he would as the mute prophet of the present time, and inculcate the belief in, and obedience to, him of all who had not got beyond this degree. 5. The fifth degree taught that each of the seven mute prophets had twelve apostles for the dissemination of his faith. The suitableness of this number was also proved by analogy. There are twelve signs of the zodiac, twelve months, twelve tribes of Israel, twelve joints in the four fingers of each hand, and so forth. 6. The pupil being led thus far, and having shown no symptoms of restiveness, the precepts of the Koran were once more brought under consideration, and he was told that all the positive portions of religion must be subordinate to philosophy. He was consequently instructed in the systems of Plato and Aristotle during a long space of time; and (7), when esteemed fully qualified, he was admitted to the seventh degree, when instruction was communicated in that mystic Pantheism which is held and taught by the sect of the Soofees. 8. The positive precepts of religion were again considered, the veil was torn from the eyes of the aspirant, all that had preceded was now declared to have been merely scaffolding to raise the edifice of knowledge, and was to be flung down. Prophets and teachers, heaven and hell, all were nothing; future bliss and misery were idle dreams; all actions were permitted. 9. The ninth degree had only to inculcate that nought was to be believed, everything might be done[21]. [Footnote 20: Hammer, p. 54.] [Footnote 21: Mr. De Sacy (_Journal des Savans_, an 1818) is of opinion that the Arabic words _Taleel_ and _Ibahat_ will not bear the strong sense which Hammer gives them. The former, he says, only signifies that Deism which regards the Deity as merely a speculative being, and annihilates the moral relations between him and the creature; the latter only denotes emancipation from the positive precepts of laws, such as fasting, prayer, &c., but not from moral obligations.] In perusing the accounts of secret societies, their rules, regulations, degrees, and the quantity or nature of the knowledge communicated in them, a difficulty must always present itself. Secrecy being of the very essence of everything connected with them, what means had writers, who were generally hostile to them, of learning their internal constitution and the exact nature of their maxims and tenets? In the present case our authority for this account of a society which chiefly flourished in the tenth and eleventh centuries is Macrisi, a writer of the fifteenth century. His authorities were doubtless of more ancient date, but we know not who they were or whence they derived their information. Perhaps our safest course in this, as in similar cases, would be to admit the general truth of the statement, but to suffer our minds to remain in a certain degree of suspense as to the accuracy of the details. We can thus at once assent to the fact of the existence of the college at Cairo, and of the mystic tenets of Soofeeism being taught in it, as also to that of the rights of the Fatimites to the khalifat being inculcated on the minds of the pupils, and missionaries being thence sent over the east, without yielding implicit credence to the tale of the nine degrees through which the aspirant had to pass, or admitting that the course of instruction terminated in a doctrine subversive of all religion and of all morality. As we have seen, the Dai-al-doat, or chief missionary, resided at Cairo, to direct the operations of the society, while the subordinate dais pervaded all parts of the dominions of the house of Abbas, making converts to the claims of Ali. The dais were attended by companions (_Refeek_), who were persons who had been instructed up to a certain point in the secret doctrines, but who were neither to presume to teach nor to seek to make converts, that honour being reserved to the dais. By the activity of the dais the society spread so widely that in the year 1058 the emir Bessassiri, who belonged to it, made himself master of Bagdad, and kept possession of it during an entire year, and had money struck, and prayer made, in the name of the Egyptian khalif. The emir, however, fell by the sword of Toghrul the Turk, whose aid the feeble Abbasside implored, and these two distinguishing acts of Mohammedan sovereignty were again performed by the house of Abbas. Soon afterwards the society at Cairo seems to have declined along with the power of the Fatimite khalifs. In 1123 the powerful vizir Afdhal, on occasion of some disturbance caused by them, shut up the Dar-al-hicmet, or, as it would appear, destroyed it. His successor Mamoon permitted the society to hold their meetings in a building erected in another situation, and it lingered on till the fall of the khalifat of Egypt. The policy of Afdhal is perhaps best to be explained by a reference to the state of the East at that time. The khalif of Bagdad was become a mere pageant devoid of all real power; the former dominions of the house of Abbas were in the hands of the Seljookian Turks; the Franks were masters of a great part of Syria, and threatened Egypt, where the khalifs were also fallen into incapacity, and the real power had passed to the vizir. As this last could aspire to nothing beyond preserving Egypt, a society instituted for the purpose of gaining partisans to the claims of the Fatimites must have been rather an impediment to him than otherwise. He must therefore have been inclined to suppress it, especially as the society of the Assassins, a branch of it, had now been instituted, which, heedless of the claims of the Fatimites, sought dominion for itself alone. To the history of that remarkable association we now proceed. CHAPTER III. Ali of Rei--His son Hassan Sabah--Hassan sent to study at Nishaboor--Meets there Omar Khiam and Nizam-al-Moolk--Agreement made by them--Hassan introduced by Nizam to Sultan Malek Shah--Obliged to leave the Court--Anecdote of him--His own account of his Conversion--Goes to Egypt--Returns to Persia--Makes himself Master of Alamoot. There was a man named Ali, who resided in the city of Rei, in Persia. He was a strenuous Sheäh, and maintained that his family had originally come from Koofa, in Arabia; but the people of Khorasan asserted that his family had always dwelt in one of the villages near Toos, in that province, and that consequently his pretensions to an Arabian extraction were false. Ali, it would appear, was anxious to conceal his opinions, and employed the strongest asseverations to convince the governor of the province, a rigid Soonite, of his orthodoxy, and finally retired into a monastery to pass the remainder of his days in meditation. As a further means of clearing himself from the charge of heresy he sent his only son Hassan Sabah[22] to Nishaboor to be instructed by the celebrated imam Mowafek, who resided at that place. What lessons he may have given the young Hassan previously to parting with him, and what communication he may have afterwards kept up with him, are points on which history is silent. [Footnote 22: Or Hassan-ben-Sabah (_son of Sabah_), so named from Sabah Homairi, one of his pretended Arabian ancestors.] The fame of the imam Mowafek was great over all Persia, and it was currently believed that those who had the good fortune to study the Koran and the Soonna[23] under him were secure of their fortune in after-life. His school was consequently thronged by youths ambitious of knowledge and future distinction; and here Hassan met, and formed a strict intimacy with, Omar Khiam, afterwards so distinguished as a poet and an astronomer, and with Nizam-al-Moolk (_Regulation of the Realm_), who became vizir to the monarchs of the house of Seljook. This last, in a history which he wrote of himself and his times, relates the following instance of the early development of the ambition of Hassan. As these three, who were the most distinguished pupils of the imam, were one day together, "It is the general opinion," said Hassan, "that the pupils of the imam are certain of being fortunate. This opinion may be verified in one of us. So come, let us pledge ourselves to one another that he who shall be successful will make the other two sharers in his good fortune." His two companions readily assented, and the promise was mutually given and received. [Footnote 23: The Soonna is the body of traditions, answering to the Mishua of the Jews, held by the orthodox Mussulmans.] Nizam-al-Moolk entered the path of politics, where his talents and his noble qualities had free course, and he rose through the various gradations of office, till at length he attained the highest post in the realm, the viziriate, under Alp Arslan (_Strong Lion_), the second monarch of the house of Seljook. When thus exalted he forgot not his former friends; and calling to mind the promise which he had made, he received with great kindness Omar Khiam, who waited on him to congratulate him on his elevation; and he offered at once to employ all his interest to procure him a post under the government. But Omar, who was devoted to Epicurean indulgences, and averse from toil and care, thanking his friend, declined his proffered services; and all that the vizir could prevail on him to accept was an annual pension of 1,200 ducats on the revenues of Nishaboor, whither he retired to spend his days in ease and tranquillity. The case was different with Hassan. During the ten years' reign of Alp Arslan he kept aloof from the vizir, living in obscurity, and probably maturing his plans for the future. But when the young prince Malek Shah (_King King_) mounted the throne he saw that his time was come. He suddenly appeared at the court of the new monarch, and waited on the powerful vizir. The story is thus told by the vizir himself in his work entitled Wasaya (_Political Institutes_), whence it is given by Mirkhond. "He came to me at Nishaboor in the year that Malek Shah, having got rid of Kaward, had quieted the troubles which his rebellion had caused. I received him with the greatest honours, and performed, on my part, all that could be expected from a man who is a faithful observer of his oaths, and a slave to the engagements which he has contracted. Each day I gave him a new proof of my friendship, and I endeavoured to satisfy his desires. He said to me once, 'Khojah (_master_), you are of the number of the learned and the virtuous; you know that the goods of this world are but an enjoyment of little duration. Do you then think that you will be permitted to fail in your engagements by letting yourself be seduced by the attractions of greatness and the love of the world? and will you be of the number of _those who violate the contract made with God_?' 'Heaven keep me from it!' replied I. 'Though you heap honours upon me,' continued he, 'and though you pour upon me benefits without number, you cannot be ignorant that that is not the way to perform what we once pledged ourselves to respecting each other.' 'You are right,' said I; 'and I am ready to satisfy you in what I promised. All that I possess of honour and power, received from my fathers or acquired by myself, belongs to you in common with me.' I then introduced him into the society of the sultan, I assigned him a rank and suitable titles, and I related to the prince all that had formerly passed between him and me. I spoke in terms of such praise of the extent of his knowledge, of his excellent qualities, and his good morals, that he obtained the rank of minister and of a confidential man. But he was, like his father, an impostor, a hypocrite, one who knew how to impose, and a wretch. He so well possessed the art of covering himself with an exterior of probity and virtue that in a little time he completely gained the mind of the sultan, and inspired him with such confidence that that prince blindly followed his advice in most of those affairs of a greater and more important nature which required good faith and sincerity, and he was always decided by his opinion. I have said all this to let it be seen that it was I who had raised him to this fortune, and yet, by an effect of his bad character, there came quarrels between the sultan and me, the unpleasant result of which had like to have been that the good reputation and favour which I had enjoyed for so many years were near going into dust and being annihilated; for at last his malignity broke out on a sudden, and the effects of his jealousy showed themselves in the most terrible manner in his actions and in his words." In fact, Hassan played the part of a treacherous friend. Everything that occurred in the divan was carefully reported to the sultan, and the worst construction put upon it, and hints of the incapacity and dishonesty of the vizir were thrown out on the fitting occasions. The vizir himself has left us an account of what he considered the worst trick which his old schoolfellow attempted to play him. The sultan, it seems, wishing to see a clear and regular balance-sheet of the revenues and expenditure of his empire, directed Nizam-al-Moolk to prepare it. The vizir required a space of more than a year for the accomplishment of the task. Hassan deemed this a good opportunity for distinguishing himself, and boldly offered to do what the sultan demanded in forty days, not more than one-tenth of the time required by the vizir. All the clerks in the finance department were immediately placed at the disposal of Hassan; and the vizir himself confesses that at the end of the forty days the accounts were ready to be laid before the sultan. But, just when we might expect to see Hassan in triumph, and enjoying the highest favour of the monarch, we find him leaving the court in disgrace and vowing revenge on the sultan and his minister. This circumstance is left unexplained by the Ornament of the Realm, who however acknowledges, with great _naïveté_, that, if Hassan had not been obliged to fly, he should have left the court himself. But other historians inform us that the vizir, apprehensive of the consequences, had recourse to art, and contrived to have some of Hassan's papers stolen, so that, when the latter presented himself before the sultan, full of hope and pride, and commenced his statement, he found himself obliged to stop for want of some of his most important documents. As he could not account for this confusion, the sultan became enraged at the apparent attempt to deceive him, and Hassan was forthwith obliged to retire from court with precipitation. Nizam-al-Moolk determined to keep no measures with a man who had thus sought his ruin, and he resolved to destroy him. Hassan fled to Rei, but, not thinking himself safe there, he went further south, and took refuge with his friend the reis[24] Aboo-'l-Fazl (_Father of Excellence_), at Isfahan. What his plans may have hitherto been is uncertain; but now they seem to have assumed a definite form, and he unceasingly meditated on the means of avenging himself on the sultan and his minister. In consultation one day with Aboo-'l-Fazl, who appears to have adopted his speculative tenets, after he had poured out his complaints against the vizir and his master, he concluded by passionately saying, "Oh that I had but two faithful friends at my devotion! soon should I overthrow the Turk and the peasant," meaning the sultan and the vizir. Aboo-'l-Fazl, who was one of the most clear-headed men of his time, and who still did not comprehend the long-sighted views of Hassan, began to fancy that disappointment had deranged the intellect of his friend, and, believing that reasoning would in such a case be useless, commenced giving him at his meals aromatic drinks and dishes prepared with saffron, in order to relieve his brain. Hassan perceived what his kind host was about, and resolved to leave him. Aboo-'l-Fazl in vain employed all his eloquence to induce him to prolong his visit; Hassan departed, and shortly afterwards set out for Egypt. [Footnote 24: _Reis_, from the Arabic Râs (_the head_), answers in some respects to _captain_, a word of similar origin. Thus the master of a shin is called the Reis. Sir John Malcolm says, "it is equivalent to _esquire_, as it was originally understood. It implies in Persia the possession of landed estates and some magisterial power. The reis is in general the hereditary head of a village."] Twenty years afterwards, when Hassan had accomplished all he had projected, when the sultan and the vizir were both dead, and the society of the Assassins was fully organized, the reis Aboo-'l-Fazl, who was one of his most zealous partisans, visited him at his hill-fort of Alamoot. "Well, reis," said Hassan, "which of us was the madman? did you or I stand most in need of the aromatic drinks and the dishes prepared with saffron which you used to have served up at Isfahan? You see that I kept my word as soon as I had found two trusty friends." When Hassan left Isfahan, in the year 1078, the khalif Mostanser, a man of some energy, occupied the throne of Egypt, and considerable exertions were made by the missionaries of the society at Cairo to gain proselytes throughout Asia. Among these proselytes was Hassan Sabah, and the following account of his conversion, which has fortunately been preserved in his own words, is interesting, as affording a proof that, like Cromwell, and, as we have supposed, Mohammed, and all who have attained to temporal power by means of religion, he commenced in sincerity, and was deceived himself before he deceived others. "From my childhood," says he, "even from the age of seven years, my sole endeavour was to acquire knowledge and capacity. I had been reared up, like my fathers, in the doctrine of the twelve imams, and I made acquaintance with an Ismaïlite companion (_Refeek_), named Emir Dhareb, with whom I knit fast the bonds of friendship. My opinion was that the tenets of the Ismaïlites resembled those of the Philosophers, and that the ruler of Egypt was a man who was initiated in them. As often, therefore, as Emir said anything in favour of these doctrines I fell into strife with him, and many controversies on points of faith ensued between him and me. I gave not in to anything that Emir said in disparagement of our sect, though it left a strong impression on my mind. Meanwhile Emir parted from me, and I fell into a severe fit of sickness, during which I reproached myself, saying, that the doctrine of the Ismaïlites was assuredly the true one, and that yet out of obstinacy I had not gone over to it, and that should death (which God avert!) overtake me, I should die without having attained to the truth. At length I recovered of that sickness, and I now met with another Ismaïlite, named Aboo Nejm Zaraj, of whom I inquired touching the truth of his doctrine. Aboo Nejm explained it to me in the fullest manner, so that I saw quite through the depths of it. Finally I met a dai, named Moomin, to whom the sheikh Abd-al-Melik (_Servant of the King_, i. e. _of God_) Ben Attash, the director of the missions of Irak, had given permission to exercise this office. I besought that he would accept my homage (in the name of the Fatimite khalif), but this he at the first refused to do, because I had been in higher dignities than he; but when I pressed him thereto beyond all measure, he yielded his consent. When now the sheikh Abd-al-Melik came to Rei, and through intercourse learned to know me, my behaviour was pleasing unto him, and he bestowed on me the office of a dai. He said unto me, 'Thou must go unto Egypt, to be a sharer in the felicity of serving the imam Mostander.' When the sheikh Abd-al-Melik went from Rei to Isfahan I set forth for Egypt[25]." [Footnote 25: Mirkhond.] There is something highly interesting in this account of his thoughts and feelings given by Hassan Sabah, particularly when we recollect that this was the man who afterwards organized the society of the Assassins, so long the scourge of the East. We here find him, according to his own statement, dreading the idea of dying without having openly made profession of the truth, yet afterwards, if we are to credit the Oriental historians, he inculcated the doctrine of the indifference of all human actions. Unfortunately this declension from virtue to vice has been too often exhibited to allow of our doubting that it may have happened in the case of Hassan Sabah. A further reflection which presents itself is this: Can anything be more absurd than those points which have split the Moslems into sects? and yet how deeply has conscience been engaged in them, and with what sincerity have they not been embraced and maintained! Will not this apply in some measure to the dissensions among Christians, who divide into parties, not for the essential doctrines of their religion, but for some merely accessory parts? Hassan, on his arrival in Egypt, whither his fame had preceded him, was received with every demonstration of respect. His known talents, and the knowledge of the high favour and consideration which he had enjoyed at the court of Malek Shah, made the khalif esteem him a most important acquisition to the cause of the Ismaïlites, and no means were omitted to soothe and flatter him. He was met on the frontiers by the Dai-al-Doat, the sherif Taher Casvini, and several other persons of high consideration; the great officers of state and court waited on him as soon as he had entered Cairo, where the khalif assigned him a suitable abode, and loaded him with honours and tokens of favour. But such was the state of seclusion which the Fatimite khalifs had adopted, that during the eighteen months which Hassan is said to have passed at Cairo he never once beheld the face of Mostanser, though that monarch always evinced the utmost solicitude about him, and never spoke of him but in terms of the highest praise. While Hassan abode in Egypt the question of the succession to the throne (always a matter of dispute in Oriental monarchies) became a subject of dissension and angry debate at court. The khalif had declared his eldest son, Nesar, to be his legitimate successor; but Bedr-al-Jemali, the Emir-al-Juyoosh, or commander-in-chief of the army, who enjoyed almost unlimited power under the Fatimites, asserted the superior right of Musteäli, the khalif's second son, which right his power afterwards made good. Hassan Sabah, not very wisely, as it would seem, took the side of Prince Nesar, and thereby drew on himself the hostility of Bedr-al-Jemali, who resolved on his destruction. In vain the reluctant khalif struggled against the might of the powerful Emir-al-Juyoosh; he was obliged to surrender Hassan to his vengeance, and to issue an order for committing him to close custody in the castle of Damietta. While Hassan lay in confinement at Damietta one of the towers of that city fell down without any apparent cause. This being looked upon in the light of a miracle by the partisans of Hassan and the khalif, his enemies, to prevent his deriving any advantage from it, hurried him on board of a ship which was on the point of sailing for Africa. Scarcely had the vessel put to sea when a violent tempest came on. The sea rolled mountains high, the thunder roared, and the lightning flamed. Terror laid hold on all who were aboard, save Hassan Sabah, who looked calm and undisturbed on the commotion of the elements, while others gazed with agony on the prospect of instant death. On being asked the cause of his tranquillity he made answer, in imitation probably of St. Paul, "Our Lord (_Seydna_) has promised me that no evil shall befall me." Shortly afterwards the storm fell and the sea grew calm. The crew and passengers now regarded him as a man under the especial favour of Heaven, and when a strong west wind sprung up, and drove them to the coast of Syria, they offered no opposition to his leaving the vessel and going on shore. Hassan proceeded to Aleppo, where he staid some time, and thence directed his course to Bagdad. Leaving that city he entered Persia, traversed the province of Khuzistan, and, visiting the cities of Isfahan and Yezd, went on to the eastern province of Kerman, everywhere making proselytes to his opinions. He then returned to Isfahan, where he made a stay of four months. He next spent three months in Khuzistan. Having fixed his view on Damaghan and the surrounding country in Irak as a district well calculated to be the seat of the power which he meditated establishing, he devoted three entire years to the task of gaining disciples among its inhabitants. For this purpose he employed the most eloquent dais he could find, and directed them to win over by all means the inhabitants of the numerous hill-forts which were in that region. While his dais were thus engaged he himself traversed the more northerly districts of Jorjan and Dilem, and when he deemed the time fit returned to the province of Irak, where Hussein Kaïni, one of the most zealous of his missionaries, had been long since engaged in persuading the people of the strong hill-fort of Alamoot to swear obedience to the khalif Mostanser. The arguments of the dai had proved convincing to the great majority of the inhabitants, but the governor, Ali Mehdi, an upright and worthy man, whose ancestors had built the fort, remained, with a few others, faithful to his duty, and would acknowledge no spiritual head but the Abbasside khalif of Bagdad; no temporal chief but the Seljookian Malek Shah. Mehdi, when he first perceived the progress of Ismaïlism among his people, expelled those who had embraced it, but afterwards permitted them to return. Sure of the aid of a strong party within the fort, Hassan is said to have employed against the governor the same artifice by which Dido is related to have deceived the Lybians[26]. He offered him 3,000 ducats for as much ground as he could compass with an ox-hide. The guileless Mehdi consented, and Hassan instantly cutting the hide into thongs surrounded with it the fortress of Alamoot. Mehdi, seeing himself thus tricked, refused to stand to the agreement. Hassan appealed to justice, and to the arms of his partisans within the fortress, and by their aid compelled the governor to depart from Alamoot. As Mehdi was setting out for Damaghan, whither he proposed to retire, Hassan placed in his hand an order on the reis Mozaffer, the governor of the castle of Kirdkoo, couched in these terms: "Let the reis Mozaffer pay to Mehdi, the descendant of Ali, 3,000 ducats, as the price of the fortress of Alamoot. Peace be upon the Prophet and his family! God, the best of directors, sufficeth us." Mehdi could hardly believe that a man of the consequence of the reis Mozaffer, who held an important government under the Seljookian sultans, would pay the slightest attention to the order of a mere adventurer like Hassan Sabah; he, however, resolved, out of curiosity, or rather, as we are told, pressed by his want of the money, to try how he would act. He accordingly presented the order, and, to his infinite surprise, was forthwith paid the 3,000 ducats. The reis had in fact been long in secret one of the most zealous disciples of Hassan Sabah. [Footnote 26: Sir J. Malcolm says that the person with whom he read this portion of history in Persia observed to him that the English were well acquainted with this stratagem, as it was by means of it that they got Calcutta from the poor Emperor of Delhi.] Historians are careful to inform us that it was on the night of Wednesday, the sixth of the month Rejeb, in the 483d year of the Hejra, that Hassan Sabah made himself master of Alamoot, which was to become the chief seat of the power of the sect of the Ismaïlites. This year answers to the year 1090 of the Christian era, and thus the dominion of the Assassins was founded only nine years before the Christians of the west established their empire in the Holy Land. [Illustration: Hill Fort.] CHAPTER IV. Description of Alamoot--Fruitless Attempts to recover it--Extension of the Ismaïlite Power--The Ismaïlites in Syria--Attempt on the Life of Aboo-Hard Issa--Treaty made with Sultan Sanjar--Death of Hassan--His Character. Alamoot, a name so famous in the history of the East, signifies the Vulture's Nest, an appellation derived from its lofty site. It was built in the year 860, on the summit of a hill, which bears a fancied resemblance to a lion couching with his nose to the ground, situated, according to Hammer, in 50-1/2° E. long. and 36° N. lat. It was regarded as the strongest of 50 fortresses of the same kind, which were scattered over the district of Roodbar (_River-land_), the mountainous region which forms the border between Persian Irak and the more northerly provinces of Dilem and Taberistan, and is watered by the stream called the King's River (_Shahrood_). As soon as Hassan saw himself master of this important place he directed his thoughts to the means of increasing its strength. He repaired the original walls, and added new ones; he sunk wells, and dug a canal, which conveyed water from a considerable distance to the foot of the fortress. As the possession of Alamoot made him master of the surrounding country, he learned to regard the inhabitants as his subjects, and he stimulated them to agriculture, and made large plantations of fruit-trees around the eminence on which the fortress stood. But before Hassan had time to commence, much less complete these plans of improvement, he saw himself in danger of losing all the fruits of his toil. It was not to be expected that the emir, on whom the sultan had bestowed the province of Roodbar, would calmly view its strongest fort in the possession of the foe of the house of Seljook. Hassan, therefore, had not had time to collect stores and provisions when he found all access to the place cut off by the troops of the emir. The inhabitants were about to quit Alamoot, but Hassan exerted the usual influence of a commanding spirit over their minds, and confidently assured them that that was the place in which fortune would favour them. They yielded faith to his words and staid; and at length their perseverance wore out the patience of the emir, and Alamoot thence obtained the title of the Abode of Fortune. The sultan, who had at first viewed the progress of his ex-minister with contempt, began soon to grow apprehensive of his ultimate designs, and in 1092 he issued orders to the emir Arslantash (_Lion-stone_) to destroy Hassan and his adherents. Arslantash advanced against Alamoot. Hassan, though he had but 70 men with him, and was scantily supplied with provisions, defended himself courageously till Aboo Ali, the governor of Casveen, who was in secret one of his dais, sent 300 men to his aid. These fell suddenly, during the night, on the troops of the emir; the little garrison made at the same time a sortie; the sultan's troops took to flight, and Alamoot remained in the possession of the Ismaïlites. Much about the same time Malek Shah sent troops against Hussein Kaini, who was actively engaged in the cause of Hassan Sabah in Kuhistan. Hussein threw himself into Moominabad, a fortress nearly as strong as that of Alamoot, and the troops of the sultan assailed him in vain. It was now that Hassan began to display the system which we shall presently unveil. The aged vizir, the great and good Nizam-al-Moolk, perished by the daggers of his emissaries, and the sultan himself speedily followed his minister to the tomb, not without suspicion of poison. Circumstances were now particularly favourable to the plans of Hassan Sabah. On the death of sultan Malek Shah a civil war broke out among his sons for the succession. All the military chiefs and persons of eminence were engaged on one side or the other, and none had leisure or inclination to attend to the progress of the Ismaïlites. These, therefore, went on gradually extending their power, and fortress after fortress fell into their hands. In the course of ten years they saw themselves masters of the principal hill-forts of Persian Irak; they held that of Shahdorr[27] (_King's pearl_), and two other fortresses, close to Isfahan; that of Khalankhan, on the borders of Fars and Kuhistan; Damaghan, Kirdkoo, and Firoozkoo, in the district of Komis; and Lamseer and several others in Kuhistan. It was in vain that the most distinguished imams and doctors of the law issued their _fetuas_ against the sect of the Ismaïlites, and condemned them to future perdition; in vain they called on the orthodox to employ the sword of justice in freeing the earth from this godless and abominable race. The sect, strong in its secret bond of unity and determination of purpose, went on and prospered; the dagger avenged the fate of those who perished by the sword, and, as the Orientalized European historian of the society expresses it[28], "heads fell like an abundant harvest beneath the twofold sickle of the sword of justice and the dagger of murder." [Footnote 27: This castle was built by sultan Malek Shah. The following was its origin:--As Malek Shah, who was a great lover of the chase, was out one day a hunting, one of the hounds went astray on the nearly inaccessible rock on which the castle was afterwards erected. The ambassador of the Byzantine emperor, who was of the party, observed to the sultan, that in his master's dominions so advantageous a situation would not be left unoccupied, but would long since have been crowned with a castle. The sultan followed the ambassador's advice, and erected the castle of the King's Pearl on this lofty rock. When the castle fell into the hands of the Ismaïlites, pious Moslems remarked that it could not have better luck, since its site had been pointed out by a dog (an unclean beast in their eyes), and its erection advised by an infidel.] [Footnote 28: Hammer, 97.] The appearance of the Ismaïlites, under their new form of organization, in Syria, happened at the same time with that of the crusaders in the Holy Land. The Siljookian Turks had made the conquest of that country, and the different chiefs who ruled Damascus, Aleppo, and the other towns and their districts, some of whom were of Turkish, others of Syrian extraction, were in a constant state of enmity with each other. Such powerful auxiliaries as the followers of Hassan Sabah were not to be neglected; Risvan, Prince of Aleppo, so celebrated in the history of the crusades, was their declared favourer and protector, and an Ismaïlite agent always resided with him. The first who occupied this post was an astrologer, and on his death the office fell to a Persian goldsmith, named Aboo Taher Essaigh. The enemies of Risvan felt the effects of his alliance with the Ismaïlites. The Prince of Emessa, for example, fell by their daggers, as he was about to relieve the castle of the Koords, to which Raymond, Count of Toulouse, had laid siege. Risvan put the strong castle of Sarmin, which lay about a day's journey south of Aleppo, into the hands of Aboo-'l-Fettah, the nephew of Hassan Sabah, and his Dai-el-Kebir (_Great Missionary_) for the province of Syria. The governor of this fortress was Aboo Taher Essaigh. A few years afterwards (1107) the people of Apamea invoked the aid of Aboo Taher against Khalaf, their Egyptian governor. Aboo Taher took possession of the town in the name of Risvan, but Tancred, who was at war with that prince, having come and attacked it, it was forced to surrender. Aboo Taher stipulated for free egress for himself; but Tancred, in violation of the treaty, brought him to Antioch, where he remained till his ransom was paid. Aboo-'l-Fettah and the other Ismaïlites were given up to the vengeance of the sons of Khalaf. Tancred took from them at the same time another strong fortress, named Kefrlana. This is to be noted as the first collision between the Crusaders and the Assassins, as we shall now begin to call them. The origin of this name shall presently be explained. On the return of Aboo Taher to Aleppo a very remarkable attempt at assassination took place. There was a wealthy merchant, named Aboo-Hard Issa,[29] a sworn foe to the Ismaïlites, and who had spent large sums of money in his efforts to injure them. He was now arrived from the borders of Toorkistan with a richly laden caravan of 500 camels. An Ismaïlite, named Ahmed, a native of Rei, had secretly accompanied him from the time he left Khorasan, with the design of avenging the death of his father, who had fallen under the blows of Aboo-Hard's people. The Ismaïlite, on arriving at Aleppo, immediately communicated with Aboo Taher and Risvan. Revenge, and the hope of gaining the wealth of the hostile merchant, made them yield assent at once to the project of assassination. Aboo Taher gave Ahmed a sufficient number of assistants; Risvan promised the aid of his guards; and one day, as the merchant was in the midst of his slaves, counting his camels, the murderers fell on him. But the faithful slaves valiantly defended their master, and the Ismaïlites expiated their guilt with their lives. The princes of Syria heaped reproaches on Risvan for this scandalous violation of the rights of hospitality, and he vainly endeavoured to justify himself by pretending ignorance of the fact. Aboo Taher, as the increasing hatred of the people of Aleppo to the sect made that town an unsafe abode, returned to Persia, his native country, leaving his son, Aboo-'l-Fettah, to manage the affairs of the society in his stead. [Footnote 29: That is, Jesus. It may be here observed that the proper names of the Old Testament are still used in the East. Ibrahim, Ismael, Yahya, Joossuf, Moossa, Daood, Suleiman, Issa, are Abraham, Ishmael, Jacob, Joseph, Moses, David, Solomon, and Joshua, or Jesus.] The acquisition of castles and other places of strength was now the open and avowed object of the society, whose aim was evidently at the empire of Asia, and no mean was left unemployed for the effecting of this design. In the year 1108 they made a bold attempt at making themselves masters of the strong castle of Khizar, also in Syria, which belonged to the family of Monkad. The festival of Easter being come, when the Mussulman garrison was in the habit of going down into the town to partake in the festivities of the Christians, during their absence the Ismaïlites entered the castle, and barred the gates. When the garrison returned towards night, they found themselves excluded; but the Ismaïlites, in their reliance on the strength of the place, being negligent, the women drew up their husbands by cords at the windows, and the intruders were speedily expelled. In the year 1113, as Mevdood, Prince of Mosul, was walking up and down, on a festival day, in the mosk of Damascus, with the celebrated Togteghin, he was fallen on and slain by an Ismaïlite. The murderer was cut to pieces on the spot. This year was, however, near proving fatal to the society in Syria. Risvan, their great protector, died; and the eunuch Looloo, the guardian of his young son, was their sworn enemy. An order for their indiscriminate destruction was forthwith issued, and, in consequence, more than 300 men, women, and children were massacred, while 200 more were thrown into prison. Aboo-'l-Fettah was put to death with torture; his body was cut to pieces and burnt at the gate looking towards Irak, and his head sent through all Syria. They did not, however, fall totally unavenged; the daggers of the society were directed against the governors and men in power, many of whom became their victims. Thus, in the year 1115, as the Attabeg Togteghin was receiving an audience at the court of the khalif of Bagdad, the governor of Khorasan was fallen upon by three Ismaïlites, who probably mistook him for the Attabeg, and he and they perished. In 1119 as Bediï, the governor of Aleppo, was journeying with his sons to the court of the emir Il-Ghazi, they were fallen upon by two assassins; Bediï and one of his sons fell by their blows; his other sons cut the murderers down; but a third then sprang forth, and gave the finishing stroke to one of the young men, who was already wounded. The murderer was taken, and brought before Togteghin and Il-Ghazi, who only ordered him to be put in prison; but he drowned himself to escape their vengeance, from which he had, perhaps, nothing to apprehend. In fact at this time the dread of the followers of Hassan Sabah had sunk deep into the hearts of all the princes of the East, for there was no security against their daggers. Accordingly, when the next year (1120) Aboo Mohammed, the head of them at Aleppo, where they had re-established themselves, sent to the powerful Il-Ghazi to demand of him possession of the castle of Sherif, near that town, he feared to refuse; but the people of Aleppo, at the persuasion of one of their fellow-citizens (who speedily paid for his advice with his blood), rose _en masse_, levelled the walls, filled up the ditches, and united the castle to the town. Even the great Noor-ed-deen (_Lamp of Religion_) was some years afterwards obliged to have recourse to the same artifice to save the castle of Beitlaha from becoming one of their strong-holds. The same system was pursued in Persia, where sultan Sanjar, the son of Malek Shah, had united under his sceptre the greater part of the dominions of his father and Fakhr-al-Moolk (_Fame of the Realm_). The son and successor of Nizam-al-Moolk and Chakar Beg, the great uncle of the sultan, perished by the daggers of the emissaries of Hassan Sabah. Sultan Sanjar was himself on his march, intending to lay siege to Alamoot, and the other strong-holds of the Ismaïlites, when one morning, on awaking, he found a dagger struck in the ground close to his pillow. The sultan was dismayed, but he concealed his terror, and a few days afterwards there came a brief note from Alamoot, containing these words: "Were we not well affected towards the sultan, the dagger had been struck in his bosom, not in the ground." Sanjar recollected that his brother Mohammed, who had laid siege to the castles of Lamseer and Alamoot, had died suddenly just as they were on the point of surrendering--an event so opportune for the society, that it was but natural to ascribe it to their agency--and he deemed it the safest course to proceed gently with such dangerous opponents. He accordingly hearkened to proposals of peace, which was concluded on the following conditions: 1. That the Ismaïlites should add no new works to their castles; 2. That they should purchase no arms or military machines; 3. That they should make no more proselytes. The sultan, on his part, released the Ismaïlites from all tolls and taxes in the district of Kirdkoh, and assigned them a part of the revenue of the territory of Komis by way of annual pension. To apprehend clearly what the power of the society was, we must recollect that sultan Sanjar was the most powerful monarch of the East, that his mandate was obeyed from Cashgar to Antioch, from the Caspian to the Straits of Bab-el-Mandeb. Thirty-four years had now elapsed since the acquisition of Alamoot, and the first establishment of the power of Hassan Sabah. In all that time he had never been seen out of the castle of Alamoot, and had been even known but twice to leave his chamber, and to make his appearance on the terrace. In silence and in solitude he pondered the means of extending the power of the society of which he was the head, and he drew up, with his own hand, the rules and precepts which were to govern it. He had outlived most of his old companions and early disciples, and he was now childless, for he had put to death his two only sons, the elder for having been concerned in the murder of his faithful adherent Hussein Kaini; the younger for having violated the precept of the Koran against drinking wine. Feeling the approaches of death, he summoned to Alamoot Keäh Buzoorg Oomeid (_Keäh of Good Hope_), who was residing at Lamseer, which he had conquered twenty years before, and Aboo Ali, of Casveen, and committed the direction of the society to them, appointing the former to be its proper spiritual head and director, and placing in the hands of the latter the administration of the civil and external affairs. He then calmly expired, apparently unconscious of or indifferent to the fact of having, by the organization of his pernicious society, rendered his name an object of execration, a by-word and a proverb among the nations. Dimly as we may discern the character of Hassan Sabah through the medium of prejudice and hatred through which the scanty notices of it have reached us, we cannot refuse him a place among the higher order of minds. The founder of an empire or of a powerful society is almost always a great man; but Hassan seems to have had this advantage over Loyola and other founders of societies, that he saw clearly from the commencement what might be done, and formed all his plans with a view to one ultimate object. He surely had no ordinary mind who could ask but two devoted adherents to shake the throne of the house of Seljook, then at the acmé of its power. CHAPTER V. Organization of the Society--Names given to the Ismaïlites--Origin of the name Assassin--Marco Polo's description of the Paradise of the Old Man of the Mountain--Description of it given by Arabian writers--Instances of the obedience of the Fedavee. Having traced thus far the history of this celebrated society, having shown its origin, and how it grew out of the claims of the descendants of Ali to the khalifat, mixed with the mystic tenets which seem to have been ultimately derived from India, we proceed to describe its organization, and its secret doctrines, as they are related by oriental historians. Hassan Sabah clearly perceived that the plan of the society at Cairo was defective as a mean of acquiring temporal power. The Dais might exert themselves, and proselytes might be gained; but till possession was obtained of some strongholds, and a mode of striking terror into princes devised, nothing effectual could be achieved. He first, therefore, as we have seen, made himself master of Alamoot and the other strong places, and then added to the Dais and the Refeek another class, named Fedavee (_Devoted_), whose task it was to yield implicit obedience to the mandate of their chief, and, without inquiry or hesitation, plunge their daggers into the bosom of whatever victim was pointed out to them, even though their own lives should be the immediate sacrifice. The ordinary dress of the Fedavee was (like that of all the sects opposed to the house of Abbas) white; their caps, girdles, or boots, were red. Hence they were named the White (_Mubeiyazah_), and the Red (_Muhammeré_[30]); but they could with ease assume any guise, even that of the Christian monk, to accomplish their murderous designs. [Footnote 30: Ahmar, fem. Hamra, is _red_ in Arabic; hence the celebrated Moorish palace at Granada was called Alhambra (_Al-Hamra_), _i. e._ the Red.] The gradations in the society were these. At the head of it stood Hassan himself and his successors, with the title of Seydna, or Sidna[31] (_Our Lord_), and Sheikh-al-Jebal (_Mountain Chief_), a name derived from that of the territory which was the chief seat of the power of the society. This last, owing to the ambiguity of the word _sheikh_ (which, like _seigneur_ and _signore_, signifies either an _elder_ or _chief_), has been ridiculously translated by the early European historians _Old Man of the Mountain_. Under him were the Dai-'l-Kebir (_Great Missionaries_), of which there were three, for the three provinces of Jebal, Kuhistan, and Syria[32]. Then came the Dais, next the Refeek, then the Fedavee, and lastly the Lazik, or aspirants. [Footnote 31: Hence the Spanish _Cid_.] [Footnote 32: Hammer, book ii.] Hassan was perfectly aware that without the compressing power of positive religion no society can well be held together. Whatever, therefore, his private opinions may have been, he resolved to impose on the bulk of his followers the most rigid obedience to the positive precepts of Islam, and, as we have seen, actually put his own son to death for a breach of one of them. Hassan is said to have rejected two of the degrees of the Ismaïlite society at Cairo, and to have reduced them to seven, the original number in the plan of Abdallah Maimoon, the first projector of this secret society. Besides these seven degrees, through which the aspirants gradually rose to knowledge, Hassan, in what Hammer terms the breviary of the order, drew up seven regulations or rules for the conduct of the teachers in his society. 1. The first of these, named Ashinai-Risk (_Knowledge of duty_), inculcated the requisite knowledge of human nature for selecting fit persons for admission. To this belonged the proverbial expressions said to have been current among the Dais, similar to those used by the ancient Pythagoreans, such as _Sow not on barren ground_ (that is, Waste not your labour on incapable persons). _Speak not in a house where there is a lamp_, (that is, Be silent in the presence of a lawyer). 2. The second rule was called Teënis (_Gaining of confidence_), and taught to win the candidates by flattering their passions and inclinations. 3. The third, of which the name is not given, taught to involve them in doubts and difficulties by pointing out the absurdities of the Koran, and of positive religion. 4. When the aspirant had gone thus far, the solemn oath of silence and obedience, and of communicating his doubts to his teacher alone, was to be imposed on the disciple; and then (5.) he was to be informed that the doctrines and opinions of the society were those of the greatest men in church and state. 6. The Tessees (_Confirmation_) directed to put the pupil again through all he had learned, and to confirm him in it. And, (7.) finally, the Teëvil (_Instruction in allegory_) gave the allegorical mode of interpreting the Koran, and drawing whatever sense might suit their purposes from its pages. Any one who had gone through this course of instruction, and was thus become perfectly imbued with the spirit of the society, was regarded as an accomplished Dai, and employed in the important office of making proselytes and extending its influence. We must again express our opinion that the minute accounts which are given to us by some writers, respecting the rules and doctrines of secret associations, should be received with a considerable degree of hesitation, owing to the character and the means of information of those from whom we receive them. In the present case our authority is a very suspicious one. We are told that when Alamoot was taken by Hoolekoo Khan, the Mongol prince, he gave his vizir, the learned Ata-Melek (_King's father_) Jowani, permission to examine the library, and to select such books as were worthy of being preserved. The vizir took out the Korans and some other books of value in his eyes; the rest, among which are said to have been the archives and the secret rules and doctrines of the society, he committed, after looking cursorily through them, to the flames. In an historical work of his own he gave the result of his discoveries in those books, and he is the authority from which Mirkhond and other writers have derived the accounts which they have transmitted to us. It is quite clear, therefore, that the vizir of Hoolakoo was at liberty to invent what atrocities he pleased of the sect which was destroyed by his master, and that his testimony is consequently to be received with suspicion. On the other hand it receives some confirmation from its agreement with the account of the society at Cairo given by Macrisi, and is not repugnant to the spirit of Soofeïsm. This last doctrine, which is a kind of mystic Pantheism, viewing God in all and all in God, may produce, like fatalism, piety or its opposite. In the eyes of one who thus views God, all the distinctions between vice and virtue become fleeting and uncertain, and crime may gradually lose its atrocity, and be regarded as only a mean for the production of a good end. That the Ismaïlite Fedavee murdered innocent persons without compunction, when ordered so to do by his superiors, is an undoubted fact, and there is no absurdity in supposing that he and they may have thought that in so doing they were acting right, and promoting the cause of truth. Such sanctifying of crime is not confined to the East; the maxim that the end sanctions the means is of too convenient a nature not to have prevailed in all parts of the world; and the assassins of Henry III. and Henry IV. of France displayed all the sincerity and constancy of the Ismaïlite Fedavees. Without, therefore, regarding the heads of the Ismaïlites, with Hammer, mere ruthless and impious murderers, who trampled under foot religion and morals with all their obligations, we may assent to the opinion of their leading doctrine being Soofeïsm carried to its worst consequences. The followers of Hassan Sabah were called the Eastern Ismaïlites, to distinguish them from those of Africa. They were also named the Batiniyeh (_Internal or Secret_), from the secret meaning which they drew from the text of the Koran, and Moolhad, or Moolahid (_Impious_) on account of the imputed impiety of their doctrines,--names common to them with most of the preceding sects. It is under this last appellation that they were known to Marco Polo, the Venetian traveller. The name, however, by which they are best known in Europe, and which we shall henceforth chiefly employ, is that of Assassins. This name is very generally derived from that of the founder of their society; but M. De Sacy has made it probable that the oriental term Hashisheen, of which the Crusaders made Assassins, comes from Hashish, a species of hemp, from which intoxicating opiates were made, which the Fedavee were in the habit of taking previously to engaging in their daring enterprises, or employed as a medium of procuring delicious visions of the paradise promised to them by the Sheikh-al-Jebal. It is a curious question how Hassan Sabah contrived to infuse into the Fedavee the recklessness of life, joined with the spirit of implicit obedience to the commands of their superiors, which they so invariably displayed. We are told[33] that the system adopted for this purpose was to obtain, by purchase or otherwise, from their parents, stout and healthy children. These were reared up in implicit obedience to the will of the Sheikh, and, to fit them for their future office, carefully instructed in various languages. The most agreeable spots were selected for their abode, they were indulged in the gratification of their senses, and, in the midst of their enjoyments, some persons were directed to inflame their imaginations by glowing descriptions of the far superior delights laid up in the celestial paradise for those who should be admitted to repose in its bowers; a happiness only to be attained by a glorious death met in obedience to the commands of the Sheikh. When such ideas had been impressed on their minds, the glorious visions ever floated before their eyes, the impression was kept up by the use of the opiate above-mentioned, and the young enthusiast panted for the hour when death, obtained in obeying the order of the Sheikh, should open to him the gates of paradise to admit him to the enjoyment of bliss never to end. [Footnote 33: Wilken, Geschichte der Kreuzzüge, vol. ii.] The celebrated Venetian, Marco Polo, who traversed the most remote parts of the East in the 13th century, gave on his return to Europe an account of the regions which he had visited, which filled the minds of men with wonder and amazement. As is usual in such cases this was followed or accompanied by unbelief, and it is only by the inquiries and discoveries of modern travellers that the veracity of Marco Polo, like that of Herodotus, has been established and placed beyond doubt. Among other wonderful narratives which we meet in the travels of Marco Polo is the account which he gives of the people whom he calls Mulehetites (that is, Moolahid), and their prince the Old Man of the Mountain. He describes correctly the nature of this society, and gives the following romantic narrative of the mode employed by that prince to infuse the principle of implicit obedience into the minds of his followers[34]. [Footnote 34: Marsden's Translation.] "In a beautiful valley," says he, "enclosed between two lofty mountains, he had formed a luxurious garden, stored with every delicious fruit and every fragrant shrub that could be procured. Palaces of various sizes and forms were erected in different parts of the grounds, ornamented with works of gold, with paintings, and with furniture of rich silks. By means of small conduits contained in these buildings streams of wine, milk, honey, and some of pure water, were seen to flow in every direction. The inhabitants of these palaces were elegant and beautiful damsels, accomplished in the arts of singing, playing upon all sorts of musical instruments, dancing, and especially those of dalliance and amorous allurement. Clothed in rich dresses, they were seen continually sporting and amusing themselves in the garden and pavilions, their female guardians being confined within doors, and never suffered to appear. The object which the chief had in view in forming a garden of this fascinating kind was this: that Mahomet having promised to those who should obey his will the enjoyments of paradise, where every species of sensual gratification should be found in the society of beautiful nymphs, he was desirous of its being understood by his followers that he also was a prophet, and a compeer of Mahomet, and had the power of admitting to paradise such as he should choose to favour. In order that none without his licence should find their way into this delicious valley, he caused a strong and inexpugnable castle to be erected at the opening of it, through which the entry was by a secret passage. At his court, likewise, this chief entertained a number of youths, from the age of twelve to twenty years, selected from the inhabitants of the surrounding mountains, who showed a disposition for martial exercises, and appeared to possess the quality of daring courage. To them he was in the daily practice of discoursing on the subject of the paradise announced by the Prophet and of his own, of granting admission, and at certain times he caused draughts of a soporific nature to be administered to ten or a dozen of the youths, and when half dead with sleep he had them conveyed to the several apartments of the palaces in the garden. Upon awakening from this state of lethargy their senses were struck with all the delightful objects that have been described, and each perceived himself surrounded by lovely damsels, singing, playing, and attracting his regards by the most fascinating caresses, serving him also with delicious viands and exquisite wines, until, intoxicated with excess of enjoyment, amidst actual rivers of milk and wine, he believed himself assuredly in paradise, and felt an unwillingness to relinquish its delights. When four or five days had thus been passed, they were thrown once more into a state of somnolency and carried out of the garden. Upon their being introduced to his presence, and questioned by him as to where they had been, their answer was, 'In paradise, through the favour of your highness;' and then, before the whole court, who listened to them with eager curiosity and astonishment, they gave a circumstantial account of the scenes to which they had been witnesses. The chief thereupon addressing them said, 'We have the assurance of our Prophet that he who defends his lord shall inherit paradise, and if you show yourselves devoted to the obedience of my orders, that happy lot awaits you.' Animated to enthusiasm by words of this nature all deemed themselves happy to receive the commands of their master, and were forward to die in his service." This romantic narrative, more suited to a place among the wonders of the "Thousand and One Nights" than to admission into sober history, has been very generally rejected by judicious inquirers such as De Sacy and Wilkin, the able historians of the Crusades; but it has found credence with Hammer, to whose work we are indebted for the far greater part of the present details on the subject of the Assassins. This industrious scholar has, as he thinks, found a proof of its truth in the circumstance of similar narratives occurring in the works of some Arabian writers which treat of the settlements of the society in Syria, forgetting that a fabulous legend is often more widely diffused than sober truth. All, therefore, that can be safely inferred from this collection of authorities is that the same marvellous tale which the Venetian traveller heard in the north of Persia was also current in Syria and Egypt. Its truth must be established by a different species of proof. In the Siret-al-Hakem (_Memoirs of Hakem_), a species of Arabian historic romance, the following account of the gardens at Massyat, the chief seat of the Assassins in Syria, was discovered by Hammer[35]:-- [Footnote 35: Fundgruben des Orients, vol. iii.] "Our narrative now returns to Ismaïl the chief of the Ismaïlites. He took with him his people laden with gold, silver, pearls, and other effects, taken away from the inhabitants of the coasts, and which he had received in the island of Cyprus, and on the part of the king of Egypt, Dhaher, the son of Hakem-biëmr-Illah. Having bidden farewell to the sultan of Egypt at Tripolis, they proceeded to Massyat, when the inhabitants of the castles and fortresses assembled to enjoy themselves, along with the chief Ismail and his people. They put on the rich dresses with which the sultan had supplied them, and adorned the castle of Massyat with everything that was good and fine. Ismaïl made his entry into Massyat with the Devoted (_Fedavee_), as no one has ever done at Massyat before him or after him. He stopped there some time to take into his service some more persons whom he might make Devoted both in heart and body. "With this view he had caused to be made a vast garden, into which he had water conducted. In the middle of this garden he built a kiosk raised to the height of four stories. On each of the four sides were richly-ornamented windows joined by four arches, in which were painted stars of gold and silver. He put into it roses, porcelain, glasses, and drinking-vessels of gold and silver. He had with him Mamlooks (_i. e._ slaves), ten males and ten females, who were come with him from the region of the Nile, and who had scarcely attained the age of puberty. He clothed them in silks and in the finest stuffs, and he gave unto them bracelets of gold and of silver. The columns were overlaid with musk and with amber, and in the four arches of the windows he set four caskets, in which was the purest musk. The columns were polished, and this place was the retreat of the slaves. He divided the garden into four parts. In the first of these were pear-trees, apple-trees, vines, cherries, mulberries, plums, and other kinds of fruit-trees. In the second were oranges, lemons, olives, pomegranates, and other fruits. In the third were cucumbers, melons, leguminous plants, &c. In the fourth were roses, jessamine, tamarinds, narcissi, violets, lilies, anemonies, &c. &c. "The garden was divided by canals of water, and the kiosk was surrounded with ponds and reservoirs. There were groves in which were seen antelopes, ostriches, asses, and wild cows. Issuing from the ponds, one met ducks, geese, partridges, quails, hares, foxes, and other animals. Around the kiosk the chief Ismaïl planted walks of tall trees, terminating in the different parts of the garden. He built there a great house, divided into two apartments, the upper and the lower. From the latter covered walks led out into the garden, which was all enclosed with walls, so that no one could see into it, for these walks and buildings were all void of inhabitants. He made a gallery of coolness, which ran from this apartment to the cellar, which was behind. This apartment served as a place of assembly for the men. Having placed himself on a sofa there opposite the door, the chief made his men sit down, and gave them to eat and to drink during the whole length of the day until evening. At nightfall he looked around him, and, selecting those whose firmness pleased him, said to them, 'Ho! such-a-one, come and seat thyself near me.' It is thus that Ismaïl made those whom he had chosen sit near him on the sofa and drink. He then spoke to them of the great and excellent qualities of the imam Ali, of his bravery, his nobleness, and his generosity, until they fell asleep, overcome by the power of the _benjeh_[36] which he had given them, and which never failed to produce its effects in less than a quarter of an hour, so that they fell down as if they were inanimate. As soon as the man had fallen the chief Ismaïl arose, and, taking him up, brought him into a dormitory, and then, shutting the door, carried him on his shoulders into the gallery of coolness, which was in the garden, and thence into the kiosk, where he committed him to the care of the male and female slaves, directing them to comply with all the desires of the candidate, on whom they flung vinegar till he awoke. When he was come to himself the youths and maidens said to him, 'We are only waiting for thy death, for this place is destined for thee. This is one of the pavilions of paradise, and we are the hoories and the children of paradise. If thou wert dead thou wouldest be for ever with us, but thou art only dreaming, and wilt soon awake.' Meanwhile the chief Ismaïl had returned to the company as soon as he had witnessed the awakening of the candidate, who now perceived nothing but youths and maidens of the greatest beauty, and adorned in the most magnificent manner. [Footnote 36: The Arabic name of the hyoscyamus, or henbane. Hammer conjectures that the word _benge_, or, with the Coptic article in the plural, _ni-benje_, is the same with the nepenthe of the ancients.--Fundgruben des Orients, iii. 202.] "He looked round the place, inhaled the fragrance of musk and frankincense, and drew near to the garden, where he saw the beasts and the birds, the running water, and the trees. He gazed on the beauty of the kiosk, and the vases of gold and silver, while the youths and maidens kept him in converse. In this way he remained confounded, not knowing whether he was awake or only dreaming. When two hours of the night had gone by, the chief Ismaïl returned to the dormitory, closed the door, and thence proceeded to the garden, where his slaves came around him and rose before him. When the candidate perceived him he said unto him, 'O chief Ismaïl, do I dream, or am I awake?' The chief Ismaïl then made answer to him, 'O such-a-one, beware of relating this vision to any one who is a stranger to this place! Know that the Lord Ali has shown thee the place which is destined for thee in paradise. Know that at this moment the Lord Ali and I have been sitting together in the regions of the empyrean. So do not hesitate a moment in the service of the imam who has given thee to know his felicity.' Then the chief Ismaïl ordered supper to be served. It was brought in vessels of gold and of silver, and consisted of boiled meats and roast meats, with other dishes. While the candidate ate he was sprinkled with rose-water; when he called for drink there were brought to him vessels of gold and silver filled with delicious liquors, in which also had been mingled some _benjeh_. When he had fallen asleep, Ismaïl carried him through the gallery back to the dormitory, and, leaving him there, returned to his company. After a little time he went back, threw vinegar on his face, and then, bringing him out, ordered one of the Mamlooks to shake him. On awaking, and finding himself in the same place among the guests, he said, 'There is no god but God, and Mohammed is the Prophet of God!' The chief Ismaïl then drew near and caressed him, and he remained, as it were, immersed in intoxication, wholly devoted to the service of the chief, who then said unto him, 'O such-a-one, know that what thou hast seen was not a dream, but one of the miracles of the imam Ali. Know that he has written thy name among those of his friends. If thou keep the secret thou art certain of thy felicity, but if thou speak of it thou wilt incur the resentment of the imam. If thou die thou art a martyr; but beware of relating this to any person whatever. Thou hast entered by one of the gates to the friendship of the imam, and art become one of his family; but if thou betray the secret, thou wilt become one of his enemies, and be driven from his house.' Thus this man became one of the servants of the chief Ismaïl, who in this manner surrounded himself with trusty men, until his reputation was established. This is what is related of the chief Ismaïl and his Devoted." To these romantic tales of the paradise of the Old Man of the Mountain we must add a third of a still more juggling character, furnished by the learned and venerable Sheikh Abd-ur-Rahman (_Servant of the Compassionate_, i. e., _of God_) Ben Ebubekr Al-Jeriri of Damascus, in the twenty-fourth chapter of his work entitled "A Choice Book for discovering the Secrets of the Art of Imposture[37]." [Footnote 37: Fundgruben des Orients, vol. iv.] After giving some account of Sinan, the chief of the Syrian Assassins, whom we shall presently have occasion to mention, the sheikh proceeds to narrate the artifice which he employed to deceive his followers:-- "There was near the sofa on which he sat a hole in the ground sufficiently deep for a man to sit down in it. This he covered with a thin piece of wood, leaving only so much of it open as would contain the neck of a man. He placed on this cover of wood a disk of bronze with a hole in the middle of it, and put in it two doors. Then taking one of his disciples, to whom he had given a considerable sum of money to obtain his consent, he placed the perforated disk round his neck, and kept it down by weights, so that nothing appeared but the neck of the man; and he put warm blood upon it, so that it looked as if he had just cut off his head. He then called in his companions, and showed them the plate, on which they beheld the head of their comrade. 'Tell thy comrades,' said the master to the head, 'what thou hast seen, and what has been said unto thee.' The man then answered as he had been previously instructed. 'Which wouldest thou prefer,' said the master, 'to return to the world and thy friends, or to dwell in paradise?' 'What need have I,' replied the head, 'to return to the world after having seen my pavilion in paradise, and the hoories, and all that God has prepared for me? Comrades, salute my family, and take care not to disobey this prophet, who is the lord of the prophets in the state of time, as God has said unto me. Farewell.' These words strengthened the faith of the others; but when they were gone the master took the man up out of the hole, and cut off his head in right earnest. It was by such means as this that he made himself obeyed by his people." The preceding accounts, whatever may be thought of their truth, serve to testify a general belief throughout the East of some extraordinary means being employed by the mountain chief to acquire the power which he was known to possess over the minds of his Fedavee. And, in fact, there is no great improbability in the supposition of some artifice of that nature having been occasionally employed by him; for, when we recollect that an Asiatic imagination is coarse, especially among the lower orders, and that in the East men rarely see any females but those of their own family, the chief might find no great difficulty in persuading a youth, whom he had transported in a state of stupor into an apartment filled with young girls, of his having been in the actual paradise promised to the faithful. But, laying aside supposition, we may observe that the very power over the minds of their followers ascribed to Hassan Sabah and his successors has been actually exercised in our own days by the chief of the Wahabees. Sir John Malcolm[38] informs us, from a Persian manuscript, that a few years ago one of that sect, who had stabbed an Arab chief near Bussora, when taken, not only refused to do anything towards saving his life, but, on the contrary, seemed anxiously to court death. He was observed to grasp something firmly in his hand, which he appeared to prize beyond life itself. On its being taken from him and examined, it proved to be an order from the Wahabee chief for an emerald palace and a number of beautiful female slaves in the blissful paradise of the Prophet. This story, however, it must be confessed, appears to be little consistent with the principles of the sect of the Wahabees, and we may suspect that it has originated in some misapprehension. [Footnote 38: History of Persia, vol. i.] The following instance of the implicit obedience of the Fedavee to the orders of Hassan Sabah is given by a respectable oriental historian[39]. An ambassador from the Sultan Malek Shah having come to Alamoot to demand the submission and obedience of the sheikh, Hassan received him in a hall in which he had assembled several of his followers. Making a sign to one youth, he said, "Kill thyself!" Instantly the young man's dagger was plunged into his own bosom, and he lay a corpse upon the ground. To another he said, "Fling thyself down from the wall." In an instant his shattered limbs were lying in the castle ditch. Then turning to the terrified envoy, "I have seventy thousand followers who obey me after this fashion. This be my answer to thy master." [Footnote 39: Elmacin, Historia Saracenica, l. iii. p. 286.] Very nearly the same tale is told of the Assassins of Syria by a western writer[40]. As Henry Count of Champagne was journeying, in the year 1194, from Palestine to Armenia[41], his road lay through the confines of the territory of the Ismaïlites. The chief sent some persons to salute him, and to beg that, on his return, he would stop at, and partake of the hospitality of his castle. The count accepted the invitation. As he returned the Dai-al-Kebir advanced to meet him, showed him every mark of honour, and led him to view his castles and fortresses. Having passed through several, they came at length to one the towers of which rose to an exceeding height. On each tower stood two sentinels clad in white. "These," said the chief, pointing to them, "obey me far better than the subjects of you Christians obey their lords;" and at a given signal two of them flung themselves down, and were dashed to pieces. "If you wish," said he to the astonished count, "all my white ones shall do the same." The benevolent count shrank from the proposal, and candidly avowed that no Christian prince could presume to look for such obedience from his subjects. When he was departing, with many valuable presents, the chief said to him significantly, "By means of these trusty servants I get rid of the enemies of our society." [Footnote 40: Marinus Sanutus, l. iii. p. x. c. 8.] [Footnote 41: This was the Armenia in Cilicia.] In oriental, and also in occidental history, the same anecdote is often told of different persons, a circumstance which might induce us to doubt of its truth altogether, or at least of its truth in any particular case. The present anecdote, for instance, with a slight variation in the details, is told of Aboo Taher, a celebrated leader of the Carmathites. This chief, after his expedition to Mecca, in which he had slain 30,000 of the inhabitants, filled the hallowed well Zemzem with the bodies of dead men, and carried off the sacred black stone in triumph, had the hardihood to approach Bagdad, the residence of the khalif, with only 500 horsemen. The pontiff of Islam, enraged at the insult, ordered his general Aboo Saj to take 30,000 men, and make him a prisoner. The latter, having collected his forces, sent a man off to Aboo Taher to tell him on his part that out of regard for him, who had been his old friend, he advised him, as he had so few troops with him, either to yield himself at once to the khalif or to see about making his escape. Aboo Taher asked of the envoy how many men Aboo Saj had with him. The envoy replied, "Thirty thousand." "He still wants three like mine," said Aboo Taher; and calling to him three of his men, he ordered one of them to stab himself, another to throw himself into the Tigris, a third to fling himself down from a precipice. His commands were at once obeyed. Then turning to the envoy, "He who has such troops fears not the number of his enemies. I give thyself quarter; but know that I shall soon let thee see thy general Aboo Saj chained among my dogs." In fact, that very night he attacked and routed the troops of the khalif, and Aboo Saj, happening to fall into his hands, soon appeared chained among the mastiffs of the Carmathite chief[42]. [Footnote 42: D'Herbelot, _titre_ Carmath.] The preceding details on the paradise of the Sheikh-al-Jebal, and his power over the minds of his followers, will at least help to illustrate the manners and modes of thinking of the orientals. We now resume the thread of our narrative, and proceed to narrate the deeds of the Assassins, as we shall henceforth designate them. CHAPTER VI. Keäh Buzoorg Oomeid--Affairs of the Society in Persia--They acquire the Castle of Banias, in Syria--Attempt to betray Damascus to the Crusaders--Murders committed during the reign of Keäh Buzoorg. Keäh Buzoorg Oomeid trod faithfully in the footprints of his predecessor. He built the strong fortress of Maimoondees, and he made the enemies of the society feel that it was still animated by the spirit of Hassan Sabah. Sultan Sanjar, who, on account of the favourable terms on which he had made peace with the Assassins, was regarded by the rigidly orthodox as a secret follower of their doctrine, declared himself once more their open enemy, and sent an army to ravage Kirdkoh. These troops were defeated by those which Keäh sent against them; but the following year Sanjar put to the sword a great number of the members of the sect. The dagger, as usual, retaliated. Mahmood, the successor of Sanjar, having first tried in vain the effect of arms, sent his grand falconer Berenkesh to Alamoot, to desire that an envoy might be sent to him to treat of peace. The Khojah (_Master_) Mohammed Nassihi accompanied Berenkesh back to court, and kissed the hand of the sultan, who spoke to him a few words about the peace; but as the Khojah was going out of the palace, he and his followers were fallen upon and massacred by the people. When the sultan sent an ambassador to Alamoot to exculpate himself from the guilt of participation in this violation of the laws of nations, Keäh made answer, "Go back to the sultan, and tell him, in my name, Mohammed Nassihi trusted to your perfidious assurances, and repaired to your court; if you speak truly, deliver up the murderers to justice; if not, expect my vengeance." On the refusal of the sultan to surrender the murderers, a corps of Assassins appeared at the gates of Casveen, slew 400 men, and led away 3,000 sheep, 200 horses, and 200 oxen. Next year the sultan took, and retained for a short time, the fortress of Alamoot; but a body of 2,000 men which he sent against Lamseer fled, without drawing a sword, when they heard that the Refeek (_Companions_) of the society were marching against them. Shortly afterwards the sultan died, and the Assassins made another incursion into the district of Casveen, where they carried off booty and prisoners. The mountain chief would tolerate no rival near his throne. Hearing that one Aboo Hashem, a descendant of Ali, had arrogated to himself the dignity of imam in the province of Ghilan, which lies north of Kuhistan, and had issued letters calling on the people to acknowledge him, Keäh wrote to him to desist from his pretensions. The self-appointed imam only replied by reviling the odious tenets of the Ismaïlites. The sheikh forthwith sent a body of his troops against him, took him prisoner, and, after trying him by a court-martial, committed him to the flames. Though, as we have seen, the settlements of the Assassins were in the mountainous region of Irak, in the north-west of Persia, their power was of such a nature that no distance was a security against it. A Fedavee could speedily traverse the intervening regions to plant his dagger in the bosom of any prince or minister who had incurred the vengeance of the Sheikh-al-Jebal. Accordingly we find the shah (_King_) of Khaurism, between which and Irak lies the extensive province of Khorasan, coming to Sultan Massood, the successor of Mahmood, to concert with him a plan for the destruction of these formidable foes to princes. The shah of Khaurism had been formerly rather disposed to favour the Ismaïlites, but his eyes were now opened, and he was become their most inveterate enemy. Sultan Massood, we know not for what reason, bestowed on him the lands which Berenkesh, the grand falconer, had held of the sultan. Berenkesh, mortally offended at this unworthy treatment, retired, with his family, to the territory of the Ismaïlites, and sought the protection of Keäh, whose open enemy he had hitherto been. Policy, or a regard to good faith and humanity, made the Assassin prince grant the protection which was required; and when the shah of Khaurism wrote, reminding Keäh of his own former friendship, and the bitter hostility of Berenkesh, and requesting him, on that plea, to give up the fugitive, the sheikh replied, "The shah of Khaurism speaks true, but we will never give up our suppliants." Long and bloody enmity between the sheikh and the shah was the consequence of this refusal to violate the rights of hospitality. The Syrian branch of the society begins at this time to attract rather more attention than that of Persia, chiefly on account of its connexion with the Crusaders, who had succeeded in establishing an empire extending from the frontiers of Egypt to those of Armenia. A Persian Ismaïlite, named Behram of Astrabad, who is said to have commenced his career by the murder of his own father, gained the confidence of the vizir of the prince of Damascus, who gave him the castle of Banias, or Panias (the ancient Balanea), for the use of the society. This place, which became the nucleus of the power of the Assassins in Syria, lies in a fertile, well-watered plain, about 4,000 paces from the sea. The valley whence the numerous streams which fructify it issue is called the Wadi-al-Jinn (_Valley of Demons_), "a place," observes Hammer, whom no casual coincidence escapes, "from its very name worthy of becoming a settlement of the Assassins." From Banias they extended their power over the neighbouring castles and fortresses, until, twelve years afterwards, the seat of dominion was transferred thence to Massyat. Behram fell shortly afterwards in an engagement against the people of the valley of Taïm, the brother of whose chief had perished by the daggers of the Assassins. His successor was Ismaïl, a Persian, who continued the bond of amity with the vizir of Damascus, whither he sent, by way of resident, a man named, rather inappropriately as it would appear, Aboo-'l-Wefa (_Father of Fidelity_). This man so won the favour of the vizir and prince that he was appointed to the office of Hakem, or supreme judge; and having thus acquired power and influence, he immediately turned his thoughts to the best mode of employing them for the advantage of the society, an object always near the heart of a true Ismaïlite. A place of strength on the sea-coast would, he conceived, be of the utmost importance to them; so he fixed his eyes upon Tyre, and fell upon the following expedient to obtain possession of it. The Franks had been now upwards of thirty years established in the East. Their daring and enthusiastic valour was at once the dread and the admiration of their Mussulman foes, and feats almost surpassing the fables of the romances of chivalry had been performed by their gallant warriors. These were the auxiliaries to whom Aboo-'l-Wefa directed his attention; for we are to observe that as yet the fanatic spirit had not united all the Moslems in enmity against the followers of the Cross, and the princes of Aleppo, Damascus, and the other districts of Syria, had been more than once in alliance with the Christian realms of Jerusalem and Antioch. Aboo-'l-Wefa sent therefore and concluded a secret treaty with Baldwin II., king of Jerusalem, in which he engaged, if the Christian warriors would secretly march and appear before Damascus on a Friday, when the emir and his officers would be at the mosk, to give them possession of the gates of the town. The king was in return to put Tyre into the hands of the Ismaïlites. The Christian army was assembled; all the barons of the kingdom appeared in arms; the king in person led the host; the newly-formed military order of the Templars displayed for the first time in the field their striped banner _Beauséant_, afterwards so well known in many a bloody fray. Prince Bernard of Antioch, Count Pontius of Tripolis, the brave Joscelin of Edessa, led their knights and footmen to share in the capture of the wealthy city of Damascus. The mountains which environ Lake Tiberias were left behind, and the host joyfully emerged into the plain watered by the streams Abana and Pharpar. But here defeat awaited them. Taj-al-Molook (_Diadem of Kings_) Boozi, the emir of Damascus, had in time discovered the plot of his hakem. He had put him and the vizir to death, and had ordered a general massacre of the Ismaïlites in the city[43]. The Christian army was now at a place named Marj Safar, and the footmen had begun to plunder the villages for food, when a small body of gallant Damascene warriors rushed from the town and fell upon them. The defenceless Christians sank beneath their blows, incapable of resistance. The rest of the army advanced to aid or avenge their brethren, when suddenly[44] the sky became overcast, thick darkness enveloped all objects, the thunder roared, the lightning flashed, the rain poured down in torrents, and, by a rapid transition, peculiar to Eastern climates, the rain and waters turned into snow and ice, and augmented the horrors of the day. The superstitious and conscience-stricken Crusaders viewed in this awful phenomenon the immediate agency of heaven, and deemed it to be sent as a punishment for their sins; and, recollecting that on that very spot but four years before King Baldwin had gained, with a handful of men, a victory over an army of the Damascenes, they were plunged into grief and humiliation. The only advantage which they derived from this expedition was the acquisition of the castle of Banias, which the Ismaïlite governor put into their hands, that under their protection he might escape the fate of his brethren. [Footnote 43: The number slain was 6,000.] [Footnote 44: It was the month of December.] Banias was given up to the Christians in the same year in which Alamoot was taken by the Seljookian sultan, and thus the power of the Assassins seemed to be almost gone. But it had in it a conservative principle, and, hydra-like, it grew by its wounds. Alamoot was speedily recovered, and three years afterwards Banias was once more the seat of a Daï-al-Kebir. At the same time the dagger raged with unwonted fury against all of whom the society stood in apprehension, and the annals of the reign of Keäh Buzoorg Oomeid furnish a list of illustrious victims. The first of these was the celebrated Aksunkur, Prince of Mossul, a warrior equally dreaded by the Christians and by the Assassins. As this prince, on his return from Maärra Mesrin, where the Moslem and Christian hosts had parted without venturing to engage, entered the mosk at Mossul to perform his devotions, he was attacked at the moment when he was about to take his usual seat by eight assassins, disguised as dervishes. Three of them fell beneath the blows of the valiant emir, but ere his people could come to his aid he had received his death-wound and expired. The remainder of the murderers became victims to the vengeance of the people; one youth only escaped. The Arabian historian, Kemal-ed-Deen, relates on this occasion a curious trait of the fanaticism and Spartan spirit which animated the members of the sect of the Ismaïlites. When the mother of the youth above-mentioned heard that the formidable Aksunkur had been slain, she painted her face and put on her gayest raiment and ornaments, rejoicing that her son had been found worthy to die the glorious death of a martyr in the cause of the Imam. But when she saw him return alive and unscathed, she cut off her hair and blackened her countenance, and would not be comforted. In the following year (1127) fell Moin-ed-deen, the vizir of Sultan Sanjar. In this case the Assassin had engaged himself as a groom in the service of the vizir. As Moin-ed-deen went one day into the stable to look at his horses the Assassin appeared before him, stripped, and holding one of the horses by the bridle. As the vizir, unsuspicious of danger, came near where he was, the false groom made the horse rear, and, under the pretence of soothing and pacifying the restive animal, he took out a small dagger which he had concealed in the horse's mane, and plunged it into the bosom of the vizir. The slaughter of the Ismaïlites by the Prince of Damascus was not forgotten, and two years afterwards he received two dagger wounds, one of which proved mortal. Their vengeance was not appeased by his blood, and his son and successor, Shems-al-Molook (_Sun of Kings_), perished by a conspiracy with the guilt of which the Assassins were charged. In the catalogue of the victims of this period appear also the names of the Judges of the East and of the West, of the Mufti of Casveen, of the Reis of Isfahan, and the Reis of Tebreez. The East has been at all times prolific of crime; human life is not there held to be of the value at which it is estimated in Europe; and the dagger and poison are freely employed to remove objects of apprehension, to put obstacles out of the way of ambition, or to satiate the thirst of vengeance. We are not, therefore, lightly to give credit to every charge made against the Assassins, and to believe them guilty of murders from which they had no advantage to derive. Thus, when at this time the Fatimite Khalif Amir bi-ahkami-llah (_Commander of the observance of the laws of God_) fell by the hands of murderers, the probability is that he was not a victim to the vengeance of the Ismaïlite society, whom he had never injured, but rather to that of the family of the powerful vizir Afdal, who had been assassinated some time before by the khalif's order, as we have every reason to suppose. With a greater show of reason may the murder of Mostarshed, the Khalif of Bagdad, be imputed to the policy of the mountain chief. The Seljookian princes, the predecessors of Massood, had been satisfied to exercise all real power in the empire which had once obeyed the house of Abbas, leaving to that feeble _Shadow of God upon Earth_ the unsubstantial privilege of having the coin of the realm struck and prayers offered on Friday in the mosk in his name. But Massood arrogated even these rights to himself, and the helpless successor of the Prophet was obliged to submit to the indignity which he could not prevent. At length some discontented military chiefs passed with their troops over to the khalif, and persuaded him that by one bold effort he might overthrow the might of the Turkish sultan, and recover all his rights. The khalif listened to their arguments, and, placing himself at the head of an army, marched against Sultan Massood. But fortune proved adverse to him. At the first shock the greater part of the troops of Bagdad abandoned him, and he remained a captive in the hands of the sultan, who brought him with him a prisoner to Maragha. Here a treaty was concluded between them, and the khalif bound himself not to go any more outside of the walls of Bagdad, and annually to pay a sum of money. This treaty appears to have been displeasing to the Assassins; and, watching their opportunity, when Massood was gone to meet the ambassadors of Sultan Sanjar, a party of them fell upon and massacred the khalif and his train. The lifeless body of the Commander of the Faithful was mangled by them in the most scandalous manner. After a blood-stained reign of fourteen years and three days Keäh Buzoorg Oomeid died. Departing from the maxims of Hassan Sabah, who it is probable wished to imitate the conduct of the Prophet, and leave the supreme dignity elective, he appointed his own son, Keäh Mohammed, to be his successor, induced either by paternal partiality, or believing him to be the person best qualified for the office. CHAPTER VII. Keäh Mohammed--Murder of the Khalif--Castles gained in Syria--Ismaïlite Confession of Faith--Mohammed's Son Hassan gives himself out for the promised Imam--His Followers punished--Succession of Hassan--He abolishes the Law--Pretends to be descended from the Prophet--Is murdered. The policy of the society underwent no alteration on the accession of Mohammed. The dagger still smote its enemies, and as each victim fell, the people who maintained the rights of Ismaïl, and who were kept in rigid obedience to the positive precepts of the Koran, beheld nothing but the right hand of Heaven made bare for the punishment of crime and usurpation. The new mountain prince had hardly taken the reins of government into his hands when Rasheed, the successor of the late khalif, eager to avenge the murder of his father, assembled an army and marched against Alamoot. He had reached Isfahan, but there his march terminated. Four Assassins, who had entered his service for the purpose, fell upon him in his tent and stabbed him. When the news was conveyed to Alamoot great rejoicings were made, and for seven days and seven nights the trumpets and kettle-drums resounded from the towers of the fortress, proclaiming the triumph of the dagger to the surrounding country. The Syrian dominion of the Ismaïlites was at this time considerably extended. They purchased from Ibn Amroo, their owner, the castles of Cadmos and Kahaf, and took by force that of Massyat from the lords of Sheiser. This castle, which was situated on the west side of Mount Legam, opposite Antaradus, became henceforth the chief seat of Ismaïlite power in Syria. The society had now a line of coast to the north of Tripolis, and their possessions extended inland to the verge of the Hauran. The reign of Mohammed presents few events to illustrate the history of the Assassins. It was probably in his time that the following confession of the Ismaïlite faith was made to the persons whom Sultan Sanjar sent to Alamoot to inquire into it[45]: [Footnote 45: As Sanjar lived to a great age he was contemporary with several of the Ismaïlite sheikhs.] "This is our doctrine," said the heads of the society. "We believe in the unity of God, and acknowledge as the true wisdom and right creed only that which accords with the word of God and the commands of the Prophet. We hold these as they are delivered in the holy writ, the Koran, and believe in all that the Prophet has taught of the creation, and the last things, of rewards and punishments, of the last judgment, and the resurrection. To believe this is necessary, and no one is authorized to judge of the commands of God for himself, or to alter a single letter in them. These are the fundamental doctrines of our sect, and if the sultan does not approve of them, let him send hither one of his learned divines, that we may argue the matter with him." To this creed no orthodox Mussulman could well make any objection. The only question was, what was the Ismaïlite system of interpretation, and what other doctrines did they deduce from the sacred text; and the active employment of the dagger of the Fedavee suggested in tolerably plain terms that there were others, and that something not very compatible with the peace and order of society lay behind the veil. Indeed the circumstance of the Ismaïlite chiefs professing themselves to be only the ministers and representatives of the invisible imam was in itself highly suspicious; for what was to prevent their enjoining any atrocity which might be for their interest, in the name of their viewless master? They are ignorant indeed of human nature who suppose that a prompt obedience would not be yielded to all such commands by the ignorant and bigoted members of the sect. The ill leaven of the secret doctrine displayed itself before very long. Keäh Mohammed, who appears to have been a weak, inefficient man, was held in little esteem by his followers. They began to attach themselves to his son Hassan, who had the reputation of being a man of prodigious knowledge, learned in tradition and the text of the Koran, versed in exposition, and well acquainted with the sciences. Hassan, either through vanity or policy, began secretly to disseminate the notion of his being himself the imam whose appearance had been promised by Hassan Ben Sabah. Filled with this idea, the more instructed members of the society vied with each other in eagerness to fulfil his commands, and Keäh Mohammed, seeing his power gradually slipping from him, was at length roused to energy. Assembling the people, he reprobated in strong terms the prevailing heresy. "Hassan," said he, "is my son, and I am not the imam, but only one of his missionaries. Whoever maintains the contrary is an infidel." Then, in true Assassin fashion, he gave effect to his words by executing 250 of his son's adherents, and banishing an equal number from the fortress. Hassan himself, in order to save his life, was obliged publicly to curse those who held the new opinions, and to write dissertations condemning their tenets, and defending those of his father. By these means he succeeded in removing suspicion from the mind of the old chief; but, as he continued to drink wine in private, and violated several of the other positive precepts of the law, his adherents became only the more convinced of his being the imam, at whose coming all the precepts of the law were to cease to be of any force. Hassan was obliged to be cautious and conceal his opinions during the lifetime of his father; for, whatever their opinion might be of the capacity and intellectual power of the head of their sect, the Assassins believed themselves to be bound to obey his orders, as proceeding from the visible representative of the sacred invisible imam; and, high as their veneration for Hassan was, his blood would have flowed on the ground the instant an order to that effect had passed the lips of his father. But no sooner was Keäh Mohammed dead, after a reign of twenty-four years, and the supreme station was come to Hassan himself, than he resolved to fling away the mask at once, and not only to trample on the law himself, but to authorize and encourage all his people to do the same. Accordingly, when the month Ramazan (the Mohammedan Lent) of the 559th year of the Hejra (A.D. 1163) was come, he ordered all the inhabitants of Roodbar to assemble on the place of prayer (_Mosella_), or esplanade, before the castle of Alamoot. Facing the direction of the Keblah[46] he caused a pulpit to be erected, at whose four corners were displayed banners of the different hues familiar to Islam, namely, a white, a red, a yellow, a green, colours adverse to the black of the Abbassides. [Footnote 46: That is, the point towards which they turn in prayer, namely, Mecca.] On the 17th day of the month the people, in obedience to his commands, appeared in great numbers beneath the walls of the fortress. After a little time Hassan came forth and ascended the pulpit. All voices were hushed; expectation waited on the words of the Sheikh-al-Jebal. He commenced his discourse by perplexing the minds of his auditors by enigmatical and obscure sentences. When he had thus deluded them for some time, he informed them that an envoy of the imam (that is, the phantom of a khalif who was still sitting on the throne at Cairo) had arrived, and had brought him a letter addressed to all Ismaïlites, whereby the fundamental tenets of the sect were renewed and confirmed. He proceeded to assure them that, by this letter, the gates of mercy and compassion had been opened for all who would follow and obey him; that they were the true elect; that they were freed from all obligations of the law, and delivered from the burden of all commands and prohibitions; that he had now conducted them to the day of the resurrection, that is, of the revelation of the imam. He then commenced in Arabic the Khootbeh, or public prayer, which he said he had received from the imam; and an interpreter, who stood at the foot of the pulpit, translated it for them to the following effect:-- "Hassan, the son of Mohammed, the son of Buzoorg Oomeid, is our khalif (_successor_), dai, and hoojet (_proof_). All who follow our doctrine must hearken to him in affairs of faith and of the world, and regard his commands as imperative, his words as impressive. They must not transgress his prohibitions, and they must regard his commands as ours. They should know that our lord has had compassion upon them, and has conducted them to the most high God." When this proclamation was made known Hassan came down from the pulpit, directed tables to be spread, and commanded the people to break the fast, and to give themselves up, as on festival days, to all kinds of enjoyment, with music, and various games and sports. "For this," cried he, "this is the day of the resurrection;" that is, according to the Ismaïlite mode of interpreting the Koran, the day of the manifestation of the imam. What the orthodox had before only suspected was now confirmed. It was now manifest, beyond doubt, that the Ismaïlites were heretics who trampled under foot all the most plain and positive precepts of Islam; for, though they might pretend to justify their practice by their allegorical system of interpretation, it was clearly repugnant to common sense, and might be made the instrument of sanctioning, under the name of religion, every species of enormity. From this time the term Moolahid (_impious_) began to become the common and familiar appellation of the Ismaïlites in the mouths of the orthodox Moslems. As to the Ismaïlites themselves, they rejoiced in what they had done; they exalted like emancipated bondsmen in the liberty which they had acquired; and they even commenced a new era from the 17th (or, according to some authorities, the 7th) Ramazan of the 559th year, namely, the day of the manifestation of the imam. To the name of Hassan they henceforth affixed the formula "_On his memory be peace_;" which formula, it would appear, was employed by itself to designate him; for the historian Mirkhond assures us that he had been informed by a credible person that over the door of the library in Alamoot was the following inscription:-- "With the aid of God, the bonds Of the law he took away, The commander of the world, Upon whose name be peace." The madness of Hassan now attained its climax. He disdained to be regarded, like his predecessors, as merely the representative of the imam on earth, but asserted himself to be the true and real imam, who was now at length made manifest to the world. He sent letters to all the settlements of the society, requiring them to acknowledge him in his new capacity. He was prudent enough, however, to show a regard for the dignity and power of his different lieutenants in these letters, as appears by the following specimen, being the letter which was sent to Kuhistan, where the reis Mozaffar commanded:-- "I Hassan say unto you that I am the representative of God upon earth, and mine in Kuhistan is the reis Mozaffar, whom the men of that country are to obey, and to receive his word as mine." The reis erected a pulpit in the castle of Moominabad, the place of his residence, and read the letter aloud to the people, the greater part of whom listened to its contents with joy. The tables were covered before the pulpit, the wine was brought forth, the drums and kettle-drums resounded, the notes of the pipe and flute inspired joy, and the day of the abolition of the positive precepts of the law was devoted to mirth and festivity. Some few, who were sincere and upright in their obedience to Islam, quitted the region which they now regarded as the abode of infidelity, and went in search of other abodes; others, of a less decided character, remained, though shocked at what they were obliged every day to behold. The obedience to the commands of the _soi-disant_ imam was, however, tolerably general, and, according to Hammer, who can scarcely, however, be supposed to regard the system of Hassan as really more licentious than he has elsewhere described that of Mahomet, "the banner of the freest infidelity, and of the most shameless immorality, now waved on all the castles of Roodbar and Kuhistan, as the standard of the new illumination; and, instead of the name of the Egyptian khalif, resounded from all the pulpits that of Hassan as the true successor of the Prophet." The latter point had presented some difficulty to Hassan; for, in order to satisfy the people on that head, it was necessary to prove a descent from the Prophet, and this was an honour to which it was well known the family from which he was sprung had never laid claim. He might take upon him to abolish the positive precepts of the law as he pleased, and the people, whose inclinations were thereby gratified, would not perhaps scan very narrowly the authority by which he acted; but the attempt to deprive the Fatimite khalif of the honour which he had so long enjoyed, and to assume the rank of God's viceregent on earth in his room, was likely to give too great a shock to their prejudices, if not cautiously managed. It was necessary, therefore, that he should prove himself to be of the blood of the Fatimites. He accordingly began to drop some dark hints respecting the truth of the received opinion of his being the son of Keäh Mohammed. Our readers will recollect that, when Hassan Sabah was in Egypt, a dispute had taken place respecting the succession to the throne, in which Hassan had nearly lost his life for opposing the powerful commander-in-chief (_Emir-al-Jooyoosh_), and Nezar, the prince for whom the khalif Mostanser had designed the succession, had been deprived of his right by the influence of that officer. The confidents of Hassan now began to give out that, in about a year after the death of the khalif Mostanser, a certain person named Aboo-'l-Zeide, who had been high in his confidence, had come to Alamoot, bearing with him a son of Nezar, whom he committed to the care of Hassan Sabah, who, grateful to the memory of the khalif and his son, had received the fugitive with great honour, and assigned a village at the foot of Alamoot for the residence of the young imam. When the youth was grown up he married and had a son, whom he named _On his Memory be Peace_. Just at the time when the imam's wife was confined in the village, the consort of Keäh Mohammed lay in at the castle; and, in order that the descendant of Fatima might come to the temporal power which was his right, a confidential woman undertook and succeeded in the task of secretly changing the children. Others went still further, and did not hesitate to assert that the young imam had intrigued with the wife of Keäh Mohammed, and that Hassan was the fruit of their adulterous intercourse. Like a true pupil of ambition, Hassan was willing to defame the memory of his mother, and acknowledge himself to be a bastard, provided he could succeed in persuading the people to believe him a descendant of the Prophet. These pretensions of Hassan to a Fatimite pedigree gave rise to a further increase of the endless sects into which the votaries of Islam were divided. Those who acknowledged it got the name of Nezori, and by them Hassan was called the Lord of the Resurrection (_Kaim-al-Kiamet_), and they styled themselves the Sect of the Resurrection. The reign of the vain, inconsiderate Hassan was but short. He had governed the society only four years when he was assassinated by his brother-in-law, Namver, a descendant, we are told, of the family of Buyah, which had governed the khalifs and their dominions before the power passed into the hands of the Turkish house of Seljook. CHAPTER VIII. Mohammed II.--Anecdote of the Imam Fakhr-ed-deen--Noor-ed-deen--Conquest of Egypt--Attempt on the Life of Saladin. The death of Hassan was amply avenged by his son and successor, Mohammed II. Not only was the murderer himself put to death; vengeance, in its oriental form, extended itself to all his kindred of both sexes, and men, women, and children bled beneath the sword of the executioner. Mohammed, who had been carefully trained up in the study of philosophy and literature, was, like his father, puffed up with vanity and ambition, and, far from receding from any of his predecessor's pretensions to the imamat, he carried them to even a still greater length than he had done. At the same time he maintained a high character for knowledge and talent among his literary contemporaries, who were numerous, for his reign extended through a period of forty-six years, and the modern Persian literature was now fast approaching its climax. Not to mention other names, less familiar to our readers, we shall remark, as a proof of what we have said, that this was the period in which Nizamee of Ghenj sang in harmonious numbers the loves of Khosroo and Shireen, and of Mujnoon and Leila (these last the Romeo and Juliet of the east), the crown and flower of the romantic poetry of Persia. Then too flourished the great panegyrist Enveree, and a crowd of historians, jurists, and divines. One of the most celebrated men of this time was the imam Fakhr-ed-deen (_Glory of Religion_) Rasi, who gave public lectures on the law in his native city of Rei. It being slanderously reported that he was devoted in secret to the opinions of the Ismaïlites, and was even one of their missionaries, he adopted the ordinary expedient of abusing and reviling that sect, and each time he ascended the pulpit to preach he reprobated and cursed the _Impious_ in no measured terms. Intelligence of what he was about was not long in reaching the eyrie of the Sheikh-al-Jebal, and a Fedavee received his instructions, and forthwith set out for Rei. He here entered himself as a student of the law, and sedulously attended the lectures of the learned imam. During seven months he watched in vain for an opportunity of executing his commission. At length he discovered one day that the attendants of the imam had left him to go to fetch him some food, and that he was alone in his study. The Fedavee entered, fastened the doors, seized the imam, cast him on the ground, and directed his dagger at his bosom. "What is thy design?" said the astonished imam. "To rip up thy belly and breast." "And wherefore?" "Wherefore? Because thou hast spoken evil of the Ismaïlites in the pulpit." The imam implored and entreated, vowing that, if his life was spared, he would never more say aught to offend the sect of Ismaïl. "I cannot trust thee," cried the Assassin; "for when I am gone thou wilt return to thy old courses, and, by some ingenious shift or other, contrive to free thyself from the obligation of thy oath." The imam then, with a most solemn oath, abjured the idea of explaining away his words, or seeking absolution for perjury. The Assassin got up from over him, saying, "I had no order to slay thee, or I should have put thee to death without fail. Mohammed, the son of Hassan, greets thee, and invites thee to honour him by a visit at his castle. Thou shalt there have unlimited power, and we will all obey thee like trusty servants. We despise, so saith the sheikh, the discourses of the rabble, which rebound from our ears like nuts from a ball; but _you_ should not revile us, since your words impress themselves like the strokes of the graver in the stone." The imam replied that it was totally out of his power to go to Alamoot, but that in future he should be most careful never to suffer a word to pass his lips to the discredit of the mountain prince. Hereupon the Fedavee drew 300 pieces of gold from his girdle, and, laying them down, said, "See! here is thy annual pension; and, by a decree of the divan, thou shalt every year receive an equal sum through the reis Mozaffer. I also leave thee, for thy attendants, two garments from Yemen, which the Sheikh-al-Jebal has sent thee." So saying, the Fedavee disappeared. The imam took the money and the clothes, and for some years his pension was paid regularly. A change in his language now became perceptible, for, whereas he was used before, when, on treating of any controverted point, he had occasion to mention the Ismaïlites, to express himself thus, "Whatever the Ismaïlites, whom God curse and destroy! may say,"--now that he was pensioned he contented himself with merely saying, "Notwithstanding what the Ismaïlites may say." When one of his scholars asked him the cause of this change he made answer, "We cannot curse the Ismaïlites, they employ such _sharp_ and _convincing_ arguments." This anecdote is related by several of the Persian historians, and it serves to prove, like the case of sultan Sanjar, related above, that the Ismaïlites were not so thoroughly ruthless and bloodthirsty as not to prefer rendering an enemy innocuous by gentle means to depriving him of life. Historians record no other event connected with the eastern establishment of the Ismaïlite society during the long-reign of Mohammed II. We shall now, therefore, turn our view to the Syrian branch, which attracts attention by the illustrious names which appear in oriental history at that time, and with which the ruler of Massyat came into hostile or friendly relations. The names of Noor-ed-deen (_Light of Religion_), Salah-ed-deen (_Integrity of Religion_), the Noradin and Saladin of western writers, and the Lion-hearted king of England, will at once awake the attention of the reader. The celebrated Emod-ed-deen (_Pillar of Religion_) Zengi, who gave the Christian power in the east its first shock by the conquest of Edessa, perished by the hand of a slave shortly after that achievement. His power and the title Atabeg fell to his son Noor-ed-deen, who carried on the war against the Christians with all the activity of his father, and with more of the gentleness and courtesies which shed a lustre on zeal and valour. Noor-ed-deen was one of the most accomplished characters which the East has exhibited. He was generous and just, and strict in the observance of all the duties of Islam. No pomp or magnificence surrounded him. He wore neither silk nor gold. With the fifth part of the booty, which was his share as prince, he provided for all his expenses. A zealous Moslem, he was evermore engaged in the combats of the Holy War,--either the _greater_, which was held to be fought against the world and its temptations by fasting and prayer, by study, and the daily practice of the virtues required of him who is placed in authority,--or the _lesser_, which was fought with natural weapons against the foes of Islam. From this union of piety and valour he acquired the titles of Gasi (_Victor_) and Sheheed (_Martyr_); for, though he did not fall in the defence of the faith, he was regarded as being entitled to all the future rewards attendant on actual martyrdom. Notwithstanding his being one of the most deadly foes that the Christians ever encountered, their historians did justice to the illustrious Noor-ed-deen, and the learned William, Archbishop of Tyre, says of him, "He was a prudent, moderate man, who feared God according to the faith of his people, fortunate, and an augmenter of his paternal inheritance." The possession of Mossul and Aleppo made Noor-ed-deen master of northern Syria; the southern part of that country was under the Prince of Damascus. Twice did the atabeg lay siege, without effect, to that city; at length the inhabitants, fearing the Crusaders, invited him to take possession of it, and the feeble prince was obliged to retire, accepting Emessa in exchange for the "Queen of Syria." The power of Noor-ed-deen now extended from the Euphrates to the Holy Land, and his thoughts were directed towards his grand object of expelling the Franks from the East, when an opportunity presented itself of bringing Egypt once more under the spiritual dominion of the house of Abbas. Degeneracy is the inevitable lot of unlimited power. The Fatimite Commanders of the Faithful were now become mere puppets in the hands of their ministers, and the post of vizir was now, as was so often the case with the throne, contended for with arms. A civil war was at this time raging in Egypt between Shaver and Dhargam, rival candidates for the viziriate. The former came in person to Damascus, and offered the atabeg Noor-ed-deen a third of the revenues of Egypt if he would aid him to overcome his rival. Without hesitation Noor-ed-deen ordered Asad-ed-deen (_Lion of Religion_) Sheerkoh (_Mountain Lion_)[47], a Koordish chief who commanded for him at Emessa, to assemble an army and march for Egypt. Sheerkoh obeyed, and sorely against his will, and only at the urgent command of Noor-ed-deen, did his nephew, the then little known, afterwards so justly famous, Saladin, quit the banquets and enjoyments of Damascus, and the other towns of Syria, to accompany his uncle to the toils and the perils of war. Dhargam was victorious in the first action, but he being murdered shortly afterwards by one of his slaves, Shaver obtained possession of the dignity which he sought. The new vizir then tried to get rid of his allies, but such was not the intention of Noor-ed-deen, and Sheerkoh took his post with his troops in the north-eastern part of the kingdom, where he occupied the frontier town of Belbeïs, on the most eastern branch of the Nile, under pretext of receiving the third part of the revenue which had been promised to Noor-ed-deen. Shaver, anxious to get rid of such dangerous guests, formed a secret league with Amalric, King of Jerusalem, and engaged to give him 60,000 ducats for his aid against them. Sheerkoh, who had been reinforced, advanced into Upper Egypt, and Saladin took the command of Alexandria, which he gallantly defended for three months against the combined forces of the Christians and Egyptians, and, after some fighting, peace was made on condition of Noor-ed-deen receiving 50,000 ducats, and double that sum being paid annually to the King of Jerusalem. [Footnote 47: The former of these names is Arabic, the latter Persian.] Shortly afterwards an unprincipled attempt was made on Egypt by Amalric, at the suggestion of the Master of the Hospitallers, and Shaver, in his distress, had once more recourse to Noor-ed-deen. The phantom-khalif joined in the supplication, and sent what is the greatest mark of need in the east--locks of the hair of his women, which is as much as to say, "Aid! aid! the foe is dragging the women forth by the hair." Belbeïs had now been conquered, and Cairo was besieged by the Christians. Shaver had burnt the old town, and defended himself and the khalif in the new town, the proper Cairo. Sheerkoh appeared once more in Egypt with a larger army than before[48], but, ere he reached the beleaguered town, Shaver and Amalric had entered into a composition, and the former had withdrawn on receiving a sum of 50,000 ducats. Sheerkoh however advanced, and pitched his tents before the walls of Cairo. The khalif Adhad and his principal nobles came forth to receive him, and that unhappy prince made his complaints of the tyranny and selfishness of Shaver, who had brought so much misery on him and his kingdom. He concluded by requesting the head of his vizir at the hand of the general of Noor-ed-deen. Shaver, aware of the danger which menaced him, invited Sheerkoh, his nephew, and the other chiefs of the army, to a banquet, with the intention of destroying them, but his plot was discovered, and his head cast at the feet of the khalif. Sheerkoh was forthwith appointed to the vacant dignity, with the honourable title of Melik-el-Mansoor (Victorious King), but he enjoyed it only for a short time, having been carried off by death in little more than two months after his elevation. He was succeeded in his rank, and in the command of the army, by his nephew Saladin, who now became in effect master of Egypt. Noor-ed-deen, thinking the time was come for establishing the spiritual sway of the house of Abbas, sent directions to Saladin to fill all the offices which had been occupied by the Sheähs with the orthodox, and hear prayer celebrated in the name of the Khalif of Bagdad; but this prudent chief, who knew that the great majority of the people of Egypt were firmly attached to the belief of the Fatimites being the rightful successors of the Prophet, hesitated to comply. At length the death of the Fatimite khalif occurred most opportunely to free him from embarrassment. Adhad-ladin-Allah, the last of the descendants of Moez-ladin-Allah, the founder of the dynasty, died suddenly--of disease, according to the oriental historians,--by the hand of Saladin, according to the rumour which went among the Christians[49]. All obstacles being now removed, public prayer was celebrated in the mosks of Egypt in the name of the Abbasside khalif, and the power of the western Ismaïlites, after a continuance of 200 years, brought completely to an end. [Footnote 48: He was accompanied by Saladin, who gives the following account of his own repugnance to the expedition:--"When Noor-ed-deen ordered me to go to Egypt with my uncle, after Sheerkoh had said to me in his presence, 'Come Yoossuf, make ready for the journey!' I replied, 'By God, if thou wert to give me the kingdom of Egypt I would not go, for I have endured in Alexandria what I shall not forget while I live.' But Sheerkoh said to Noor-ed-deen, 'It cannot be but that he should accompany me.' Whereupon Noor-ed-deen repeated his command, but I persisted in my refusal. As Noor-ed-deen also adhered to his determination, I excused myself by pleading the narrowness of my circumstances. Noor-ed-deen then gave me all that was requisite for my outfit, but I felt as if I was going to death."--_Abulfeda._] [Footnote 49: William of Tyre xx. 12.] Noor-ed-deen, who saw that the power of his lieutenant was now too great to be controlled, adopted the prudent plan of soothing him by titles and marks of confidence. The khalif of Bagdad sent him a dress of honour and a letter of thanks for having reduced under his spiritual dominion a province which had been so long rebellious against his house. But the most important consequence of the timely death of the khalif to Saladin was the acquisition of the accumulated treasures of the Fatimites, which fell into his hands, and which he employed as the means of securing the fidelity of his officers and soldiers. As a specimen of oriental exaggeration, we shall give the list of these treasures as they are enumerated by eastern writers. There were, we are assured, no less than 700 pearls, each of which was of a size that rendered it inestimable, an emerald a span long, and as thick as the finger, a library consisting of 2,600,000 books, and gold, both coined and in the mass; aloes, amber, and military arms and weapons past computation. A large portion of this enormous treasure was distributed by Saladin among his soldiers; the remainder was applied, during ten successive years, to defray the expenses of his wars and buildings. As Saladin's name was Yoossuf (_Joseph_), the same with that of the son of Jacob, the minister of king Pharaoh, it is not an improbable supposition that, in Egyptian tradition, the two Josephs have been confounded, and the works of the latter been ascribed to the former; for it is the character of popular tradition to leap over centuries, and even thousands of years, and to form out of several heroes one who is made to perform the actions of them all. As long as Noor-ed-deen lived, Saladin continued to acknowledge his superiority; and when, on his death, he left his dominions to his son Malek-es-Saleh, the coins of Egypt bore the name of the young prince. As Malek-es-Saleh was a minor, and entirely under the guidance of the eunuch Kameshtegin, great discontent prevailed among the emirs; and Seif-ed-deen (_Sword of Religion_), the cousin of the young prince, who was at the head of an army in Mesopotamia, prepared to wrest the dominion from the young Malek-es-Saleh. All eyes were turned to Saladin, as the only person capable of preserving the country. He left Egypt with only 700 horsemen. The governor and people of Damascus cheerfully opened the gates to him. Hems and Hama followed the example of Damascus. Saladin took the government under the modest title of lieutenant of the young atabeg, whose rights he declared himself ready to maintain on all occasions. He advanced to Aleppo, where Malek-es-Saleh was residing; but the militia of that town, moved by the tears of the young prince, who was probably influenced by the eunuch Kameshtegin, who feared to lose his power, marched out and put to flight the small force with which Saladin had approached the town. Having collected a larger army, Saladin laid siege regularly to Aleppo, and Kameshtegin, despairing of force, resolved to have recourse to treachery. He sent accordingly to Sinan, the Sheikh of the Assassins, who resided at Massyat, representing to him how dangerous a foe to the Ismaïlites was the valiant Koord, who was so ardent in his zeal for the house of Abbas, and had put an end to the dynasty of the Fatimites, who had so long given lustre to the maintainers of the rights of Ismaïl by the possession of extensive temporal power and dignity. He reminded him that, if Saladin succeeded in his ambitious projects in Syria, he would, in all probability, turn his might against the Assassins, and destroy their power in that country. These arguments were enforced by gold, and the sheikh, readily yielding to them, despatched without delay three Fedavees, who fell on Saladin in the camp before Aleppo. The attempt, however, miscarried, and the murderers were seized and put to death. Saladin, incensed at this attempt on his life, and guessing well the quarter whence it came, now pressed on the siege with greater vigour. Finding the benefit which might be derived from the daggers of the Fedavee, Kameshtegin resolved to employ them against his personal enemies. The vizir of the young prince, and two of the principal emirs, had laid a plot for his destruction. Coming to the knowledge of it, he determined to be beforehand with them, and, watching the moment when Malek-es-Saleh was about to mount his horse to go to the chase, he approached him, requesting his signature to a blank paper, under pretence of its being necessary for some affair of urgent importance. The young prince signed his name without suspicion, and Kameshtegin instantly wrote on the paper a letter to the Sheikh of the Assassins, in which Malek-es-Saleh was made to request him to send men to put those three emirs out of the way. The Ismaïlite chief readily complied with the request, as he supposed it to be, of his young friend and neighbour, and several Fedavees were despatched to execute his wishes. Two of these fell on the vizir as he was going out of the eastern gate of a mosk near his own house. They were cut to pieces on the spot. Soon after three fell on the emir Mujaheed as he was on horseback. One of them caught hold of the end of his cloak, in order to make more sure of him, but the emir gave his horse the spurs, and broke away, leaving his cloak behind. The people seized the Assassins, two of whom were recognized as being acquaintances of the emir's head groom. One of them was crucified, and along with him the groom as an accomplice: on the breast of the latter was placed this inscription, "This is the reward of the concealer of the Impious." The others were dragged to the castle, and beaten on the soles of their feet to make them confess what had induced them to attempt the commission of such a crime. In the midst of his tortures one of them cried out, "Thou didst desire of our lord Sinan the murder of thy slaves, and now thou dost punish us for performing thy wishes.". Full of wrath Malek-es-Saleh wrote a letter to the sheikh Sinan filled with the bitterest reproaches. The sheikh made no other reply than that of sending him back the letter bearing his own subscription. Historians do not tell us what the final result was; and it is also in a great measure uncertain at what time this event occurred. The Assassins did not give over their attempts upon Saladin, whose power became more formidable to them after he had deprived the family of Noor-ed-deen of their honours and dominions; and he was again attacked by them in his camp before the fortress of Ezag. One of them assailed him and wounded him in the head, but the sultan (he had now assumed that title) caught him by the arm and struck him down. A second rushed on--he was cut down by the guards; a third, a fourth, shared the same fate. Terrified at their obstinate perseverance, the sultan shut himself up in his tent during several days, and ordered all strangers and suspicious persons to quit the camp. Next year (1176) the sultan, being at peace with his other enemies, resolved to take exemplary vengeance on those who had so unprovokedly attempted his life. Assembling an army, he entered the mountains, wasted with fire and sword the territory of the Ismaïlites, and came and laid siege to Massyat. The power of the Syrian Ismaïlites would have been now extinguished but for the intercession of the Prince of Hama, the sultan's uncle, who, at the entreaty of Sinan, prevailed on his nephew to grant a peace on condition of no attempt being made at any future time on his life. Sinan gladly assented to these terms, and he honourably kept his engagement, for the great Saladin reigned fifteen years after this time, carried on continual wars, conquered Jerusalem and the Holy Land, exposed himself to danger in the field and in the camp, but no Assassin was ever again known to approach him with hostile intentions. CHAPTER IX. Sinan the Dai-al-Kebir of Syria--Offers to become a Christian--His Ambassador murdered by the Templars--Cardinal de Vitry's Account of the Assassins--Murder of the Marquis of Montferrat--Defence of King Richard. The person who had the chief direction of the affairs of the society in Syria in the time of Saladin was one of the most remarkable characters which appear in the history of the Assassins. His name was Rasheed-ed-deen (_Orthodox in Religion_) Sinan, the son of Suleiman of Basra. Like so many others of the impostors who have appeared from time to time in the east, he had the audacity to give himself out for an incarnation of the Divinity. No one ever saw him eat, drink, sleep, or even spit. His clothing was of coarse hair-cloth. From the rising to the setting of the sun he stood upon a lofty rock, preaching to the people, who received his words as those of a superior being. Unfortunately for his credit, his auditors at length discovered that he had a halt in his gait, caused by a wound which he received from a stone in the great earthquake of 1157. This did not accord with the popular idea of the perfection which should belong to the corporeal vehicle of Divinity. The credit of Sinan vanished at once, and those who had just been adoring the god now threatened to take the life of the impostor. Sinan lost not his self-possession; he calmly entreated them to be patient, descended from his rock, caused food to be brought, invited them to eat, and by the persuasive powers of his eloquence induced them to recognise him as their sole chief, and all unanimously swore obedience and fidelity to him. The neglect of chronology by the oriental historians, or their European translators and followers, is frequently such that we are left in great uncertainty as to the exact time of particular events, and are thus unable to trace them to their real causes and occasions. The mention of the earthquake of 1157 would however seem to make it probable that it was about that time that Sinan put forward his claims to divinity; and as, at that very period, Hassan, the son of Keäh Mohammed, was giving himself out for the promised imam, we may suppose that it was his example which stimulated Sinan to his bold attempt at obtaining independent dominion over the Syrian branch of the Ismaïlites. Sinan was, like Hassan, a man of considerable learning. His works are held in high estimation by the remains of the sect of the Ismaïlites still lingering among the mountains of Syria. These works, we are told, consist of a chaotic mixture of mutilated passages of the Gospel and the Koran, of contradictory articles of belief, of hymns, prayers, sermons, and regulations, which are unintelligible even to those who receive and venerate them. The sacred books of the Christians formed, as we see, a part of the studies of the Sheikh of Massyat, and, as it would appear, he thought he might derive some advantage from his acquaintance with them. The religio-military society of the Knights of the Temple, whose history we shall soon have to record, had possessions in the neighbourhood of those of the Assassins, and their superior power had enabled them, at what time is uncertain, to render the latter tributary. The tribute was the annual sum of 2,000 ducats, and Sinan, to whom probably all religions were alike, and who had unbounded power over the minds of his people, conceived the idea of releasing himself from it by professing the same religion with his neighbours. He accordingly sent, in the year 1172, one of his most prudent and eloquent ministers on a secret embassy to Amalric King of Jerusalem, offering, in the name of himself and his people, to embrace the Christian religion, and receive the rite of baptism, provided the king would engage to make the Templars renounce the tribute of 2,000 ducats, and agree to live with them henceforward as good neighbours and friends and brethren. Overjoyed at the prospect of making converts of such importance, the king readily assented to the desires of the Ismaïlite chief, and he at the same time assured the Templars that their house should not be a loser, as he would pay them 2,000 ducats annually out of his treasury. The brethren of the Temple made no objection to the arrangement: and after the Ismaïlite ambassador had been detained and treated honourably for some days by the king, he set out on his return, accompanied by a guide and escort sent by the king to conduct him as far as the borders of the Ismaïlite territory. They passed in safety through the country of Tripolis, and were now in the vicinity of the first castles of the Ismaïlites, when suddenly some Templars rushed forth from an ambush, and murdered the ambassador. The Templars were commanded by a knight named Walter du Mesnil, a one-eyed, daring, wicked man, but who, on this occasion, it would appear, acted by the orders of his superiors, who probably did not consider the royal promise good security for the 2,000 ducats; for, when Amalric, filled with indignation at the base and perfidious action, assembled his barons at Sidon to deliberate on what should be done, and by their advice sent two of their number to Ado de St. Amand, the Master of the Temple, to demand satisfaction for the iniquitous deed, the master contented himself by saying that he had imposed a penance on brother Du Mesnil, and had moreover directed him to proceed to Rome without delay, to know what farther the apostolic father would order him to do, and that, on this account he must, in the name of the pope, prohibit any violence against the aforesaid brother. The king, however, was not regardless of justice and of his own dignity. Shortly afterwards, when the master and several of the Templars were at Sidon, he assembled his council again, and, with their consent, sent and dragged Du Mesnil from the house of the Templars, and threw him into prison, where he would probably have expiated his crime but for the speedy death of the king. All hopes of the conversion of the Ismaïlites were now at an end. It is on this occasion that the Archbishop of Tyre gives an account of what he had been able to learn respecting the Assassins. As what we have previously related of them has been exclusively drawn from eastern sources, it will not be useless to insert in this place the accounts of them given by the Cardinal de Vitry, who has followed and enlarged the sketch of the archbishop[50]. [Footnote 50: Gesta Dei per Francos, vol. i. pp. 994, 1062.] "In the province of Phoenicia, near the borders of the Antaradensian town which is now called Tortosa, dwells a certain people, shut in on all sides by rocks and mountains, who have ten castles, very strong and impregnable, by reason of the narrow ways and inaccessible rocks, with their suburbs and the valleys, which are most fruitful in all species of fruits and corn, and most delightful for their amenity. The number of these men, who are called Assassins, is said to exceed 40,000[51]. They set a captain over themselves, not by hereditary succession, but by the prerogative of merit, whom they call the Old Man (_Veterem seu Senem_), not so much on account of his advanced age as for his pre-eminence in prudence and dignity. The first and principal _abbot_ of this unhappy _religion_ of theirs, and the place where they had their origin and whence they came to Syria, is in the very remote parts of the east, near the city of Bagdad and the parts of the province of Persia. These people, who do not divide the hoof, nor make a difference between what is sacred and what is profane, believe that all obedience indifferently shown by them towards their superior is meritorious for eternal life. Hence they are bound to their master, whom they call the Old Man, with such a bond of subjection and obedience that there is nothing so difficult or so dangerous that they would fear to undertake, or which they would not perform with a cheerful mind and ardent will, at the command of their lord. The Old Man, their lord, causes boys of this people to be brought up in secret and delightful places, and having had them diligently trained and instructed in the different kinds of languages, sends them to various provinces with daggers, and orders them to slay the great men of the Christians, as well as of the Saracens, either because he is at enmity with them for some cause or other, or at the request of his friends, or even for the lucre of a large sum of money which has been given him, promising them, for the execution of this command, that they shall have far greater delights, and without end, in paradise, after death, than even those amidst which they had been reared. If they chance to die in this act of obedience they are regarded as martyrs by their companions, and being placed by that people among their saints, are held in the greatest reverence. Their parents are enriched with many gifts by the master, who is called the Old Man, and if they were slaves they are let go free ever after. Whence these wretched and misguided youths, who are sent from the convent (_conventu_) of the aforesaid brethren to different parts of the world, undertake their deadly legation with such joy and delight, and perform it with such diligence and solicitude, transforming themselves in various ways, and assuming the manners and dress of other nations, sometimes concealing themselves under the appearance of merchants, at other times under that of priests and monks, and in an infinity of other modes, that there is hardly any person in the whole world so cautious as to be able to guard against their machinations. They disdain to plot against an inferior person. The great men to whom they are hostile either redeem themselves by a large sum of money, or, going armed and attended by a body of guards, pass their life in suspicion and in dread of death. They kept the law of Mahomet and his institutions diligently and straitly beyond all other Saracens till the times of a certain master of theirs, who, being endowed with natural genius, and exercised in the study of different writings, began with all diligence to read and examine the law of the Christians and the Gospels of Christ, admiring the virtue of the miracles, and the sanctity of the doctrine. From a comparison with these he began to abominate the frivolous and irrational doctrine of Mahomet, and at length, when he knew the truth, he studied to recall his subjects by degrees from the rites of the cursed law. Wherefore he exhorted and commanded them that they should drink wine in moderation and eat the flesh of swine. At length, after many discourses and serious admonitions of their teacher, they all with one consent agreed to renounce the perfidy of Mahomet, and, by receiving the grace of baptism, to become Christians." [Footnote 51: William of Tyre makes their number 60,000. He declares his inability to give the origin of the name Assassins.] We may, from this account, perceive that the Crusaders had a tolerably clear idea of the nature and constitution of the society of the Assassins. The Cardinal de Vitry plainly describes them as forming a _religion_, that is, an order under an abbot; and perhaps the resemblance which Hammer traces between them and the Templars, which we shall notice when we come to speak of this last society, is not quite so fanciful as it might at first sight appear. It is curious, too, to observe that the Christians also believed that the Sheikh-al-Jebal had some mode of inspiring the Fedavee with a contempt of life and an aspiration after the joys of paradise. The dagger had not been unsheathed against the Christian princes since, forty-two years before (1149), Raymond, the young Count of Tripolis, was murdered as he knelt at his devotions, and the altar was sprinkled with his blood. A more illustrious victim was now to bleed; and, as the question of who was the real author of his death forms a curious historical problem, we shall here discuss it at some length. Conrad Marquis of Montferrat, a name celebrated in the history of the third crusade, had just been named King of Jerusalem by Richard Lion-heart King of England. In the latter end of the month of April 1192 the marquis, being at Tyre, went to dine with the Bishop of Beauvais. One writer says that, the marchioness having stayed too long in the bath, and the marquis being averse to dining alone, he mounted his horse and rode to dine with the Bishop; but, finding that that prelate had already finished his meal, he was returning home to his palace. As he passed through a narrow street, and was come near the toll-house, two Assassins, having watched their opportunity, approached him. The one presented a petition, and, while he was engaged reading it, both struck him with their daggers, crying, "Thou shalt be neither marquis nor king." One of them was cut down instantly, the other sought refuge in a neighbouring church, and, according to an Arabian historian, when the wounded marquis was brought into the same church, he rushed on him anew, and completed his crime. Others relate that the marquis was carried home to his palace, where he lived long enough to receive the holy sacrament and to give his last instructions to his wife. The two accounts, we may perceive, are by no means repugnant. These Assassins, who were both youths, had been for some time--six months it is said--in Tyre, watching for an opportunity to perform the commission which had been given them. They had feigned a conversion from Islam, or, as some say, had assumed the habit of monks, in order to win the confidence of the marquis, and thus procure more ready access to him. One of them, we are told, had even entered his service, and the other that of Balian of Ibelin. The question now comes, at whose instigation was the murder committed? Here we find several both oriental and occidental witnesses disposed to lay the guilt on Richard, King of England, those writers who were his own subjects indignantly repelling the accusation, and some indifferent witnesses testifying in his favour. Previous to examining these witnesses we must state that king Richard was at enmity with Philip Augustus, King of France; that though he had given the crown of Jerusalem to the Marquis of Montferrat, there was little kind feeling between them, and they had been enemies; and, finally, that the history of the English monarch exhibits no traits of such a generous chivalrous disposition as should put him beyond suspicion of being concerned in an assassination. Of the writers who charge king Richard with the murder it is to be observed that the only ones that are contemporary are the Arabian historians. The following passage is quoted from the History of Jerusalem and Hebron, by Hammer, who regards it as quite decisive of the guilt of the English king:--"The marquis went, on the 13th of the month Rebi-al-Ewal, to visit the Bishop of Tyre. As he was going out he was attacked by two Assassins, who slew him with their daggers. When taken and stretched on the rack, they confessed that they had been employed by the King of England. They died under the torture." Boha-ed-deen, the friend and biographer of Saladin, writes to the same effect. It is therefore evident that, at the time, it was reported that the marquis had been murdered by persons employed by the King of England; and Vinisauf and the other English writers assure us that the French party and the friends of the murdered marquis endeavoured to throw the odium of the deed on king Richard. As that mode of getting rid of an enemy was far too familiar in the east, it was natural enough that the Arabian writers should adopt the report without much inquiry. This consideration alone ought very much to invalidate their testimony. Some German chroniclers also, following the reports which were industriously spread to the disadvantage of the English king at the time he was a prisoner in Austria, did not hesitate to accuse him of the murder of the marquis; but, as has been justly observed, these, as well as the preceding, were either partial or at a distance[52]. [Footnote 52: Raumer, Geschichte der Hohenstauffen, ii., p. 490. Wilken, Geschichte der Kreuzzüge, iv., 489.] In opposition to these assertions, we have the unanimous testimony of all the English writers, such as Vinisauf (the companion and historian of king Richard's crusade), Hoveden, Brompton, William of Newbridge. The Syrian bishop, Aboo-'l-Faraj, mentions the report of the Assassin who was put to the rack having laid the guilt on king Richard, but adds that the truth came afterwards to light. Hugo Plagon, a judicious and impartial writer, so far from imputing the death of the marquis to king Richard, assigns the cause which moved the Assassin prince to order the death of the marquis, namely, the same which we shall presently see stated in the letter ascribed to the Old Man of the Mountain. Rigord, who wrote the history of Philip Augustus, does not by any means impute the murder of the marquis to king Richard, though he says that while Philip was at Pontoise letters were brought to him from beyond sea, warning him to be on his guard, as Assassins (_Arsacidæ_) had been sent, at the suggestion and command of the King of England, to kill him, "for at that time they had slain the king's kinsman, the marquis." Philip, in real, but more probably feigned alarm, immediately surrounded his person with a guard of serjeants-at-mace. The Arabic historian, Ebn-el-Athir, the friend of Saladin, says that the sultan had agreed with the Old Man of the Mountain, for a sum of 10,000 pieces of gold, to deliver him of both king Richard and the marquis, but that Sinan, not thinking it to be for his interest to relieve the sultan of the English king, had taken the money and only put the marquis out of the way. This narrative is wholly improbable, for treachery was surely no part of the character of Saladin; but it serves to prove the impartiality which is so justly ascribed to the Arabic writers in general. The testimony of Abulfeda is as follows: "And in it (the year of the Hejra 588, or A.D. 1192,) was slain the Marquis, Lord of Soor (or Tyre); may God, whose name be exalted, curse him! A Batinee, or Assassin (in one copy Batinees), who had entered Soor in the disguise of a monk, slew him[53]." [Footnote 53: Annales Muslemici, tom. iv., pp. 122, 123. Hafniae, 1792.] We thus see that the evidence in favour of the King of England greatly preponderates, not a single writer who was on the spot laying the murder to his charge; on the contrary, those who had the best means of being informed treated the imputation with contempt, as a base calumny devised by the French party. But there is a still more illustrious witness in his behalf, if the testimony ascribed to him be genuine--the Old Man of the Mountain himself. Brompton gives two letters purporting to have been written by this personage, the one to the Duke of Austria, the other to the princes and people of Europe in general. The latter is also given by William of Newbridge, with some variation. Both have been admitted by Rymer into his Foedera. Gibbon, who seems to have known only the last, pronounces it to be an "absurd and palpable forgery." Hammer, whose arguments we shall presently consider, undertakes to demonstrate that these epistles are forgeries. Raumer, more prudently, only says that this last is not genuine in its present form. The following are translations of these documents:-- "The Old Man of the Mountain to Limpold, Duke of Austria, greeting. Since several kings and princes beyond sea accuse Richard, King of England, and lord, of the death of the marquis, I swear by the God who reigneth for ever, and by the law which we hold, that he had no guilt in his death; for the cause of the death of the marquis was as follows. "One of our brethren was coming in a ship from Satelia (_Salteleya_) to our parts, and a tempest chancing to drive him to Tyre the marquis had him taken and slain, and seized a large sum of money which he had with him. But we sent our messengers to the marquis, requiring him to restore to us the money of our brother, and to satisfy us respecting the death of our brother, which he laid upon Reginald, the Lord of Sidon, and we exerted ourselves through our friends till we knew of a truth that it was he himself who had had him put to death, and had seized his money. "And again we sent to him another of our messengers, named Eurisus, whom he was minded to fling into the sea; but our friends made him depart with speed out of Tyre, and he came to us quickly and told us these things. From that very hour we were desirous to slay the marquis; then also we sent two brethren to Tyre, who slew him openly, and as it were before all the people of Tyre. "This, then, was the cause of the death of the marquis; and we say to you in truth that the lord Richard, King of England, had no guilt in this death of the marquis, and these who on account of this have done evil to the lord King of England have done it unjustly and without cause. "Know for certain that we kill no man in this world for any hire or money, unless he has first done us evil. "And know that we have executed these letters in our house at our castle of Messiat, in the middle of September. In the year from Alexander M. D. & V." * * * * * "The Old Man of the Mountain to the princes of Europe and all the Christian people, greeting. "We would not that the innocence of any one should suffer by reason of what we have done, since we never do evil to any innocent and guiltless person; but those who have transgressed against us we do not, with God to aid, long suffer to rejoice in the injuries done to our simplicity. "We therefore signify to the whole of you, testifying by him through whom we hope to be saved, that that Marquis of Montferrat was slain by no machination of the King of England, but he justly perished, by our will and command, by our satellites, for that act in which he transgressed against us, and which, when admonished, he had neglected to amend. For it is our custom first to admonish those who have acted injuriously in anything to us or our friends to give us satisfaction, which if they despise, we take care to take vengeance with severity by our ministers, who obey us with such devotion that they do not doubt but that they shall be gloriously rewarded by God if they die in executing our command. "We have also heard that it is bruited about of that king that he has induced us, as being less upright and consistent (_minus integros et constantes_), to send some of our people to plot against the King of France, which, beyond doubt, is a false fiction, and of the vainest suspicion, when neither he, God is witness, has hitherto attempted anything against us, nor would we, in respect to our honour, permit any undeserved evil to be planned against any man. Farewell." * * * * * We will not undertake to maintain the genuineness of these two epistles, but we may be permitted to point out the futility of some of the objections made to them. Hammer pronounces the first of them to be an undoubted forgery because it commences with swearing by the law, and ends by being dated from the era of the Seleucides. Both, he says, were equally strange to the Ismaïlites, who precisely at this time had begun to trample the law under foot, and had abandoned the Hejra, the only era known in Mohammedan countries, for a new one commencing with the reign of Hassan II. He further sees, in the circumstance of a letter from the Old Man of the Mountain (_Sheikh-al-Jebal_) being dated from Massyat, a proof of the ignorance of the Crusaders respecting the true head and seat of the Ismaïlite power. These objections are regarded by Wilken as conclusive. They will, however, lose much of their force if we bear in mind that the letters are manifestly translations, and that the chief of Massyat at that time was Sinan, who some years before had offered to become a Christian, and who does not seem at all to have adopted the innovations of Hassan the Illuminator. Sinan might easily have been induced by the friends of the King of England, one of the most steady of whom was Henry of Champagne[54], who succeeded Conrad of Montferrat in the kingdom, to write those letters in his justification, and it is very probable that the translations were made in Syria, where the Arabic language was of course better understood than in Europe, and sent either alone or with the originals. The translator might have rendered the title which Sinan gave himself by _Senex de Monte_, which would be better understood in the west, and he may also have given the corresponding year of the era of the Seleucides (the one in use among the Syrian Christians) for the year of the Hejra used by the Ismaïlite chief, or indeed Sinan may have employed that era himself. In this case there would remain little to object to the genuineness of the letter to the Duke of Austria. Hammer regards the expression _our simplicity_ (_simplicitas nostra_) as being conclusive against the genuineness of the second letter. We must confess that we can see no force in the objection. Sinan might wish to represent himself as a very plain, simple, innocent sort of person. It might further be doubted if a European forger would venture to represent the prince of the Assassins--the formidable Old Man of the Mountain--in such a respectable light as he appears in these two epistles[55]. [Footnote 54: An instance of Henry's intimacy with the Assassins has been given in p. 81.] [Footnote 55: Sir J. Mackintosh (History of England, i. 187) seems to regard the letters as genuine.] But there is another account of the death of the Marquis of Montferrat, which is probably much better known to the generality of readers than any of the preceding ones. The far-famed author of "Waverley" has, in his romantic tale of the "Talisman," made Conrad to be wounded and vanquished in the lists by the son of the King of Scotland, the champion of king Richard, and afterwards slain by the dagger, not of the Assassins, but of his confederate in villany the Master of the Temple, to prevent his making confession of their common guilt! Yielding to none in rational admiration of the genius of Sir W. Scott, we cannot avoid expressing a wish that he had ceased to write when he had exhausted that rich field of national feelings and manners with which he was alone familiar, and from which he drew the exquisite delineations of "Waverley" and its Scottish brethren. All his later works, no doubt, exhibit occasional scenes far beyond the power of any of his imitators; but when his muse quits her native soil, she takes leave of nature, truth, and simplicity. Even the genius of a Scott is inadequate to painting manners he never witnessed, scenery he never beheld. The tale of the "Talisman" is a flagrant instance. Topography, chronology, historic truth, oriental manners, and individual character, are all treated with a most magnanimous neglect, indeed, even, we might say, with contempt; for, careless, from "security to please," as the author is known to have been, his vagaries must sometimes have proceeded from mere wilfulness and caprice. It would, we apprehend, perplex our oriental travellers and geographers to point out the site of the fountain named the Diamond of the Desert, not far from the Dead Sea, and yet lying half-way between the camp of the Saracens and that of the Crusaders, which last, we are told, lay between Acre and Ascalon, that is, on the sea-coast, or to show the interminable sandy desert which stretches between the Dead Sea and the Mediterranean. As to historic truth, we may boldly say that there is hardly a single circumstance of the romance in strict accordance with history; and as to the truth of individual character, what are we to say to the grave, serious, religious Saladin, but the very year before his death, being in the flower of his age, rambling alone through the desert, like an errant knight, singing hymns to the Devil, and coming disguised as a physician to the Christian camp, to cure the malady of the English monarch, whom he never, in reality, did or would see[56]? We might enumerate many additional instances of the violation of every kind of unity and propriety in this single tale[57]. [Footnote 56: May it not be said that real historic characters should not be misrepresented? Sir W. Scott was at full liberty to make his Varneys and his Bois Gilberts as accomplished villains as he pleased; he might do as he pleased with his own; but what warrant had he from history for painting Conrad of Montferrat and the then Master of the Templars under such odious colours as he does?] [Footnote 57: The author invariably writes _Montserrat_ for _Montferrat_. The former is in Spain, and never was a marquisate. As it were to show that it was no error of the press, it is said, "The shield of the marquis bore, in reference to his title, a serrated and rocky mountain." We also find _naphtha_ and _bitumen_ confounded, the former being described as the solid, the latter as the liquid substance.] Let not any deem it superfluous thus to point out the errors of an illustrious writer. The impressions made by his splendid pages on the youthful mind are permanent and ineffaceable, and, if not corrected, may lead to errors of a graver kind. The "Talisman" moreover affects a delusive show of truth and accuracy; for, in a note in one part of it, the author (ironically, no doubt) affects to correct the historians on a point of history. The natural inference, then, is that he has himself made profound researches, and adhered to truth; and we accordingly find another novelist, in what he terms a history of chivalry, declaring the "Talisman" to be a faithful picture of the manners of the age. Sir W. Scott, however, has himself informed us, in the preface to "Ivanhoe," of his secret for describing the manners of the times of Richard Coeur de Lion. With the chronicles of the time he joined that of Froissart, so rich in splendid pictures of chivalric life. Few readers of these romances perhaps are aware that this was the same in kind, though not in degree, as if, in his tales of the days of Elizabeth and James I., he had had recourse to the manner-painting pages of Henry Fielding; for the distance in point of time between the reign of Richard I. and that of Richard II., in which last Froissart wrote, is as great as that between the reigns of Elizabeth and George II.; and, in both, manners underwent a proportional change. But we are in the habit of regarding the middle ages as one single period of unvarying manners and institutions, and we are too apt to fancy that the descriptions of Froissart and his successors are equally applicable to all parts of it. CHAPTER X. Jellal-ed-deen--Restoration of Religion--His Harem makes the Pilgrimage to Mecca--Marries the Princess of Ghilan--Geography of the Country between Roodbar and the Caspian--Persian Romance--Zohak and Feridoon--Kei Kaoos and Roostem--Ferdoosee's Description of Mazanderan--History of the Shah Nameh--Proof of the Antiquity of the Tales contained in it. The unhallowed rule of Mohammed II. lasted for the long space of thirty-five years, during which time all the practices of Islam were neglected by the Ismaïlites. The mosks were closed, the fast of Ramazan neglected, the solemn seasons of prayer despised. But such a state can never last; man must have religion; it is as essential to him as his food; and those pseudo-philosophers who have endeavoured to deprive him of it have only displayed in the attempt their ignorance and folly. The purification of the popular faith is the appropriate task of the true philanthropist. We may often observe the son to exhibit a character the diametrically opposite of that of his father, either led by nature or struck by the ill effects of his father's conduct. This common appearance was now exhibited among the Assassins. Mohammed disregarded all the observances of the ceremonial law; his son and successor, Jellal-ed-deen (_Glory of Religion_) Hassan, distinguished himself, from his early years, by a zeal for the ordinances of Islam. The avowal of his sentiments caused considerable enmity and suspicion between him and Mohammed; the father feared the son, and the son the father. On the days of public audience, at which Jellal-ed-deen was expected to appear, the old sheikh used the precaution of wearing a shirt of mail under his clothes, and of increasing the number of his guards. His death, which occurred when his son had attained his twenty-fifth year, is ascribed by several historians, though apparently without any sufficient reason, to poison administered to him by his successor. The succession of Jellal-ed-deen was uncontested. He immediately set about placing all things on the footing which they had been on previous to the time of _On his Memory be Peace_. The mosks were repaired and reopened; the call to prayer sounded as heretofore from the minarets; and the solemn assemblies for worship and instruction were held once more on every Friday. Imams, Koran-readers, preachers, and teachers of all kinds, were invited to Alamoot, where they were honourably entertained and richly rewarded. Jellal-ed-deen wrote to his lieutenants in Kusistan and Syria, informing them of what he had done, and inviting them to follow his example. He also wrote to the khalif, to the powerful Shah of Khaurism, and to all the princes of Persia, to assure them of the purity of his faith. His ambassadors were everywhere received with honour, and the khalif and all the princes gave to Jellal-ed-deen, in the letters which they wrote in reply, the title of prince, which had never been conceded to any of his predecessors. The imams, and the men learned in the law, loudly upheld the orthodoxy of the faith of the mountain-chief, on whom they bestowed the name of Nev (_New_) Musulman. When the people of Casveen, who had always been at enmity with the Ismaïlites, doubted of his orthodoxy, Jellal-ed-deen condescended to ask of them to send some persons of respectability to Alamoot, that he might have an opportunity of convincing them. They came, and in their presence he committed to the flames a pile of books which he said were the writings of Hassan Sabah, and contained the secret rules and ordinances of the society. He cursed the memory of Hassan and his successors, and the envoys returned to Casveen, fully convinced of his sincerity. In the second year of his reign Jellal-ed-deen gave a further proof of the purity of his religious faith by permitting, or, perhaps, directing, his harem, that is, his mother, his wife, and a long train of their female attendants, to undertake the pilgrimage to the holy city of Mecca, to worship at the tomb of the Prophet. The sacred banner was, according to custom, borne before the caravan of the pilgrims from Alamoot, and the Tesbeel, or distribution of water to the pilgrims, usual on such occasions[58], was performed by the harem of the mountain-prince on such a scale of magnificence and liberality as far eclipsed that of the great Shah of Khaurism, whose caravan reached Bagdad at the same time on its way to Mecca. The khalif Nassir-ladin-Illah even gave precedence to the banner of the pilgrims from Alamoot, and this mark of partiality drew on him the wrath of the potent prince of Khaurism. Twice did the latter afterwards collect an army to make war on the successor of the Prophet. With the first, consisting of nearly 300,000 men, he marched against Bagdad, and had reached Hamadan and Holuan, when a violent snow-storm obliged him to retire. He had collected his forces a second time, when the hordes of Chinghis Khan burst into his dominions. His son and successor resumed his plans, and reached Hamadan, when again a snow-storm came to avert destruction from the City of Peace. As the power of the Mongol conqueror was now great and formidable, the prudent prince of Alamoot sent in secret ambassadors to assure him of his submission, and to tender his homage. [Footnote 58: "Sebil, in Arabic 'the way,' means generally the road, and the traveller is hence called _Ibn-es-sebil_, the son of the road; but it more particularly signifies the way of piety and good works, which leads to Paradise. Whatever meritorious work the Moslem undertakes, he does _Fi sebil Allah_, on the way of God, or for the love of God; and the most meritorious which he can undertake is the holy war, or the fight for his faith and his country, _on God's way_. But since pious women can have no immediate share in the contest, every thing which they can contribute to the nursing of the wounded, and the refreshment of the exhausted, is imputed to them as equally meritorious as if they had fought themselves. The distribution of water to the exhausted and wounded warriors is the highest female merit in the holy war on God's way."--_Hammer's History of the Assassins_, Wood's translation, p. 144.] Jellal-ed-deen took a more active part in the politics of his neighbours than his predecessors had done. He formed an alliance with the Atabeg Mozaffer-ed-deen (_Causing the Religion to be victorious_), the governor of Azerbeijan, against the governor of Irak, who was their common enemy. He even visited the Atabeg at his residence, where he was received with the utmost magnificence, and each day the Atabeg sent 1,000 dinars for the expenses of his table. The two princes sent to the khalif for aid; their request was granted; and they marched against, defeated, and slew the governor of Irak, and appointed another in his place. After an absence of eighteen months Jellal-ed-deen returned to Alamoot, having in the mean time, by his prudent conduct, greatly augmented the fame of his orthodoxy. He now ventured to aspire to a connexion with one of the ancient princely houses of the country, and asked in marriage the daughter of Ky Kaoos, the prince of Ghilan. The latter having expressed his readiness to give his consent, provided that of the khalif could be obtained, envoys were despatched to Bagdad, who speedily returned with the approbation of Nassir-ladin-Illah, and the princess of Ghilan was sent to Alamoot. The mention of Ghilan and of Ky Kaoos presents an opportunity, which we are not willing to let pass, of diversifying our narrative by an excursion into the regions of Persian geography and romance, which may cast a gleam of the sunshine of poetry over the concluding portion of our history of the dark and secret deeds of the Ismaïlites. The mountain range named Demavend, on the south side of which Roodbar, the territory of the Ismaïlites, lies, is the northern termination of the province of Irak Ajemee, or Persian Irak. Beyond it stretches to the Caspian Sea a fertile region, partly hilly, partly plain[59]. This country is divided into five districts, which were in those times distinct from and independent of each other. At the foot of the mountains lay Taberistan and Dilem, the former to the east, the latter to the west. Dilem is celebrated as having been the native country of the family of Buyah, which, rising from the humblest station, exercised under the khalifs, and with the title of Ameer-al-Omra (_Prince of the Princes_), a power nearly regal over Persia during a century and a half[60]. North of Dilem lay Ghilan, and north of Taberistan Mazenderan, the ancient Hyrcania. In the midst of these four provinces lay Ruyan and Rostemdar, remarkable for having been governed for a space of 800 years by one family of princes, while dynasty after dynasty rose and fell in the neighbouring states. In these provinces the names of the royal lines recall to our mind the ancient history, both true and fabulous, of Irân (Persia), as we find it in the poem of Ferdoosee, the Homer of that country. The family of Kawpara, which governed Ruyan and Rostemdar, affected to derive their lineage from the celebrated blacksmith Gavah, who raised his apron as the standard of revolt against the Assyrian tyrant Zohak; and the family of Bavend, which ruled for nearly seven centuries, with but two interruptions, over Mazenderan and Taberistan, were descended from the elder brother of Noosheerwan the Just, the most celebrated monarch of the house of Sassan. [Footnote 59: This part of Persia also acquires interest from the circumstance of Russia being believed to be looking forward to obtaining it, one day or other, by conquest or cession.] [Footnote 60: Azed-ud-dowlah, one of the most celebrated of these princes, had a dyke constructed across the river Kur, in the plain of Murdasht, near the ruins of Persepolis, to confine the water, and permit of its being distributed over the country. It was called the Bund-Ameer (_Prince's Dyke_), and travellers ignorant of the Persian language have given this name to the river itself. We must not, therefore, be surprised to find in "Lalla Rookh" a lady singing, "There's a bower of roses by Bendameer's _stream_;" and asking, "Do the roses still bloom by the _calm_ Bendameer?" Calm and still, beyond doubt, is the Bendameer. ] This region is the classic land of Persia. When, as their romantic history relates, Jemsheed, the third monarch of Iran after Cayamars, the first who ruled over men, had long reigned in happiness and prosperity, his head was lifted up with pride, and God withdrew from him his favour. His dominions were invaded by Zohak, the prince of the Tauzees (Assyrians or Arabs); his subjects fell away from him, and, after lurking for a hundred years in secret places, he fell into the hands of the victor, who cut him asunder with a saw. A child was born of the race of Jemsheed, named Feridoon, whom, as soon as he came to the light (in the village of Wereghi, in Taberistan), his mother Faranuk gave to a herdsman to rear, and his nourishment was the milk of a female buffalo, whose name was Poormayeh. Zohak meantime had a dream, in which he beheld two warriors, who led up to him a third, armed with a club which terminated in the head of a cow. The warrior struck him on the head with his club, and took him and chained him in the cavern of a mountain. He awoke with a loud cry, and called all the priests, and astrologers, and wise men, to interpret his dream. They feared to speak. At last they told him of the birth and nurture of Feridoon, who was destined to overcome him. Zohak fell speechless from his throne at the intelligence. On recovering, he sent persons in all directions to search for and put to death the fatal child; but the maternal anxiety of Faranuk was on the watch, and she removed the young Feridoon to the celebrated mountain Elburz, where she committed him to the care of a pious anchorite. Zohak, after a long search, discovered the place where Feridoon had been first placed by his mother, and in his rage he killed the beautiful and innocent cow Poormayeh. Zohak is represented as a most execrable tyrant. Acting under the counsel of the Devil, he had murdered his own father to get his throne. His infernal adviser afterwards assumed the form of a young man, and became his cook. He prepared for him all manner of curious and high-seasoned dishes; for hitherto the food of mankind had been rude and plain. As a reward, he only asked permission to kiss the shoulders of the king. Zohak readily granted this apparently moderate request; but from the spots where the Devil impressed his lips grew forth two black snakes. In vain every art was employed to remove them, in vain they were cut away, they grew again like plants. The physicians were in perplexity. At length the Devil himself came in the shape of a physician, and said that the only mode of keeping them quiet was to feed them with human brains. His object, we are told, was gradually in this way to destroy the whole race of man. The design of the Devil seemed likely to be accomplished. Each day two human beings were slain, and the serpents fed with their brains. At length two of the tyrant's cooks discovered that the brain of a man mixed with that of a ram satisfied the monsters, and, of the two men who were given to be killed each day, they always secretly let go one, and those who were thus delivered became the progenitors of the Koords who dwell in the mountains west of Persia. Among those unfortunate persons who were condemned to be food for the serpents was the son of a blacksmith named Gavah. The afflicted father went boldly before the tyrant, and remonstrated with him on the injustice of his conduct. Zohak heard him with patience and released his son. He also made him bearer of a letter addressed to all the provinces of the empire, vaunting his goodness, and calling on all to support him against the youthful pretender to his throne. But Gavah, instead of executing the mandate, tore the tyrant's letter, and, raising his leathern apron on a lance by way of standard, called on all the inhabitants of Irân to arise and take arms in support of Feridoon, the rightful heir to the throne of Jemsheed. [Illustration: From the Shah Nameh, illuminated Persian MS.] Meantime Feridoon, who had attained the age of twice eight years, came down from Elburz, and, going to his mother, besought her to tell him from whom he derived his birth. Faranuk related to him his whole history, when the young hero, in great emotion, vowed to attack the tyrant, and avenge on him the death of his father; but his mother sought, by representing the great power of Zohak, to divert him from his purpose, and exhorted him to abandon all such thoughts, and to enjoy in quiet the good things of this life. But a numerous army, led by Gavah in search of the true heir to the throne, now came in sight. Feridoon, joyfully advancing to meet them, adorned with gold and precious stones the leathern banner, placed upon it the orb of the moon, and, naming it Direfsh-e-Gavanee (_Gavah's Apron_), selected it for the banner of the empire of Irân. Each succeeding prince, we are told, at his accession, added jewels to it, and Direfsh-e-Gavanee blazed in the front of battle like a sun. Feridoon, then calling for smiths, drew for them in the sand the form of a club, with a cow's head at the end of it, and when they had made it he named it Gawpeigor (_Cow-face_), in honour of his nurse. Taking leave of his mother, he marches against the tyrant; an angel comes from heaven to aid the rightful cause; Zohak is deserted by his troops; he falls into the hands of Feridoon, who, by the direction of the angel, imprisons him in a cavern of the mountain Demavend. Feridoon, on ascending the throne of his forefathers, governed with such mildness, firmness, and justice, that his name is to the present day in Persia significative of the ideal of a perfect monarch[61]. [Footnote 61: Four lines, quoted by Sir J. Malcolm from the Gulistan of Saadi, may be thus _literally_ rendered in the measure of the original:-- The blest Feridoon an angel was not; Of musk or of amber he formed was not; By justice and mercy good ends gained he; Be just and merciful, thou'lt a Feridoon be.] Mazenderan is not less celebrated in Persian romance than the region at the foot of Demavend. It was the scene of the dangers of the light-minded Kej Kaoos (supposed to be the Cyaxares of the Greeks), and of the marvellous adventures called the Seven Fables or Stages of the Hero Roostem, the Hercules of Persia, who came to his aid. When Kej Kaoos mounted the throne of Irân, he exulted in his wealth and in his power. A deev (_Demon_), desirous of luring him to his destruction, assumed the guise of a wandering minstrel, and, coming to his court, sought to be permitted to sing before the padisha (_Emperor_). His request was acceded to,--his theme was the praises of Mazenderan, and he sang to this effect:-- "Mazenderan deserves that the shah should think on it; the rose blooms evermore in its gardens, its hills are arrayed with tulips and jessamines, mild is the air, the earth is bright of hue, neither cold nor heat oppresses the lovely land, spring abides there evermore, the nightingale sings without ceasing in the gardens, and the deer bound joyously through the woods. The earth is never weary of pouring forth fruits, the air is evermore filled with fragrance, like unto rose-water are the streams, the tulip glows unceasingly on the meads, pure are the rivers, and their banks are smiling: ever mayest thou behold the falcon at the chase. All its districts are adorned with abundance of food, beyond measure are the treasures which are there piled up, the flowers bend in worship before the throne, and around it stand the men of renown richly girded with gold. Who dwelleth not there knoweth no pleasure, as joy and luxuriant pastime are to him unknown." Kej Kaoos was beguiled by the tempter, and, eager to get possession of so rich a land, he led a large army into it. The Shah of Mazenderan was aided by a potent demon or enchanter named the Deev Seffeed (_White Deev_), who, by his magic arts, cast a profound darkness over the Irânian monarch and his host, in which they would have all been destroyed but for the timely arrival of Roostem, who, after surmounting all the impediments that magic could throw in his way, slew the Deev Seffeed, and delivered his sovereign. Kej Kaoos, we are afterwards told by the poet, formed the insane project of ascending to heaven, which he attempted in the following manner. A stage was constructed on which a throne was set for the monarch; four javelins were placed at the corners, with pieces of goat's flesh on them, and four hungry eagles were tied at the bottom, who, by their efforts to reach the meat, raised the stage aloft into the air; but when the strength of the birds was exhausted the whole fell with the royal aëronaut in the desert, where he was found by Roostem and the other chiefs. [Illustration: From the Same.] The history of the Shah-nameh (_King-book_), in which these legends are contained, is one of the most curious in literature. The fanaticism of the Arabs, who conquered Persia, raged with indiscriminate fury against the literature, as well as the religion, of that country; and when, in the time of Al-Mansoor and his successors Haroon-er-Rasheed and Al-Mamoon, the Arabs themselves began to devote their attention to literature and science, it was the science of Greece and the poetry of their native language that they cultivated. The Persian literature meantime languished in obscurity, and the traditional, heroic, and legendary tales of the nation were fading fast from memory, when a governor of a province, zealous, as it would appear, for the honour of the Persian nation, made a collection of them, and formed from them a continuous narrative in prose. The book thus formed was called the Bostan-nameh (_Garden-book_). It was in great repute in the northern part of Persia, where, at a distance from the court of the khalifs, the Persian manners, language, and nationality were better preserved; and when the Turkish family of the Samenee founded an empire in that part of Persia, sultan Mansoor I., of that race, gave orders to a poet named Dakeekee to turn the Bastan-nameh into Persian verse. The poet undertook the task, but he had not made more than a thousand verses when he perished by assassination. There being no one supposed capable of continuing his work, it was suspended till twenty years afterwards, when the celebrated Mahmood of Ghizni, the conqueror of India, meeting with the Bastan-nameh, gave portions of it to three of the most renowned poets of the time to versify. The palm of excellence was adjudged to Anseri, who versified the tale of Sohrab slain by his own father Roostem, one of the most pathetic and affecting narratives in any language. The sultan made him Prince of the Poets, and directed him to versify the entire work; but, diffident of his powers, Anseri shrank from the task, and having some time afterwards met a poet of Toos in Khorasan, named Isaac, the son of Sheriff-Shah, surnamed Ferdoosee (_Paradisal_[62]), either from his father's employment as a gardener, or from the beauty of his verses, he introduced him to the sultan, who gladly committed the task to him. Ferdoosee laboured with enthusiasm in the celebration of the ancient glories of his country; and in the space of thirty or, as some assert, of only eight years, he brought the poem to within two thousand lines of its termination, which lines were added by another poet after his death. [Footnote 62: Paradise, we are to recollect, is a word of Persian origin, adopted by the Greeks, from whom we have received it. A Paradise was a place planted with trees, a park, garden, or pleasure-ground, as we may term it.] The Shah-nameh is, beyond comparison, the finest poem of the Mohammedan east. It consists of 60,000 rhymed couplets, and embraces the history of Persia, from the beginning of the world to the period of its conquest by the Arabs. The verses move on with spirit and rapidity, resembling more the flow of our lyrical, than that of our common heroic, lines[63]. [Footnote 63: Hammer has, in his "Belles Lettres of Persia" (_Schöne Redekunst Persians_), and in the "Mines de l'Orient," translated a considerable portion of the Shah-nameh in the measure of the original. MM. Campion and Atkinson have rendered a part of it into English heroic verse. Görres has epitomised it, as far as to the death of Roostem, in German prose, under the title of "Das Heldenbuch von Iran." An epitome of the poem in English prose, by Mr. Atkinson, has also lately appeared.] Ferdoosee wrote his poem in the early part of the eleventh century from a book which had been in existence a long time before, for he always calls it an _old book_. No proof therefore is needed that he did not invent the tales which compose the Shah-nameh, and they have every appearance of having been the ancient traditionary legends of the Persian nation. But we are able to show that these legends were popular in Persia nearly six centuries before his time; and it was chiefly with a view to establishing this curious point that we related the tale of Zohak and Feridoon. Moses of Choren, the Armenian historian, who wrote about the year 440, thus addresses the person to whom his work is dedicated. "How should the vain and empty fables about Byrasp Astyages gain any portion of thy favour, or why shouldest thou impose on us the fatigue of elucidating the absurd, tasteless, senseless legends of the Persians about him? to wit, of his first injurious benefit of the demoniac powers which were subject to him, and how he could not deceive him who was deception and falsehood itself. Then, of the kiss on the shoulders, whence the dragons came, and how thenceforward the growth of vice destroyed mankind by the pampering of the belly, until at last a certain Rhodones bound him with chains of brass, and brought him to the mountain which is called Demavend; how Byraspes then dragged to a hill Rhodones, when he fell asleep on the way, but this last, awaking out of his sleep, brought him to a cavern of the mountain, where he chained him fast, and set an image opposite to him, so that, terrified by it, and held by the chains, he might never more escape to destroy the world." Here we have evidently the whole story of Zohak and Feridoon current in Persia in the fifth century; and any one who has reflected on the nature of tradition must be well aware that it must have existed there for centuries before. The very names are nearly the same. Taking the first syllable from Feridoon, it becomes nearly Rodon, and Biyraspi Aidahaki (the words of the Armenian text) signify the dragon Byrasp: Zohak is evidently nearly the same with the last word. This fable could hardly have been invented in the time of the Sassanian dynasty, who had not then been more than two centuries on the throne, much less during the period of the dominion of the Parthian Arsacides, who were adverse to everything Persian. We are therefore carried back to the times of the Kejanians, the Achæmenides of the Greeks; and it is by no means impossible that the tale of Zohak and Feridoon was known even to the host which Xerxes led to the subjugation of Greece. It is well known to those versed in oriental history that, when the founder of the house of Sassan mounted the throne of Persia in the year 226, he determined to bring back everything, as far as was possible, to its state in the time of the Kejanians, from whom he affected to be descended, and that his successors trod in his footsteps. But, as Persia had been for five centuries and a half under the dominion of the Greeks and Parthians, there was probably no authentic record of the ancient state of things remaining. Recourse was therefore had to the traditional tales of the country; and, as the legend of Zohak and Feridoon was, as we have seen, one of the most remarkable of these tales, it was at once adopted as a genuine portion of the national history, and a banner formed to represent the Apron of Gavah, which was, as the poet describes it, adorned with additional jewels by each monarch of the house of Sassan at his accession. This hypothesis will very simply explain the circumstance of this banner being unnoticed by the Greek writers, while it is an undoubted fact that it was captured by the Arabs at the battle of Kadiseäh, which broke the power of Persia,--a circumstance which has perplexed Sir John Malcolm. We will finally observe that the historian just alluded to, as well as some others, thinks that the darkness cast by the magic art of the White Deev over Ky Kaoos and his army in Mazanderan coincides with the eclipse of the sun predicted by Thales, and which, according to Herodotus, parted the armies of the Medians and the Lydians when engaged in conflict. Little stress is however, we apprehend, to be laid on such coincidences. Tradition does not usually retain the memory of facts of this nature, though fiction is apt enough to invent them. The only circumstances which we have observed in the early part of the Shah-nameh agreeing with Grecian history, are some relating to the youthful days of Kei Khoosroo, which are very like what Herodotus relates of Cyrus. We now return to the history of the Assassins. CHAPTER XI. Death of Jellal-ed-deen--Character of Ala-ed-deen, his successor--The Sheikh Jemal-ed-deen--The Astronomer Nasir-ed-deen--The Vizir Sheref-al-Moolk--Death of Ala-ed-deen--Succession of Rukn-ed-deen, the last Sheikh-al-Jebal. The reign of Jellal-ed-deen, which, unfortunately for the society, lasted but twelve years, was unstained by blood; and we see no reason to doubt the judgment of the oriental historians, who consider his faith in Islam as being sincere and pure. It was probably his virtue that caused his death, for his life, it was suspected, was terminated by poison administered by his own kindred. His son Ala-ed-deen[64] (_Eminence of Religion_), who succeeded him, was but nine years old; but as, according to the maxims of the Ismaïlites, the visible representative of the imam was, to a certain extent, exempted from the ordinary imperfections of humanity, and his commands were to be regarded as those of him whose authority he bore, the young Ala-ed-deen was obeyed as implicitly as any of his predecessors. At his mandate the blood was shed of all among his relatives who were suspected of having participated in the murder of his father. [Footnote 64: This is the name which, in the form of Aladdin, is so familiar to us from the story of the Wonderful Lamp.] Ala-ed-deen proved to be a weak, inefficient ruler. His delight was in the breeding and tending of sheep, and he spent his days in the cotes among the herdsmen, while the affairs of the society were allowed to run into disorder. All the restraints imposed by his father were removed, and every one was left to do what was right in his own eyes. The weakness of this prince's intellect is ascribed to his having, in the fifth year of his reign, had himself most copiously bled without the knowledge of his physician, the consequence of which was an extreme degree of debility and a deep melancholy, which never afterwards left him. From that time no one could venture to offer him advice respecting either his health or the state of the affairs of the society, without being rewarded for it by the rack or by instant death. Everything was therefore kept concealed from him, and he had neither friend nor adviser. Yet Ala-ed-deen was not without some estimable qualities. He had a respect and esteem for learning and learned men. For the sheikh Jemal-ed-deen Ghili, who dwelt at Casveen, he testified on all occasions the utmost reverence, and sent him annually 500 dinars to defray the expenses of his household. When the people of Casveen reproached the learned sheikh with living on the bounty of the Impious, he made answer, "The imams pronounce it lawful to execute the Ismaïlites, and to confiscate their goods; how much more lawful is it for a man to make use of their property and their money when they give them voluntarily!" Ala-ed-deen, who probably heard of the reproaches directed against his friend, sent to assure the people of Casveen that it was solely on account of the sheikh that he spared them, or else he would put the earth of Casveen into bags, hang the bags about the necks of the inhabitants, and bring them to Alamoot. The following instance of his respect for the sheikh is also related. A messenger coming with a letter to him from the sheikh was so imprudent as to deliver it to him when he was drunk. Ala-ed-deen ordered him to have a hundred blows of the bastinade, at the same time crying out to him, "O foolish and thoughtless man, to give me a letter from the sheikh at the time when I was drunk! Thou shouldest have waited till I was come out of the bath, and was come to my senses." The celebrated astronomer Nasir-ed-deen (_Victory of Religion_) had also gained the consideration of Ala-ed-deen, who was anxious to enjoy the pleasure of his society. But the philosopher, who resided at Bokhara, testified little inclination to accept of the favour intended him. Ala-ed-deen therefore sent orders to the Dai-al-Kebir of Kuhistan to convey the uncourteous sage to Alamoot. As Nasir-ed-deen was one day recreating himself in the gardens about Bokhara, he found himself suddenly surrounded by some men, who, showing him a horse, directed him to mount, telling him he had nothing to fear if he conducted himself quietly. It was in vain that he argued and remonstrated; he was far on the road to Kuhistan, which was 600 miles distant, before his friends knew he was gone. The governor made every apology for what he had been obliged to do. The philosopher was sent on to Alamoot to be the companion of Ala-ed-deen, and it was while he was there that he wrote his great work called the Morals of Nasir (_Akhlaak-Nasiree_).[65] [Footnote 65: Malcolm's History of Persia, vol. i. In the clever work called "Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry," which is the best picture ever given of the language, manners, and modes of thinking of that class, there is an amusing account (and an undoubtedly true one) of the "Abduction of Mat Kavanagh," one of that curious order of men called in that country hedge-schoolmasters, which, as indicative of a passion for knowledge, may be placed in comparison with this anecdote of Ala-ed-deen.] It was during the administration of Ala-ed-deen that the following event, so strongly illustrative of the modes of procedure of the Assassins, took place. The sultan Jellal-ed-deen, the last ruler of Khaurism, so well known for his heroic resistance to Chingis Khan, had appointed the emir Arkhan governor of Nishaboor, which bordered closely on the Ismaïlite territory of Kuhistan. Arkhan being obliged to attend the sultan, the deputy whom he left in his stead made several destructive incursions into Kuhistan, and laid waste the Ismaïlite districts of Teem and Kaïn. The Ismaïlites sent to demand satisfaction, but the only reply made to their complaints and menaces by the deputy-governor was one of those symbolical proceedings so common in the east. He came to receive the Ismaïlite envoy with his girdle stuck full of daggers, which he flung on the ground before him, to signify either his disregard for the daggers of the society, or to intimate that he could play at that game as well as they. The Ismaïlites were not, however, persons to be provoked with impunity, and shortly afterwards three Fedavees were despatched to Kunja, where Arkhan was residing at the court of the sultan. They watched till the emir came without the walls of the town, and then fell upon and murdered him. They then hastened to the house of Sheref-al-Moolk (_Nobleness of the Realm_), the vizir, and penetrated into his divan. Fortunately he was at that time engaged with the sultan, and they missed him; but they wounded severely one of his servants, and then, sallying forth, paraded the streets, proclaiming aloud that they were Assassins. They did not however escape the penalty of their temerity, for the people assembled and stoned them to death. An envoy of the Ismaïlites, named Bedr-ed-deen (_Full Moon of Religion_) Ahmed, was meantime on his way to the court of the sultan. He stopped short on hearing what had occurred, and sent to the vizir to know whether he should go on or return. Sheref-al-Moolk, who feared to irritate the Assassins, directed him to continue his journey, and, when he was arrived, showed him every mark of honour. The object of Bedr-ed-deen's mission was to obtain satisfaction for the ravages committed on the Ismaïlite territory and the cession of the fortress of Damaghan. The vizir promised the former demand without a moment's hesitation, and he made as little difficulty with regard to the second. An instrument was drawn out assigning to the Ismaïlites the fortress which they craved, on condition of their remitting annually to the royal treasury the sum of 30,000 pieces of gold. When this affair was arranged the sultan set out for Azerbeijan, and the Ismaïlite ambassador remained the guest of the vizir. One day, after a splendid banquet, when the wine, which they had been drinking in violation of the law, had mounted into their heads, the ambassador told the vizir, by way of confidence, that there were several Ismaïlites among the pages, grooms, guards, and other persons who were immediately about the sultan. The vizir, dismayed, and at the same time curious to know who these dangerous attendants were, besought the ambassador to point them out to him, giving him his napkin as a pledge that nothing evil should happen to them. Instantly, at a sign from the envoy, five of the persons who were attendants of the chamber stepped forth, avowing themselves to be concealed Assassins. "On such a day, and at such an hour," said one of them, an Indian, to the vizir, "I might have slain thee without being seen or punished; and, if I did not do so, it was only because I had no orders from my superiors." The vizir, timid by nature, and rendered still more so by the effects of the wine, stripped himself to his shirt, and, sitting down before the five Assassins, conjured them by their lives to spare him, protesting that he was as devotedly the slave of the sheikh Ala-ed-deen as of the sultan Jellal-ed-deen. As soon as the sultan heard of the meanness and cowardice of his vizir, he sent a messenger to him with the keenest reproaches, and an order to burn alive the five Ismaïlites without an instant's delay. The vizir, though loth, was obliged to comply, and, in violation of his promise, the five chamberlains were cast on the flaming pyre, where they died exulting at being found worthy to suffer in the service of the great Sheikh-al-Jebal. The master of the pages was also put to death for having admitted Ismaïlites among them. The sultan then set out for Irak, leaving the vizir in Azerbeijan. While he was there an envoy arrived from Alamoot, who, on being admitted to an audience, thus spake, "Thou hast given five Ismaïlites to the flames; to redeem thy head, pay 10,000 pieces of gold for each of these unfortunate men." The vizir heaped honours on the envoy, and directed his secretary to draw out a deed in the usual forms, by which he bound himself to pay the Ismaïlites the annual sum of 10,000 pieces of gold, besides paying for them the 30,000 which went to the treasury of the sultan. Sheref-al-Moolk was then assured that he had nothing to apprehend. The preceding very characteristic anecdote rests on good authority, for it is related by Aboo-'l-Fetah Nissavee, the vizir's secretary, in his life of sultan Jellal-ed-deen. The astronomer Nasir-ed-deen was not the only involuntary captive of Alamoot. Ala-ed-deen sent once to Farsistan to the atabeg Mozaffer-ed-deen, to request that he would send him an able physician. Requests from Alamoot were not lightly to be disregarded, and the atabeg despatched the imam Beha-ed-deen, one of the most renowned physicians of the time, to the mountains of Jebal. The skill of the imam proved of great benefit to the prince, but when the physician applied for leave to return to his family he found that he was destined to pass the remainder of his days in Alamoot, unless he should outlive his patient. The imam's release, however, was more speedy than he expected. Ala-ed-deen, who had several children, had nominated the eldest of them, Rukn-ed-deen (_Support of Religion_), while he was yet a child, to be his successor. As Rukn-ed-deen grew up the people began to hold him in equal respect with his father, and to consider his commands as equally binding on them. Ala-ed-deen took offence, and declared that he would give the succession to another of his children; but, as this directly contravened one of the Ismaïlite maxims, namely, that the first nomination was always the true one, it was little heeded. Rukn-ed-deen, in apprehension for his life, which his father threatened, retired to a strong castle to wait there the time when he should be called to the succession. Meantime the tyranny and caprice of Ala-ed-deen had given many of the principal persons about him cause to be apprehensive for their lives, and they resolved to anticipate him. There was a man at Alamoot named Hassan, a native of Mazenderan, who, though no Ismaïlite, was of a vile and profligate character. He was the object of the doating attachment of Ala-ed-deen, and consequently had free and constant access to him. Him they fixed upon as their agent, and they found no difficulty in gaining him. Ala-ed-deen, whose fondness for breeding and tending sheep had never diminished, had built for himself a wooden house close by his sheep-cotes, whither he was wont to retire, and where he indulged himself in all the excesses in which he delighted. Hassan of Mazenderan seized the moment when Ala-ed-deen was lying drunk in this house, and shot him through the neck with an arrow. Rukn-ed-deen, who is said to have been engaged in the conspiracy, assuming the part of the avenger of blood, the murderer and all his family were put to death, and their bodies committed to the flames; but this act of seeming justice did not free Rukn-ed-deen from suspicion, and the bitter reproaches of his mother were poured forth on him as a parricide. The termination of the power of the Ismaïlites was now at hand. Rukn-ed-deen had hardly ascended the throne of his murdered father when he learned that an enemy was approaching against whom all attempts at resistance would be vain. Chapter XI. The Mongols--Hoolagoo sent against the Ismaïlites--Rukn-ed-deen submits--Capture of Alamoot--Destruction of the Library--Fate of Rukn-ed-deen--Massacre of the Ismaïlites--St. Louis and the Assassins--Mission for the Conversion of the People of Kuhistan--Conclusion. Half a century had now elapsed since the voice of the Mongol seer on the banks of the Sélinga had announced to the tribes of that race that he had seen in a vision the Great God sitting on his throne and giving sentence that Temujeen, one of their chiefs, should be Chingis Khan (_Great Khan_), and the obedient tribes had, under the leading of Temujeen, commenced that career of conquest which extended from the eastern extremity of Asia to the confines of Egypt and of Germany. At this time the chief power over the Mongols was in the hands of Mangoo, the grandson of Chingis, a prince advantageously made known to Europe by the long abode of the celebrated Venetian Marco Polo at his court. The Mongols had not yet invaded Persia, though they had, under Chingis himself, overthrown and stripped of his dominions the powerful sultan of Khaurism. It was however evident that that country could not long escape the fate of so many extensive and powerful states, and that a pretext would soon be found for pouring over it the hordes of the Mongols. We are told, though it seems scarcely credible, that ambassadors came from the Khalif of Bagdad to Nevian, the Mongol general who commanded on the northern frontier of Persia, requiring safe conduct to the court of Mangoo. The object of their mission was to implore the great khan to send his invincible troops to destroy those pests of society the bands of the Ismaïlites. The prayer of the envoys of the successor of the Prophet was supported by the Judge of Casveen, who happened to be at that time at the court of Mangoo, where he appeared in a coat of mail, to secure himself, as he professed, from the daggers of the Assassins. The khan gave orders to assemble an army; his brother Hoolagoo was appointed to command it, and, as he was setting forth, Mangoo thus addressed him:-- "With heavy cavalry and a mighty host I send thee from Tooran to Iran, the land of mighty princes. It behoves thee now strictly to observe, both in great and in small things, the laws and regulations of Chinghis Khan, and to take possession of the countries from the Oxus to the Nile. Draw closer unto thee by favour and rewards the obedient and the submissive; tread the refractory and the rebellious, with their wives and children, into the dust of contempt and misery. When thou hast done with the Assassins begin the conquest of Irak. If the Khalif of Bagdad comes forward ready to serve thee, thou shalt do him no injury; if he refuses, let him share the fate of the rest." The army of Hoolagoo was reinforced by a thousand families of Chinese firemen to manage the battering machines and fling the flaming naphtha, known in Europe under the name of Greek fire. He set forward in the month Ramazan of the 651st year of the Hejra (A.D. 1253). His march was so slow that he did not cross the Oxus till two years afterwards. On the farther bank of this river he took the diversion of lion-hunting, but the cold came on so intense that the greater part of his horses perished, and he was obliged to wait for the ensuing spring before he could advance. All the princes of the menaced countries sent embassies to the Mongol camp announcing their submission and obedience. The head-quarters of Hoolagoo were now in Khorassan, whence he sent envoys to Rukn-ed-deen, the Ismaïlite chief, requiring his submission. By the advice of the astronomer Nasir-ed-deen, who was his counsellor and minister, Rukn-ed-deen sent to Baissoor Noobeen, one of Hoolagoo's generals, who had advanced to Hamadan, declaring his obedience and his wish to live in peace with every one. The Mongol general recommended that, as Hoolagoo himself was approaching, Rukn-ed-deen should wait on him in person. After some delay, the latter agreed to send his brother Shahinshah, who accompanied the son of Baissoor to the quarters of the Mongol prince. Meantime Baissoor, by the orders of Hoolagoo, entered the Ismaïlite territory and drew near to Alamoot. The troops of the Assassins occupied a steep hill near that place. The Mongols attacked them, but were repelled each time they attempted the ascent. Being forced to give over the attack, they contented themselves with burning the houses and ravaging the country round. When Shahinshah reached the camp of Hoolagoo and notified the submission of his brother, orders to the following effect were transmitted to the mountain-chief:--"Since Rukn-ed-deen has sent his brother unto us, we forgive him the offences of his father and his followers. He shall himself, as, during his short reign, he has been guilty of no crime, demolish his castles and come to us." Orders were sent at the same time to Baissoor to give over ravaging the district of Roodbar. Rukn-ed-deen began casting down some of the battlements of Alamoot, and at the same time sent to beg the delay of a year before appearing in the presence of Hoolagoo. But the orders of the Mongol were imperative; he was required to appear at once, and to commit the defence of his territory to the Mongol officer who was the bearer of Hoolagoo's commands. Rukn-ed-deen hesitated. He sent again to make excuses and ask more time; and, as a proof of his obedience, he directed the governors of Kuhistan and Kirdkoh to repair to the Mongol camp. The banners of Hoolagoo were now floating at the foot of Demavend, close to the Ismaïlite territory, and once more orders came to Maimoondees, where Rukn-ed-deen and his family had taken refuge:--"The Ruler of the World is now arrived at Demavend, and it is no longer time to delay. If Rukn-ed-deen wishes to wait a few days he may in the mean time send his son." The affrighted chief declared his readiness to send his son, but, at the persuasion of his women and advisers, instead of his own, he sent the son of a slave, who was of the same age, requesting that his brother might be restored to him. Hoolagoo was soon informed of the imposition, but disdained to notice it otherwise than by sending back the child, saying he was too young, and requiring that his elder brother, if he had one, should be sent in place of Shahinshah. He at the same time dismissed Shahinshah with these words:--"Tell thy brother to demolish Maimoondees and come to me; if he does not come, the eternal God knows the consequences." The Mongol troops now covered all the hills and valleys, and Hoolagoo in person appeared before Maimoondees. The Assassins fought bravely, but Rukn-ed-deen had not spirit to hold out. He sent his other brother, his son, his vizir Nasir-ed-deen, and the principal persons of the society, bearing rich presents to the Mongol prince. Nasir-ed-deen was directed to magnify the strength of the Ismaïlite fortresses in order to gain good terms for his master; but, instead of so doing, he told Hoolagoo not to regard them, assuring him that the conjunction of the stars announced the downfall of the Ismaïlites, and that the sun of their power was hastening to its setting. It was agreed that the castle should be surrendered on condition of free egress. Rukn-ed-deen, his ministers, and his friends, entered the Mongol camp on the first day of the month Zoo-l-Kaadeh. His wealth was divided among the Mongol troops. Hoolagoo took compassion on himself, and spoke kindly to him, and treated him as his guest. Nasir-ed-deen became the vizir of the conqueror, who afterwards built for him the observatory of Meragha. Mongol officers were now dispatched to all the castles of the Ismaïlites in Kuhistan, Roodbar, and even in Syria, with orders from Rukn-ed-deen to the governors to surrender or demolish them. The number of these strong castles was upwards of one hundred, of which there were forty demolished in Roodbar alone. Three of the strongest castles in this province, namely, Alamoot, Lamseer, and Kirdkoh, hesitated to submit, their governors replying to the summons that they would wait till Hoolagoo should appear in person before them. In a few days the Mongol prince and his captive were at the foot of Alamoot. Rukn-ed-deen was led under the walls, and he ordered the governor to surrender. His command was disregarded, and Hoolagoo, not to waste time, removed his camp to Lamseer, leaving a corps to blockade Alamoot. The people of Lamseer came forth immediately with their homage, and a few days afterwards envoys arrived from Alamoot entreating Rukn-ed-deen to intercede for the inhabitants with the brother of Mangoo. The conqueror was moderate; he allowed them free egress, and gave them three days to collect and remove their families and property. On the third day the Mongol troops received permission to enter and plunder the fortress. They rushed, eager for prey, into the hitherto invincible, now deserted, Vulture's Nest, and rifled it of all that remained in it. As they hurried through its subterrane recesses in search of treasure they frequently, to their amazement, found themselves immersed in honey, or swimming in wine; for there were large receptacles of wine, honey, and corn, hewn into the solid rock, the nature of which was such that, though, as we are told, they had been filled in the time of Hassan Sabah, the corn was perfectly sound, and the wine had not soured. This extraordinary circumstance was regarded by the Ismaïlites as a miracle wrought by that founder of their society. When Alamoot fell into the hands of the Mongols Ata-Melek (_King's-father_) Jowainee, a celebrated vizir and historian, craved permission of Hoolagoo to inspect the celebrated library of that place, which had been founded by Hassan Sabah and increased by his successors, and to select from it such works as might be worthy of a place in that of the khan. The permission was readily granted, and he commenced his survey of the books. But Ata-Melek was too orthodox a Mussulman, or too lazy an examiner, to make the best use of his opportunity; for all he did was to take the short method of selecting the Koran and a few other books which he deemed of value out of the collection, and to commit the remainder, with all the philosophical instruments, to the flames, as being impious and heretical. All the archives of the society were thus destroyed, and our only source of information respecting its doctrines, regulations, and history, is derived from what Ata-Melek has related in his own history as the result of his search among the archives and books of the library of Alamoot, previous to his making an _auto da fé_ of them. The fate of the last of a dynasty, however worthless and insignificant his character may be, is always interesting from the circumstance alone of his being the last, and thus, as it were, embodying in himself the history of his predecessors. We shall therefore pause to relate the remainder of the story of the feeble Rukn-ed-deen. When Hoolagoo, after the conclusion of his campaign against Roodbar, retired to Hamadan, where he had left his children, he took with him Rukn-ed-deen, whom he continued to treat with kindness. Here the Assassin prince became enamoured of a Mongol maiden of the very lowest class. He asked permission of Hoolagoo to espouse her, and, by the directions of that prince, the wedding was celebrated with great solemnity. He next craved to be sent to the court of Mangoo Khan. Hoolagoo, though surprised at this request, acceded to it also, and gave him a corps of Mongols as an escort. He at the same time directed him to order on his way the garrison of Kirdkoh, who still held out, to surrender, and demolish the fortress. Rukn-ed-deen, as he passed by Kirdkoh, did as directed, but sent at the same time a private message to the governor to hold out as long as possible. Arrived at Kara-Kooroom, the residence of the khan, he was not admitted to an audience, but the following message was delivered to him:--"Thus saith Mangoo: Since thou affectest to be obedient to us, wherefore has not the castle of Kirdkoh been delivered up? Go back, and demolish all the castles which remain; then mayest thou be partaker of the honour of viewing our imperial countenance." Rukn-ed-deen was obliged to return, and, soon after he had crossed the Oxus, his escort, making him dismount under pretext of an entertainment, ran him through with their swords. Mangoo Khan was determined to exterminate the whole race of the Ismaïlites, and orders to that effect had already reached Hoolagoo, who was only waiting to execute them till Kirdkoh should have surrendered. As the garrison of that place continued obstinate, he no longer ventured to delay. Orders for indiscriminate massacre were issued, and 12,000 Ismaïlites soon fell as victims. The process was short; wherever a member of the society was met he was, without any trial, ordered to kneel down, and his head instantly rolled on the ground. Hoolagoo sent one of his vizirs to Casveen, where the family of Rukn-ed-deen were residing, and the whole of them were put to death, except two (females it is said), who were reserved to glut the vengeance of the princess Boolghan Khaloon, whose father Jagatai had perished by the daggers of the Assassins. The siege of Kirdkoh was committed by Hoolagoo (who was now on his march to Bagdad to put an end to the empire of the khalifs) to the princes of Mazenderân and Ruyan. The castle held out for three years, and the siege was rendered remarkable by the following curious occurrence:--It was in the beginning of the spring when a poet named Koorbee of Ruyan came to the camp. He began to sing, in the dialect of Taberistan, a celebrated popular song of the spring, beginning with these lines:-- When the sun from the fish to the ram doth return, Spring's banner waves high on the breeze of the morn.[66] [Footnote 66: "And Day, with his _banner_ of radiance _unfurled_, Shines in through the mountainous portal that opes Sublime from that valley of bliss to the world," says Mr. Moore in his "Lalla Rookh," undoubtedly without any knowledge of the eastern song. His original was perhaps Campbell's "Andes, giant of the western star, His meteor _standard_ to the winds _unfurled_, Looks from his throne of clouds o'er half the _world_;" which was again, in all probability, suggested, like Gray's "Loose his beard, and hoary hair Stream'd like a _meteor_ to the troubled air," by Milton's "Imperial _ensign_, which, full high advanced, Shone like a _meteor_ streaming to the wind." It is thus that the particles of poetry, like those of matter, are in eternal circulation, and forming new combinations.] The song awoke in the minds of princes and soldiers the recollection of the vernal delights they had left behind them; an invincible longing after them seized the whole army; and, without reflecting on the consequences, they broke up the siege, and set forth to enjoy the season of flowers in the fragrant gardens of Mazenderân. Hoolagoo was greatly incensed when he heard of their conduct, and sent a body of troops against them, but forgave them on their making due apologies and submissions. The Ismaïlite power in Persia was now completely at an end; the khalifat, whose destruction had been its great object, was also involved in its ruin, and the power of the Mongols established over the whole of Irân. The Mongol troops failed in their attempts on the Ismaïlite castles in Syria; but, at the end of fourteen years, what they could not effect was achieved by the great Beibars, the Circassian Mamlook sultan of Egypt, who reduced all the strongholds of the Assassins in the Syrian mountains, and extinguished their power in that region. The last intercourse of the Assassins with the western Christians which we read of was that with St. Louis. William of Nangis relates--but the tale is evidently apocryphal--that in the year 1250 two of the _Arsacidæ_ were sent to France to murder that prince, who was then only twenty-two years of age. The _Senex de Monte_ however repented, and sent others to warn the French monarch. These arriving in time, the former were discovered, on which the king loaded them all with presents, and dismissed them with rich gifts for their master. Rejecting this idle legend, we may safely credit the account of Joinville, that in 1250, when St. Louis was residing at Acre, after his captivity in Egypt, he was waited on by an embassy from the Old Man of the Mountain, the object of which was to procure, through his means, a remission of the tribute which he paid to the Templars and the Hospitallers. As if to obviate the answer which might naturally be made, the ambassador said that his master considered that it would be quite useless to sacrifice the lives of his people by murdering the masters of these orders, as men as good as they would be immediately appointed to succeed them. It being then morning, the king desired them to return in the evening. When they appeared again, he had with him the masters of the Temple and the Hospital, who, on the propositions being repeated, declared them to be most extravagant, and assured the ambassadors that, were it not for the sacredness of their character, and their regard for the word of the king, they would fling them into the sea. They were directed to go back, and to bring within fifteen days a satisfactory letter to the king. They departed, and, returning at the appointed time, said to the king that their chief, as the highest mark of friendship, had sent him his own shirt and his gold ring. They also brought him draught and chess-boards, adorned with amber, an elephant and a giraffe (_orafle_) of crystal. The king, not to be outdone in generosity, sent an embassy to Massyat with presents of scarlet robes, gold cups, and silver vases, for the Ismaïlite chief. Speculative tenets will continue and be propagated long after the sect or society which holds them may have lost all temporal influence and consideration. Accordingly, seventy years after the destruction of Alamoot, in the reign of Aboo-Zeid, the eighth successor of Hoolagoo, it was found that nearly all the people of Kuhistan were devoted to the Ismaïlite opinions. The monarch, who was an orthodox Soonnee, advised with the governor of the province, and it was resolved to send a mission, composed of learned and zealous divines, for the conversion of the heretics. At the head of the mission was placed the pious and orthodox sheikh Emad-ed-deen of Bokhara; the other members of it were the sheikh's two sons and four other learned ulemas (_Doctors of law_), in all seven persons. Full of enthusiasm and zeal for the good cause which they had in hand, the missionaries set forth. They arrived at Kaïn, the chief place of the province, and found with grief and indignation none of the ordinary testimonies of Moslem devotion. The mosks were in ruins, no morning or evening call to prayer was to be heard, no school or hospital was to be seen. Emad-ed-deen resolved to commence his mission by the solemn call to prayer. Adopting the precaution of arraying themselves in armour, he and his companions ascended the terrace of the castle, and all at once from its different sides shouted forth, "Say God is great! There is no god but God, and Mohammed is his prophet. Up to prayer; to good works!" The inhabitants, to whom these sounds were unusual and offensive, ran together, determined to bestow the crown of martyrdom on the missionaries; but these good men, whose zeal was of a prudent complexion, did not, though armed, abide the encounter. They took refuge in an aqueduct, where they concealed themselves till the people had dispersed, when they came forth once more, ascended the terrace, and gave the call to prayer. The people collected again, and again the missionaries sought their retreat. By perseverance, however, and the powerful support of the governor of the province, they gradually accustomed the ears of the people to the forms of orthodoxy. Many years afterwards sultan Shahrokh, the son of Timoor, resolved to send a commission to ascertain the state of religion in Kohistan. At the head of it he placed Jelalee of Kaïn, the grandson of Emad-ed-deen, a man of learning and talent and a distinguished writer. Jelalee deemed himself especially selected by heaven for this purpose, as his grandsire had headed the former mission, and the Prophet had appeared to himself in a dream, and given to him a broom to sweep the land, which he interpreted to be a commission to sweep away the impurity of infidelity out of the country. He therefore entered on his office with joy, and, after a peregrination of eleven months, reported favourably of the faith of the people of Kohistan, with the exception of some dervishes and others, who were addicted to _Soofeeism_. At the present day, nearly six centuries after the destruction of the Ismaïlite power, the sect is still in existence both in Persia and in Syria. But, like that of the Anabaptists, it has lost its terrors, and the Ismaïlite doctrine is now merely one of the speculative heresies of Islam. The Syrian Ismaïlites dwell in eighteen villages around Massyat, and pay an annual sum of 16,500 piastres to the governor of Hama, who nominates their sheikh or emir. They are divided into two sects or parties, the Sooweidanee, so named from one of their former sheikhs, and the Khisrewee, so called on account of their great reverence for Khiser, the guardian of the Well of Life. They are all externally rigid observers of the precepts of Islam, but they are said to believe in the divinity of Ali, in the uncreated light as the origin of all things, and in the sheikh Rasheed-eddeen Sinan as the last representative of God upon earth. The Persian Ismaïlites dwell chiefly in Roodbar, but they are to be met all over the east, and even appear as traders on the banks of the Ganges. Their imam, whose pedigree they trace up to Ismaïl, the son of Jaaffer-es-Sadik, resides, under the protection of the Shah of Persia, at the village of Khekh, in the district of Koom. As, according to their doctrine, he is an incarnate ray of the Divinity, they hold him in the utmost veneration, and make pilgrimages from the most distant places to obtain his blessing. We have thus traced the origin, the growth, and the decline of this formidable society, only to be paralleled by that of the Jesuits in extent of power and unity of plan and purpose. Unlike this last, however, its object was purely evil, and its career was one of blood: it has therefore left no deeds to which its apologists might appeal in its defence. Its history, notwithstanding, will always form a curious and instructive chapter in that of the human race. THE TEMPLARS. CHAPTER I. Introduction--The Crusades--Wrong Ideas respecting their Origin--True Causes of them--Pilgrimage--Pilgrimage of Frotmond--Of the Count of Anjou--Striking Difference between the Christianity of the East and that of the West--Causes of their different Characters--Feudalism--The Extent and Force of this Principle. Among the many extraordinary phenomena which the middle ages present, none is more deserving of attention, or more characteristic of the times and the state of society and opinion, than the institution of the religio-military orders of the Hospitallers, the Templars, and the Teutonic Knights. Of these orders, all of which owed their origin to the Crusades, and commenced in the 12th century, the last, after the final loss of the Holy Land, transferring the scene of their activity to the north of Germany, and directing their arms against the heathens who still occupied the south coast of the Baltic, became the founders, in a great measure, of the Prussian power; while the first, planting their standard on the Isle of Rhodes, long gallantly withstood the forces of the Ottoman Turks, and, when at length obliged to resign that island, took their station on the rock of Malta, where they bravely repelled the troops of the greatest of the Ottoman sultans, and maintained at least a nominal independence till the close of the 18th century. A less glorious fate attended the Knights of the Temple. They became the victims of the unprincipled rapacity of a merciless prince; their property was seized and confiscated; their noblest members perished in the flames; their memory was traduced and maligned; the foulest crimes were laid to their charge; and a secret doctrine, subversive of social tranquillity and national independence, was asserted to have animated their councils. Though many able defenders of these injured knights have arisen, the charges against them have been reiterated even in the present day; and a distinguished Orientalist (Von Hammer) has recently even attempted to bring forward additional and novel proofs of their secret guilt.[67] To add one more to the number of their defenders, to trace the origin, develope the internal constitution of their society, narrate their actions, examine the history of their condemnation and suppression, and show how absurd and frivolous were the charges against them, are the objects of the present writer, who, though he is persuaded, and hopes to prove, that they held no secret doctrine, yet places them among the secret societies of the middle ages, because it is by many confidently maintained that they were such. [Footnote 67: The principal works on the subject of the Templars are Raynouard Monumens historiques relatifs à la Condamnation des Templiers; Dupuy Histoire de la Condamnation des Templiers; Münter Statutenbuch des Ordens der Tempelherren; and Wilike Geschichte des Tempelherrenordens. There is scarcely anything on the subject in English.] As the society of the Templars was indebted for its origin to the Crusades, we will, before entering on our narrative, endeavour to correct some erroneous notions respecting the causes and nature of these celebrated expeditions. The opinion of the Crusades having been an emanation of the spirit of chivalry is one of the most erroneous that can be conceived, yet it is one most widely spread. Romancers, and those who write history as if it were romance, exert all their power to keep up the illusion, and the very sound of the word Crusade conjures up in most minds the ideas of waving plumes, gaudy surcoats, emblazoned shields, with lady's love, knightly honour, and courteous feats of arms. A vast deal of this perversion of truth is no doubt to be ascribed to the illustrious writer of the splendid epic whose subject is the first Crusade. Tasso, who, living at the time when the last faint gleam of expiring chivalry was fitfully glowing through the moral and political gloom which was overspreading the former abodes of freedom and industry in Italy, may be excused if, young and unversed in the philosophy of history, he mistook the character of European society six centuries before his time, or deemed himself at liberty to minister to the taste of a court which loved the fancied image of former times, and stimulate it to a generous emulation by representing the heroes of the first Crusade as animated with the spirit and the virtues of the ideal chivalry. But the same excuse is not to be made for those who, writing at the present day, confound chivalry and the Crusades, give an epitome of the history of the latter under the title of that of the former, and venture to assert that the valiant Tancred was the _beau ideal_ of chivalry, and that the "Talisman" contains a faithful picture of the spirit and character of the Crusades.[68] [Footnote 68: On the subject of chivalry see Ste. Palaye Mémoires sur la Chevalerie, Sir W. Scott's Essay on the same subject, and Mills's and James's histories of chivalry. We do not recollect that any of these writers has fairly proved that the chivalry which they describe ever existed as an institution, and we must demur to the principle which they all assume of romances like Perceforest being good authority for the manners of the age in which they were composed.] We venture to assert that the Crusades did _not_ originate in chivalry, and that the first Crusade, the most important of them, and that which gave the tone and character to all the succeeding ones, does not present a single vestige of what is usually understood by the term chivalry, not a trace of what the imagination rather than the knowledge of Burke described as embodying "the generous loyalty to rank and sex, the proud submission, the dignified obedience, and that subordination of the heart which kept alive, even in servitude itself, the spirit of an exalted freedom--that sensibility of principle, that chastity of honour, which felt a stain like a wound, which inspired courage whilst it mitigated ferocity, which ennobled whatever it touched, and under which vice itself lost half its evil by losing all its grossness." Little surely does he know of the 11th century and its spirit who can suppose any part of the foregoing description to apply to those who marched in arms to Asia to free the sepulchre of Christ; slightly must he have perused the _Gesta Tancredi_ of Radulphus Cadomens, who can conceive that gallant warrior, as he undoubtedly was, to have been the mirror of chivalry. Chivalry and the Crusades commenced in the same century, and drew their origin from the same source. One was not the cause of the other, but both were effects of the same cause, and that cause was _feudalism_. This inculcated "the proud submission, the dignified obedience," &c., &c., which were gradually idealised into chivalry; it impressed on the mind of the vassal those principles of regard to the rights and property of his lord which seemed to justify and sanction the Holy War. Previously, however, to explaining the manner in which this motive acted, we must stop to notice another concurring cause of the Crusades, without which it would perhaps never have begun to operate. Man has at all periods been led by a strong impulse of his nature to visit those spots which have been distinguished as the scenes of great and celebrated actions, or the abode of distinguished personages. The operation of this natural feeling is still stronger when it is combined with religion, and there arises a conviction that the object of his worship is gratified by this act of attention, and his favour thereby secured to the votary. Hence we find _pilgrimage_, or the practice of taking distant journeys to celebrated temples, and other places of devotion, to have prevailed in all ages of the world. In the most remote periods of the mythic history of Greece, where historic truth is not to be sought, and only manners and modes of thinking are to be discerned, we constantly meet the _theoria_, or pilgrimage to Delphi, mentioned in the history of the heroes, whence we may with certainty collect that it formed at all times a portion of the manners of the Greeks. India, at the present day, witnesses annually the pilgrimage of myriads to the temple of Juggernaut, and Jerusalem has been for thousands of years the resort of pious Israelites. The country which had witnessed the life and death of their Lord naturally acquired importance in the eyes of the early Christians, many of whom, moreover, were Jews by birth, and had always viewed Jerusalem with feelings of veneration. All, too, confounded--as has unfortunately been too much the case in later times--the old and the new law, and saw not that the former was but "beggarly elements" in comparison with the latter, and deemed that the political and economical precepts designed for a single nation, inhabiting one small region, were obligatory on the church of Christ, which was intended to comprise the whole human race. Many of the practices of Judaism were therefore observed by the Christians, and to this principle we are perhaps in a great measure to ascribe the rapid progress of the practice, and the belief in the efficacy, of pilgrimage to the Holy City. The abuses of pilgrimage were early discerned, and some of the more pious Fathers of the Church preached and wrote against the practice. But piety and eloquence were vain, and could little avail to stem the torrent when men believed that the waters of Jordan had efficacy to wash every sin, though unattended by sincere repentance. The Church, as she advanced in corruption, improved in worldly wisdom, and, taking pilgrimage under her protection, made it a part of her penal discipline. The sinner was now ordered a journey to the Holy Land as a means of freeing his soul from the guilt of his perhaps manifold enormities. Each year saw the number of the pilgrims augment, while the growing veneration for relics, of which those which came from the Holy Land were esteemed the most efficacious, stimulated pilgrimage by adding the incentive of profit, as a small stock of money laid out in the purchase of the generally counterfeit relics always on sale at Jerusalem would produce perhaps a thousand per cent. on the return of the pilgrim to his native country. A pilgrim was also held in respect and veneration wherever he came, as an especial favourite of the Divinity, having been admitted by him to the high privilege of visiting the sacred places, a portion of whose sanctity it would be supposed might still adhere to him. The 11th century was the great season of pilgrimage. A strange misconception of the meaning of a portion of Scripture had led men to fancy that the year 1000 was to be that of the advent of Christ, to judge the world. As the valley of Jehoshaphat was believed to be the spot on which this awful event would take place, the same feeling which leads people at the present day to lay a flattering unction to their souls by supposing that death-bed repentance will prove equivalent in the sight of God to a life passed in obedience to his will and in the exercise of virtue, impelled numbers to journey to the Holy Land, in the belief that this officiousness, as it were, of hitherto negligent servants would be well taken by their Lord, and procure them an indulgent hearing before his judgment-seat. Pilgrimage, therefore, increased greatly; the failure of their expectations, the appointed time having passed away without the Son of Man coming in the clouds of Heaven, gave it no check, but, on the contrary, rather an additional impulse; and during this century the caravans of pilgrims attained to such magnitude and strength as to be deserving of the appellation of _The armies of the Lord_--precursive of the first and greatest Crusade. In truth the belief in the merit and even the obligation of a pilgrimage, to Jerusalem, in the sight of God, was now as firmly impressed on the mind of every Christian, be his rank what it might, as that of the necessity and advantage of one to the Kaaba of Mecca is in the apprehension of the followers of Mohammed; and in the degraded state of the human intellect at that period a pilgrimage was deemed adequate to the removal of all sin. As a proof of this we shall narrate the pilgrimages of two distinguished personages of those times. The first occurred in the 9th, the second in the 11th century. In the reign of Lothaire, son of Louis the Debonnaire, a nobleman of Brittany, named Frotmond, who had murdered his uncle and his youngest brother, began to feel remorse for his crimes. Arrayed in the habit of a penitent, he presented himself before the monarch and an assembly of his prelates, and made confession of his guilty deeds. The king and bishops had him straitly bound in chains of iron, and then commanded him, in expiation of his guilt, to set forth for the East, and visit all the holy places, clad in hair-cloth, and his forehead marked with ashes. Accompanied by his servants and the partners of his crime, the Breton lord directed his course to Palestine, which he reached in safety. Having, in obedience to the mandates of his sovereign and of the church, visited all the holy places, he crossed the Arabian desert, which had been the scene of the wanderings of Israel, and entered Egypt. He thence traversed a part of Africa, and went as far as Carthage, whence he sailed for Rome. Here the Pope, on being consulted, advised him to make a second pilgrimage, in order to complete his penance, and obtain the perfect remission of his sins. Frotmond accordingly set forth once more, and having performed the requisite duties at the Holy City, proceeded to the shore of the Red Sea, and there took up his abode for three years on Mount Sinai, after which time he made a journey to Armenia, and visited the mountain on which the ark of Noah had rested. His crimes being now, according to the ideas of those times, expiated, he returned to his native country, where he was received as a saint, and taking up his abode in the convent of Redon, passed there the remainder of his days, and died deeply regretted by his brethren.[69] [Footnote 69: Michaud, Histoire des Croisades, I., p. 59.] Fulk de Nerra, Count of Anjou, had spilt much innocent blood; he had had his first wife burnt alive, and forced his second wife to seek refuge from his barbarity in the Holy Land. The public odium pursued him, and conscience asserting her rights presented to his disturbed imagination the forms of those who had perished by him issuing from their tombs, and reproaching him with his crimes. Anxious to escape from his invisible tormentors, the count put on him the habit of a pilgrim, and set forth for Palestine. The tempests which he encountered in the Syrian seas seemed to his guilty soul the instruments of divine vengeance, and augmented the fervour of his repentance. Having reached Jerusalem in safety, he set heartily about the work of penance. He traversed the streets of the Holy City with a cord about his neck, and beaten with rods by his servants, while he repeated these words, _Lord, have mercy on a faithless and perjured Christian, on a sinner wandering far from his home_. During his abode in Jerusalem he gave abundant alms, relieving the wants of the pilgrims, and leaving numerous monuments of his piety and munificence. Deep as was the penitence of the Count of Anjou, it did not stand in the way of the exercise of a little pious fraud. By an ingenious device he deceived the impious malignity of the profane Saracens, who would have made him defile the holy sepulchre; and the chroniclers tell us that as he lay prostrate before the sacred tomb he contrived to detach from it a precious stone, which he carried back with him to the West. On his return to his duchy he built, at the castle of Loches, a church after the model of that of the Resurrection at Jerusalem, and here he every day implored with tears the divine forgiveness. His mind, however, could not yet rest; he was still haunted by the same horrid images; and he once more visited the Holy Land, and edified the faithful by the austerity of his penance. Returning home by the way of Italy, he delivered the supreme pontiff from a formidable enemy who was ravaging his territory, and the grateful pope conferred on him in return the full absolution of all his sins. Fulk brought with him to Anjou a great quantity of relics, with which he adorned the churches of Loches and Angers; and his chief occupation thenceforward was the building of towns and monasteries, whence he acquired the name of _The Great Builder_. His people, who blessed heaven for his conversion, honoured and loved him; the guilt of his sins had been removed by the means which were then deemed of sovereign efficacy; yet still the monitor placed by God in the human breast, and which in a noble mind no power can reduce to perfect silence, did not rest; and the Holy Land beheld, for the third time, the Count of Anjou watering the sepulchre of Christ with his tears, and groaning afresh over his transgressions. He quitted Jerusalem for the last time, recommending his soul to the prayers of the pious brethren whose office it was to receive the pilgrims, and turned his face homewards. But Anjou he was never more to behold; death surprised him at Metz. His body was transferred to Loches, and buried in his church of the Holy Sepulchre. These instances may suffice to show what the opinion of the efficacy and merit of pilgrimage to the Holy Land was at the time of which we write. We here find convincing proof that in the minds of princes and prelates, the highest and most enlightened order of society, it was confidently believed to avail to remove the guilt of crimes of the deepest die. And let not any one say that the clergy took advantage of the ignorance of the people, and made it the instrument of extending their own power and influence; for such an assertion would evince ignorance both of human nature in general and of the temper and conduct of the Romish hierarchy at that, and we might almost say at all periods of its existence. However profligate the lives of many of the clergy may have been, they never called in question the truth of the dogmas of their religion. Even the great and daring Gregory VII., in the midst of what appear to us his arrogant and almost impious assumptions, never for a moment doubted of the course which he was pursuing being the right one, and agreeable to heaven. The clergy, as well as the laity, were firmly persuaded of the efficacy of pilgrimage, and in both the persuasion was naturally stronger in proportion to the ignorance of the believer. We accordingly find that vast numbers of all ranks, and both sexes, clergy as well as laity, annually repaired to the tomb of Christ. It remains to be explained what the principle was which gave origin to the idea of the right and justice of recovering the Holy Land, which was now in the hands of the fanatic Turks, instead of those of the tolerant Saracens. This cause was, as we have above asserted, the feudal spirit, that is, the spirit of the age, and not that emanation of it termed chivalry. Religion, whatever its original nature and character, will always take a tinge from the manners and temper of those who adopt it. Nothing can be more illustrative of the truth of this observation than the history of the Christian religion. Any one who opens the Gospel, and reads it without preconception or prejudice, cannot fail at once to recognise the rational and fervent piety, the active benevolence, the pure morality, the noble freedom from the trammels of the world, joined with the zealous discharge of all the social duties, which every page of it inculcates. Yet we find this religion in the East degenerating into abject grovelling superstition and metaphysical quibbling, pursued with all the rancour of the _odium theologicum_, while in the West it assumed a fiery fanatic character, and deemed the sword an instrument of conversion superior to reason and argument. This difference, apparently so strange, arose from the difference of the social state and political institutions of the people of the East and of the West at the time when they embraced Christianity. The free spirit had long since fled from Greece when the first Christian missionaries preached the faith among its people. But the temper of the Greek was still lively, and his reasoning powers acute. Moreover, he had still the same leaning towards a sensible and material religion which has at all times distinguished him, and the increasing despotism of the empire depressed and enfeebled more and more every day the martial spirit which he had displayed in the days of his freedom. No field remained for his mental activity but that of philosophy and religion. The former, which had long been his delight, he had contrived to subtilize into an almost unintelligible mysticism; and in this form it speedily spread its infection through his new faith, which was besides further metamorphosed and changed in character by an infusion from the dualistic system of Persia. Meantime the ascetic spirit which had come from the East joined with the timidity engendered by the pressure of despotism to make him mistake the spirit of the Gospel, and convert Christianity into a crouching cowardly superstition. When the emperor Nicephorus Phocas sought to infuse a martial and fanatic spirit into his subjects, and to rouse them to vigorous exertion against the Saracens, his bishops replied to his exhortations by citing a canon of St. Basil, which directed that he who had slain an enemy in battle should abstain during three years from participation in the holy sacraments. The priest of a little town in Cilicia was engaged one day in saying mass when a band of Saracens burst in, and began to plunder the town. Without waiting to take off his sacerdotal vestments, he seized the hammer, which in the churches of the East frequently serves the purpose of a bell, and, flying among the infidels, plied his weapon to such effect that he forced them to a precipitate flight, and saved the town. What was the reward of the gallant priest? He was censured by his diocesan, interdicted the exercise of his ghostly functions, and so ill-treated in other respects, that he flung off his robes and joined the Saracens, whose more martial and energetic creed accorded better with his manly sentiments. When the pilgrims of the first Crusade began to arrive in such terrific numbers at Constantinople, the Greek emperor and his subjects could hardly persuade themselves of the possibility of religion being the actuating cause of such a portentous movement--so little did religion and deeds of arms accord in their minds! But with the nations of the West the case was different. In these the ruling portion, that which gave tone to the whole, were of the Gothic and Germanic races, whose hardy bands had dashed to pieces the worn-out fabric of the Western empire. Worshippers in their native forests of Thor and Odin, and the other deities of Valhalla, who admitted none but the valiant dead to share in the celestial pork and mead which each day crowned the board in their lucid abode, their manners, their sentiments, their whole being was martial, and they infused this spirit into the religion which they adopted from their Roman subjects. In making this change in its tone they derived aid from the Jewish portion of the sacred volume, which has been in all ages abused, by men ignorant of its character and original use, to purposes of fanaticism and persecution; and the religion of Christian Europe, from the fifth century downwards, became of a martial and conquering character. By the sword Charlemagne converted the pagan Saxons; his successors employed the sword against the heathen Vends; and by fire and sword Olof Triggva-son spread Christianity throughout the North. In former times this mode of conversion had been in a great degree foreign to the Western church; and persuasion had been chiefly employed in the dissemination of the faith among the heathen nations. The religion of the West we thus see was martial; but this spirit alone would not have sufficed to produce the Crusade which was to interest and appear as a duty to all orders of men. Here the feudal principle came into operation, and gave the requisite impulse. In the 11th century the feudal system was completely developed in France and Germany, and the modes of thinking, speaking, and acting derived from it pervaded all the relations of life. From the top to the bottom of society the mutual obligations of lords and vassals were recognised and acted upon, and each vassal deemed it a most sacred duty to defend by arms the honour and property of his superior lord. There was also a kind of supreme temporal chief of the Christian world acknowledged in the person of the Emperor of Germany, who was viewed as the successor of Charlemagne, and the representative of the Roman emperors. The feudal ideas extended even to the hierarchy, which now put forth such exorbitant claims to supremacy over the temporal power. The head of the church was an acknowledged vicegerent of Him who was styled in scripture Lord of all the kingdoms of the earth. Jesus Christ was, therefore, the apex of the pyramid of feudal society; he was the great suzerain and lord paramount of all princes and peoples, and all were equally under obligation to defend his rights and honour. Such were evidently the sentiments of the age. It is hardly necessary to remind the reader that the religion of the period which we treat of was of a gross and material character, and that the passions and infirmities of human nature were freely bestowed on the glorified Son of God. He was deemed to take a peculiar interest in the spot of land where he had sojourned when on earth, and more especially in the tomb in which his body had been deposited, and with grief and indignation to see them in the hands of those who contemptuously derided his divinity, and treated with insult and cruelty those of his faithful vassals who underwent the toils and dangers of a distant journey to offer their homage at his tomb. Nothing could, therefore, be more grateful to his feelings than to behold the sacred soil of Palestine free from heathen pollution, and occupied and defended by his faithful vassals, and no true son of the church could hesitate a moment to believe that it was his bounden duty to arm himself in the cause of his lord, and help to reinstate him in his heritage. Here, then, without having recourse to the romantic principle of chivalry, we have an adequate solution of the phenomenon of the first Crusade. Here we have a motive calculated to operate on the minds of all orders, equally effectual with men of piety, virtue, and wealth, like Godfrey of Bouillon and Stephen of Chartres, who looked for no temporal advantages, as with the meanest and most superstitious of the vassals and serfs who might be supposed to have only sought a refuge from misery and oppression by assuming the cross. We would not by any means be supposed to deny that many other causes and motives were in operation at the same time; but this we deem the grand one. This was the motive which gave dignity to and hallowed all others, and which affected the mind of every Crusader, be his rank or station in society what it might. Pilgrimage then was esteemed a duty, and a powerful mean of removing guilt and appeasing the wrath of the Almighty; the spirit of the age was martial, and its religion, tinged by the ancient system of the North of Europe, was of the same character; the feudal principle was in its vigour, and extended even to the relations of man with the deity; the rude and barbarous Turks had usurped the heritage, the very crown-lands, as we may say, of Jesus Christ, and insulted his servants, whose duty it plainly was to punish them, and free the tomb of their lord;--the natural result of such a state of circumstances and opinion was the first Crusade. CHAPTER II. First Hospital at Jerusalem--Church of Santa Maria de Latina--Hospital of St. John--The Hospitallers--Origin of the Templars--Their original Poverty--They acquire Consideration--St. Bernard--His Character of the Templars--The Order approved of and confirmed by the Council of Troyes--Proofs of the Esteem in which they were held. In consequence of the resort of pilgrims and traders from the West to Jerusalem it had been found necessary to build there, with the consent of the Saracens, _hospitia_, or places of entertainment for them during their abode in the holy city. For they could not, consistently with the religious animosity which prevailed between them and the Moslems, seek the hospitality of these last, and the Christians of the Greek church who dwelt in the Holy City, besides that they had no very friendly feeling towards their Catholic brethren, were loth to admit them into their houses, on account of the imprudent language and indecorous acts in which they were too frequently in the habit of indulging, and which were so likely to compromise their hosts with their Saracen lords. Accordingly the monk Bernard, who visited Jerusalem in the year 870, found there, in the valley of Jehoshaphat, near the church of the Holy Virgin, a hospital consisting of twelve mansions, for western pilgrims, which was in the possession of some gardens, vineyards, and corn-fields. It had also a good collection of books, the gift of Charlemagne. There was a market held in front of it, which was much resorted to, and every dealer paid two pieces of gold to the overseer for permission to have a stand there. In the 11th century, when the ardour of pilgrimage was inflamed anew, there was a hospital within the walls of Jerusalem for the use of the Latin pilgrims, which had been erected by Italian traders, chiefly of Amalfi. Near this hospital, and within a stone's cast of the church of the Holy Sepulchre, they erected, with the permission of the Egyptian khalif, a church dedicated to the Holy Virgin, which was usually called Sta. Maria de Latina. In this hospital abode an abbot and a good number of monks, who were of the Latin church, and followed the rule of St. Benedict. They devoted themselves to the reception and entertainment of pilgrims, and gave alms to those who were poor, or had been rifled by robbers, to enable them to pay the tax required by the Moslems for permission to visit the holy places. When the number of the pilgrims became so great that the hospital was incapable of receiving them all, the monks raised another _hospitium_ close by their church, with a chapel dedicated to a canonized patriarch of Alexandria, named St. John Eleëmon, or the Compassionate. This new hospital had no income of its own; the monks and the pilgrims whom they received derived their support from the bounty of the abbot of the convent of the Holy Virgin, or from the alms of pious Christians. At the time when the army of the crusaders appeared before the walls of Jerusalem the Hospital of St. John was presided over by Gerard, a native of Provence, a man of great uprightness and of exemplary piety. His benevolence was of a truly Christian character, and far transcended that of his age in general; for during the period of the siege he relieved all who applied to him for succour, and not merely did the schismatic Greek share his bounty, even the unbelieving Moslem was not repelled when he implored his aid. When the city was taken, numbers of the wounded pilgrims were received, and their wounds tended in the hospital of St. John, and the pious Duke Godfrey, on visiting them some days afterwards, heard nothing but the praises of the good Gerard and his monks. Emboldened by the universal favour which they enjoyed, Gerard and his companions expressed their wish to separate themselves from the monastery of Sta. Maria de Latina, and pursue their works of charity alone and independently. Their desire met no opposition: they drew up a rule for themselves, to which they made a vow of obedience in presence of the patriarch, and assumed as their dress a black mantle with a white cross on the breast. The humility of these Hospitallers was extreme. They styled the poor and the sick their lords and themselves their servants; to them they were liberal and compassionate, to themselves rigid and austere. The finest flour went to compose the food which they gave to the sick and poor; what remained after they were satisfied, mingled with clay, was the repast of the monks. As long as the brotherhood were poor they continued in obedience to the abbot of Sta. Maria de Latina, and also paid tithes to the patriarch. But a tide of wealth soon began to flow in upon them. Duke Godfrey, enamoured of their virtue, bestowed on them his lordship of Montboire, in Brabant, with all its appurtenances; and his brother and successor, Baldwin, gave them a share of all the booty taken from the infidels. These examples were followed by other Christian princes; so that within the space of a very few years the Hospital of St. John was in possession of numerous manors both in the East and in Europe, which were placed under the management of members of their society. The Hospitallers now coveted a total remission of all the burdens to which they were subject, and they found no difficulty in obtaining all that they desired. Pope Paschal II., in the year 1113, confirmed their rule, gave them permission, on the death of Gerard, to elect their own head, without the interference of any temporal or spiritual power whatever, freed them from the obligation of paying tithes to the patriarch, and confirmed all the donations made or to be made to them. The brotherhood of the Hospital was now greatly advanced in consideration, and reckoned among its members many gallant knights, who laid aside their arms, and devoted themselves to the humble office of ministering to the sick and needy. The worthy Gerard died in the same year with King Baldwin I. (1118), and Raymond Dupuy, a knight of Dauphiné, who had become a brother of the order, was unanimously elected to succeed him in his office. Raymond, who was a man of great vigour and capacity, drew up a series of rules for the direction of the society, adapted to its present state of consequence and extent. From these rules it appears that the order of St. John admitted both the clergy and the laity among its members, and that both were alike bound to yield the most implicit obedience to the commands of their superior. Whether Raymond had any ulterior views is uncertain, but in the regulations which he made we cannot discern any traces of the spirit which afterwards animated the order of St. John. Just, however, as Raymond had completed his regulations there sprang up a new society, with different maxims, whose example that of St. John found itself afterwards obliged to adopt and follow. The Holy Land was at that time in a very disturbed and unquiet state; the Egyptian power pressed it on the south, the Turkish on the north and east; the Arab tribes indulged in their usual predatory habits, and infested it with hostile incursions; the Mussulman inhabitants were still numerous; the Syrian Christians were ill affected towards the Latins, from whom they frequently experienced the grossest ill-treatment; the Latins were few and scattered. Hence the pilgrim was exposed to numerous dangers; peril beset him on his way from the port at which he landed to the Holy City, and new perils awaited him when he visited the banks of the Jordan, or went to pluck his branch of consecrated palm in the gardens of Jericho. Many a pilgrim had lost his life on these occasions. Viewing these evils, nine valiant and pious knights resolved to form themselves into an association which should unite the characters of the monk and the knight, by devoting themselves to a life of chastity and piety at the tomb of the Saviour, and by employing their swords in the protection of the pilgrims on their visits to the holy places. They selected as their patroness the sweet Mother of God (_La doce Mère de Dieu_), and their resolution, according so perfectly with the spirit of the Crusades, which combined piety and valour, gained at once the warm approbation of the king and the patriarch. In the presence of the latter they took the three ordinary vows of chastity, poverty, and obedience, and a fourth of fighting incessantly in the cause of pilgrims and the Holy Land against the heathen. They bound themselves to live according to the rule of the canons of St. Augustine, and elected as their first master Hugh de Payens. The king, Baldwin II., assigned them a portion of his palace for their abode, and he and his barons contributed to their support. As the palace stood close by the church and convent of the Temple, the abbot and canons gave them a street leading from it to the palace, for keeping their magazines and equipments in, and hence they styled themselves the Soldiery of the Temple (_Militia Templi_), and Templars. They attracted such immediate consideration, owing in great part, no doubt, to the novelty of their plan, that the very year after their establishment (1120), Fulk, Count of Anjou, who was come on pilgrimage to Jerusalem, joined their society as a married brother, and on his return home annually remitted them thirty pounds of silver in furtherance of their pious objects, and the example of the Count of Anjou was followed by several other princes and nobles of the West. The English historian, Brompton, who wrote in the 12th century, asserts that the founders of the order of the Temple had originally been members of that of St. John. We know not what degree of credit this may be entitled to[70], but it is certain that there had been as yet nothing of a military character in this last, and that its assumption of such a character was an imitation of the society of the Temple; for, urged by the praise which they saw lavished on the Templars for their meritorious conduct, the Hospitallers resolved to add the task of protecting to that of tending and relieving pilgrims, and such of their members as were knights resumed their arms, joyful to employ them once more in the cause of God. The amplitude of their revenues enabled them to take a number of knights and footmen into their pay--a practice in which they had probably been preceded by the Templars, who thus employed the money which was remitted to them from Europe. But during the lifetime of Raymond Dupuy the order of the Hospital did not become completely a military one; he always bore the simple title of director (_procurator_) of the Hospital, and it was not till some time afterwards that the head of the society was, like that of the Templars, styled master, and led its troops to battle. At all times the tendence of the poor and the sick formed a part of the duties of the brethren of the Hospital, and this was always a marked distinction between them and the rival order of the Temple, whose only task was that of fighting against the infidels. [Footnote 70: The other writers of that century agree in the account given above. Brompton's authority has been preferred by some modern writers, who probably wished to pay their court to the order of Malta.] [Illustration] During the first nine years which elapsed after the institution of their order the knights of the Temple lived in poverty, religiously devoting all the money which was sent to them from Europe to the advantage of the Holy Land, and the service of pilgrims. They had no peculiar habit, their raiment was such as the charity of the faithful bestowed upon them; and though knights, and engaged in constant warfare against the infidels, their poverty and moderation were such that Hugh des Payens and his companion, Godfrey, of St. Omer, had but one war-horse between them--a circumstance which they afterwards, in their brilliant period, commemorated by their seal, which represented two knights mounted on the one horse, a device chosen with a view to inculcating humility on the brethren, now beginning to wax haughty and insolent. A chief cause of the extraordinary success of the first Crusaders had been the want of union among their enemies. The Saracens and Turks mutually hated each other, and would not combine for a common object, and the Turks were, moreover, at enmity among themselves, and one prince frequently allied himself with the Christians against another. But they were now beginning to perceive the necessity of union, and were becoming every day more formidable to their Christian neighbours. King Baldwin II., who had been a prisoner in their hands, made every effort when he had obtained his freedom to strengthen his kingdom, and, among other means for this purpose, he resolved to gain for the Templars, whose valour, humility, and single-mindedness were the theme of general applause, additional consideration, by obtaining from the Holy Father the confirmation of their order. With this view he despatched, in the year 1127, two of their members, named Andreas and Gundemar, to Rome, with this request to the Pope, to whom they were also to make a strong representation of the perilous state of the Holy Land. The king, moreover, furnished them with a letter of recommendation to St. Bernard, Abbot of Clairvaux, whose influence was then all-powerful in the Christian world, and who was nephew of the envoy Andreas. Shortly afterwards Hugh de Payens himself arrived in Europe with five others of the brethren. Nothing could be more advantageous to the new order than the favour and countenance of the illustrious Abbot of Clairvaux, who had been for some time past an admirer of its objects and deeds. Three years before this time he had written a letter to the Count of Champagne, who had entered the order of the Templars, praising the act as one of eminent merit in the sight of God. He now, on occasion of the visit of the Master[71], wrote, at his request, an eloquent work, exhorting the brethren of the new order to persevere in their toilsome but highly laudable task of fighting against the tyranny of the heathens, and commending their piety to the attention of all the faithful, setting in strong opposition to the luxury of the knights of his time the modesty and simplicity of these holy warriors. He extolled the unlimited obedience of the Templars to their Master, both at home and in the field. "They go and come," says he, "at a sign from their Master; they wear the clothing which he gives them, and ask neither food nor clothing from any one else; they live cheerfully and temperately together, without wives and children, and, that nothing may be wanting for evangelical perfection, without property, in one house, endeavouring to preserve the unity of the spirit in the bond of peace, so that one heart and one soul would appear to dwell in them all. They never sit idle, or go about gaping alter news. When they are resting from warfare against the infidels, a thing which rarely occurs, not to eat the bread of idleness, they employ themselves in repairing their clothes and arms, or do something which the command of the Master or the common need enjoins. There is with them no respect of persons; the best, not the noblest, are the most highly regarded; they endeavour to anticipate one another in respect and to lighten each other's burdens. No unseemly word or light mocking, no murmur or immoderate laughter, is let to pass unreproved, if any one should allow himself to indulge in such. They avoid games of chess and tables; they are adverse to the chase, and equally so to hawking, in which others so much delight. They hate all jugglers and mountebanks, all wanton songs and plays, as vanities and follies of this world. They cut their hair in obedience to these words of the apostle, 'it is not seemly in a man to have long hair;' no one ever sees them dressed out; they are seldom ever washed; they are mostly to be seen with disordered hair, and covered with dust, brown from their corslets and the heat of the sun. When they go forth to war they arm themselves within with faith, without with iron, but never adorn themselves with gold, wishing to excite fear in the enemy, and not the desire of booty. They delight in horses which are strong and swift, not in such as are handsomely marked and richly caparisoned, wishing to inspire terror rather than admiration. They go not impetuously and headlong into battle, but with care and foresight, peacefully, as the true children of Israel. But as soon as the fight has begun, then they rush without delay on the foes, esteeming them but as sheep; and know no fear, even though they should be few, relying on the aid of the Lord of Sabaoth. Hence one of them has often put a thousand, and two of them ten thousand, to flight. Thus they are, in union strange, at the same time gentler than lambs and grimmer than lions, so that one may doubt whether to call them monks or knights. But both names suit them, for theirs is the mildness of the monk and the valour of the knight. What remains to be said but that this is the Lord's doing, and it is wonderful in our eyes? Such are they whom God has chosen out of the bravest in Israel, that, watchful and true, they may guard the holy sepulchre, armed with swords, and well skilled in war." [Footnote 71: Wilken I. 28, gives 1135 as the year in which this piece was written.] Though in these expressions of St. Bernard there may be perceived some marks of rhetorical exaggeration, they prove incontestibly the high character and sincere virtue of the founders of the society of the Templars, and that it was organized and regulated with none but worthy objects in view. They also offer, if such were required, an additional proof that the crusade was no emanation of chivalry; for those to whom St. Bernard throughout sets the Templars in opposition were the chivalry of the age. This epistle of the Abbot of Clairvaux had been circulated, and every other just and honest mean employed to conciliate the public favour for the Templars, when, on the 31st January, 1128, the Master, Hugh de Payens, appeared before the council of Troyes, consisting of the Archbishops of Rheims and Sens, ten bishops, and a number of abbots, among whom was St. Bernard himself, and presided over by the Cardinal of Albano, the papal legate. The Master having given an account of the principles and exploits of the Templars, the assembled fathers approved of the new order, and gave them a new rule, containing their own previous regulations, with several additions drawn from that of the Benedictines, and chiefly relating to spiritual matters. The validity of this rule was made to depend on the approbation of it by the Holy Father and by the Patriarch of Jerusalem, neither of whom hesitated to confirm it. By the direction of the Pope Honorius, the synod appointed a white mantle to be the distinguishing dress of the brethren of the Temple, that of those of the Hospital being black. This mantle was plain, without any cross, and such it remained till the pontificate of Pope Eugenius III., who, in 1146, appointed the Templars to wear a _red_ cross on the breast, as a symbol of the martyrdom to which they stood constantly exposed: the cross worn on their black mantles, by the knights of St. John, was, as we have seen[72], _white_. The order now assumed, or were assigned, a peculiar banner, formed of cloth, striped black and white, called in old French, _Bauseant_[73], which word became the battle-cry of the knights of the Temple, and often struck terror into the hearts of the infidels. It bore on it the ruddy cross of the order, and the pious and humble inscription, _Non nobis, Domine, non nobis, sed nomini tuo, da gloriam_, (Not to us, O Lord, not to us, but to thy name give the glory!) [Footnote 72: _See_ p. 187. Sir W. Scott describes his Templar in Ivanhoe, as wearing a white mantle with a _black_ cross of eight points. The original cross of the Hospitallers, we may observe, had not eight points. That of the order of Malta was of this form.] [Footnote 73: _Bauseant_, or _Bausant_, was, in old French, a piebald horse, or a horse marked white and black. Ducange, Roquefort. The word is still preserved with its original meaning in the Scotch dialect, in the form _Bawsent_: "His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face Aye gat him friends in ilka place," says Burns, describing the "ploughman's collie," in his tale of the "Twa Dogs;" and in the Glossary, Dr. Currie explains _Baws'nt_ as meaning "having a white stripe down the face." As, however, some notion of handsomeness or attractiveness of appearance seems to be involved in the epithet, _Bauseant_, or _Beauséant_, may possibly be merely an older form of the present French word, _Bienséant_.] Several knights now assumed the habit of the order, and in a progress which Hugh de Payens, accompanied by some of the brethren, made through France and England, he acquired for it universal favour. He did not neglect the charge, committed to him by the king of Jerusalem, of invoking aid for the Holy Land, now so hard bested, and his exhortations were not without effect. Fulk, Count of Anjou, now rejoined his Master and brethren; but as he had gotten an invitation to repair to Jerusalem, and espouse the only daughter of the King, he set out before them to the East. Hugh de Payens would admit no knight into the order who did not terminate all his feuds and enmities, and amend his life. Thus, when a knight, named Hugh d'Amboise, who had oppressed the people of Marmoutier, and had refused obedience to the judicial sentence of the Count of Anjou, was desirous to enter the order, he refused to admit him to take the vows till he had given perfect satisfaction to those whom he had injured. Honour and respect awaited the Templars wherever they appeared, and persons of all ranks were eager to do what might be grateful to them. When the Templar who came with the seal of Godfrey of St. Omer, as his credential to the governor of that place, to demand his goods which Godfrey had given the order, he met with a most favourable reception, not only from the governor, but from the bishop; and on their applying, as was necessary in this case, to the Count of Flanders and Alsatia, that prince was so far from throwing any impediments in the way, that, in a very short space of time, the buildings which had belonged to Godfrey were converted into a church and a temple-house. Many Flemish gentlemen followed the example of Godfrey, and bestowed a part of their property on the Templars. King Henry I. of England, who met and conversed with Hugh de Payens in Normandy, was so pleased with his account of the new order, that he presented him with many rich gifts, and gave him strong recommendations to the principal of the English barons. The Emperor Lothaire bestowed in 1130 on the order a large part of his patrimony of Supplinburg. The old Count Raymond Berenger, of Barcelona and Provence, weary of the world and of the toils of government, became a Templar, and took up his abode in the temple-house at Barcelona; and, as he could not go personally to combat the infidels in the Holy Land, he continually sent rich gifts to the brethren at Jerusalem, and he complied rigorously with all the other duties of the order. In 1133 Alfonso, king of Arragon and Navarre, a valiant and warlike monarch, who had been victor in nine and twenty battles against the Moors, finding himself old and without children, made a will, by which he appointed the knights of the Temple and of the Hospital, together with the canons of the Holy Sepulchre, to be his joint-heirs, deeming, perhaps, that the most gallant defenders of the Holy Land would best prosecute his favourite object of breaking the power of the infidels. The aged monarch fell the following year in the battle of Fraga, against the Moors; and, negligent of his disposition of the realm, the nobles of Arragon and Navarre met and chose sovereigns out of his family. The orders were not strong enough to assert their rights; and this instance, therefore, only serves to show the high degree of consideration to which they had so early attained. [Illustration: Seal of the Templars.] CHAPTER III. Return of the Templars to the East--Exoneration and Refutation of the Charge of a Connection with the Ismaïlites--Actions of the Templars--Crusade of Louis VII.--Siege of Ascalon--Sale of Nassir-ed-deen--Corruption of the Hospitallers--The bull, _Omne Datum Optimum_--Refusal of the Templars to march against Egypt--Murder of the Ismaïlite Envoy. In the year 1129 Hugh de Payens, accompanied by 300 knights of the noblest families in Europe, who had become members of the order, and followed by a large train of pilgrims, returned to the Holy Land. Shortly after his arrival, the unlucky expedition to Damascus above narrated[74], was undertaken, and the Templars formed a portion of the troops which marched, as they fancied, to take possession of that city. As has been observed, this is the first occasion on which we find the Christians in alliance and connection with the Ismaïlites; and as Hammer, the historian of the last, makes the grave charge against Hugh de Payens, of having modelled his new society on the plan of that deadly association, and of having been the chief planner and instigator of the treacherous attempt on Damascus, we will suspend the course of our narration, to discuss the probability of that opinion, though in so doing we must anticipate a little respecting the organisation of the Order of the Temple. [Footnote 74: _See_ p. 88.] Hammer argues an identity between the two orders, as he styles them, of the Ismaïlites and the Templars, from the similarity of their dress, their internal organisation, and their secret doctrine; and as the two societies existed in the same country, and that of the Ismaïlites was first instituted, he infers that this was the original, and that of the Templars the copy. First, with respect to the outward habiliment, the dress of the order. Nothing, as appears to us, can be weaker than to lay any stress on so casual a circumstance as similarity of forms or colours, more especially when a true and distinct cause for the assumption of them on either side can be assigned. The colour of the khalifs of the house of Ommiyah was _white_; hence the house of Abbas, in their contest with them, adopted _black_, as their distinguishing hue; and hence, when the Abbassides were in possession of the supreme power, all those who, under pretence of supporting the rights of the family of Ali, or on any other pretext, raised the standard of revolt against them, naturally selected _white_, as the sign of their opposition. Hassan Sabah, therefore, only retained the use of the colour which he found already established. When he formed the institution of the Fedavee, or the _Devoted to Death_, what more suitable mark of distinction could he assign them than a _red_ girdle or cap, which indicated their readiness to spill their own blood or that of others? With respect to the Templars, the society of the Hospitallers was already existing when Hugh de Payens and his companions resolved to form themselves into a new association. The mantle worn by the members of the Hospital was _black_: what colour then was so natural for them to adopt as its opposite, _white_? and when, nearly thirty years after their institution, the pope appointed them or gave them permission to wear a cross on their mantle, like the rival order, no colour could present itself so well suited to those who daily and hourly exposed themselves to martyrdom, as that of blood, in which there was so much of what was symbolical. With respect to internal organisation, it will, we apprehend, be always found that this is, for the most part, the growth of time and the product of circumstances, and is always nearly the same where these last are similar. The dominion of the Assassins extended over large tracks of country; hence arose the necessity of appointing lieutenants. In like manner, when the Templars got large possessions in the West and the East, they could not avoid, after the example of the Hospitallers, appointing persons to manage the affairs of the society in different countries. Hence, then, as the Ismaïlites had their Sheikh-al-Jebal, with his Dais-al-Kebir of Kuhistan and Syria, so the Templars had their Master and their Priors of different provinces. The resemblance is so far exact, but, as we see, easily accounted for. That which Hammer goes on to draw between the component parts of each society is altogether fanciful. To the Refeek, Fedavee and Lazik of the Ismaïlites, he sets as counterparts the knights, esquires, and serving-brethren of the Templars. It is needless to point out the arbitrariness of this comparison. The chaplains of the Templars, we may see, are omitted, and it was, perhaps, they who bore the greatest resemblance to the Refeeks, while neither knights nor esquires had the smallest similarity to the Fedavee. As to a secret doctrine, we shall hereafter discuss the question whether the Templars had one or not. Here we shall only observe, that the proof of it, and of the ultimate object of the Templars being the same with that of the Ismaïlites, namely, the acquisition of independent power, adduced by Hammer, is by no means satisfactory. He says that it was the object of both societies to make themselves masters of the surrounding country, by the possession of fortresses and castles, and thus become formidable rivals to princes; and he sees, in the preceptories or houses of the Templars, the copies of the hill-forts of the Ismaïlites. That such was the design of this last society is quite apparent from the preceding part of our work; but what resemblance is there between such formidable places of defence as Alamoot and Lamseer, and the simple structures in which a few knights and their attendants dwelt in the different parts of Europe, and which were hardly, if at all, stronger than the ordinary baronial residences? and what resistance could the Temple of London or that of Paris offer to the royal strength, if put forth? Hammer has here again fallen into his usual error of arguing too hastily from accidental resemblances. The preceptories of the Templars were, as we shall show, the necessary consequence of the acquisition of property by the order, and had nothing hostile to society in their nature. When we reflect on the character of the first crusaders, and particularly on that of the first Templars, and call to mind their piety, ignorance, and simplicity, nothing can appear more absurd than to ascribe to them secret philosophical doctrines of impiety, imbibed from those whose language they did not even understand, and whose religion and manners they held in abhorrence, and to suppose that the first poor knights of the Temple could have had visions of the future power of their order, and have looked forward to its dominion over the Christian world. "But this is a common mistake with ingenious men, who are for ever ascribing to the founders of empires, religions, and societies, that attribute of divinity which sees from the beginning the ultimate end, and forms all its plans and projects with a view to it. It is thus that some would fain persuade us that Mahommed, in his solitary cave at Mecca, saw clearly and distinctly the future triumphs of Islam, and its banners floating at the Pyrenees and the Oxus; that Cromwell, when an obscure individual, already in fancy grasped the sceptre of England; and that Loyola beheld the members of his order governing the consciences of kings, and ruling an empire in Paraguay. All such results are in fact the slow and gradual growth of time; one step leads to another, till the individual or the society looks back with amazement to the feeble commencement." The Templars and the Ismaïlites are mentioned together by history in only one more relation, that is, on occasion of the tribute paid to the former by the Syrian branch of the latter, and the murder of the Ismaïlite ambassador above related[75]. As this act was very probably committed by order of the Master of the Temple, who, it might be, doubted the ability or the future inclination of the king to pay the 3000 byzants a year, it testifies but little for any very friendly feeling between the Templars and the Ismaïlites. Yet Hammer opines that the 3000 byzants were paid, not as the tribute of the weaker to the stronger, but by way of pension for the secret services which the Templars were in the habit of rendering their cause; such, for example, as refusing on one occasion to join in the expedition against the khalif of Egypt, the great head of the society of the Assassins. [Footnote 75: Page 116.] To narrate the various exploits of the knights of the Temple, would be to write the history of the Crusades; for, from the time that the order acquired strength and consistency, no action with the Infidels ever was fought in which the chivalry of the Temple did not bear a distinguished part. Their war-cry was ever heard in the thickest of the fray, and rarely was _Bauseant_ seen to waver or give back in the conflict. The knights of St. John fought with emulative valour; the example of the rival orders stimulated all parts of the Christian army; and to this influence may be, in great measure, ascribed many of the most wonderful triumphs of the Cross during the twelfth century. In the year 1147, when Pope Eugenius III. came to Paris to arrange the proposed crusade with Louis VII., both the pope and the king honoured with their presence a general chapter of the order of the Temple, which was holden at that place. It was probably on this occasion that the supreme pontiff conferred on the order the important privilege of having mass said once a year in places lying under interdict. The newly-elected Master of the Temple, Eberhard de Bar, and 130 knights, accompanied the king on his march for the Holy Land; and their valour and their skill greatly contributed towards the preservation of the crusading army in their unfortunate march through Lesser Asia. The siege of Damascus, which was undertaken after the arrival of the French and German kings in the Holy Land, miscarried, as is well known, through treachery. The traitors were doubtless the _Pullani_, as the Latins of Syria were called, who were at this time capable of every thing that is bad. Some writers most unjustly charge the Templars with this guilt; but those who are the best informed on the subject make no accusation against them. The charge, however, while it shows the power and consideration of the Templars at that time, may be considered to prove also that they had degenerated somewhat from their original virtue; for otherwise it could never have been made. The Christian army laid siege in 1153 to the town of Ascalon, which the Saracens still held, and would have taken it, but for the cupidity of the Templars. A large heap of wood had been piled by the besiegers against a part of the wall, and set fire to. The wind blew strong towards the town during an entire night, carrying the smoke and heat into the town, so that the garrison was forced to retire from that quarter. The Christians fed the flames with pitch, oil, and other inflammable substances, and the wall next the pile, cracked by the heat, fell down, leaving a considerable breach. The army was preparing to enter at this opening when Bernard de Tremelai, the Master of the Temple, taking his station at it with his knights, refused all ingress. It was the law of war in those days, among the crusaders, that whatever house or spoil any one took when a town was stormed, became his property. The Templars, therefore, were eager to have the first choice; and having kept off all others, Tremelai, with forty of his knights, boldly entered a strongly-garrisoned town. But they paid the penalty of their rashness and cupidity; for the garrison surrounded and slew them all, and then closed up the breach. One of the most disgraceful acts which stain the annals of the Templars occurred in the year 1155, when Bertrand de Blancford, whom William of Tyre calls a "pious and God-fearing man," was Master of the order. In a contest for the supreme power in Egypt, which the viziers, bearing the proud title of _Sultan_, exercised under the phantom-khalifs, Sultan Abbas, who had put to death the khalif his master, found himself obliged to fly from before the vengeance of the incensed people. With his harem, and his own and a great part of the royal treasures, he took his way through the Desert. A body of Christians, chiefly Templars, lay in wait for the fugitives near Ascalon; the resistance offered by the Moslems was slight and ineffectual; Abbas himself was either slain or fled, and his son Nassir-ed-deen and the treasures became the prize of the victors. The far larger part of the booty of course fell to the Templars; but this did not satisfy their avarice; and though Nassir-ed-deen had professed his desire to become a Christian, and had begun, by way of preparation for that change, to learn the Latin language, they sold him to his father's enemies for 60,000 pieces of gold, and stood by to see him bound hand and foot, and placed in a sort of cage or iron-latticed sedan, on a camel, to be conducted to Egypt, where a death by protracted torture awaited him. The Hospitallers were at this time become as corrupt as the Templars; and in this same year, when the patriarch demanded from them the tithes which they were bound to pay him, they treated the demand with scorn; raised, to show their superior wealth, stately and lofty buildings, before the humble church of the Holy Sepulchre; and whenever the patriarch entered it to exhort the people, or pronounce the absolution of sins, they rang, by order of their Master, the bells of the Hospital so loud, that, with the utmost efforts, he could not succeed in making himself heard. One day, when the congregation was assembled in the church, the Hospitallers rushed into it in arms, and shot arrows among them as if they were robbers or infidels. These arrows were collected and hung up on Mount Calvary, where Christ had been crucified, to the scandal of these recreant knights. On applying to the Pope Adrian IV. for redress, the Syrian clergy found him and his cardinals so prepossessed in favour of their enemies,--bribed by them, as was said,--that they had no chance of relief. The insolence of the Hospitallers became in consequence greater than ever. In fact, as an extremely judicious writer[76] observes, valiantly as the knights of the spiritual orders fought against the heathens, and great as was their undoubted merit in the defence of the helpless pilgrims, it cannot be denied that these knights were, if not the original promoters, at least active participators in all the mischiefs which prevailed in the Holy Land, and that they were often led to a shameful dereliction of their duties, by avarice and thirst after booty. [Footnote 76: Wilken Geschichte der Kreuzzüge, Vol. iii. pt. ii. p. 39.] The year 1162 is conspicuous in the annals of the Templars, as the date of the bull _Omne Datum Optimum_, the Magna Charta of the order, and the great key-stone of their power. On the death of Adrian IV. two rival popes were elected,--Alexander III. by the Sicilian,--Victor III. by the Imperial party. The Templars at first acknowledged the latter; but at a synod, held at Nazareth, in 1161, they took the side of his rival. Alexander, who came off victor, was not ungrateful; and on the 7th January, of the following year, the aforesaid bull was issued. By this document, which would almost appear to be the dictation of the order, the Templars were released from all spiritual obedience except to the Holy See; they were allowed to have peculiar burial-grounds at their houses, and to have chaplains of their own; they were freed from the obligation to pay tithes, and could, with the consent of the bishop, receive them. It was also prohibited to any one who had once entered the order, to leave it, unless it were to enter into a stricter one. These great privileges necessarily awakened the envy and enmity of the clergy against the Templars and the Hospitallers, which last were equally favoured by the pontiffs; but these artful prelates, who were now aiming at universal power, knew well the advantage which they might derive from attaching firmly to them these associations, which united the valour of the knight to the obedience of the monk, whose members were of the noblest families in Europe, and whose possessions were extensive and spread over all parts of the Christian world. In 1167 occurred one of the few instances of cowardice, or rather, we might say, treachery, which the annals of the Templars present. Almeric, king of Jerusalem, had committed to the Templars the charge of guarding one of those strong fortified caverns which were on the other side of the Jordan. Here they were besieged by the Turks, and, though the king was hastening to their relief, they capitulated. Almeric, incensed at their conduct, though he was a great friend of the order, and particularly of the Master, Philip of Naploos, instantly had twelve of the cowardly or treacherous knights hanged, and he experienced no opposition whatever on the part of the order. Philip, we may observe, was the first Master of the Temple who was a born Syrian; but he appears to have been a man of fair and honourable character. He was lord of the fortresses of Krak and Montreal in the Stony Arabia, which he had obtained with his wife. It was not till after her death that he became a Templar. Alter holding the dignity of Master for three years he resigned it. The cause of his resignation is unknown; but he was highly honoured and respected during the remainder of his life, and was employed on various important occasions. It was during the mastership of Philip of Naploos, that King Almeric, at the instigation of the Master of the Hospital, and in violation of a solemn treaty, undertook an unprosperous expedition into Egypt. The Templars loudly protested against this act of perfidy, and refused to take any share in the war, either, as William, the honest Archbishop of Tyre, observes, "because it was against their conscience, or because the Master of the rival order was the author and projector of it." The prelate seems to regard the more honourable as the true cause. Perhaps we should express ourselves correctly if we said that in this, as in many other cases, duty and prejudice happily combined, and the path which was the most agreeable was also the most honourable. In the mastership of Ado of St. Amando, the successor of Philip of Naploos, occurred the treacherous murder of the Ismaïlite envoy above narrated[77]--an act which brought the Templars into great disrepute with pious Christians, as it was quite manifest that they preferred money to winning souls to Christ. [Footnote 77: Page 116.] CHAPTER IV. Heroism of the Templars and Hospitallers--Battle of Hittin--Crusade of Richard of England and Philip of France--Corruption of the Order--Pope Innocent III. writes a Letter of Censure--Frederic II.--Great Slaughter of the Templars--Henry III. of England and the Templars--Power of the Templars in Moravia--Slaughter of them by the Hospitallers--Fall of Acre. The fall of the Christian power in the East was now fast approaching, and it was not a little hastened by the enmity of the rival orders. The truth of the old sentence, that the Deity deprives of sense those whom he will destroy, was manifested on this as on so many other similar occasions; and while the great and able Saladin was consolidating his power and preparing for the accomplishment of the object which, as a true Moslem, lay nearest his heart, the recovery of the Holy City, discord, enmity, and animosity, prevailed among those who should have been actuated by one soul and by one spirit. Yet the two orders of religious chivalry had not derogated from their original valour, and the last days of Jerusalem were illumined by some noble feats of prowess. On the 1st of May, 1187, when Malek-el-Afdal, the son of Saladin, was returning from an expedition into the Holy Land, which he had undertaken with the consent of the Count of Tripolis, regent of the kingdom, the Masters of the Temple and of the Hospital, having collected about 140 knights and 500 footmen, met the Moslems, who were 7,000 in number, at the celebrated brook Kishon. They immediately charged them with the utmost impetuosity; the Turks, according to custom, turned and fled; the Christian knights pursued, leaving their infantry unprotected. Suddenly a large body of the Turks emerged from a valley, and fell on and slaughtered the footmen. Their cries brought back the knights to their aid, but, impeded by the narrowness of the ground, they could neither lay their lances in rest nor run their horses against the enemy, and all fell beneath the weapons of the Turks, with the exception of the Master of the Temple and three of his knights, who were saved by the fleetness of their horses. The Master of the Hospital was among the slain. In this unfortunate fight, James De Mailly, the marshal of the Templars, and a Hospitaller, named Henry, especially distinguished themselves. After all their brave companions had been slain around them, they still maintained the conflict; the Turks, filled with admiration of their valour, repeatedly offered them quarter, but in vain; and they fell at last, overwhelmed with darts flung from a distance, no one venturing to approach them. The historian, Vinisauf, tells us that De Mailly was mounted on a white horse, which, joined with his relucent arms and white mantle, made him appear to the infidels to be St. George, and they exulted greatly in having slain the tutelar saint of the Christians. He adds, what is not an unlikely circumstance, that the Turks covered his body with dust, which they afterwards powdered on their heads, thinking thereby to acquire some portion of his valour. At the fatal battle of Hittin, where 30,000 Christians lost their lives, where the king and all his princes became captives, and where the Latin power in the East was broken for ever, the Master of the Temple, Gerard of Ridefort, and several of his knights and those of the Hospital, were among the captives. Saladin, who bore a particular hatred to the spiritual knights, would spare them on no condition but that of their renouncing their faith. To a man they gallantly refused; and, with the exception of the Master, the heads of all were struck off. Many who belonged not to the orders, smit with desire for the glory of martyrdom, cast the mantles of Templars around them, and went cheerfully to death as such. One Templar, named Nicolaus, evinced such joy and impatience for this glorious fate, that, according to the ideas of those times, heaven was believed to testify its approbation by a visible sign, and during three nights a celestial light illumined the unburied corpse of the Christian martyr. It was indeed rare for a Templar to renounce his faith: prejudice, or honour, we may style it, or a better principle, always kept him steady in it, whatever the irregularities of his life might be. We recollect but one instance of a brother of the Temple abjuring his faith, and he was unhappily an English knight, named Robert of St. Albans. From some unassigned cause, he flung away the dress of his order, broke his vows, went over to Saladin, and became a Musselman. The sultan gave him one of his female relatives in marriage, and the recreant knight appeared before Jerusalem at the head of an army of the infidels. He had promised to Saladin to reduce the Holy City; but her hour was not yet come; and after wasting all the country from Mont-royal to Jericho with fire and sword, he was forced to retreat before the chivalry of Jerusalem, who came forth with the holy cross, and gave him a signal defeat. This event occurred in the year 1184; and the apostacy of this Templar caused extreme dismay among the Christians, and excited great ill-will against the order in general. It had hitherto been the maxim of the order, not to redeem any of their members out of captivity with any higher ransom than a girdle, or a knife, or some other insignificant matter, acting in this on the same principle with the old Romans, who never redeemed prisoners. The Master, Ado de St. Amando, had died in captivity; but to redeem Gerard de Ridefort, no less a ransom was given than the city of Ascalon.--Gerard died of a wound received in battle the following year. During the memorable crusade of Philip of France and Richard of England to the Holy Land, which their rivalry and animosity rendered utterly ineffectual, we find the Hospitallers on the side of the king of England, and of course the Templars the warm partizans of the king of France. Yet, when Richard was on his return to Europe, he sent for the Master of the Temple, and said to him, that he knew by many he was not loved, and that he ran great risk of his life on his way to his kingdom; he therefore besought him that he would permit him to assume the dress of the order, and send two of the brethren with him. The Master readily granted the request of so potent a monarch, and the king went on board in the habit of a Templar. It was probably on account of the known enmity of the order to him, that King Richard adopted this expedient, thinking that no one would ever suspect him of being with the Templars. His brother John, we may here observe, was, on the contrary, a great favourer of the order, to whom he gave Lundy Island, at the mouth of the Bristol Channel. Throughout his reign, this odious prince attached himself to the Templars as the faithful servants of his lord the pope, reckoning on their aid against his gallant barons, who would not leave the liberties of the nation at the feet of a faithless tyrant. It was now very much the custom for monarchs to deposit their treasures in the Temple houses; and in the year 1213 we find King John demanding 20,000 marks which he had committed to the Templars to keep. We meet with no instance of breach of trust on the part of the knights. The Templars shared in the common dishonesty of the church with respect to false miracles, and they felt no scruple at augmenting their wealth by deceptions calculated to impose on the ignorance and zeal of the laity. In the year 1204 it was given out that an image of the Virgin, in a convent not far from Damascus, had become clothed with flesh, and that there issued from its breasts a kind of juice or liquor of wondrous efficacy in removing the sins of pious pilgrims. As the place was distant, and the road beset with danger, the knights of the Temple took upon themselves the task of fetching the mirific fluid to the part of the coast still held by the Latins, and accommodating pilgrims with it, and the coffers of the order were largely replenished by this pious traffic. Though, like all other proprietors in the Holy Land, the order of the Temple had been losers in consequence of the conquest of it by Saladin, their possessions in the West were so extensive that they hardly felt the loss. At this very time we find the number of their possessions of various kinds in Europe, stated at 7050, principally situated in France and in England. Their arrogance and luxury naturally kept pace with their wealth; and, though writers of the twelfth century, and even the Troubadours--the satirists of the age--always speak of the knights of the Temple with honour, there was a secret dislike of them gaining ground, especially with the clergy, in consequence of the great privileges granted to them by the bull _Omne Datum Optimum_, and the insolent manner in which these privileges were exercised. Accordingly we find, in the year 1208, the great Innocent III. the most ambitious of popes, and one who was a steady friend to the order, under the necessity of passing the first public censure of them, and endeavouring to set, by authority, a limit to their excesses. In his epistle to the Master on this occasion, the holy father says that they abused the privilege of having mass celebrated in places which were under interdict, by causing their churches to be thrown open, and mass to be said every day, with loud ringing of bells, bearing the cross of Christ on their breast, but not caring to follow his doctrines, who forbids to give offence to any of the little ones who believe on him. He goes on to state that, following the doctrines of demons, they affixed the cross of their order on the breast of (i.e. _affiliated_) every kind of scoundrel, asserting that whoever, by paying two or three pence a year, became one of their fraternity, could not, even though interdicted, be deprived of Christian burial; and that hence, known adulterers, usurers, and others who were lying under sentence of interdict, were honourably interred in their cemeteries; "and thus they themselves, being captive to the devil, cease not to make captive the souls of the faithful, seeking to make alive those whom they know to be dead." The pontiff laments, that instead of, like religious men, using the world for the sake of God, they employed their religious character as a means of indulging in the pleasures of the world. Though, on account of these and such abuses, they deserved to be deprived of the privileges which had been conferred on them, the holy father will not proceed to extremity, relying on the exertions of the Master to effect a reformation. In this epistle we have all the charges, which, as will hereafter appear, could be at any time brought with justice against the order, whose corruption proceeded in the ordinary course of human nature, and no otherwise,--privileges and exemptions producing insolence and assumption, and wealth generating luxury and relaxation of morals. It was the lavish generosity of popes, princes, and nobles, that caused the ruin of the Templars. The Templars bore a distinguished part in the expedition to Egypt and siege of Damietta, in 1219, as the chief commander on that occasion was the papal legate, whose conduct, under show of obedience, they chiefly directed. But when, in 1228, the Emperor Frederic II., then under the sentence of the church, undertook the crusade which he had vowed, he found nothing but opposition and treachery from these staunch adherents of the pope. Considering the spirit of the age, their opposition is, perhaps, not so much to be blamed; but no principle will excuse the act of their writing to inform the Egyptian sultan of the plans of the emperor. The generous Moslem, instead of taking advantage of this treachery, sent the letter to Frederic, to the confusion of its authors. Frederic checked his indignation at the time, but on his return to Europe he took his satisfaction on those who were most guilty, and he seized the property of the order in Sicily and his Italian dominions. Though he was excommunicated again for so doing, Frederic persisted in his enmity both to them and the Hospitallers; and though, perhaps, the least given to superstition and illiberality of any man of his age, he did not disdain to make friendly intercourse with the Moslems a serious charge against them. "The haughty religion of the Templars," writes he, "reared on the pleasures of the native barons of the land, waxes wanton.... We know, on good authority, that sultans and their trains are received with pompous alacrity within the gates of the Temple, and that the Templars suffer them to celebrate secular plays, and to perform their superstitious rites with invocation of Mahommet." The hostility between the Templars and the Hospitallers still continued, though the Christian power was now nearly restricted to the walls of Acre. The Templars were in alliance with the prince of Damascus: the Hospitallers were the friends of the sultan of Egypt. The Templars extended their enmity against the emperor to the Teutonic knights, whom they deprived of their possessions in Syria. The appearance of a new enemy, however, brought concord for a time among them. The Turks of Khaurizm, on the east of the Caspian, were now in flight before the hordes of the Mongols, and 20,000 of their horsemen burst into the Holy Land. They took and plundered Jerusalem, which was unfortified and open, and then united themselves with the troops of Egypt. The Christians applied to the prince of Damascus for aid, who forthwith sent the required troops, and their combined forces went in quest of the foes. In the battle the Templars and the militia occupied the centre; the Hospitallers were posted on the left wing, the light horse on the right. The battle lasted two days, and ended in the total defeat of the Christians, a result which is ascribed, though probably with injustice, to the treachery of the Damascenes. The Master of the Temple and the whole chapter, with the knights, in all 300, were slain; only four knights and fourteen esquires escaped. The improvident and needy Henry III. of England, in general such a dutiful son of the holy father, who, for a share of the spoil, usually aided him in the pious work of robbing his subjects, summoned courage in 1252 to speak of seizing some of the property of the church and the military orders. "You prelates and religious," said he, "especially you Templars and Hospitallers, have so many liberties and charters, that your enormous possessions make you rave with pride and haughtiness. What was imprudently given, must be therefore prudently revoked; and what was inconsiderately bestowed must be considerately recalled.... I will break this and other charters which my predecessors and myself have rashly granted." But the prior of the Templars immediately replied, "What sayest thou, O king? Far be it that thy mouth should utter so disagreeable and silly a word. So long as thou dost exercise justice thou wilt reign; but if thou infringe it, thou wilt cease to be a king!" These bold words appear to have checked the feeble king, who next year besought the two orders to become his security for a large sum of money which he owed. They refused his request, and Henry thenceforth did them all the injury in his power. There occurred an event in Moravia in 1252, which may serve to show the power of the order in Europe. A nobleman, named Vratislaf, who had been obliged to fly from that country, became a Templar in France. He made over all his property, among which was the castle of Eichhorn in Moravia, to the order. But his elder brother, Burian, took possession of his property, as having fallen to himself as head of the family. King Winzel, on being applied to, decided in favour of the order. Burian, however, still kept possession. The next year the Templars collected some thousands of men, and marched, under the command of their Great Prior, to take the castle. Burian, assembling 6000 men, 900 of whom he placed in the castle, advanced to give them battle. The engagement was bloody; 1700 men, among them the Great Prior of the Templars, lay slain, when night terminated the conflict. A truce was made for three days, at the end of which Burian and his men were driven into the castle, which they defended bravely, till king Attocar sent to threaten them with his wrath if they did not give it up. Burian surrendered it, and Vratislaf, returning to Moravia, became Prior of Eichhorn, in which thirty Templars took up their abode. Though the Templars were so extremely numerous in Europe, they were little disposed to go out to the East to encounter toil and danger, in the performance of their duties. They preferred living in ease and luxury on their rich possessions in the West; and the members of the chapter alone, with a few knights, and other persons attached to the order, abode in Syria. It would even seem that the heads of the society were meditating a final retreat from the East, where they probably saw that nothing of permanent advantage was to be achieved. The Hospitallers, on the other hand, whatever may have been the cause, appear to have been more zealous in their calling, and to have had a greater number of their members in Syria; and it is, probably, to this cause, that we are to assign the total defeat which they were enabled to give their rivals in 1259: for the animosity between the orders had come to such a height, that, in this year, they came to open war. A bloody battle was fought, in which the Templars were defeated, when, such was the bitterness of their enmity, that the victors made no prisoners, but cut to pieces every Templar who fell into their hands, and scarce a Templar remained to carry the intelligence to Europe. From this period till the capture of Acre and final destruction of the Latin power in the East in 1291, after a continuance of nearly two centuries, the annals of the Templars are bare of events. The rivalry between them and the other orders still continued; and in the opinion of some historians, it was their jealousy that hastened the fall of that last remnant of the Christian dominion in the East. Not more than ten knights of the Temple escaped in the storm of the town, and these, with the remnants of the other orders, and the garrison, sought a retreat in Cyprus. We have now traced the history of the order from its institution to within a few years of the period of its suppression. Of this most important event we shall delay the consideration for some time, and shall occupy the intervening space with an account of the internal organisation of the society, its officers, its wealth, and various possessions. This will, we trust, prove no slight contribution to our knowledge of one of the most curious portions of the history of the world--that of the middle ages--and gratify the reader by the display of manners and institutions which have long since passed away[78]. [Footnote 78: The organisation and the rules of the Hospitallers were similar to those of the Templars; but as that order existed down to modern times, the rules, &c., given by Vertot, contain a great number of modern additions.] CHAPTER V. Classes of the Templars--The Knights--Their Qualifications--Mode of Reception--Dress and Arms of the Knight--Mode of Burial--The Chaplains--Mode of Reception--Dress--Duties and Privileges--The Serving-Brethren--Mode of Reception--Their Duties--The Affiliated--Causes and Advantages of Affiliation--The Donates and Oblates. The founders of the order of the Templars were, as we have seen, knights; and they were the first who conceived the novel idea, and happy one, as we may call it in accordance with the sentiments of those times, of uniting in the same person the two characters held in highest estimation--the knight and the monk. The latter added sanctity to the former, the former gave dignity and consideration to the latter, in the eyes of a martial generation. Hence, the Templar naturally regarded himself as the first of men; and the proudest nobles of the Christian world esteemed it an honour to belong to the order. The knights were, therefore, the strength, the flower, the ornament of the society. The order of the Templars, when it was fully developed, consisted not of _degrees_, but of distinct and separate _classes_. These were the knights, the chaplains, and the serving-brethren; to which may be added the affiliated, the donates, and the oblates, or persons attached to the order without taking the vows. I. The Knights.--Whoever presented himself to be received as a knight of the order must solemnly aver that he was sprung from a knightly family, and that his father was or might have been a knight. He was further to prove, that he was born in lawful wedlock, for, like the church in general, the Templars excluded bastards from their society. In this rule there was prudence, though, possibly, it was merely established in accordance with the ideas of the time; for, had a king of France or an emperor of Germany been able to get his natural child into the order, and should he then have been chosen Master of it, as he probably would, it might have lost its independence, and become the mere tool of the monarch. The candidate was, moreover, to declare that he was free from all previous obligations; that he was neither married nor betrothed; had not made any vows, or received any consecration in another order; and that he was not involved in debt. He had finally to declare himself to be of a sound and healthy constitution, and free from disease. When the order was grown great and powerful, and candidates for admission were numerous and of the highest families, it became the custom to require the payment of a large fee on admission. It was necessary that the candidate for admission among the knights of the Temple should already be a knight; for as knighthood was a secular honour, the order would have regarded it as derogating from its dignity if any of its members were to receive it. The Hospitallers and Teutonic knights thought differently, and with them the aspirant was knighted on his admission. If the candidate Templar, therefore, had not been knighted, he was obliged to receive knighthood, in the usual manner, from a secular knight, or a bishop, previous to taking his vows. A noviciate forms an essential and reasonable part of the course of admission into the spiritual orders in general; for it is but right that a person should become, in some measure, acquainted with the rules and duties of a society before he enters it. But, though the original rule of the Templars enjoined a noviciate, it was totally neglected in practice; a matter which was afterwards made one of the charges against the order. Perhaps there was in their case little necessity for this preparatory process; the Templars were so much in the world, and those who joined them had been in general so frequently among them, and were consequently so well acquainted with their mode of life, that they hardly required any such preliminary discipline to familiarize them with their duties. The neglect of the practice at the same time gave the Templars an advantage over the rival orders who enjoined it; for a young nobleman would, in all likelihood, feel most disposed to join the society into which he could be admitted at once; and perhaps no small part of the corruption of the Templars, in which they undoubtedly surpassed their rivals, may be ascribed to the facility which was thus afforded to unworthy persons entering among them. With respect to the age at which persons were admitted, it is plain, from the previously required reception of knighthood, that it must have been that of adolescence or manhood. All that is said by the statutes is, that no child could be received; and that the parents or relatives of a child destined to be a member of the order, should keep and breed him till _he could manfully and with armed hand extirpate the enemies of Christ out of the land_. This formed a marked distinction between the Templars and the mere religious orders, who, even at the present day, we believe, admit children, taking the charge of their rearing and education; whereas, children could only be destined to the order of the Temple, and could not be presented for admission, till able to bear arms, that is, usually in the twenty-first year of their age. The reception of a knight took place in one of the chapels of the order, in presence of the assembled chapter. It was secret, not even the relatives of the candidate being allowed to be present. The ceremony commenced by the Master[79] or prior, who presided, saying, "Beloved brethren, ye see that the majority are agreed to receive this man as a brother. If there be any among you who knows any thing of him, on account of which he cannot lawfully become a brother, let him say it; for it is better that this should be signified beforehand than after he is brought before us." [Footnote 79: When we use the word "Master," we would always be understood to mean the Master or his representative.] The aspirant, if no objection was made, was then led into a chamber near the chapter-room; and two or three reputable knights of the oldest in the house were sent to lay before him what it was needful for him to know. They commenced by saying, "Brother, are you desirous of being associated to the order?" If he replied in the affirmative, they stated to him the whole rigour of the order. Should he reply that he was willing to endure everything for God's sake, and to be all his life long the servant and slave of the order, they asked him if he had a wife or was betrothed? if he had made profession or vows in any other order? if he owed to any man in the world more than he could pay? if he was of sound body, and had no secret infirmity, and if he was the servant of any one? Should his answers be in the negative, the brethren went back to the chapter and informed the Master or his representative of the result of the examination. The latter then asked once more, if any one knew any thing to the contrary. If all were silent, he said "Are you willing that he should be brought in in God's name?" The knights then said, "Let him be brought in in God's name." Those who had been already with him then went out again, and asked him if he persisted in his resolution. If he said that he did, they instructed him in what he was to do when suing for admission. They then led him back to the chapter, where, casting himself on his knees, with folded hands, before the receptor, he said, "Sir, I am come, before God, and before you and the brethren, and pray and beseech you, for the sake of God and our dear Lady, to admit me into your society, and the good deeds of the order, as one who will be, all his life long, the servant and slave of the order." The receptor then replied, "Beloved brother, you are desirous of a great matter, for you see nothing but the outward shell of our order. It is only the outward shell when you see that we have fine horses and rich caparisons, that we eat and drink well, and are splendidly clothed. From this you conclude that you will be well off with us. But you know not the rigorous maxims which are in our interior. For it is a hard matter for you, who are your own master, to become the servant of another. You will hardly be able to perform, in future, what you wish yourself. For when you may wish to be on this side of the sea, you will be sent to the other side; when you will wish to be in Acre, you will be sent to the district of Antioch, to Tripolis, or to Armenia; or you will be sent to Apulia, to Sicily, or to Lombardy, or to Burgundy, France, England, or any other country where we have houses and possessions. When you will wish to sleep you will be ordered to watch; when you will wish to watch, then you will be ordered to go to bed; when you will wish to eat, then you will be ordered to do something else. And as both we and you might suffer great inconvenience from what you have, mayhap, concealed from us, look here on the holy Evangelists and the word of God, and answer the truth to the questions which we shall put to you; for if you lie you will be perjured, and may be expelled the order, from which God keep you!" He was now asked over again, by the receptor, the same questions as before; and, moreover, if he had made any simoniacal contract with a Templar or any other for admission. If his answers proved satisfactory, the receptor proceeded, "Beloved brother, take good care that you have spoken the truth to us; for should you have spoken false in any one point, you might be put out of the order, from which God keep you! Now, beloved brother, attend strictly to what we shall say unto you. Do you promise to God, and our dear Lady Mary, to be, all your life long, obedient to the Master of the Temple, and to the prior who shall be set over you?" "Yea, Sir, with the help of God!" "Do you promise to God, and our dear Lady Mary, to live chaste of your body all your life long?" "Yea, Sir, with the help of God!" "Do you promise to God, and our dear Lady Mary, to observe, all your life long, the laudable manners and customs of our order, both those which are already in use, and those which the Master and knights may add?" "Yea, Sir, with the help of God!" "Do you promise to God, and our dear Lady Mary, that you will, with the strength and powers which God has bestowed on you, help, as long as you live, to conquer the Holy Land of Jerusalem; and that you will, with all your strength, aid to keep and guard that which the Christians possess?" "Yea, Sir, with the help of God!" "Do you promise to God, and our dear Lady Mary, never to hold this order for stronger or weaker, for better or worse, than with permission of the Master, or of the chapter which has the authority[80]?" [Footnote 80: That is, never to quit the order.] "Yea, Sir, with the help of God!" "Do you finally promise to God, and our dear Lady Mary, never to be present when a Christian is unjustly and unlawfully despoiled of his heritage, and that you will never, by counsel or by act, take part therein?" "Yea, Sir, with the help of God!" "In the name, then, of God, and our dear Lady Mary, and in the name of St. Peter of Rome, and of our father the pope, and in the name of all the brethren of the Temple, we receive to all the good works of the order which have been performed from the beginning, and shall be performed to the end, you, your father, your mother, and all of your family whom you will let have share therein. In like manner do you receive us to all the good works which you have performed and shall perform. We assure you of bread and water, and the poor clothing of the order, and labour and toil enow." The Master then took the distinguishing habit of the order, namely, the white mantle with the red cross, and putting it about the neck of the candidate, clasped it firmly. The chaplain then repeated the 132d psalm, _Ecce quam bonum_, and the prayer of the Holy Ghost, _Deus qui corda fidelium_, and each brother repeated a _Pater noster_. The Master and the chaplain then kissed him on the mouth; and he sat down before the Master, who delivered to him a discourse, of which the following is the substance. He was not to strike or wound any Christian; not to swear; not to receive any service or attendance from a woman without the permission of his superiors; not on any account to kiss a woman, even if she was his mother or his sister; to hold no child at the baptismal font, or be a god-father; to abuse no man or call him foul names; but to be always courteous and polite. He was to sleep in a linen shirt, drawers, and hose, and girded with a small girdle. He was to attend divine service punctually, and at table he was to commence and conclude with prayer; during the meal he was to preserve silence. When the Master died, he was, be he where he might, to repeat 200 _Pater nosters_ for the repose of his soul. Each knight was supplied with clothes, arms, and equipments, out of the funds of the order. His dress was a long white tunic, nearly resembling that of priests in shape, with a red cross on the back and front of it; his girdle was under this, over his linen shirt. Over all he wore his white mantle with its red cross of four arms (the under one being the longest, so that it resembled that on which the Saviour suffered) on the left breast. His head was covered by a cap or a hood attached to his mantle. His arms were shield, sword, lance, and mace; and, owing to the heat of the East, and the necessity of activity in combats with the Turks and Saracens, his arms and equipments in general were lighter than those used by the secular knights. He was allowed three horses and an esquire, who was either a serving-brother of the order or some layman who was hired for the purpose. At times this office was performed by youths of noble birth, whom their parents and relatives gladly placed in the service of distinguished knights of the Temple, that they might have an opportunity of acquiring the knightly virtues; and these often became afterwards members of the order. [Illustration: Costume of Knight Templar.] When a knight had become, from age or wounds, incapable of service, he took up his abode in one of the temple-houses, where he lived in ease, and was treated with the utmost respect and consideration. These emeriti knights are frequently mentioned under the name of _Prodomes_ (_Good men_); they were present at all deliberations of importance; and their experience and knowledge of the rules of the order were highly prized and attended to. When the Templar died, he was placed in a coffin in his habit, and with his legs crossed, and thus buried. Masses were said for his soul; his arms and clothes were partly given back to the marshal or draper of the order--partly distributed among the poor. II. The Chaplains.--The order of the Templars, being purely military in its commencement, consisted then solely of laymen. That of the Hospital, on the contrary, on account of its office of attending the sick, had, necessarily, priests in it from its origin. This advantage of the latter society excited the jealousy of the Templars, and they were urgent with the popes to be allowed a similar privilege. But the pontiffs were loth to give offence to the oriental prelates, already displeased at the exemption from their control granted in this case to the Hospitallers; and it was not till the year 1162, that is, four years after the founding of the order, when their great favourer, Alexander III., occupied the papal throne, that the Templars attained their object. [Illustration: Knights in Temple Church, London.] The bull, _Omne Datum Optimum_, issued on this occasion, gave permission to the Templars to receive into their houses spiritual persons, in all countries, who were not bound by previous vows. If they were clergy of the vicinity, they were to ask them of the bishop; and if he refused his consent, they were empowered, by the bull, to receive them without it. The clergy of the Temple were to perform a noviciate of a year--a practice which, as in the case of the knights, was dispensed with in the days of the power and corruption of the order. The reception of the clergy was the same as that of the knights, with the omission of such questions as did not apply to them. They were only required to take the three vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. The ritual of their reception was in Latin, and was almost precisely the same with that of the Benedictines. Like that of the knights, their reception was secret. When the psalms had been sung the Master put on the recipient the dress of the order and the girdle, and, if he was a priest, the cap called _baret_. [Illustration: Effigies of Knights in Temple Church.] The habit of the chaplains of the order was a white close-fitting tunic, with a red cross on the left breast. Though, according to the statutes, they were to have the best clothes in the order, they were not permitted to assume the white mantle as long as they were mere priests. But should one of them, as was not unfrequently the case, arrive at the episcopal dignity, he was, if desirous of it, cheerfully granted that privilege. It was a further distinction between the knights and the chaplains, that the former wore their beards, while the latter were close-shaven. The chaplains were also to wear gloves, _out of respect to the body of the Lord_. All who had received the _first tonsure_ were eligible to the office of chaplain to the order. When those who were only sub-deacons and deacons were to be raised to the rank of priests, the Master or his deputy sent them with letters dimissory to a bishop of the vicinity, who was bound to confer the required order. The clergy were, like all other members of the order, bound to obey the Master and the chapter. The Master and the chief officers of the order had always chaplains in their train to celebrate mass and other religious offices, as also to act as secretaries, the knights being in general as illiterate as their secular brethren. It was by this last office that the chaplains acquired their chief influence in the society; mind and superior knowledge vindicating, as they always do, their natural rights. For though it was specially provided that the clergy should take no share in the government of the society without being invited thereto by their superiors, the opinion of the secretary was naturally taken in general, and if he was a man of sense and talent, it was most commonly followed[81]. [Footnote 81: This influence of the clergy excited the spleen of the knights. Gerard de Caux, in his examination hereafter to be noticed, said, "The aged men of the order were unanimous in maintaining that the order had gained nothing in _internal goodness_ by the admission of learned members."] The duties of the clergy of the order were nearly the same as those of monks in general. They performed all religious offices, and officiated at all the ceremonies of the order, such as the admission of members, the installation of a Master, &c. Their privileges were very unimportant; they had merely the best clothes, sat next the Master in the chapter and in the refectory, and were first served at table; when they committed any offence, they were also more lightly punished than others. They could, however, if it so pleased the heads of the order, arrive at high rank in it; and we find that they were not unfrequently among the preceptors. The attorney-general of the order at Rome, who was always a person of considerable importance, was most probably a priest of the order; at least we know that Peter de Bononia, the last of them, was such. It is worthy of notice, that even in the most flourishing period of the order it never had a sufficient number of chaplains, and was always obliged to have recourse to the ministry of secular priests. The causes of this were probably the circumstance of the order having attained its full form and consistency long before the clergy formed a part of it, and they consequently had not an opportunity of arranging it so as to give themselves their due share of power and importance. It must have been galling to the pride of those who were used to rule, obeying only their spiritual superiors, to find themselves subject to the command of mere laymen, as they esteemed the knights of the order. Further, though they shared in the good things of the order and enjoyed the advantage of the consideration in which it stood, yet they had no dignities to look forward to; whereas an entrance into a Benedictine order held out to the ambitious a prospect of rich priories, abbacies, and bishoprics, and, at the least, a voice in the chapter. It may well be supposed that the pride of the knights of the Temple refused to admit into their society such persons as those who afterwards joined the mendicant orders--peasants and others who preferred a life of ease and idleness to the labours of the plough and the workshop. The number consequently of those who presented themselves for admission was small. But the knights felt no disadvantage thereby; enow of secular priests were to be had, who were willing to have the master of the Temple as their ordinary, and to share in the good things of the order, and as neither party was bound to the other, they could easily part if they disagreed. III. The Serving-brethren. The order, consisting at first of only knights and men of noble birth, had no serving-brethren in it. The knights probably found esquires for a limited time among those who fought under their banner and received their pay. The Hospitallers seem to have set the example of introducing into the order the class of serving-brethren, which is not to be found with the Templars till some time after the council of Troyes. The advantage of this alteration was very apparent. Hitherto only knights and nobles were interested in the fate of the society to which their relatives belonged; the regards of burghers and traders would now be obtained by the formation of this class, to admission into which their sons and brothers were eligible. They felt themselves honoured by their relatives coming into contact with knights, and were therefore liberal in the admission-fee and in other contributions to the _quêtes_ of the order. We should be wrong in supposing the serving-brethren to have been all persons of mean birth. The high consideration in which the order stood induced many men of wealth, talent, and valour, but who were not of noble birth, to join it. We thus find among the serving-brethren William of Arteblay, almoner to the king of France; Radulf de Gisi, collector of the taxes in Champagne; John de Folkay, an eminent lawyer. Bartholomew Bartholet gave property to the amount of 1,000 _livres Tournois_ to be admitted; William of Liege gave 200 _livres Tournois_ a year. The serving-brother, indeed, could never arrive at the dignity of knight (for which he was disqualified by birth), and consequently never exercise any of the higher offices of the order, but in other respects he enjoyed the same advantages and privileges as the knights and priests. The reception of the serving-brethren was the same as that of the two higher classes, the necessary difference being made in the questions which were asked. As the order would receive no slave into their body, the candidate was required to aver that he was a free-born man: he was moreover obliged to declare that he was not a knight. This last condition may cause surprise, but it was probably justified by experience, as it is not unlikely that evil may have been felt or apprehended from men of noble birth, out of humility, or by way of atoning for the sins of their youth, or from some other of the causes which might operate on the minds of superstitious men, or even from poverty, if, as is likely, the admission-fee was lower for a serving-brother than for a knight, concealing their birth, and entering the order as serving-brethren. As the more disagreeable duties of the order probably fell to their share, the general duties and obligations were laid before them in stronger and more explicit terms than were thought necessary in the case of knights and priests. In the times of the poverty of the order, the clothing of the serving-brethren was the cast-off garments of the knights. But this custom did not long continue, and as some abuses arose from all the members of the order being clad in white, the serving-brethren were appointed to wear black or brown kirtles, with the red cross upon them, to indicate that they belonged to the order. In battle, their arms were nearly the same as those of the knights, but of a lighter kind, as they had frequently to jump down from their horses, and fight on foot. A serving-brother was allowed but one horse by the order, but the Master was empowered to lend him another if he thought it expedient, which horse was to be afterwards returned. The serving-brethren were originally all of one kind; they fought in the field; they performed the menial offices in the houses of the order; but, in after-times, we find them divided into two classes--the brethren-in-arms (_Frères servons des armes_), and the handicraft-brethren (_Frères servons des mestiers_). These last, who were the least esteemed of the two, dwelt in the houses and on the lands of the order, exercising their various trades, or looking after the property of the society. We read in the statutes of the smiths and bakers of the order, and we hear of _preceptors_ (as was the phrase) of the mares, cows, swine, &c. of the order. These handicraft-brethren practised the usual religious duties of the order, and were even allowed to be present at chapters. The farrier, who was also armourer, enjoyed a much higher degree of consideration than the other handicraft-brethren, for this profession was highly prized by the martial generation of the middle ages[82]. [Footnote 82: Sir W. Scott is perfectly correct in making the smith so important a character in his St. Valentine's Eve.] The other class were more highly regarded. The knights associated with them on a footing of equality. They ate in the same refectory with the knights and priests, although at separate tables, and with always one dish less than the higher classes. They were, however, strictly subordinate to the knights; the master and all the great officers of the order had each several serving-brethren to attend him, and each knight had some of the serving-brethren among his esquires. The statutes provided carefully against their being tyrannized over or otherwise ill-treated by the knights. The statutes make a distinction between the serving-brethren who were armed with iron and those who were not. The former were the proper light-horse of the order; they were chiefly intended to support the knights in the action, and were usually placed in the second rank. The place of the unarmed was with the baggage; and as they were exposed to little danger, they wore only linen corslets. The others were enjoined to fight, without flinching, as long as a Christian banner flew on the field: it was matter of praise to these last if they managed to come safe out of the fight. When the troops of the Temple were on their march, the esquires rode before the knights with their baggage. When the knights were going to action, one esquire rode before each with his lance, another behind with his war-horse. There were various offices in the society, hereafter to be noticed, which were appropriated to the serving-brethren, or to which they were eligible. The knights, the chaplains, and the serving-brethren, were the proper members of the order, and it is to them alone that the name Templars applies. But both the Templars and the Hospitallers devised a mode of attaching secular persons to their interest, and of deriving advantages from their connexion with them, in which they were afterwards imitated by the mendicant orders of the Franciscans and Dominicans; the Jesuits also, who were always so keen at discerning what might be for the advantage of their society, adopted it; and it is, we believe, still practised in Catholic countries. This system is styled _affiliation_. The affiliated were persons of various ranks in society, and of both sexes, who, without giving up their secular mode of life, or wearing any peculiar habit, joined the order, with a view to the advantages, both spiritual and temporal, which they expected to derive from it. These advantages will appear to have been very considerable when we recollect that all who joined the order were admitted to a share in the merits of its good works, which were what those times esteemed of the highest order. Nothing could have more contributed to the extent of affiliation than the exemption which the Templars enjoyed from the effects of interdict. At a time when it was in the power of every bishop to lay entire towns under this formidable sentence it must have been highly consolatory to pious or superstitious minds to belong to a society who disregarded this spiritual thunder, and who could afford them an opportunity of at least occasionally hearing mass and receiving the sacraments, and secured them, if they should die while the interdict continued, the advantage of Christian burial. In those days also, when club-law prevailed so universally, and a man's safety depended not so much on his innocence or the justice of his cause as on the strength of his party, it was a matter of no small consequence to belong to so powerful a body as the Templars, and it must have been highly gratifying to both the secular and spiritual pride of a lawyer or a burgher to be a member of the same body with the high-born soldier-monks of the Temple. These important advantages were not conceded by the Templars without equivalent considerations. This ambitious and covetous order required that he who sought the honor of affiliation with them should, besides taking the three vows, pledge himself to lead a reputable life, to further the interests of the order to the best of his power, and leave it the entire of his property at his death. If he was married, and died before his wife, he might leave her a competent provision for life; but from the day of his admission into the order he was to abstain from her bed, though he might continue to reside in the same house with her; for were he to have children, he might provide for them to the disadvantage of the order, or on his death they might give trouble to it by claiming his property. For a similar reason the affiliated were forbidden to be sponsors, lest they might covertly or openly give some of their property to their godchildren. They were not even permitted to give offerings to the clergy. If they dared to violate these injunctions, a severe punishment--in general, confinement for life--awaited them. All orders of men were ambitious of a union with this honourable and powerful society. We find among the affiliated both sovereign princes and dignified prelates: even the great Pope Innocent III., in one of his bulls, declares himself to stand in this relation to the order. Many of the knights who dwelt with the Templars, and fought under their banner, were also affiliated, and the history of the order more than once makes mention of the _sisters_--that is, women who were affiliated to it, for there were no nuns of the Temple similar to those of the order of Malta in later times. In less intimate connexion with the order than the affiliated stood those who were styled _Donates_ and _Oblates_. These were persons who, as their titles denote, were given or presented to the order. They were either children whom their parents or relations destined to the service of the order when they should have attained a sufficient age, or they were full-grown persons who pledged themselves to serve the order as long as they lived without reward, purely out of reverence to it, and with a view to enjoying its protection, and sharing in its good works. Persons of all ranks, princes and priests, as well as others, were to be found among the oblates of the Temple. CHAPTER VI. Provinces of the Order--Eastern Provinces--Jerusalem--Houses of this Province--Tripolis--Antioch--Cyprus--Western Provinces--Portugal--Castile and Leon--Aragon--France and Auvergne--Normandy--Aquitaine--Provence--England--Germany--Upper and Central Italy--Apulia and Sicily. We have thus seen what a number of persons of all ranks were more or less intimately connected with the order of the Temple, and how powerful its influence must have been throughout the Christian world. To enable the reader to form some conception of its wealth and power, we shall, previous to explaining its system of internal regulation, give a view of its possessions in various countries. The extensive possessions of the order of the Temple, in Asia and in Europe, were divided into provinces, each containing numerous preceptories or temple-houses, and each under its appointed governor. These provinces may be classified under the heads of Eastern and Western. The eastern provinces of the order were,-- I. Jerusalem.--This province was always regarded as the ruling one; the chief seat and capital of the order. The Master and chapter resided here as long as the Holy City was in the hands of the Christians. This being the province which was first established, its regulations and organization served as a model for all others. Its provincial Master, or, as he was styled, the Preceptor of the Land and Kingdom of Jerusalem, took precedence of all others of the same rank. The bailiwicks, or commanderies, in this province, were,-- 1. The Temple of Jerusalem, the cradle of the order, and the original residence of the Master and the chapter. 2. Chateau Pélerin, or the Pilgrim's Castle, renowned in the history of the crusades. This castle was built by the Templars in 1217, in order that it might be their chief seat after the loss of Jerusalem. It was situated on the east side of Mount Carmel, which runs out into the sea between Caipha and Cæsarea. The Templars had long had a tower at a pass of this mountain, called _Destruction_, or the Tower of the Pass, for the defence of pilgrims against the robbers who lurked in the gorges of the mountains. They were aided in building the castle, which was also designed to be a defence to Acre, by Walter D'Avesnes and by the German knights and pilgrims who were at that time in the Holy Land, and hence, perhaps, they called it Chateau Pélerin. The Cardinal de Vitry, who was at that time bishop of Acre, thus describes it. It was built on the promontory, three sides of which were washed by the sea. As they were sinking the foundation, they came to two walls of ancient masonry, and to some springs of remarkably pure water; they also found a quantity of ancient coins with unknown inscriptions, given, as the bishop piously deems, by God to his beloved sons and warriors, to alleviate the toil and expense which they were at. The place had probably been fortified in former times by the Jews or the Romans. The builders raised two huge towers of large masses of rock on the landward side, each 100 feet high, and 74 broad; these were united by a lofty wall, broad enough at its summit for an armed knight to stand at his ease upon it. It had a parapet and battlements, with steps leading up to them. In the space within this wall were a chapel, a palace, and several houses, with fish-ponds, salt-works, woods, meads, gardens, and vineyards. Lying at a distance of six miles from Mount Tabor, it commanded the interjacent plain and the sea-coast to Acre. There the Master and the chapter took up their final abode, after having dwelt from 1118 to 1187 at Jerusalem, from 1187 to 1191 at Antioch, and from this last year till 1217 at Acre. "The chief use," says D'Vitry, "of this edifice is, that the whole chapter of the Templars, withdrawn from the sinful city of Acre, which is full of all impurity, will reside under the protection of this castle till the walls of Jerusalem are rebuilt." A prophecy never to be fulfilled! On the fall of Acre, in 1291, Chateau Pélerin was abandoned by the knights, and its walls were levelled by the infidels. 3. The castle of Safat, at the foot of Mount Tabor. This strong castle was taken by Saladin. It was demolished in 1220, by Coradin, but afterwards rebuilt by the Templars, who then held it till 1266, when they lost it finally. 4. The temple at Acre, a remarkably strong building, the last place taken in the capture of that town. 5. The hill-fort, Dok, between Bethel and Jericho. 6. Faba, the ancient Aphek, not far from Tyre, in the territory of the ancient tribe of Ashur. 7. Some small castles near Acre, mentioned in the history of the war with Saladin, such as _La Cave_, _Marle_, _Citerne-rouge_, _Castel-blanc_, _La Sommellerie du Temple_. 8. The house at Gaza. 9. The castle of Jacob's-ford, at the Jordan, built in 1178 by King Baldwin IV., to check the incursions of the roving Arabs. When Saladin took this castle, he treated the Templars whom he found in it with great cruelty. 10. The house at Jaffa. 11. The castle of Assur, near this town. 12. _Gerinum parvum._ 13. The castle of Beaufort, near Sidon, purchased by the order, in 1260, from Julian, the lord of that town. We may observe that most of these abodes of the Templars were strong castles and fortresses. It was only by means of such that possession could be retained of a country like Palestine, subject to the constant inroads of the Turks and Saracens. The Templars possessed, besides these strongholds, large farms and tracts of land, of which, though their names are unknown, frequent mention is made in the history of the order. II. Tripolis.--The principal houses of the order in this province were at Tripolis itself; Tortosa, the ancient Antaradus; Castel-blanc, in the same neighbourhood; Laodicea, Tyre, Sidon, and Berytus. III. Antioch.--Of this province but little is known. There was a house at Aleppo; and the jurisdiction of the prior probably extended into Armenia[83], where the order had estates to the value of 20,000 byzants. [Footnote 83: The Armenia of the crusades was a part of Cilicia.] IV. Cyprus.--As long as the Templars maintained their footing on the continent, Cyprus, it would appear, formed no distinct province, but belonged either to that of Tripolis or of Antioch. At the time when Richard, King of England, made the conquest of this island, he sold the sovereignty of it for 25,000 marks of silver to the Templars, who had already extensive possessions in it. The following year, with the consent of the order, who were, of course, reimbursed, he transferred the dominion to Guy de Lusignan, King of Jerusalem. On the capture of Acre the chief seat of the order was fixed at Limesal, also called Limissa and Nemosia, in this island, which town, having an excellent harbour, they strongly fortified. They had also a house at Nicosia, and one at the ancient Paphos, named Gastira, and, at the same place, the impregnable castle of Colossa. Some idea of the value of the possessions of the Templars in Cyprus may be formed from the circumstance, that when, in 1316, after the suppression of the order, the Pope directed the Bishop of Limissa to transfer their property there to the Hospitallers, there were found, in the house in that town, 26,000 byzants of coined money, and silver plate to the value of 1,500 marks. As the last Master, when setting out for France ten years before, had carried with him the treasure of the order, this property must have been accumulated during that time out of the surplus revenue of the possessions of the order in the island. The Western provinces of the order were-- I. Portugal.--So early as the year 1130 (a strong proof of the rapid increase of the order) Galdin Paez, the first provincial master of the Temple in Portugal, built the castles of Tomar, Monsento, and Idanna. The Templars had also settlements at Castromarin, Almural, and Langrovia. Tomar was the residence of the great-prior. II. Castile and Leon.--In this province the possessions of the order were so extensive as to form twenty-four bailiwicks in Castile alone. It is needless to enumerate their names[84]. [Footnote 84: They will be found in Campomanes, p. 80, and Münter, p. 424.] III. Aragon.--In this province, which abounded in castles, several belonged to the Templars; and the bailiwick of Majorca, where they were also settled, was under the jurisdiction of the great-prior of Aragon. It is to be observed that most of the castles possessed by the order in Spain and Portugal were on the borders of the Moorish territory. Some of these had been given to the Templars as the inveterate foes of the infidels; others had been conquered by them from the Moors. France, where the possessions of the order were so considerable, was divided into four provinces, namely-- IV. France and Auvergne, including Flanders and the Netherlands. V. Normandy. VI. Aquitaine, or Poitou. VII. Provence. The residences of the great-priors of these four provinces were, for France, the capacious and stately Temple at Paris, which was, as we are informed by Matthew Paris, large and roomy enough to contain an army; for Normandy, as is supposed, _La ville Dieu en la Montagne_; for Poitou, the Temple at Poitiers; for Provence, that at Montpellier. VIII. England.--The province of England included Scotland and Ireland. Though each of these two last kingdoms had its own great-prior, they were subordinate to the great-prior of England, who resided at the Temple of London. The principal bailiwicks of England were--1. London; 2. Kent; 3. Warwick; 4. Waesdone; 5. Lincoln; 6. Lindsey; 7. Bolingbroke; 8. Widine; 9. Agerstone; 10. York. In these were seventeen preceptories; and the number of churches, houses, farms, mills, &c., possessed by the order was very considerable[85]. [Footnote 85: The possessions of the Templars in England will be found in the works of Dugdale and Tanner.] [Illustration: Interior of Round Tower, in Temple Church, London.] [Illustration: Saxon Doorway, Temple Church, London.] [Illustration: Details of Saxon Capitals.] [Illustration: Round Temple Church, Cambridge.] The chief seat of the order in Scotland appears to have been Blancradox. Its possessions were not extensive in that poor and turbulent country; and in Ireland the Templars seem to have been few, and confined to the Pale. We hear of but three of their houses in that country--namely, Glaukhorp, in the diocese of Dublin; Wilbride, in that of Ferns; and Siewerk, in that of Kildare. IX. Germany.--It is difficult to ascertain how the order was regulated in Germany, where its possessions were very extensive. We hear of three great-priors: those of Upper Germany, of Brandenburg, and of Bohemia and Moravia; one of whom, but it cannot be determined which, had probably authority over the others. Though the Templars got lands in Germany as early as the year 1130, their acquisitions were not large in that country till the thirteenth century. Poland was included in the province of Germany. Great-prior in Alemania and Slavia was a usual title of the great-prior of Germany. Though the possessions of the Templars in Hungary were very considerable, there are no grounds for supposing that it formed a separate province: it was probably subject to the great-prior of Germany. X. Upper and Central Italy.--There was no town of any importance in this part of the Italian peninsula in which the Templars had not a house. The principal was that on the Aventine Hill at Rome, in which the great-prior resided. Its church still remains, and is called _Il Priorato_, or the Priory. XI. Apulia and Sicily.--The possessions of the Templars in Sicily were very considerable. They had houses and lands at Syracuse, Palermo, Trapani, Butera, Lentini, &c.; all of which were dependent on the principal house, which was in Messina. The great-prior resided either at Messina or at Benevento in Apulia. Possibly the seat was removed to this last place, after the Emperor Frederic II. had seized so much of the property of the order in Sicily. In Denmark, Norway, and Sweden, the order had no possessions whatever. Though the people of these countries took some share in the crusades, and were, therefore, not deficient in religious zeal, their poor and little-known lands offered no strong inducements to the avarice or ambition of the knights of the Temple, and they never sought a settlement in them. We thus see that, with the exception of the northern kingdoms, there was no part of Europe in which the order of the Temple was not established. Everywhere they had churches, chapels, tithes, farms, villages, mills, rights of pasturage, of fishing, of venery, and of wood. They had also, in many places, the right of holding annual fairs, which were managed, and the tolls received, either by some of the brethren of the nearest houses or by their _donates_ and servants. The number of their preceptories is, by the most moderate computation, rated at 9,000; and the annual income of the order at about six millions sterling--an enormous sum for those times! Masters of such a revenue, descended from the noblest houses of Christendom, uniting in their persons the most esteemed secular and religious characters, regarded as the chosen champions of Christ, and the flower of Christian knights, it was not possible for the Templars, in such lax times as the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, to escape falling into the vices of extravagant luxury and overweening pride. Nor are we to wonder at their becoming objects of jealousy and aversion to both the clergy and the laity, and exciting the fears and the cupidity of an avaricious and faithless prince. CHAPTER VII. Officers of the Order--The Master--Mode of Election--His Rights and Privileges--Restraints on him--The Seneschal--The Marshal--The Treasurer--The Draper--The Turcopilar--Great- Priors--Commanders--Visitors--Sub-Marshal--Standard-bearer. An order consisting of so many members, and whose wealth and possessions were of such extent, must necessarily have had numerous officers and various ranks and dignities. The elucidation of this branch of their constitution is now to engage our attention. At the head of the order stood the Master, or, as he was sometimes called, the Great-Master[86] of the Temple. This personage was always a knight, and had generally held one of the higher dignities of the order. Though, like the Doge of Venice, his power was greatly controlled by the chapter, he enjoyed very great consideration, and was always regarded as the representative of the order. In the councils, the Masters of the Temple and the Hospital took precedence of all ambassadors, and sat next the prelates. All monarchs conceded princely rank and place to the Master of the Temple. [Footnote 86: _Magister_, _Maistre_, is the almost invariable expression in the historians, the statutes of the order, and most documents. _Magnus Magister_ was, however, early employed. Terricus, the Master of the order, thus styles himself when writing to Henry II. of England. The term Grand-Master is apt to convey erroneous ideas of pomp and magnificence to the minds of many readers.] A situation which offered so much state and consideration must, of necessity, have been an object of ambition; but the scanty records remaining of the society do not enable us to point out any specific cases of intrigue employed for the attainment of it. That of the last Master, hereafter to be mentioned, is somewhat problematic. The election of a Master of the Temple was as follows:-- When the Master was dead, an event which always occurred in the East, as he was bound to reside there, if it took place in the kingdom of Jerusalem, and the marshal of the order was on the spot, he took upon him the exercise of the vacant dignity till, with the aid of the chapter and of all the bailiffs on this side of the sea (_i. e._ in the East), he had appointed a great-prior to represent the Master. But this election did not take place till after the funeral. Should the death of the Master have occurred in the province of Tripolis, or that of Antioch, the prior of the province took the direction of the order till the great-prior was appointed. Owing to the constant state of war which prevailed in the East, and to other causes, a considerable space of time occasionally intervened between the death of one Master and the appointment of his successor. During the _interregnum_ the society was directed by the great-prior who bore the seal of the Master. When the day appointed for the election was arrived, the great officers of the order and all the bailiffs who were invited to be present assembled in the place selected for holding the election--generally the chapel of the order. The great-prior, taking several of the knights aside, consulted with them; and they then made two or three or more of the knights who were most highly-esteemed retire. The great-prior took the voices of those present on the merits of the absent knights; and he who had most in his favour was declared the electing-prior. The knights were then called in, and the choice of the assembly notified to them. A knight, possessing the same virtues of piety, love of peace, and impartiality with himself, was then assigned for an assistant to the electing-prior: and the whole assemblage withdrew, leaving the two alone in the chapel, where they passed the entire night in prayer. Early next morning, after performing their usual devotions and hearing the mass of the Holy Ghost, the chapter re-assembled. The great-prior then exhorted the two electing brethren to perform their duty truly and honestly. These, then retiring, chose two other brethren; these four chose two more, and so on, till the number amounted to twelve, in honour of the apostles. The twelve then chose a brother-chaplain to represent the person of Jesus Christ, and maintain peace and concord. It was necessary that these thirteen should be of different provinces--eight of them knights, four serving-brethren, and one priest. The thirteen electors then returned to the chapter, and the electing-prior besought all present to pray for them, as a great task had been laid on them. All then fell on their knees and prayed; and the great-prior solemnly reminded the electors of their duty, and conjured them to perform it truly and uprightly. Having again implored the prayers of the assembly, the electing-prior and his companions retired to the place appointed for their deliberations. If the electors, or the majority of them, declared for any knight on this or the other side of the sea, he was appointed; if they were divided into parties, the electing-prior came with one of the knights, and, informing the assembly of the circumstance, asked their prayers. All fell on their knees, and the two electors returned to their companions; if they now agreed, the person whom they chose was declared Master. Should the object of their choice be, as was not unfrequently the case, actually present in the chapter, the thirteen came in; and the electing-prior speaking in their name, said, "Beloved sirs, give praise and thanks to our Lord Jesus Christ, and to our dear Lady, and to all the saints, that we are agreed, and have, according to your command, chosen, in the name of God, a Master of the Temple. Are ye content with what we have done?" All then replied, "In the name of God!" "Do ye promise to yield him obedience as long as he lives?" "Yea, with the help of God!" The electing-prior then turned to the great-prior, and said, "Prior, if God and we have chosen thee for the Master, wilt thou promise to obey the chapter as long as thou live, and to maintain the good morals and good usages of the order?" and he answered, "Yea, with the aid of God!" The same question was then put to some of the most distinguished knights; and if the person elected was present, the electing-prior went up to him, and said, "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, we have chosen you brother, N. N., for Master, and do choose you!" He then said, "Beloved sirs and brethren, give thanks unto God: behold our Master." The chaplains then chanted aloud the _Te Deum laudamus_, the brethren arose, and, with the utmost reverence and joy, taking the new Master in their arms, carried him into the chapel, and placed him before the altar, where he continued kneeling while the brethren prayed, the chaplains repeating _Kyrie Eleïson_, _Pater noster_, and other devotional forms. The election of the Master of the Temple required no papal confirmation: the choice of the chapter was conclusive. Two knights were assigned to him as his companions. The allowances and train of the Master were suitable to the rank which he was to support in the world, and to the dignity of the order which he represented. He was allowed four horses, and an esquire of noble birth. He had a chaplain and two secretaries; one for managing his Latin correspondence, whom he might, after a time, admit to become a knight of the order; the other, who was called his Saracenic secretary, and who was probably an eastern Christian, for carrying on his Arabic correspondence with the Infidels. He had, moreover, a farrier, a cook, and a Turcopole[87], two footmen, and a Turcoman[88], to serve as guide. On a march, the Turcoman rode on a horse behind an esquire: during the time of war he was led by a cord, to prevent his escape. On any ordinary journey, the Master might take two beasts of burden with him; but in war-time, or in case of his going beyond the Jordan, or the Dog's Pass[89], he might extend the number to four, which the statutes thriftily direct to be put into the stable when he arrives at the house where he is going to stop, and to be employed in the service of the house. The Master was finally commander-in-chief of the order in the field; and then, like the Spartan kings, he could act in some degree unfettered by the chapter. When he died, he was buried with great solemnity and pomp, by the light of torches and wax tapers--an honour bestowed by the order on no other of its members. All the knights were required to attend the funeral; and the prelates were invited to give their presence at it. Each brother who was present was to repeat 200 _Pater nosters_ within seven days, for the repose of the soul of the deceased; and 100 poor persons were fed at home in the evening, with the same design. [Footnote 87: The Turcopoles were the offspring of a Turkish father, by a Christian mother; or also those who had been reared among the Turks, and had learned their mode of fighting. The Christians employed them as light cavalry; and the Templars had always a number of them in their pay.] [Footnote 88: The Turcomans were, as their name denotes, born Turks. The Christians used them as guides on their expeditions.] [Footnote 89: _Le pas de chien._ Münter (p. 66) declares his ignorance of where it lay. It was evidently the dangerous pass at the Nahr-el-Kelb, (_Dog's River_), near the sea, on the way to Antioch.] On the other hand, the Master was bound to obey the chapter; and he could do nothing without consulting some of the brethren. He could not nominate to any of the higher dignities of the order; but he might, with the advice and consent of some of the most reputable knights, appoint to the inferior priories and preceptories. He could not sell, or in any other way dispose of, any of the lands of the order, without the consent of the chapter; neither could he make peace or truce without their approbation. Their consent was also required to enable him to make any alteration in the laws of the society, to receive any person into it, or to send a brother beyond sea. He could take no money out of the treasury without the consent of the prior of Jerusalem, who was the treasurer of the society. In fact, the Master of the Temple was so curbed and restrained in every way, and his office made so much an honorary one, that his dignity may best be compared with that of a Spartan king or a Venetian doge. It is rather curious that the Master of the Temple should be thus limited in authority, when the abbot of the Benedictines, whose rules the Templars in a great measure adopted, enjoyed monarchical power. Next in rank to the Master stood the seneschal, who, as his name denotes[90], was the Master's representative and lieutenant. He had a right to be present at all chapters of the order; and to be acquainted with all transactions of consequence. He was allowed the same number of horses as the Master; but, instead of a mule, he was to have a palfrey: he had two esquires, and was assigned a knight as his companion; a deacon acted as his chaplain and Latin secretary; he had also a Saracenic secretary and a Turcopole, with two footmen. Like the Master, he bore the seal of the order. [Footnote 90: Seneschal is one _qui alterius vicem gerit_. Charpentier Supplem. ad Dufresne Gloss. iii. p. 759.] The marshal was the general of the order; he had charge of the banner, and led the brethren to battle. All the arms, equipments, and stables of the order were under his superintendence. It was he who nominated the sub-marshal and the standard-bearer. Like all the other great officers, he was appointed by the Master and the chapter. As we have seen, when the Master died in the kingdom of Jerusalem, the marshal occupied his place till a great-prior was chosen. The marshal was allowed four horses, two esquires, a serving-brother, and a Turcopole. The office of treasurer of the order was always united with the dignity of preceptor of the kingdom of Jerusalem. This officer had the charge of all the receipts and expenditure of the order, of which he was bound to give an account, when required, to the Master and the chapter. The wardrobe of the order was also under him; and the draper was assigned as his companion, without whose knowledge he could not dispose of any of the clothes. As the ships, though few in number, which the Templars possessed, were under him, he may be regarded as, also, in some sort, the admiral of the order; and on this account the preceptor of Acre was subordinate to him. The treasurer had the same allowance of horses, &c. as the seneschal. The draper had charge of the clothing of the order: he was to see that each brother was decently and properly dressed. His allowance was four horses, two esquires, and a pack-servant. The Turcopilar was the commander of the light horse. All the armed serving-brethren and the Turcopoles were under his command. He was himself subordinate to the marshal. When he was going into action, some of the knights were sent with him. These were under his orders; but if their number amounted to ten, and they had with them a banner and a knight-preceptor, the Turcopilar became subordinate to this officer; which proves that the office of Turcopilar was not one of the higher dignitaries of the order. The Turcopilar was allowed four horses. Besides these offices of the order in the East, there were the great-priors, great-preceptors, or provincial-masters (for the terms are synonymous) of the three provinces of Jerusalem, Tripolis, and Antioch; and the preceptors, who were subordinate to them. The great-prior of the kingdom of Jerusalem was also treasurer. His office has been already noticed. The great-priors of Tripolis and Antioch had the superintendence over the brethren and the possessions of the order in these provinces. They had the same allowances of attendants and horses as the seneschal. The prior of Antioch, when on a journey to Armenia, which bordered on his province, and in which the order had possessions, was allowed to take with him a chaplain and a portable chapel, as the Armenians were monophysite heretics, with whom the orthodox brethren of the Temple could not join in worship. The prior of the town of Jerusalem had peculiar duties to perform. It was his office, with ten knights who stood under his command, to escort the pilgrims on their way to and from the Jordan--one of the principal objects of the institution of the order. On this occasion he had with him the banner of the order and a round tent, into which he might take any persons whom he should find sick when he encamped: he was also to take with him provisions, and beasts of burden on which to place such of the pilgrims as might be fatigued on the return. When the true cross was brought forth on any expedition, it was the duty of the prior of Jerusalem to keep by it, with his ten knights, night and day, and to guard it; he was to encamp close to it; and two brethren were to watch it every night. All the secular knights who associated themselves to the order in Jerusalem were under his orders, and fought beneath his banner. All the brethren of the order who were in Jerusalem were, in the absence of the marshal, under his command. One half of the booty captured beyond the Jordan fell to him, the other half to the prior of the kingdom. As we have seen above, the West was, like the East, divided into provinces of the order. Each of these provinces was presided over by a lieutenant of the master, named the provincial-master, great-prior, or great-preceptor, with his chapter and officers corresponding to those of the kingdom of Jerusalem. He was appointed, as it would appear, by the Master and chapter; and when entering on his office, he bound himself by oath to defend the Catholic religion, not only with his lips, but with arms and all his strength; to follow the rules drawn up by St. Bernard; to obey the Master; to come over the sea to his aid whenever it was necessary; to defend him against all unbelieving kings and princes; not to fly before these unbelieving foes; not to alienate the goods of the order; to be loyal to the prince of the country; to be chaste; and to aid all spiritual persons, especially the Cistercians, by words and by deeds. Under the provincial-masters stood the priors, bailiffs, or masters, who governed large districts of the provinces, and had under their inspection several of the houses of the order and their preceptors. They dwelt in large temple-houses, with a good number of knights; they had the power of holding chapters, and of receiving members into the order. The preceptors were subordinate to the priors; they presided over one or more houses. They were generally knights, but they were sometimes priests. They were of two kinds--house-preceptors and knight-preceptors; the former, as their name denotes, merely presided over the houses, and might be priests or serving-brethren; the latter, who were probably only to be found in the East or in Spain, led each ten knights in the battle. Another office to be found among the Templars was that of visitors. These were knights, who, as the representatives of the Master, visited the different provinces of the order, especially in the West, to reform abuses, make new regulations, and terminate such disputes and law-suits as were usually reserved for the decision of the Master and the chapter. All the provincial officers, even the great-priors, were subject to the visitors, as the representatives of the Master. The powers of the visitors ceased as soon as the business ended for which they were sent, or when they were recalled. [Illustration: Preceptory, Swingfield, Dover] Besides the foregoing offices, which were almost exclusively confined to the knights, there were some inferior ones appropriated to the serving-brethren. These offices were five in number--namely, those of sub-marshal, standard-bearer, farrier, cook, and preceptor of the coast of Acre. Each of these was allowed two horses. The sub-marshal had the charge of all the inferior sort of accoutrements (_le petit harnois_) of the order, in which the horse-furniture seems to have been included. All the handicraftsmen of the order were under him, and were obliged to account to him for their work. He supplied them with the needful tools and materials; could send them where he pleased on the service of the house; and on holidays give them permission to go from one house to another to amuse themselves. The sub-marshal and the standard-bearer were each the representative of the other in his absence. The standard-bearer had the command over all the esquires of the house; that is, those who were engaged for a limited time in the service of the order, whom he was bound to make acquainted with the rules to which they were subject, and the punishments to which they were liable in case of disobedience; he was also to pay them their wages. Whenever the esquires took the horses out to graze, he was bound to precede them with a standard of the order. He always presided at the table of the serving-brethren and esquires. When the order was marching to battle, it was his task to ride before the standard, which was borne after him by an esquire, or carried on a wain[91]; he was to lead whithersoever the marshal directed him. When the battle commenced, those esquires who led the horses of the knights were to combat behind their masters; the others were to take the mules on which their masters rode, and remain with the standard-bearer, who was to have a banner rolled about his lance, which, when he saw the marshal engaged in action, he was to unfurl, and draw up the esquires in as handsome order as possible behind the combatants, in order to support them. [Footnote 91: The _Carroccio_ of the Italian republics.] The serving-brethren were eligible to the office of house-preceptor; but there was this distinction made between them and knights who held that office, that, the serving-brethren being allowed but one horse, their esquire was a serving-brother. As Acre was the sea-port at which all the shipments of the order to and from Europe took place, the preceptory there was necessarily an office which entailed a good deal of toil and business on the person who held that situation, and required a knowledge of commerce and of the affairs of the world. It was therefore not considered suitable to a knight, and was always given to a serving-brother. The serving-brethren were also set over the various farms and estates of the order. These were named the brother-stewards,--in Latin, _grangiarii_ and _preceptores grangiarum_,--and were probably selected from the craftsmen of the order. They were allowed two horses and an esquire. CHAPTER VIII. Chapters--Mode of holding them--Templars' Mode of Living--Amusements--Conduct in War. Such as we have described them were the members, the possessions, and the various offices of the powerful society of the Temple. In order to complete our view, it only remains to trace its internal government and most important regulations. We shall therefore commence with an account of the chapters, from which all the acts and rules of the society emanated. It is frequently declared in the statutes, that the Master was in the place of God; and that all his commands were to be obeyed as those of God. But these expressions, which were borrowed from the rule of the Benedictines, are, as we have already seen, not to be understood too literally; for the constitution of the order of the Templars was aristocratic, and not monarchic; and the Master was anything but absolute. In every matter he was to be guided by the opinion of the majority of the chapter. The general chapter, or high legislative assembly of the order, consisted of all the great officers, of the great-priors of the provinces, and the most distinguished of the knights who could attend. Every brother, even the lowest of the serving-brethren, was at liberty to be present as a spectator; but only the proper members of the chapter had the privilege of speaking. The place of holding the chapter was undetermined, and was left to the choice of the Master. All laws and regulations were made or confirmed in the general chapter: there brethren were received--the great officers appointed--visitors chosen to be sent to the different provinces. It is remarkable, that a papal legate never seems to have been present at a chapter of the Templars; though the legates frequently assisted at those of the other orders. This is, most probably, to be ascribed to the secrecy in which the Templars were pleased to envelope their councils and proceedings; and as they rarely held general chapters, a suitable pretext could not well be wanting for freeing themselves from the presence of the legate when they desired it. Those who impute to the Templars the holding of a secret doctrine naturally regard this as the cause of their not admitting to their chapters those who were not initiated in it. A general chapter was not often assembled--a circumstance easily to be accounted for. Though the order was wealthy, it might not be well able to bear, without inconvenience, the expense of deputies from all the provinces journeying to the kingdom of Jerusalem, where the chapters were in general held; and further, it was obviously the interest of the Master and the great officers to avoid assembling a body which would at once assume the powers which they were in the habit of exercising. In the intervals between the meetings of general chapters, the powers of the order were exercised by the chapter of the Temple at Jerusalem. This was composed of the Master, the dignitaries of the order, such of the provincial masters as happened to be present, the two assistants of the Master, and such knights as he chose to invite to it. This last provision was the great source of the Master's power; and, when he was a man of talent and address, he could, by managing to get his friends and those whom he could depend on into the different offices, and by summoning to the chapter such knights as were attached or looked up to him, contrive to carry any matters that he desired. The laws, however, by way of check upon him, made it imperative that the high officers of the order should have seats in the chapter; and as these were not appointed by the Master, and were independent of him, it was supposed that they would not be his creatures. This chapter could decide on all matters relating to the order, some important affairs, such as war and peace, excepted; make laws and regulations, which were binding on the whole society; and send visitors to the different provinces. All public documents, such as papal bulls, were addressed to it and the Master; all decisions in matters of importance came from it; and all the brethren who were received in the West were sent to it to be distributed where they might be wanting. The declaration made by a French knight on his examination, that the receptions in the chapter of Jerusalem were rare, as the members could be seldom brought to agree respecting a candidate, gives a hint that it was not in general a scene of the greatest harmony and unity. It is, indeed, but natural to suppose, that, as it was the chief seat of the power of the order, it was also the great theatre of intrigue and cabal. Each province of the order had its general chapter, and also a smaller one, presided over by the great-prior, and composed of the principal officers and such knights of character and estimation as the prior chose to call to it. In like manner every preceptory and every large house of the order had its chapter, at which all the brethren were required to attend. The commander was president, and each question was decided by the majority of voices. The chief transactions in it consisted in the reception of new brethren, and the making up of quarrels and disputes, which must have frequently fallen out among men like the Templars, who were almost all soldiers. It was holden early on a Sunday morning; and the strictest secrecy, as to what took place, was enjoined on all present, for _secrecy was the soul of the order_. The ordinary chapters were held in the following manner. Each brother, as he entered, made the sign of the cross, and, unless he was bald, took off his cap. The president then rose and said, "Stand up, beloved brethren, and pray to God to send his holy grace among us to-day." Each member repeated a _pater noster_, and, if there was a chaplain present, he said a prayer. Search was then made to see that there was no one present but those who belonged to the order. The president then delivered a discourse, exhorting the brethren to amendment of life. During this discourse no one was on any account to leave the room. When it was ended, any one who had transgressions to acknowledge went up to the president and made confession. He then retired out of sight and hearing, and the sentiments of the assembly were taken, which were afterwards signified to him. The brethren were also to remind each other of their transgressions, and exhort to confession and penitence. If any one accused a brother falsely, he was severely punished for it: while the inquiry was going on the accused was obliged to retire from the chapter. The discipline was usually administered in presence of the assembled chapter, with a scourge, or with a girdle. Those who were sick were not punished till they were recovered. When these matters were over, the president explained a portion of the statutes, and exhorted all present to live suitably thereto. He then said, "Beloved brethren, we may now close our chapter, for, praise be to God, all is well; and may God and our dear Lady grant that it may so continue, and goodness be every day increased. Beloved brethren, ye must know how it is with pardon in our chapter, and who has not part therein; know, then, that those have no part either in the pardon of our chapter, or in the other good works of the chapter; who live as they should not; who depart from the righteousness of the order; who do not acknowledge their offences and do penance in the mode prescribed by the order; who treat the alms of the order as their own property, or in any other way contrary to law, and squander them in an unrighteous, scandalous, and foolish manner. But those who honestly acknowledge their faults, and conceal nothing out of shame or fear of the punishment of the order, and are right sorry for their transgressions, have a large share in the forgiveness of our chapter, and in the good works which take place in our order. And to such, in virtue of my authority, I dispense forgiveness in the name of God and of our dear Lady, in the names of the apostles Peter and Paul, of our father the pope, and of you all who have given me authority; and pray to God that, according to his mercy, he will, for the merits of his mother, and of himself, and all the saints, forgive you your sins, as he forgave the famous Mary Magdalene." He then implored the forgiveness of those to whom he might have given any offence or done any injury; and prayed for peace, for the church, for the holy kingdom of Jerusalem, for the order and all its houses and people, for the brethren and sisters of the order, and for its living and dead benefactors; finally, for all the dead who waited for the mercy of God, especially those who lay buried in the Temple burial-grounds, and for the souls of the fathers and mothers of the Templars. The chaplain, if present, repeated a confession of sin, in which all followed him, and then pronounced an absolution. If there was no chaplain present, each brother repeated a _pater_ and an _ave_, and so the chapter ended. The statutes of the order are full of the most minute directions respecting the equipment, clothing, and mode of living of the various members of the order. They were obliged to attend divine service punctually each day at all the different hours at which it was celebrated, and regularly to observe all the fasts of the church; they were also to have at their houses both public and private devotions. Their meals were also strictly regulated. They assembled by sound of bell: if there was a priest in the house he said grace for them, if not, each brother repeated a _pater_ before he began to eat. During the meal a clergyman read out something edifying for them, and when it was over no one was to speak till grace was said. There was no difference made in the quality of the food; all, both high and low, fared alike, and they ate two off one plate. They had flesh-meat but three times a week, unless when festival days occurred. On days when they had no flesh-meat they had but two dishes. When the order were in the field a server regulated the supply and distribution of provisions. Before giving out the provisions he was to direct the serving-brethren to notify it to the superiors of the order, that they might come and select the best for themselves; he distributed the remainder without any other distinction than that of giving the best to the sick. The plate given to every two of the brethren was so large that what remained when they were done was sufficient to satisfy two of the poor. Two brethren were allowed as much food as three Turcopoles, and two of these as much as three of the servants. The brethren were not allowed to seek for any food elsewhere than from the server, vegetables, game, and venison excepted. But as by the rules of the order the chase was prohibited to them, they could not procure these themselves. Amusements could not be rigorously prohibited to men who were semi-secular, and had to mingle so much in the world as the Templars. They were therefore allowed to tilt, but only with headless lances; whether only among themselves, or also at public tournaments, is uncertain[92]. They were permitted to run races with their horses, but for no higher wager than a headless cross-bow bolt, or some other trifle. Chess and draughts were prohibited games; nor were they allowed to play at any other game whatever for a stake. Hawking was absolutely forbidden to the Templar, probably on account of the high price of hawks, and of this being the favourite amusement of the secular knights. The reason assigned by the statutes is:--"Because it is not seemly in the members of an order to play sinfully, but willingly to hearken to the commands of God, to pray often, and daily in their prayers before God to bewail their sins with weeping and tears." A Templar might not even accompany one who was going out a-hawking. Moreover, as shouting and bawling were unseemly in a member of an order, he might not go a-hunting in a wood with bow and crossbow, nor accompany any one thus engaged, except to protect him against the heathen. In fine, every species of chase was forbidden to the Templar, except that of the lion 'who goes about seeking whom he may devour, whose hand is against every one, and every one's hand against him'[93]. [Footnote 92: Sir W. Scott would probably find some difficulty in justifyin his making his Templar accept the combat _à outrance_ at the "gentle and free passage of Ashby de la Zouche."] [Footnote 93: It is not clear whether this is to be understood literally or metaphorically.] The battle was the Templar's scene of glory, and consequently every thing relating to the conduct of the order in war was strictly regulated. On the march the Templars, as the guardians of the holy cross, formed the vanguard of the Christian army; in the array they were in the right wing. The Hospitallers usually formed the rear-guard, and in the field were posted on the left. The Templars mounted and set forward at the voice of their marshal, the standard-bearer preceding them with the standard of the order. They moved in a walk or a small trot. The march usually took place by night, on account of the heat of eastern climes, and every precaution was adopted to prevent confusion or inconvenience. When the standard halted for encampment, the marshal selected a place for his own tent and the chapel, which was to contain the true cross; the tents of the server, and of the great-prior of the province, had also their places marked out. It was then cried out, "Brethren, pitch your tents in the name of God!" on which each Templar forthwith raised his tent in his rank. All the tents were around the chapel, outside of its cords. The herald pitched by the standard. No brother was allowed, on any account, to go out of hearing of the war-cry, or to visit the quarters of any others than the Hospitallers, in case these last should be encamped beside them. The place for encamping was selected by the prior of the province in which the war was, who was therefore in some sort quartermaster-general; the marshal assigned the different quarters, and over each he set a knight-preceptor to govern and regulate it. When the battle commenced, the marshal usually took the standard out of the hands of the sub-marshal and unfurled it in the name of God. He then nominated from five to ten of the brethren to surround and guard it; one of these he made a knight-preceptor, who was to keep close by him with a banner furled on a spear, that, in case of that which the marshal carried being torn, or having fallen, or met with any other mishap, he might display it. If the marshal was wounded or surrounded, this knight was to raise the banner in his stead. No one was to lower a banner, or thrust with it, on any account, for fear of causing confusion. The brethren were to fight on all sides, and in every way in which they could annoy the foe, but still to keep near enough to be able to defend the banner of the order, if needful. But if a Templar saw a Christian in imminent danger, he was at liberty to follow the dictates of his conscience, and hasten to his relief. He was to return to his place as speedily as possible; but if the Turks had gotten between him and the banner, he was to join the nearest Christian squadron, giving the preference to the Hospitallers, if they were at hand. Should the Christians meet with defeat, the Templar, under penalty of expulsion from the order, was not to quit the field so long as the banner of the order flew; and, should there be no red-cross flag to be seen, he was to join that of the Hospitallers, or any other. Should every Christian banner have disappeared, he was to retreat as well as he could. Such were the military principles of the order of the Temple--principles which, instead of rage, Deliberate valour breathed, firm and unmoved With dread of death to flight or foul retreat; and never, unquestionably, was more unflinching valour displayed than by the Templars. Where all were brave and daring as the fabled heroes of romance, the Templar was still regarded as prominent, and the Cardinal of Vitry could thus speak of them in the early part of the thirteenth century, when they may be regarded as somewhat declined from their original elevation:-- "They seek to expel the enemies of the cross of Christ from the lands of the Christians, by fighting manfully, and by moving to battle at the signal and command of him who is at the head of their forces, _not impetuously or disorderly, but prudently and with all caution_--the first in advance, the last in retreat; nor is it permitted to them to turn their backs in flight, or to retreat without orders. They are become so formidable to the adversaries of the faith of Christ, that one chases a thousand, and two ten thousand; not asking, when there is a call to arms, how many they are, but where they are: lions in war, gentle lambs at home; rugged warriors on an expedition, like monks and eremites in the church." The language of the worthy cardinal is no doubt declamatory and rhetorical, and some deduction must consequently be made from it; but still enough will remain to prove that the chivalry of the Temple must still have retained no small portion of the virtues for which they had been originally renowned. CHAPTER IX. Molay elected Master--Last attempt of the Christians in Syria--Conduct of the Three Military Orders--Philip the Fair and Pope Boniface VIII.--Seizure of the Pope--Election of Clement V.--The Papal See removed to France--Causes of Philip's enmity to the Templars--Arrival of Molay in France--His interviews with the Pope--Charges made against the Templars--Seizure of the Knights--Proceedings in England--Nature of the Charges against the Order. We have, in what precedes, traced the order of the Templars from its institution to the period when the Latin dominion was overthrown for ever on the coast of Syria, and have described, at some length, its internal organisation, and exhibited its power and extent of possessions. It remains for us to tell how this mighty order was suddenly annihilated, to examine the charges made against it[94], and, as we have promised, to establish the falsehood and futility of them--a task far from ungrateful, though not unattended with pain; for it is of advantage to strengthen our love of justice and hatred of tyranny and oppression, by vindicating the memory even of those who perished their victims centuries agone. It is also of use to furnish one instance more to the world of the operation of the principle which will be found so generally to prevail, that, let falsehood and sophistry exert their utmost to conceal the truth, means will always remain of refuting them, and of displaying vice, however high seated, in its true colours. [Footnote 94: The proceedings against the Templars have been published from the original documents by Mowdenhaler, in Germany; but the work has been bought up by the freemasons, who fancy themselves descended from the Templars, so that we have been unable to procure a copy of it. Wilike has, however, extracted largely from it.] In the year 1297, when the order had established its head-quarters in the isle of Cyprus, James de Molay, a native of Besançon, in the Franche Comté, was elected Master. The character of Molay appears to have been at all times noble and estimable; but if we are to credit the statement of a knight named Hugh de Travaux, he attained his dignity by an artifice not unlike that said to have been employed by Sixtus V. for arriving at the papacy. The chapter, according to De Travaux, could not agree, one part being for Molay, the other, and the stronger, for Hugh de Peyraud. Molay, seeing that he had little chance of success, assured some of the principal knights that he did not covet the office, and would himself vote for his competitor. Believing him, they joyfully made him great-prior. His tone now altered. "The mantle is done, now put the hood on it. You have made me great-prior, and whether you will or not I will be great-master also." The astounded knights instantly chose him. If this account be true, the mode of election at this time must have differed very considerably from that which we have described above out of the statutes of the order. This election, moreover, took place in France, where, in 1297, Molay, we are told, held the fourth son of the king at the baptismal font. One feeble attempt, the last military exploit of the Templars, was made by the Christians to acquire once more a footing on the continent of Asia during the mastership of Molay. In 1300, the Mongol chief Gazan came to the aid of the king of Armenia, against the Turks. As it was the policy of the Tartars, who had not as yet embraced Islam, to stir up enemies to the Mohammedans, Gazan, after over-running the country as far as Damascus, sent an embassy to the Pope, Boniface VIII., inviting the Christians, particularly the three military orders, to come and take possession of the Holy Land. The Templars, Hospitallers, and Henry, king of Cyprus, forthwith manned seven galleys and five smaller vessels. Almeric de Lusignan, Lord of Tyre, and the Masters of the two orders, landed at Tortosa, and endeavoured to maintain that islet against the Egyptian sultan, but were forced to yield to numbers. The Templars fought gallantly to no purpose, and a few of them, who defended a tower into which they had thrown themselves, surrendered, and were carried prisoners to Egypt. The Hospitallers, in the year 1306, renewed their attacks on the isle of Rhodes, where they finally succeeded in expelling the Turks, and planting the standard of their order. The Teutonic knights transferred the sphere of their warfare to Russia, and the adjacent country, whose inhabitants were still heathens. The Templars meantime remained inactive in Cyprus, and seem even to have been meditating a retreat to Europe. France was at this time governed by Philip the Fair, son of St. Louis. Philip, who had come to the throne at the early age of seventeen years, had been educated by Giles de Colonna, afterwards archbishop of Bourges, a man distinguished for his learning and for the boldness of his opinions. One of his favourite maxims was, "that Jesus Christ had not given any temporal dominion to his church, and that the king of France has his authority from God alone." Such principles having been early instilled into his mind, the young monarch was not likely to be a very dutiful son of the Church, and the character of Boniface VIII., who, without possessing the talents or the virtues of a Gregory or an Innocent, attempted to stretch the papal pretensions to their greatest extent, soon roused him to resistance. In the plenitude of his fancied authority, the pope issued a bull, forbidding the clergy to give any subsidies to lay-powers without permission from Rome. Philip, in return, issued an order prohibiting the exportation of gold, silver, or merchandize from France, thereby cutting off a great source of papal revenue. In the course of the dispute, Boniface maintained that princes were subject to him in temporals also. Philip's reply was,--"Philip, by the grace of God, king of the French, to Boniface, acting as supreme pontiff, little or no health. Let your extreme folly know, that in temporals we are not subject to any one." Shortly afterwards he publicly burned a bull of the pope, and proclaimed the deed by sound of trumpet in Paris. Boniface, raving with indignation, summoned the French clergy to Rome, to deliberate on the means of preserving the liberties of the Church. Philip convoked a national assembly to Paris, in which, for the first time, there appeared deputies of the third estate, who readily expressed their resolution to stand by their monarch in defence of his rights, and the clergy willingly denied the temporal jurisdiction of the pontiff. Several prelates and abbots having obeyed the summons of the pope, the king seized on their temporalities. The pope menaced with deprivation all those who had not attended, and, in his famous bull of _Unam sanctam_, asserted that every human being was subject to the Roman pontiff. Another bull declared that every person, be his rank what it might, was bound to appear personally when summoned to Rome. Philip forbade the publication of these bulls; and the states general being again convoked appealed to a council against the pope. Commissaries were sent through France to procure the adhesion of the clergy to this act, which was given in some cases voluntarily, in others obtained by means of a little wholesome rigour. The king, his wife, and his son, pledged themselves to stand by those who adhered to the resistance made by France to papal usurpation. Boniface next excommunicated the king, who intercepted the bull, and prevented its publication. The pope finally offered the crown of France to the emperor Albert of Austria. Matters were now come to an extremity, and Philip ventured on one of the boldest acts that have ever been attempted in the Christian world. Philip had afforded an asylum at his court to some members of the Colonna family, the personal enemies of the pope. His chancellor and fast adherent was William de Nogaret, who had been his agent in the affair of appealing to a general council, by presenting to the states general a charge of simony, magic, and the usual real or imaginary crimes of the day against the pontiff. This man, and some of the Italian exiles, attended by a body of 300 horse, set out for Italy, and took up his abode at a castle between Florence and Sienna, under pretext of its being a convenient situation for carrying on negociations with Rome. The pope was meantime residing at Anagni, his native town. Nogaret having, by a liberal distribution of money, acquired a sufficient number of partisans, appeared before the gate of Anagni early on the morning of the 7th September, 1303. The gate was opened by a traitor, and the French and their partisans ran through the streets, crying _Live the king of France, die Boniface_. They entered the palace without opposition; the French ran here and there in search of plunder, and Sciarra Colonna and his Italians alone came in presence of the pope. Boniface, who was now eighty-six years of age, was clad in his pontifical vestments, and on his knees before the altar, in expectation of death. At the sight of him the conspirators, whose intention had been to slay him, stopped short, filled with involuntary awe, and did not dare to lay a hand upon him. During three days they kept him a prisoner; on the fourth the people of the town rose and expelled them, and released the pontiff. Boniface returned to Rome; but rage at the humiliation which he had undergone deranged his intellect, and in one of his paroxysms he dashed his head against the wall of his chamber, and died in consequence of the injury which he received[95]. [Footnote 95: Sismondi Républiques Italiennes, iv. p. 143.] Benedict XI., the successor of Boniface, absolved Philip, and his ministers and subjects, from the sentence of excommunication. As he felt his power, he was proceeding to more vigorous measures to avenge the insulted dignity of the holy see, when he died of poison, administered, as a contemporary historian asserts, by the agents of Philip. During ten months the conclave were unable to agree on his successor among the Italian cardinals. It was then proposed by the partisans of the king of France, that one party in the conclave should name three ultramontane prelates, from among whom the other party should select one. The choice fell on Bertrand de Gotte, archbishop of Bordeaux, who had many serious causes of enmity to Philip and his brother Charles of Valois. Philip's friend, the cardinal of Prato, instantly sent off a courier with the news, advising the king to acquiesce in the election as soon as he had secured him to his interest. Philip set out for Gascony, and had a private interview with the pontiff elect, in an abbey in the midst of a forest near St. Jean d'Angély. Having sworn mutual secresy, the king told the prelate that it was in his power to make him pope on condition of his granting him six favours. He showed him his proofs, and the ambitious Gascon, falling at his feet, promised everything. The six favours demanded by Philip were a perfect reconciliation with the Church; admission to the communion for himself and friends; the tithes of the clergy of France for five years, to defray the expenses of his war in Flanders; the persecution and destruction of the memory of Pope Boniface; the conferring the dignity of cardinal on James and Peter Colonna. "The sixth favour," said he, "is great and secret, and I reserve the asking of it for a suitable time and place." The prelate swore on the host, and gave his brother and two of his nephews as hostages. The king then sent orders to the cardinal of Prato, to elect the archbishop of Bordeaux, who took the name of Clement V. Whether urged by the vanity of shining in the eyes of his countrymen, or by dread of the tyranny exercised by the cardinals over his predecessors, or, what seems more probable, in compliance with the wishes of Philip, or in consequence of impediments thrown by that monarch in the way of his departure, Clement, to the dismay of all Christendom, instead of repairing to Rome, summoned the cardinals to Lyons for his coronation. They reluctantly obeyed, and he was crowned in that city on the 17th December, 1305, the king, his brother, and his principal nobles, assisting at the ceremony. Clement forthwith created twelve new cardinals, all creatures of Philip, whose most devoted slave the pope showed himself to be on all occasions. His promises to him were most punctually fulfilled, with the exception of that respecting the memory of Boniface, which the cardinal of Prato proved to Philip it would be highly impolitic and dangerous to perform; but Clement cheerfully authorised him to seize, on the festival of St. Madelaine, all the Jews in his kingdom, to banish them, and confiscate their property in the name of religion. What the sixth and secret grace which Philip required was is unknown. Many conjectures have been made to little purpose. It is not at all improbable that the king had at the time no definite object in view, and that, like the fabled grant of Neptune to Theseus, it was to be claimed whenever an occasion of sufficient importance should present itself. Such as we have described them were Philip and the sovereign pontiff; the one able, daring, rapacious, ambitious, and unprincipled; the other mean, submissive, and little scrupulous. As it was the object of Philip to depress the papal power, and make it subservient to his ambition, he must naturally have desired to deprive it of support. The Templars, therefore, who had been on all occasions the staunch partizans of the papacy, must on this account alone have been objects of his aversion; they had, moreover, loudly exclaimed against his repeated adulteration of the coin, by which they sustained so much injury; and they were very urgent in their demands for repayment of the money which they had lent him on the occasion of the marriage of his daughter Isabella with the son of the king of England. Their wealth was great; their possessions in France were most extensive; they were connected with the noblest families in the realm; they were consequently, now that they seemed to have given up all idea of making any farther efforts in the East, likely to prove a serious obstacle in the way of the establishment of the absolute power of the crown. They were finally very generally disliked on account of their excessive pride and arrogance, and it was to be expected that in an attack on their power and privileges the popular favour would be with the king. These motives will, we apprehend, sufficiently account for Philip's anxiety to give a check to the order, beyond which, as it would appear, his plans did not at first extend. We cannot venture to say when this project first entered the mind of king Philip; whether he had the Hospitallers also in view, and whether he impelled the pope to invite the Masters of the two orders to France. As the rivalry and ill-feeling between the two orders had long been regarded as one of the principal causes of the little success of the Christians in the East, the idea of uniting them had been conceived, and Gregory X. and St. Louis had striven, but in vain, at the council at Lyons, to effect it. Pope Boniface VIII. had also been anxious to bring this project to bear, and Clement now resolved to attempt it. On the 6th June, 1306, only six months after his coronation, he wrote to the Masters of the two orders to the following effect;--The kings of Armenia and Cyprus were calling on him for aid; he therefore wished to confer with them, who knew the country well, and were so much interested in it, as to what were best to be done, and desired that they would come to him as secretly as possible, and with a very small train, as they would find plenty of their knights on this side of the sea; he directed them to provide for the defence of Limisso during their absence. The Master of the Hospital, William de Villaret, was, when the letter arrived, engaged in the attack on Rhodes, and, therefore, could not obey the summons. But De Molay, the Master of the Temple, having confided Limisso and the direction of the order to the marshal, embarked with sixty of his most distinguished knights, taking with him the treasure of the order, consisting of 150,000 florins of gold, and so much silver, that the whole formed the lading of twelve horses. When they arrived in France, he proceeded to Paris, where the king received him with the greatest marks of favour and distinction, and he deposited the treasure in the Temple of that city. Shortly afterwards he set out for Poitiers, where he had an interview with Clement, who consulted him on the affairs of the East. On the subject of a new crusade, Molay gave it as his opinion that nothing but a simultaneous effort of all the Christian powers would be of any avail. He objected to the union of the orders on the following grounds, which were, on the whole, sufficiently frivolous. He said, 1st. That what is new is not always the best; that the orders, as they were, had done good service in Palestine, and, in short, used the good old argument of anti-reformists, _It works well_. 2dly. That as the orders were spiritual as well as temporal, and many a one had entered them for the weal of his soul, it might not be a matter of indifference to such to leave the one which he had selected and enter another. 3dly. There might be discord, as each order would want its own wealth and influence, and seek to gain the mastery for its own rules and discipline. 4thly. The Templars were generous of their goods, while the Hospitallers were only anxious to accumulate--a difference which might produce dissension. 5thly. As the Templars received more gifts and support from the laity than the Hospitallers, they would be the losers, or at least be envied by their associates. 6thly. There would probably be some disputing between the superiors about the appointment to the dignities in the new order. He however candidly acknowledged, that the new order would be stronger than the old one, and so more zealous to combat the infidels, and that many commanderies might be suppressed, and some saving effected thereby. Having thus delivered his sentiments, Molay took leave of the pope, and returned to Paris. Vague rumours of serious charges made, or to be made, against the order now beginning to prevail, Molay, accompanied by Rimbaud de Caron, preceptor of Outre-mer, Jeffrey de Goneville, preceptor of Aquitaine, and Hugh de Perando, preceptor of France, repaired once more to Poitiers, about April, 1307, to justify himself and the order in the eyes of the pope. Clement, we are told, informed them of the serious charges of the commission of various crimes which had been made against them; but they gave him such explanations as appeared to content him, and returned to Paris, satisfied that they had removed all doubts from his mind. The following was the way in which the charges were made against the Templars. There was lying in prison, at Paris or Toulouse, for some crime, a man named Squin de Flexian, a native of Beziers, who had been formerly a Templar, and prior of Mantfaucon, but had been put out of the order for heresy and other offences. His companion in captivity was a Florentine, named Noffo Dei--"a man (says Villani) full of all iniquity." These two began to plan how they might best extricate themselves from their present hopeless state; and, as it would appear, aware of the king's dislike to the Templars, and hating them for having punished him for his crimes, Squin de Flexian resolved to accuse them of the most monstrous offences, and thus obtain his liberation. Accordingly, calling for the governor of the prison, he told him that he had a discovery to make to the king, which would be more for his advantage than the acquisition of a new kingdom, but that he would only reveal it to the king in person. Squin was immediately conveyed to Paris, and brought before the king, to whom he declared the crimes of the order; and some of the Templars were seized and examined by order of Philip. Another account says that Squin Flexian and Noffo Dei, who were both degraded Templars, had been actively engaged in an insurrection of the people some time before, from which the king was obliged to take shelter in the Temple. They had been taken, and were lying in prison without any hope of their lives, when they hit on the plan of accusing their former associates. They were both set at liberty; but Squin was afterwards hanged, and Noffo Dei beheaded, as was said with little probability, by the Templars. It is also said, that, about the same time, Cardinal Cantilupo, the pope's chamberlain, who had been in connexion with the Templars from his eleventh year, made some discoveries respecting it to his master. The charges made by Squin Flexian against the order were as follows:-- 1. Each Templar, on his admission, was sworn never to quit the order; and to further its interests, by right or by wrong. 2. The heads of the order are in secret alliance with the Saracens; and have more Mahommedan infidelity than Christian faith; in proof of which, they make every novice spit and trample on the cross of Christ, and blaspheme his faith in various ways. 3. The heads of the order are heretical, cruel, and sacrilegious men. Whenever any novice, on discovering the iniquity of the order, attempts to quit it, they put him to death, and bury him privately by night. They teach the women who are pregnant by them how to procure abortion, and secretly murder the new-born babes. 4. The Templars are infected with all the errors of the Fraticelli; they despise the pope and the authority of the Church; they contemn the sacraments, especially those of penance and confession. They feign compliance with the rites of the Church merely to escape detection. 5. The superiors are addicted to the most infamous excesses of debauchery; to which, if any one expresses his repugnance, he is punished by perpetual captivity. 6. The temple-houses are the receptacles of every crime and abomination that can be committed. 7. The order labours to put the Holy Land into the hands of the Saracens; and favours them more than the Christians. 8. The installation of the Master takes place in secret, and few of the younger brethren are present at it; whence there is a strong suspicion that he denies the Christian faith or promises, or does something contrary to right. 9. Many statutes of the order are unlawful, profane, and contrary to the Christian religion; the members are, therefore, forbidden, under pain of perpetual confinement, to reveal them to any one. 10. No vice or crime committed for the honour or benefit of the order is held to be a sin. Such were the charges brought against the order by the degraded prior of Montfaucon--charges in general absurd, or founded on gross exaggeration of some of the rules of the society. Others, still more incredible, were subsequently brought forward in the course of the examinations of witnesses. Philip and his ministers, having now what they regarded as a plausible case against the Templars, prepared their measures in secret; and on the 12th September, 1307, sealed letters were sent to all the governors and royal officers throughout France, with orders to arm themselves on the 12th of the following month; and in the night to open the letters and act according to the instructions contained therein. The appointed day arrived; and, on the morning of Friday, the 13th October, nearly all the Templars throughout France saw themselves captives in the hands of their enemies. So well had Philip taken his measures, that his meditated victims were without suspicion; and, on the very eve of his arrest, Molay was chosen by the treacherous monarch to be one of the four pall-bearers at the funeral of the Princess Catherine, wife of the Count of Valois. The directions sent by the king to his officers had been to seize the persons and the goods of the Templars; to interrogate, torture, and obtain confessions from them; to promise pardon to those who confessed; and to menace those who denied. On the day of the arrest of the Master and his knights, the king took possession of the Temple at Paris; and the Master and the preceptors of Aquitaine, France, and beyond sea, were sent prisoners to Corbeil. The following day the doctors of the University of Paris and several canons assembled with the royal ministers in the church of Notre Dame, and William de Nogaret, the chancellor, stated to them that the knights had been proceeded against on account of their heresies. On the 15th the University met in the Temple; and some of the heads of the order, particularly the Master, were examined, and are said to have made some confessions of the guilt of the order for the last forty years. The king now published an act of accusation, conceived in no moderate or gentle terms. He calls the accused in it devouring wolves, a perfidious and idolatrous society, whose deeds, whose very words alone, are enough to pollute the earth and infect the air, &c., &c. The inhabitants of Paris were then assembled in the royal gardens; and the king's agents spoke, and some monks preached to them against the accused. Philip, in his hostility to the order, would be content with nothing short of its utter ruin. Almost immediately after his _coup d'etat_ of the 13th October, he despatched a priest, named Bernard Peletus, to his son-in-law, Edward II., king of England, inviting him to follow his example. Edward wrote, on the 30th of the same month, to say that the charges made against the Templars by Philip and his agent appeared to him, his barons, and his prelates, to be incredible; and that he would, therefore, summon the senechal of Agen, whence this rumour had proceeded, to inform him thereupon, before proceeding any farther. Clement had been at first offended at the hasty and arbitrary proceedings of the king of France against the Templars; but Philip easily managed to appease him; and on the 22d November the pope wrote to the king of England, assuring him that the Master of the Temple, had spontaneously confessed that the brethren, on their admission, denied Christ; and that several of the brethren in different parts of France had acknowledged the idolatry and other crimes laid to the charge of the order; and that a knight of the highest and most honourable character, whom he had himself examined, had confessed the denial of Jesus Christ to be a part of the ceremony of admission. He therefore calls on the king to arrest all the Templars within his realms, and to place their lands and goods in safe custody, till their guilt or innocence should be ascertained. Edward, in a letter, dated November 26, inquired particularly of the senechal of Agen, in Guienne, respecting the charges against the Templars. On the 4th December he wrote to the kings of Portugal, Castile, Aragon, and Sicily, telling them of what he had heard, and adding that he had given no credit to it; and begging of them not to hearken to these rumours. On the 10th, evidently before he had received the bull, he wrote to the pope, stating his disbelief of what he had heard, and praying of his holiness to institute an inquiry. But when the papal bull, so strongly asserting the guilt of the order, arrived, the good-hearted king did not venture to refuse compliance with it; and he issued a writ on the 15th December, appointing the morn of Wednesday after Epiphany, in the following month, for seizing the Templars and their property, but directing them to be treated with all gentleness. Similar orders were forwarded to Scotland, Wales, and Ireland, on the 20th; and on the 26th he wrote to assure the pope that his mandates would be speedily obeyed. The arrests took place accordingly; and the Templars and their property were thus seized in the two countries in which they were most powerful[96]. [Footnote 96: The arrests were made in England in the same secret and sudden manner as in France. Rymer iii. 34, 43.] The reluctance of the king of England and his parliament to proceed to any harsh measures against the Templars affords some presumption in their favour, and would incline us to believe that, had Philip been actuated by a similar love of justice, the order would not have been so cruelly treated in France. But Philip had resolved on the destruction of the society, and his privy councillors and favourites were not men who would seek to check him in his career of blood and spoliation. These men were William Imbert, his confessor, a Dominican monk, one of an order inured in Languedoc to blood, and deeply versed in all inquisitorial arts and practices; William Nogaret, his chancellor, the violator of the sanctity of the head of the church; William Plasian, who had shared in that daring deed, and afterwards sworn, in an assembly of the peers and prelates of France, that Boniface was an atheist and a sorcerer, and had a familiar demon. The whole order of the Dominicans also went heart and hand in the pious work of detecting and punishing the heretics. We must constantly bear in mind that the charges made against the Templars, if they may not all be classed under the term heresy, were all such as the Church was in the habit of making against those whom she persecuted as public heretics. And in this, Philip and his advisers acted wisely in their generation; for treason, or any other political charge, would have sounded dull and inefficient in the ears of the people, in comparison with the formidable word _heresy_. [Illustration: Philip le Bel.] CHAPTER X. Examination of the captive Knights--Different kinds of Torture--Causes of Confession--What Confessions were made--Templars brought before the Pope--Their Declarations--Papal Commission--Molay brought before it--Ponsard de Gisi--Defenders of the Order--Act of Accusation--Heads of Defence--Witnesses against the Order--Fifty-four Templars committed to the flames at Paris--Remarkable words of Aymeric de Villars-le-Duc--Templars burnt in other Places--Further Examinations--The Head worshipped by the Templars--John de Pollincourt--Peter de la Palu. The charge of conducting the inquiry against the society was committed by Philip, without asking or waiting for the Pope's approbation, to Imbert, who lost no time in proceeding to action. He wrote to all the inquisitors of his order, directing them to proceed against the Templars, as he had already done himself; and, in case of ascertaining the truth of the charges, to communicate it to the Minorite Friars, or some other order, that the people might take no offence at the procedure; and to send the declarations as soon as possible to the king and himself. They were to use no cruelty towards the prisoners; but, if necessary, they might employ the torture. On the 19th October, six days after their seizure, Imbert commenced his examinations at the Temple of Paris. One hundred and forty prisoners were examined; when, by promises and by the aid of the torture, confessions in abundance were procured. Thirty-six of the knights expired under the gentle method employed to extract the truth from them. The zealous Imbert then proceeded to Bayeux, Metz, Toul, and Verdun; in all which places examinations were held and confessions extorted in the same way. It was, however, carefully stated in each deposition, that the witness had spoken without any constraint. As our readers fortunately cannot be supposed familiarly acquainted with the mild and gentle modes employed by the brethren of St. Dominic, for eliciting the truth, we will present a slight sketch of some of them, that they may be able to form some idea of the value of rack-extorted testimony. Sometimes the patient was stripped naked, his hands were tied behind his back, heavy weights were fastened to his feet, and the cord which confined his hands passed over a pulley. At a given signal he was hoisted into the air, where he hung suspended by his arms, which were thus drawn out of their natural position: then suddenly the cord would be let run, but checked before the patient reached the ground, and thus a tremendous shock given to his frame. Another mode of torture was to fasten the feet of the patient on an instrument, which prevented his drawing them back; they were then rubbed with some unctious substance, and set before a flaming fire; a board was occasionally placed between his feet and the fire, and withdrawn again, in order to increase his pain by intervals of cessation. The heel of the patient was at times enclosed in an iron heel, which could be tightened at pleasure, and thus caused excruciating pain. What was regarded as a very gentle mode, and only indulged to those who had not strength to undergo the preceding tortures, was to place round sticks between their fingers, and compress them till the bones of the fingers were cracked. The teeth of the Templars were occasionally drawn, their feet roasted, weights suspended from all parts of their bodies; and thus they gave their testimony without constraint! What is understood as testimony or confession, by inquisitors, is an affirmative answer to such questions as they ask. They usually assume the guilt of the accused; and no witnesses for the defence are heard. It is useless to prove the absurdity and unreasonableness of the charges; for that would be impugning the sense and judgment of those who gave ear to them; and promises are always held out that, if full and free confession is made, the criminal will be gently dealt with. The accused is, moreover, always confined in a solitary cell; he has none to console and cheer him; he feels abandoned by the whole world; conscious innocence is of no avail; his only hope is in the mercy of his judge. The Templars, we must recollect, were seized towards the commencement of winter; and at that season a dungeon of the middle ages must have been cheerless beyond description. They were barely allowed the necessaries of life; they were stripped of the habit of the order, and denied the consolations of religion, for they were treated as heretics; and they were shown a real or pretended letter of their Master, in which he confessed the crimes of the order, and exhorted them to do the same. Enthusiasts in religion or politics are supported by the consciousness of rectitude, and bear up against privations or torture in firm reliance on the favour of the Divinity, or the praise and esteem of a grateful and admiring posterity. But the great majority of the Templars were far from being such characters; they were illiterate knights, who had long lived in luxury and indulged in arrogance; they knew themselves to be objects of dislike to many, and felt that their power was gone. Need we then be surprised that, beguiled by the hopes held out, numbers of them readily acknowledged all the charges made against their order? and must we not so much the more admire the constancy of those who, unseduced by flattering hopes, and undismayed by menaces and torture, yielded up their breath rather than confess a falsehood? At Paris the knights who confessed acknowledged the denial of Christ (this was the point which the inquisitors were most anxious to establish), but in an uncertain, contradictory manner, as what was said on one examination was retracted on another, or was enlarged or diminished. It was also confessed that an idol was adored in their chapters. At Nîmes, in November, 1307, forty-five knights confessed the guilt of the order. They afterwards retracted; but in 1311 the torture made them revert to their original declaration. At Troyes two knights confessed everything that was required of them. At Pont de l'Arche seven confessed. These and six others were again examined at Caen; they terminated their declarations by imploring the mercy of the Church, and entreating with tears to be spared the torture. Those examined at Carcassonne all deposed to the worship of the image; but some of them afterwards retracted that admission, and died maintaining the innocence of the order. Six Templars at Bigorre[97] and seven at Cahors confessed; but several of them afterwards retracted. [Footnote 97: In the church of the romantic hamlet of Gavarnic, a few leagues from Barèges, on the road to Spain, in the heart of the Hautes Pyrénées, are shown twelve skulls, which are said to have been those of Templars who were beheaded in that place. The tradition is, in all probability, incorrect; but the Templars had possessions in Bigorre.] Philip and his creatures were at this stage of their career, when the pope began to testify some little dissatisfaction at the irregularity of the proceedings. The king instantly wrote to upbraid him with his lukewarmness in the cause of religion. He stated that the bishops, who were his (the king's) helpers in the government of the Church, were the fittest persons to carry on the business, on account of their local knowledge; and added that neither he nor they could comply with the desires of the pope: "he acted," he said, "as the servant of God, and must render to God his account." Clement could not venture to impede the pious labours of such a zealous servant of the Lord; he cancelled the bull which he had prepared on the subject, only requiring that each bishop's inquisitors should be confirmed by a provincial council, and that the examination of the heads of the order should be reserved for himself. Philip then condescended to offer to put the captives into the hands of the papal judges, and to devote the goods of the order to the profit of the Holy Land. The clergy declined taking charge of the knights, and the king and pope managed the property of the order in common. In the beginning of the year 1308, we are told[98], the Master of the Templars, the preceptor of Cyprus, the visiter of France, and the great-priors of Aquitaine and Normandy, were brought before the pope at Chinon, where they voluntarily, and without the application of any torture, confessed the truth of the enormities laid to the charge of the order. They abjured their errors, and the cardinals implored the king in their favour. [Footnote 98: This is mentioned in a private letter from Clement to Philip, of the 30th December, 1308.] M. Raynouard[99], we know not on what authority, positively denies that the Master and his companions were ever brought before the pope. He says that, in the month of August following, they were on their way to Poitiers, in order to be examined by the pontiff in person; but that, under pretext of some of them being sick, they were detained at Chinon, instead of being brought on to Poitiers, where the pope remained, and were finally conducted back to Paris without having seen him. He does not give the date of this occurrence, but it would seem to have been in the following autumn. [Footnote 99: Monumens Historiques, &c. p. 46.] The proceedings against the Templars were so manifestly contrary to the interest of the pope, that Philip deemed it necessary to keep a strict eye over him. Having, in May, 1308, convoked an assembly of the states at Tours, and obtained from them a declaration of his right to punish notorious heretics without asking the consent of the pope, and in which he was called upon to act with rigour against the Templars, he proceeded with it himself to Poitiers, and presented it to Clement. During the negociations which took place at that time, the pope attempted to make his escape to Bordeaux, but his baggage and his treasures were stopped by the king's orders at the gate of the town, and Clement remained in effect a prisoner. While the supreme pontiff was thus in his power, Philip, who still remained at Poitiers, by way of removing all his scruples, had, on the 29th and 30th June, and 1st July, seventy-two of the Templars, who had confessed, brought before Clement and examined. As was to be expected, the greater part repeated their former declarations of the impiety, idolatry, and licentiousness of the order. From these depositions it appears clearly that the torture had been employed to extract the former confessions. Pierre de Broel said that he had been stripped and put to the torture, but that he had said neither more nor less on that account. He added that those who tortured him were all drunk. Guillaume de Haymes had not been tortured, but he had been kept a month in solitary confinement on bread and water before he made any confession. Gerard de St. Martial, who confessed to having denied Christ, and spitten _beside_ the cross, said that he had been cruelly tortured, being at first ashamed to acknowledge these facts, although they were true. Deodat Jafet had been tortured, but it was the inspiration of God and the blessed Virgin Mary, and not the rack, which had made him confess. He acknowledged every crime imputed to the order. Speaking of the idol, he said, "I was alone in a chamber with the person who received me: he drew out of a box a head, or idol, which appeared to me to have three faces, and said, _Thou shouldst adore it as thy Saviour and that of the order of the Temple_. We then bent our two knees, and I cried, _Blessed be he who will save my soul_, and I worshipped it." Yet Jafet afterwards retracted this deposition, and stood forth as one of the defenders of the order. Iter de Rochefort, though he said he had confessed, had been tortured repeatedly, with a view to extracting more from him. He declared that, having been received in the unlawful way, he had confessed himself to the patriarch of Jerusalem, who had wept bitterly at hearing of such wickedness. As Raynouard very justly observes, the patriarch, who could hardly be a friend to the Templars, was not very likely to content himself with shedding a few useless tears had the knowledge of such a heresy come to his ears. Pierre de Conders had confessed at the sight of the rack. Raymond de Stéphani had been severely tortured at Carcassonne. Being asked why he did not then tell the truth, he replied, "Because I did not recollect it; but I prayed the senechal to allow me to confer with my companions, and when I had deliberated with them I recollected." Who can give credit to depositions like these, most of which were subsequently revoked? Yet it was by these that the pope declared himself to be perfectly satisfied of the guilt of the order, and justified the rigorous measures which he authorized against it. Philip, we are to observe, was all this time at Poitiers: the prisoners were examined before the cardinals, and only those who had not retracted their former rack-extorted confessions were produced in the large concourse of nobles, clergy, and people assembled on this occasion[100]. [Footnote 100: Raynouard, p. 253.] Clement and Philip now arranged the convocation of an oecumenic council at Vienne, to pronounce the abolition of the order. The pope also appointed a commission to take at Paris a juridical information against it; and, on the 1st August, he authorised the bishops and his delegates to proceed in their inquiries. On the 12th August by the bull _Faciens misericordiam_, after asserting the guilt of the order, he called upon all princes and prelates throughout the Christian world to assist him in making inquiry into this affair. The commission appointed by the pope was composed of the archbishop of Narbonne, the bishops of Bayeux, Mende, and Limoges; Matthew of Naples, archdeacon of Rouen, notary of the Holy See; John of Mantua, archdeacon of Trent; John of Montlaur, archdeacon of Maguelone; and William Agelin, provost of Aix, which last was prevented by business from giving attendance. They entered on their functions on the 7th August, 1309, and ordered that the brethren of the Temple should be cited before them on the first day of business after the festival of St. Martin, in November. The citations were to be published in presence of the people and clergy in the cathedrals, churches, and schools, in the principal houses of the order, and in the prisons in which the knights were confined. No one appearing, new citations were issued; and at length the Bishop of Paris was called on by the commission to go himself to the prison where the Master and the heads of the order were confined, and notify it to them. Having done so, he caused the same notification to be made throughout his diocese. The following circumstance, which occurred at this time, would seem to indicate that impediments were thrown in the way of those who were disposed to defend the order by the royal ministers. The commissioners were informed that the governor of the Chatelet had arrested and imprisoned some persons who were presumed to have come to defend the order. The governor being summoned before them, declared that, by order of the ministers, he had arrested seven persons who were denounced as being Templars in a lay habit, who had come to Paris with money in order to procure advocates and defenders for the accused. He acknowledged that he had put them to the torture, but said that he did not believe them to be Templars. On Wednesday, Nov. 26, the commission sat, and Molay, the Master of the Temple, was brought before it. He was asked if he would defend the order, or speak for himself. He replied by expressing his surprise that the Church should proceed with such precipitation in this case, when the sentence relative to the Emperor Frederic had been suspended for thirty-two years. Though he had neither knowledge nor talent sufficient to defend the order, he should consider himself vile in his own eyes, and in those of others, if he hesitated to do so; but being the prisoner of the king and the pope, and without money, he asked for aid and counsel. The commissioners desired him to reflect on his offer, and to consider the confessions respecting himself and the order which he had made. They agreed, however, to give him time; and, that he might not be ignorant of what was alleged against him, had the documents containing their powers read to him in the vulgar language. During the reading of the letters which recited his confession made to the cardinals at Chinon, he crossed himself repeatedly, and gave other signs of indignation and surprise, and said, that, were it not for the respect due to the envoys of the pope, he should express himself differently. They said they were not come there to receive challenges. He replied that he spoke not of cartels, he only wished they acted in this case as the Saracens and Tartars did, who cut off the head and cut the body in two of those who were found to be guilty. Two circumstances are worthy of note in this examination; one, that William Plasian was present at it, and, as the commissioners expressly declared, without being invited by them; the other, that the confessions, which were imputed to Molay, and which he evidently intimated to be false, were inserted in the bull _Faciens misericordiam_, which bears the date of the 12th August, although the festival of the Assumption, that is the 16th of August, is given as the day on which they were made[101]. It was there declared that the heads of the order had confessed and been absolved; yet here we find the Master treated as a heretic who was still unreconciled. [Footnote 101: Raynouard, 61. This circumstance was first remarked by Fleury, _Hist. Eccles._, lib. xci. Yet it seems hardly credible that the pope and his secretaries could have made so gross a mistake.] The following day (Nov. 27), Ponsard de Gisi, prior of Payens, appeared before the commission. On being asked if he would defend the order, he replied, "Yes; the imputations cast on us of denying Christ, of spitting on the cross, of authorising infamous crimes, and all such accusations, are false. If I, myself, or other knights, have made confessions before the bishop of Paris, or elsewhere, we have betrayed the truth--we have yielded to fear, to danger, to violence. We were tortured by Flexien de Beziers, prior of Montfaucon, and the monk William Robert, our enemies. Several of the prisoners had agreed among themselves to make these confessions, in order to escape death, and because thirty-six knights had died at Paris, and a great number in other places, under the torture. As for me, I am ready to defend the order in my own name, and in the names of those who will make common cause with me, if I am assigned out of the goods of the order as much as will defray the needful expense. I require to be granted the counsel of Raynaud of Orleans and of Peter of Bologna, priests of the order." He was asked if he had been tortured. He replied that he had, three months before he made his confession. Next day the Master was brought up again. He demanded to be brought before the pope, appealed to the valour and charity of the Templars, and their zeal in adorning churches, in proof of their piety, and made an orthodox confession of his own faith. Nogaret, who was present, then observed, that it was related in the chronicles of St. Denis that the Master of the order had done homage to Saladin; and that the sultan had ascribed their ill fortune to their secret vices and impiety. Molay declared that he had never heard of such calumnies; and gave an instance of the prudence and good faith of a former Master, when himself and some other young men wanted him to break a truce. Molay concluded by praying the chancellor and the commissioners to procure him the favour of hearing mass, and being attended by his chaplains. Orders having been given that all the Templars who were desirous to undertake the defence of the order should be conveyed to Paris, they were brought thither strongly guarded. The commission then renewed its sittings. As the prisoners were successively brought before it, they, with few exceptions, declared their readiness to defend their order--_till death_, cried some; _till the end_, cried others; _because I wish to save my soul_, added one. Bertrand de St. Paul declared that he never did, and never would, confess the guilt of the order, because it was not true; and that he believed that God would work a miracle if the body of Christ was administered to those who confessed and those who denied. Seven of those who had been examined before the pope, and had confessed, now declared that they had lied, and revoked what they then said. John de Valgellé maintained that he had made no confession on that occasion. "I was tortured so much, and held so long before a burning fire," said Bernard de Vado, "that the flesh of my heels was burnt, and these two bones (which he showed) came off." In the course of these examinations, a Templar, named Laurent de Beaune, showed a letter with the seals of Philip de Voet and John Jainville, the persons set by the pope and king over the prisoners, addressed to the Templars confined at Sens, inviting them to confess what was required, and declaring that the pope had given orders that those who did not persevere in their confessions should be committed to the flames. Philip de Voet, on being interrogated, said that he did not believe that he had sent that letter; his seal had often lain in the hands of his secretary; he had always advised the prisoners to speak the truth. Jainville was not examined, neither was John Carpini, the bearer of the letter. De Beaune was one of the first afterwards committed to the flames; the supposition is natural, that the letter was a stratagem of the king and his ministers. The Master having been again brought before the commissioners, and having renewed his demand of being sent to the pope, they promised to write to the pope on the subject, but there is no proof of their having done so. On the 28th March all the Templars who had expressed their willingness to defend the order were assembled in the garden of the bishop's palace. Their number was 546. The Master was not among them. The articles of accusation were then read over to them in Latin; the commissioners ordered that they should be read again to them in the vulgar tongue, but the knights all cried out that it was enough, they did not desire that such abominations, which were false and not to be named, should be repeated in the vulgar language. Again, they complained of the deprivation of their religious habits and the sacraments of the church, and desired that the Master and the heads of the order should be called thither also. But this reasonable request was not complied with. In vain the Master demanded to be brought before the pope; in vain the knights required to be permitted to enjoy the presence of their chief. Neither the one nor the other suited the interest or the designs of the king. The number of the Templars in Paris soon amounted to near 900. The commissioners were desirous that they should appoint agents to manage their defence; but this they declined to do, some alleging that they could not do so without the consent of their chief, others insisting on defending the order in person. At length, after a great deal of argument and deliberation, seventy-five Templars were chosen to draw up the defence of the order; and the priests of the order, Raynaud de Pruino and Peter of Bologna, and the knights, William de Chambonnet and Bertrand de Sartiges, were appointed to be present at the deposition of the witnesses. The act of accusation against the Templars, drawn up in the name of the pope, ran thus. At the time of their reception they were made to deny God, Christ, the Virgin, &c.; in particular to declare that Christ was not the true God, but a false prophet, who had been crucified for his own crimes, and not for the redemption of the world. They spat and trampled on the cross, especially on Good Friday. They worshipped a cat which sometimes appeared in their chapters. Their priests, when celebrating mass, did not pronounce the words of consecration. They believed that their Master could absolve them from their sins. They were told at their reception that they might abandon themselves to all kinds of licentiousness. They had idols in all their provinces, some with three faces, some with one. They worshipped these idols in their chapters, believed that they could save them, regarded them as the givers of wealth to the order, and of fertility to the earth; they touched them with cords which they afterwards tied round their own bodies. Those who at the time of their reception would not comply with these practices were put to death or imprisoned. All this, it was stated, took place _according to the statutes of the order_; it was a general and ancient custom, and there was no other mode of reception. The act of accusation stated farther that the Templars stopped at no means of enriching the order[102]. [Footnote 102: All these crimes had been acknowledged by various members of the order. Yet what can be more improbable than the worship of the cat for instance? This charge, by the way, had already been made against the sect of the Cathari, who were said to have derived their name _a catta:_--rather their name gave origin to the invention.] The Templars, in their reply, asserted that all these imputations were false, and that if any of them had confessed them, they had done so under terror and violence, thirty-six having expired by torture at Paris and several others elsewhere. The forms of law had been violated with respect to them; to obtain from them false depositions letters of the king had been shown them declaring that the order had been condemned irrevocably, and offering life, liberty, and pensions, to those who would depose falsely. "All these facts, said they, are so public and so notorious that there are no means or pretexts for disavowing them." The heads of accusation were nothing but falsehoods and absurdities, and the bull contained nothing but horrible, detestable, and iniquitous falsehoods. Their order was pure, and if their statutes were consulted they would be found to be the same for all Templars and for all countries. Their belief was that of the Church; parents brought their children, brothers each other, uncles their nephews, into the order, because it was pure and holy. When in captivity to the infidels, the Templars died sooner than renounce their religion. They declared their readiness to defend their innocence in every way, and against every person except the pope and the king, demanded to be brought personally before the general council, required that those who had quitted the order and deposed against it should be kept in close custody till their truth or falsehood should be ascertained, and that no layman should be present to intimidate the accused when under examination. The knights, they maintained, had been struck with such terror, that the false confessions made by some were less matter of surprise than the courage of those who maintained the truth was of admiration. Inquire, said they, of those who were present at the last moments of the knights who died in prison; let their confessions be revealed, and it will be seen if the accusations are true. Is it not strange, asked they in conclusion, that more credit should be given to the lies of those who yielded to tortures or to promises than to the asseverations of those who, in defence of the truth, have died with the palm of martyrdom--of the sound majority of those knights who have suffered and still suffer so much for conscience' sake? On the 11th April, 1310, the hearing of the witnesses against the order commenced. Only twenty-one were produced, two of whom did not belong to the order, the others being principally those who had persisted in their declarations before the pope. As might be expected, all the crimes laid to the charge of the order in the papal bull were again deposed to by these men; but the commission had only got as far as the examination of the thirteenth witness when the impatience of the king manifested itself in a barbarous and illegal act, which had apparently long been meditated. The Archbishop of Sens, whose suffragan the Bishop of Paris was, had died about Easter, 1309, and the pope had reserved the nomination to himself. Philip wrote to him requiring of him to nominate Philip de Marigny, Bishop of Cambray, brother to Enquerrand, his prime minister, alleging that his youth was no just impediment, and that his acts would prove how much he was beyond his age. The pope, though very reluctant, was obliged to consent, and in April, 1310, Marigny was installed. No time was now lost in proceeding to operation. On Sunday, May 10, the four defenders of the order learned that the provincial council of Sens was convoked at Paris in order to proceed against the knights individually. They took alarm, and applied to the commission, which, though it did not sit on Sundays, assembled, and Peter of Bologna informed them of what he had heard. He begged that they would suffer him to read an appeal which he had drawn up. This they declined doing, but said that, if he had any defence of the order to give in, they would receive it. He forthwith laid down a written paper, stating the danger which the prisoners were in dread of, appealing to the holy see, and entreating the commission to stop the proceedings of the archbishop and his suffragans. The defenders of the order then retired, and the further consideration of the affair was put off till after vespers, when they re-appeared and gave in an address to the Archbishop of Sens, containing an appeal to the pope. The commissioners, however, declined interfering for the present. It is to be noticed that the defenders of the order prayed on this occasion of the commission to nominate one or more of its notaries to draw up their act of defence, because they could find no notary who would act for them, owing probably to fear of the royal displeasure, or to the want of funds by the accused. On Monday and Tuesday two more of the witnesses were heard. One of them named Humbert de Puy declared that, having refused to acknowledge the crimes laid to the charge of the order, he had been tortured three times and kept for thirty-six weeks on bread and water in the bottom of an infected tower, by order of John de Jainville. While thus engaged, the commissioners learned to their dismay that the council was about to commit to the flames fifty-four of the knights who had stepped forth as the defenders of the order. They instantly sent one of their notaries and one of the keepers of the prison of the Templars to entreat the archbishop to act with caution, as there were strong reasons for doubting the truth of the charges; and representing that the witnesses were so terrified at what they had heard of the intentions of the council, that they were incapable of giving their evidence; that moreover the Templars had delivered in an appeal to the pope. The archbishop, who was paying the price of his elevation to a hard creditor, was not to be stopped by these considerations. He was making short work of the business. On the Monday he had a number of those who had undertaken the defence of the order brought before the council, and he interrogated them once more himself. Those of them who, having confessed, had afterwards retracted, and now persisted in their retractation, were declared to be _relapsed heretics_, and were delivered over to the secular arm and condemned to the flames; those who, had not confessed, and would not, were sentenced to imprisonment as _unreconciled_ Templars; those who persisted in their confession of the enormities laid to the charge of the order were set at liberty, and called _reconciled_ Templars. The next morning the fifty-four Templars who had been declared relapsed were taken from their prison, placed in carts, and conducted to the place of execution, where they beheld the piles prepared, and the executioners standing with flaming torches in their hands. An envoy from the court was present, who proclaimed liberty and the royal favour for those who would even then retract their declarations and confess the guilt of the order. The friends and relatives of the unhappy victims crowded round them, with tears and prayers, imploring of them to make the required acknowledgment and save their lives. In vain. These gallant knights, who, yielding to the anguish of torture, and worn down by solitude and privations, had confessed to the truth of the most absurd charges, now that they beheld the certain limit of their sufferings, disdained to purchase by falsehood a prolongation of life to be spent in infamy and contempt. With one voice they re-asserted their own innocence and that of their order. They called on God, the Virgin, and all the saints to aid and support them, raised the hymn of death, and expired amidst the tears and commiseration of the by-standers. Felons convicted on the clearest evidence will, as is well known, die asserting their innocence; but this is when they have no hope of escape remaining. Here life and liberty were offered, and the victims were implored by those whom they most loved to accept of them. May we not then assert that the men who resisted all solicitations were sincere and spoke the truth, and were supported by their confidence of being received as martyrs by that God whom they devoutly adored according to the doctrines of their church? On Wednesday, Aymeric de Villars-le-Duc, aged about fifty years, was brought before the commissioners. He was quite pallid, and seemed terrified beyond measure. On the articles to which he was to depose being explained to him, he asseverated in the strongest manner his resolution to speak the truth; then striking his breast with his clenched hands, he bent his knees, and stretching his hands towards the altar, spake these memorable words:-- "I persist in maintaining that the errors imputed to the Templars are absolutely false, though I have confessed some of them myself, overcome by the tortures which G. de Marcillac and Hugh de Celle, the king's knights, ordered to be inflicted on me. I have seen the fifty-four knights led in carts to be committed to the flames because they would not make the confessions which were required of them. I have heard that they were burnt; and I doubt if I could, like them, have had the noble constancy to brave the terrors of the pile. I believe that, if I were threatened with it, I should depose on oath before the commission, and before any other persons who should interrogate me, that these same errors imputed to the order are true. _I would kill God himself if it was required of me._" He then earnestly implored the commissioners and the notaries who were present not to reveal to the king's officers, and to the keepers of the Templars, the words which had escaped him, lest they should deliver him also to the flames. Ought not these simple honest words, the very accents of truth, to prevail with us against all the confessions procured by torture, or by promises or threats, and satisfy us as to their value? The commissioners, whose conduct throughout the whole affair was regulated by humanity and justice, declared that the evening before one of the witnesses had come to them and implored of them to keep his deposition secret, on account of the danger which he ran if it should be known; and, judging that in their present state of terror it would not be just to hear the witnesses, they deliberated on proroguing their session to a future period. We thus see that even the papal commission could not protect against the king such of the witnesses as were honest and bold enough to maintain the innocence of the order. Strict justice was therefore out of the question, Philip _would_ have the order guilty of the most incredible crimes, and death awaited the witness who did not depose as he wished. Meantime his agents were busily engaged in tampering with the prisoners; and by threats and promises they prevailed on forty-four of them to give up their design of defending the order. On the 21st May the commissioners met, in the absence of the Archbishop of Narbonne and the Archdeacon of Trent, and, declaring their labours suspended for the present, adjourned to the 3d November. In the interval the conduct of the council of Sens had been imitated in other provinces. The Archbishop of Rheims held a council at Senlis, by whose sentence nine Templars were committed to the flames. Another council was held at Pont-de-l'Arche by the Archbishop of Rouen, and several knights were burnt. The Bishop of Carcassonne presided at a council which delivered many victims to the secular arm. On the 18th August the Archbishop of Sens held a second council, and burned four knights. Thibault, Duke of Lorraine, the close friend of King Philip, put many Templars to death, and seized the property of the order. On the 3d November three of the papal commissioners met at Paris: they asked if any one wished to defend the order of the Templars. No one appearing they adjourned to the 27th December. On resuming their sittings they called on William de Chambonnet and Bertrand de Sartiges to give their presence at the hearing of the witnesses. These knights required the presence of Raynaud de Pruino and Peter of Bologna, but were informed that these priests had solemnly and voluntarily renounced the defence of the order, and revoked their retractations; that the latter had escaped from his prison and fled, and that the former could not be admitted to defend the order, as he had been degraded at the council of Sens. The knights reiterated their refusal and retired. The commissioners then proceeded in their labours without them, and continued the examination of witnesses till the 26th May, 1311. The whole number of persons examined before the commission amounted to 231, for the far greater part serving-brethren. Of these about two-thirds acknowledged the truth of the principal charges against the order. The denial of Christ and spitting on the cross were very generally confessed, but many said they had spitten _beside_ it, not _on_ it, and also that they had denied God with their lips, not with their hearts. With respect to the head which the Templars were said to worship, as it was of some importance to prove this offence, in order to make out the charge of heresy, it was testified to by a few. Some said it was like that of a man with a long white beard, others that it was like that of a woman, and that it was said to be the head of one of the 11,000 virgins. One witness gave the following account of it, which he said he had had from a secular knight at Limisso, in Cyprus. A certain nobleman was passionately in love with a maiden. Being unable, however, to overcome her repugnance to him, he took her body, when she was dead, out of her grave, and cut off her head, and while thus engaged he heard a voice crying--_Keep it safe, whatever looks on it will be destroyed_. He did as desired, and made the first trial of it on the Grissons, an Arab tribe, which dwelt in Cyprus and the neighbouring country, and whenever he uncovered the head and turned it towards any of their towns, its walls instantly fell down. He next embarked with the head for Constantinople, being resolved to destroy that city also. On the way his nurse, out of curiosity, opened the box which contained the head. Instantly there came on a terrific storm, the ship went to pieces, and nearly all who were on board perished. The very fish vanished from that part of the sea. Another of the witnesses had heard the same story. The common tradition of the East, he said, was, that in old times, before the two spiritual orders of knighthood were founded, a head used to rise in a certain whirlpool named Setalia, the appearance of which was very dangerous for the ships which happened to be near it. We are to suppose, though it does not appear that the witnesses said so, that the Templars had contrived to get possession of this formidable head. We are to observe that the witnesses who thus deposed had been picked and culled in all parts of France, by the king's officers, out of those who had confessed before the different prelates and provincial councils, and who were, by threats and promises, engaged to persist in what they had said. The terror they were under was visible in their countenances, their words, and their actions. Many of them began by saying that they would not vary from what they had deposed before such a bishop or such a council; yet even among these some were bold enough to revoke their confessions, declaring that they had been drawn from them by torture, and asserted the innocence of the order. Others retracted their confessions when brought before the commissioners, but shortly afterwards, having probably in the interval been well menaced or tortured by the king's officers, returned and retracted their retraction. The case of John de Pollencourt, the thirty-seventh witness, is a remarkable instance. He began in the usual way, by declaring that he would persist in his confession made before the Bishop of Amiens, touching the denial of Christ, &c. The commissioners, observing his paleness and agitation, told him to tell the truth and save his soul, and not to persist in his confession if it had not been sincere, assuring him that neither they nor their notaries would reveal any thing that he said. After a pause he replied:-- "I declare then, on peril of my soul, and on the oath which I have taken, that, at the time of my reception, I neither denied God nor spat upon the cross, nor committed any of the indecencies of which we are accused, and was not required so to do. It is true that I have made confessions before the inquisitors; but it was through the fear of death, and because Giles de Rotangi had, with tears, said to me, and many others who were with me in prison at Montreuil, that we should pay for it with our lives, if we did not assist by our confessions to destroy the order. I yielded, and afterwards I wished to confess myself to the Bishop of Amiens; he referred me to a Minorite friar; I accused myself of this falsehood, and obtained absolution, on condition that I would make no more false depositions in this affair. I tell you the truth; I persist in attesting it before you; come what may of it, I prefer my soul to my body." Nothing can bear more plainly the character of truth than this declaration; yet three days afterwards the witness came back, revoked it all, spoke of the cat which used to appear in the chapters, and said that, if the order had not been abolished, he would have quitted it. Had he not been well menaced and tortured in the _interim_? The examination of Peter de la Palu, a bachelor in theology of the order of the preachers, the 201st witness, brought from him these remarkable words: "I have been present at the examination of several Templars, some of whom confessed many of the things contained in the said articles, and some others totally denied them; and for many reasons it appeared to me that greater credit was to be given to those who denied than to those who confessed." CHAPTER XI. Examinations in England--Germany--Spain--Italy--Naples and Provence--Sicily--Cyprus--Meeting of the Council of Vienne--Suppression of the order--Fate of its Members--Death of Molay. The time fixed for the meeting of the council at Vienne was now at hand, in which the fate of the order was to be decided. Before we proceed to narrate its acts we will briefly state the result of the examinations of the Templars in other countries. The pope sent, as his judges, to England, Dieu-donné, abbot of Lagny, and Sicard de Vaux, canon of Narbonne; and the examinations commenced at York, London, Lincoln, and other places, on the 25th November, 1309. The inquiry continued till the council held in London in 1311; the number of Templars examined was two hundred and twenty-eight; that of the witnesses against the order was seventy-two, almost all Carmelites, Minorites, Dominicans, and Augustinians, the natural foes of the order. The Templars were treated with great mildness; and in England, Ireland, and Scotland, they were unanimous and constant in their assertion of the innocence of the order. The evidence against the order was almost all hearsay: its nature will be shown by the following specimens. John de Goderal, a Minorite, had _heard_ that Robert de Raxat, a Templar, had once gone about a meadow crying "Wo, wo is me! that ever I was born. I have been forced to deny God, and give myself up to the devil." A Templar had said to William de Berney, in the presence of several respectable people, at the funeral of the parish-priest of Duxworth, near Cambridge, that a man has no more a soul, after death, than a dog. John De Eure, a secular knight, said that he once invited the prior William de Fenne to dine with him. After dinner the prior took from his bosom a book, and gave it to the knight's lady to read. She found on a paper which was fastened into the book the following words, "Christ was not the Son of God, nor born of a virgin, but conceived by Mary, the wife of Joseph, in the same way as all other men. Christ was not a true but a false prophet, and was crucified for his own crimes and not for the redemption of mankind, &c." The lady showed this paper to her husband, who spoke to the prior, who only laughed at it; but, being brought before a court of justice, he confessed the truth, excusing himself on the grounds of his being illiterate and ignorant of what the book contained. Robert of Oteringham, a Minorite, said, "One evening my prior did not appear at table, as relics were come from Palestine which he wished to show the brethren. About midnight I heard a confused noise in the chapel; I got up, and, looking through the keyhole, saw that it was lighted. In the morning I asked a brother who was the saint in whose honour they had celebrated the festival during the night? He turned pale with terror, thinking I had seen something, and said 'Ask me not; and if you value your life say nothing of it before the superiors.'" Another witness said that the son of a Templar had peeped through the slits of the door into the chapter-room, and seen a new member put to death for hesitating to deny Christ. Long afterwards, being asked by his father to become a Templar, he refused, telling what he had seen: his father instantly slew him. John of Gertia, a Minorite, was told by a woman named Agnes Lovecote, who said she had it from Exvalethus, prior in London, that when in one of the chapters a brother had refused to spit on the cross, they suspended him in a well and covered it up. This witness also deposed to some other enormities which he said he had heard of from the same woman, herself speaking from hearsay. In June, 1310, the pope wrote to King Edward, blaming his lenity and calling on him to employ the torture in order to elicit the truth. The council of London, after a long discussion, ordered it to be employed, but so as not to mutilate the limbs or cause an incurable wound or violent effusion of blood. The knights persisted in asserting their innocence. In Germany the different prelates examined the Templars in their respective dioceses. Nothing was elicited. At Mentz the order was pronounced innocent. The Wildgraf Frederic, preceptor on the Rhine, offered to undergo the ordeal of glowing iron. He had known the Master intimately in the East, and believed him to be as good a Christian as any man. The Templars in the Spanish peninsula were examined, and witnesses heard for and against them in Castile, Leon, Aragon, and Portugal, and nothing was proved against them. The council of Tarragona in Aragon, after applying the torture, pronounced the order free from the stain of heresy. At the council of Medina del Campo in Leon, one witness said that he had heard that, when some Minorites visited the preceptor at Villalpando, they found him reading a little book, which he instantly locked up in three boxes, saying, "This book might fall into hands where it may be very dangerous to the order." The influence of the pope may be supposed to have been stronger in Italy than in the countries above mentioned, and accordingly we find that declarations similar to those made in France were given there. Yet it was at Florence that the adoration of the idols, the cat, &c., was most fully acknowledged. In the patrimony of St. Peter some confessions to the same effect were made; but at Bologna, Cesena, and Ancona, nothing transpired. Nine Templars maintained the innocence of the order before the council of Ravenna. It was debated whether the torture should be employed. Two Dominican inquisitors were for it, the remainder of the council declared against it. It was decreed that the innocent should be absolved, the guilty punished according to law. _Those who had revoked the confessions made under torture, or through fear of it, were to be regarded as innocent_--a very different rule from that acted on by King Philip. Charles II. of Anjou, the relation of King Philip, and the enemy of the Templars, who were on the side of Frederick, king of Sicily, had the Templars seized and examined in Provence and Naples. Those examined in Provence were all serving-brethren, and some of them testified to the impiety and idolatry of the order. Two Templars were examined at Brindisi, in the kingdom of Naples, in June, 1310; one had denied the cross in Cyprus, he said, six years after he had entered the order; the other had trampled on the cross at the time of his reception. He, as well as others, had bowed down and worshipped a grey cat in the chapters. In Sicily six Templars, the only ones who were arrested, deposed against the order. One of them said he had been received in the unlawful way in Catalonia, where, as we have just seen, the innocence of the order was fully recognized. His evidence was full of absurdity. He said the cat had not appeared for a long time in the chapters but that the ancient statutes of Damietta said that it used to appear and be worshipped. In Cyprus 110 witnesses were examined; 75 belonged to the order and maintained its innocence; the testimony of the remainder was also in favour of it. We thus find that, in every place beyond the sphere of the influence of the king of France and his creature the pope, the innocence of the order was maintained and acknowledged; and undoubtedly the same would have been the case in France if the proceedings against it had been regulated by justice and the love of truth. The time appointed for the meeting of the general council was now arrived. On the 1st October, 1311, the pope came to Vienne, which is a short distance from the city of Lyons, and found there 114 bishops, besides several other prelates, already assembled. On the 13th, the anniversary of the arrest of the Templars four years before, the council commenced its sittings in the cathedral. The pope, in his opening speech, stated the grounds of its having been convoked, namely, the process against the Templars, the support of the Holy Land, the reformation of the Church. The bishops of Soissons, Mende, Leon, and Aquila, who had been appointed to draw up a report of the result of the different examinations respecting the order, read it before the assembled fathers, who then once more invited any Templars who wished to defend the order to appear. Though the order was now broken up and persecuted, and numbers of its ablest members dead or languishing in dungeons with their superiors, yet nine knights had the courage to come forward in defence of their order, and present themselves before the council as the representatives of from 1500 to 2000 Templars, who were still dwelling or rather lurking in Lyons and its vicinity. The pope was not present when they appeared, but his letter of the 11th November shows how he acted when he heard that defenders of the order had presented themselves. Clement had these brave knights arrested and thrown into prison, and, in real or affected terror at the number of Templars at large, he took additional precautions for the security of his person, and counselled the king to do the same. To the honour of the assembled fathers, they refused to sanction this flagrant act of injustice. The prelates of Spain, Germany, Denmark, England, Ireland, and Scotland, without exception; the Italians, all but one; the French, with the exception of the archbishops of Rheims, Sens, and Rouen, declared, but in vain, for admitting the Templars and hearing their defence. Instead of complying with this demand of justice and humanity, Clement suddenly put an end to the session. The winter passed away in arguments and negociations. Philip, whose practice it was always to look after his affairs himself, deeming his presence necessary at Vienne, set out for that place, where he arrived early in February, accompanied by his three sons, his brother, and several nobles and men-at-arms. The effect of his presence was soon perceptible; the pope assembled the cardinals and several other prelates in a secret consistory, and abolished the order, by his sole authority, on the 22d March, 1313. The second session of the council was opened on the 3d April, with great solemnity; the king of France, his sons, and his brother, gave their presence at it, and the royal guards appeared for honour, for protection, or for intimidation. The pope read his bull of abolition. All present listened in silence. No one ventured to raise his voice in the cause of justice. The wealthy and powerful order of the knights of the Temple was suppressed. On the 2d May the bull was published, and the order as such ceased to exist. The order being suppressed, persecution became needless, and it consequently ceased in a great measure. The king and the pope converted to their own use the moveable property of the order in France. Its other possessions were, sorely against the will of the king, assigned to the order of the Hospitallers, who were, however, obliged to pay such large fines to the king and pope as completely impoverished them. This extended to all countries, except the Spanish peninsula and Majorca. The property of the Templars in Aragon was given to the order of Our Lady of Montesa, which was founded in 1317. Its destination was to combat the Moors; its habit was similar to that of the Templars; and it might, therefore, be almost called the same order. Diniz, the able and enlightened king of Portugal, did not suppress the order, whose innocence his prelates had recognised. To yield a show of obedience to the papal will, he made it change its name, and the great-prior of the Templars in Portugal became the master of the Order of Christ, which has continued to the present times. With respect to the remaining Templars, who were in prison, it was ordered in council that those who should be found guiltless should be set at liberty, and maintained out of the property of the order; that the guilty, if they confessed and lamented their offences, should be treated with mildness; if they did not, dealt with according to the ecclesiastical law, and kept in custody in the former temple-houses and in the convents. Those who had escaped were, if they did not appear within a year before the council or their diocesan, to be excommunicated. Most of the knights were immediately set at liberty; but the property of the order was all gone, and no means of support remained for them: they were, therefore, reduced to the greatest distress, and many of them obliged to submit to the most menial employment in order to gain a livelihood. A great number were received into the order of St. John, on the same footing as they had stood on in their own order--a strong proof that the guilt of the order of the Templars was not, by any means, regarded as proved. Gradually, as the members died off, or merged into other orders, the name of the Templars fell into oblivion, or was only recollected with pity for their unmerited fate. While the noble order over which he had presided was thus suppressed, its members scattered, its property bestowed on others, the Master, James de Molay, with his three companions, the great-prior of Normandy, Hugh de Peyraud, visiter of France, and Guy, brother to the Dauphin of Auvergne, still languished in prison. Molay had there but one attendant, his cook; the allowance made to him was barely sufficient to procure him common necessaries, and life had now lost all its value in his eyes. The pope at length determined to inform the captives of the fate destined for them. A papal commission, composed of the bishop of Alba and two other cardinals, proceeded to Paris, not to hear the prisoners, but, taking their guilt for proved, to pronounce their sentence. To give all publicity to this act, probably in accordance with the desire of the king, a stage was erected in front of the church of Notre Dame, on which the three commissioners, with the archbishop of Sens and several other prelates, took their places, on the 18th March, 1314. An immense concourse of people stood around. The four noble prisoners were conducted from their dungeons, and led up on the stage. The cardinal of Alba read out their former confessions, and pronounced the sentence of perpetual imprisonment. He was then proceeding to expose the guilt of the order, when the Master interrupted him, and thus spoke, taking all the spectators to witness:-- "It is just that, in so terrible a day, and in the last moments of my life, I should discover all the iniquity of falsehood, and make the truth to triumph. I declare, then, in the face of heaven and earth, and acknowledge, though to my eternal shame, that I have committed the greatest of crimes; but it has been the acknowledging of those which have been so foully charged on the order. I attest, and truth obliges me to attest, that it is innocent. I made the contrary declaration only to suspend the excessive pains of torture, and to mollify those who made me endure them. I know the punishments which have been inflicted on all the knights who had the courage to revoke a similar confession; but the dreadful spectacle which is presented to me is not able to make me confirm one lie by another. The life offered me on such infamous terms I abandon without regret." Molay was followed by Guy in his assertion of the innocence of the order; the other two remained silent. The commissioners were confounded, and stopped. The intelligence was conveyed to the king, who, instantly calling his council together, without any spiritual person being present, condemned the two knights to the flames. A pile was erected on that point of the islet in the Seine where afterwards was erected the statue of Henry IV., and the following day Molay and his companion were brought forth and placed upon it. They still persisted in their assertion of the innocence of the order. The flames were first applied to their feet, then to their more vital parts. The fetid smell of their burning flesh infected the surrounding air, and added to their torments; yet still they persevered in their declarations. At length death terminated their misery. The spectators shed tears at the view of their constancy, and during the night their ashes were gathered up to be preserved as relics. [Illustration: Portrait of last Grand Master.] It is mentioned as a tradition, by some historians, that Molay, ere he expired, summoned Clement to appear within forty days before the Supreme Judge, and Philip to the same tribunal within the space of a year. The pontiff actually _did_ die of a cholic on the night of the 19th of the following month, and, the church in which his body was laid taking fire, the corpse was half consumed. The king, before the year had elapsed, died of a fall from his horse. Most probably it was these events which gave rise to the tradition, which testifies the general belief of the innocence of the Templars. It was also remarked that all the active persecutors of the order perished by premature or violent deaths. It remains to discuss the two following points:--Did the religio-military order of the Knights Templars hold a secret doctrine subversive of religion and morality? Has the order been continued down to our own days? We have seen what the evidence against the Templars was, and it is very plain that such evidence would not be admitted in any modern court of justice. It was either hearsay, or given by persons utterly unworthy of credit, or wrung from the accused by agony and torture. The articles themselves are absurd and contradictory. Are we to believe that the same men had adopted the pure deism of the Mahommedans, and were guilty of a species of idolatry[103] almost too gross for the lowest superstition? But when did this corruption commence among the Templars? Were those whom St. Bernard praised as models of Christian zeal and piety, and whom the whole Christian world admired and revered, engaged in a secret conspiracy against religion and government? Yes, boldly replies Hammer, the two humble and pious knights who founded the order were the pupils and secret allies of the Mahommedan Ismaelites. This was going too far for Wilike, and he thinks that the guilt of introducing the secret doctrine lies on the chaplains; for he could discern that the doctrines of gnosticism, which the Templars are supposed to have held, were beyond the comprehension of illiterate knights, who, though they could fight and pray, were but ill qualified to enter into the mazes of mystic metaphysics. According, therefore, to one party, the whole order was corrupt from top to bottom; according to another, the secrets were confined to a few, and, contrary to all analogy, the heads of the order were frequently in ignorance of them. Neither offer any thing like evidence in support of their assumption. [Footnote 103: Almost every charge brought against the Templars had been previously made against the Albigenses, with how much truth every one is aware.] The real guilt of the Templars was their wealth and their pride[104]: the last alienated the people from them, the former excited the cupidity of the king of France. Far be it from us to maintain that the morals of the Templars were purer than those of the other religious orders. With such ample means as they possessed of indulging all their appetites and passions, it would be contrary to all experience to suppose that they always restrained them, and we will even concede that some of their members were obnoxious to charges of deism, impiety, breaches of their religious vows, and gross licentiousness. We only deny that such were the rules of the order. Had they not been so devoted as they were to the Holy See they would perhaps have come down to us as unsullied as the knights of St. John[105]; but they sided with Pope Boniface against Philip the Fair, and a subservient pontiff sacrificed to his own avarice and personal ambition the most devoted adherents of the court of Rome[106]. [Footnote 104: Our readers will call to mind the well-known anecdote of King Richard I. When admonished by the zealous Fulk, of Neuilly, to get rid of his three favourite daughters, pride, avarice, and voluptuousness,--"You counsel well," said the king, "and I hereby dispose of the first to the Templars, of the second to the Benedictines, and of the third to my prelates."] [Footnote 105: Similar charges are said to have been brought against the Hospitallers in the year 1238, but without effect. There was no Philip the Fair at that time in France.] [Footnote 106: Clement, in a bull dated but four days after that of the suppression, acknowledged that the whole of the evidence against the order amounted only to suspicion!] We make little doubt that any one who coolly and candidly considers the preceding account of the manner in which the order was suppressed will readily concede that the guilt of its members was anything but proved. It behoves their modern impugners to furnish some stronger proofs than any they have as yet brought forward. The chief adversary of the Templars at the present day is a writer whose veracity and love of justice are beyond suspicion, and who has earned for himself enduring fame by his labours in the field of oriental literature, but in whose mind, as his most partial friends must allow, learning and imagination are apt to overbalance judgment and philosophy[107]. He has been replied to by Raynouard, Münter, and other able advocates of the knights. [Footnote 107: We mean the illustrious Jos. von Hammer, whose essay on the subject is to be found in the sixth volume of the Mines de l'Orient, where it will be seen that he regards Sir W. Scott, in his Ivanhoe, as a competent witness against the Templars, on account of his _correct and faithful_ pictures of the manners and opinions of the middle ages. We apprehend that people are beginning now to entertain somewhat different ideas on the subject of our great romancer's fidelity, of which the present pages present some instances.] We now come to the question of the continuance of the order to the present day. That it has in some sort been transmitted to our times is a matter of no doubt; for, as we have just seen, the king of Portugal formed the Order of Christ out of the Templars in his dominions. But our readers are no doubt aware that the freemasons assert a connexion with the Templars, and that there is a society calling themselves Templars, whose chief seat is at Paris, and whose branches extend into England and other countries. The account which they give of themselves is as follows:-- James de Molay, in the year 1314, in anticipation of his speedy martyrdom, appointed Johannes Marcus Lormenius to be his successor in his dignity. This appointment was made by a regular well-authenticated charter, bearing the signatures of the various chiefs of the order, and it is still preserved at Paris, together with the statutes, archives, banners, &c., of the soldiery of the Temple. There has been an unbroken succession of grand-masters down to the present times, among whom are to be found some of the most illustrious names in France. Bertrand du Guesclin was grand-master for a number of years; the dignity was sustained by several of the Montmorencies; and during the last century the heads of the society were princes of the different branches of the house of Bourbon. Bernard Raymond Fabré Palaprat is its head at present, at least was so a few years ago[108]. [Footnote 108: See Manuel des Templiers. As this book is only sold to members of the society, we have been unable to obtain a copy of it. Our account has been derived from Mills's History of Chivalry. That this writer should have believed it implicitly is, we apprehend, no proof of its truth.] This is no doubt a very plausible circumstantial account; but, on applying the Ithuriel spear of criticism to it, various ugly shapes resembling falsehood start up. Thus Molay, we are told, appointed his successor in 1314. He was put to death on the 18th March of that year, and the order had been abolished nearly a year before. Why then did he delay so long, and why was he become so apprehensive of martyrdom at that time, especially when, as is well known, there was then no intention of putting him to death? Again, where were the chiefs of the society at that time? How many of them were living? and how could they manage to assemble in the dungeon of Molay and execute a formal instrument! Moreover, was it not repugnant to the rules and customs of the Templars for a Master to appoint his successor? These are a few of the objections which we think may be justly made; and, on the whole, we feel strongly disposed to reject the whole story. As to the freemasons, we incline to think that it was the accidental circumstance of the name of the Templars which has led them to claim a descent from that order; and it is possible that, if the same fate had fallen on the knights of St. John, the claim had never been set up. We are very far from denying that at the time of the suppression of the order of the Temple there was a secret doctrine in existence, and that the overthrow of the papal power, with its idolatry, superstition, and impiety, was the object aimed at by those who held it, and that freemasonry may possibly be that doctrine under another name[109]. But we are perfectly convinced that no proof of any weight has been given of the Templars' participation in that doctrine, and that all probability is on the other side. We regard them, in fine, whatever their sins may have been, as martyrs--martyrs to the cupidity, blood-thirstiness, and ambition of the king of France. [Footnote 109: This has, we think, been fully proved by Sr. Rossetti. It must not be concealed that this writer strongly asserts that the Templars were a branch of this society.] THE SECRET TRIBUNALS OF WESTPHALIA[110]. [Footnote 110: Dr. Berck has, in his elaborate work on this subject (_Geschichte der Westphälischen Femgerichte_, Bremen, 1815), collected, we believe, nearly all the information that is now attainable. This work has been our principal guide; for, though we have read some others, we cannot say that we have derived any important information from them. As the subject is in its historical form entirely new in English literature, we have, at the hazard of appearing occasionally dry, traced with some minuteness the construction and mode of procedure of these celebrated courts.] CHAPTER I. Introduction--The Original Westphalia--Conquest of the Saxons by Charlemagne--His Regulations--Dukes of Saxony--State of Germany--Henry the Lion--His Outlawry--Consequences of it--Origin of German Towns--Origin of the Fehm-gerichte, or Secret Tribunals--Theories of their Origin--Origin of their Name--Synonymous Terms. We are now arrived at an association remarkable in itself, but which has been, by the magic arts of romancers, especially of the great archimage of the north, enveloped in darkness, mystery, and awe, far beyond the degree in which such a poetical investiture can be bestowed upon it by the calm inquirer after truth. The gloom of midnight will rise to the mind of many a reader at the name of the Secret Tribunals of Westphalia: a dimly lighted cavern beneath the walls of some castle, or peradventure Swiss _hostelrie_, wherein sit black-robed judges in solemn silence, will be present to his imagination, and he is prepared with breathless anxiety to peruse the details of deeds without a name[111]. [Footnote 111: The romantic accounts of the Secret Tribunals will be found in Sir W. Scott's translation of Goëthe's Götz von Berlichingen, and in his House of Aspen and Anne of Geierstein. From various passages in Sir W. Scott's biographical and other essays, it is plain that he believed such to be the true character of the Secret Tribunals.] We fear that we cannot promise the full gratification of these high-wrought expectations. Extraordinary as the Secret Tribunals really were, we can only view them as an instance of that compensating principle which may be discerned in the moral as well as in the natural empire of the Deity; for, during the most turbulent and lawless period of the history of Germany, almost the sole check on crime, in a large portion of that country, was the salutary terror of these Fehm-Gerichte, or Secret Tribunals. And those readers who have taken their notions of them only from works of fiction will learn with surprise that no courts of justice at the time exceeded, or perhaps we might say equalled, them in the equity of their proceedings. Unfortunately their history is involved in much obscurity, and we cannot, as in the case of the two preceding societies, clearly trace this association from its first formation to the time when it became evanescent and faded from the view. While it flourished, the dread and the fear of it weighed too heavily on the minds of men to allow them to venture to pry into its mysteries. Certain and instantaneous death was the portion of the stranger who was seen at any place where a tribunal was sitting, or who dared so much as to look into the books which contained the laws and ordinances of the society. Death was also the portion of any member of the society who revealed its secrets; and so strongly did this terror, or a principle of honour, operate, that, as Æneas Sylvius (afterwards Pope Pius II.), the secretary of the Emperor Frederick III., assures us, though the number of the members usually exceeded 100,000, no motive had ever induced a single one to be faithless to his trust. Still, however, sufficient materials are to be found for satisfying all reasonable curiosity on the subject. To ascertain the exact and legal sphere of the operation of this formidable jurisdiction, and to point out its most probable origin, are necessary preliminaries to an account of its constitution and its proceedings. We shall therefore commence with the consideration of these points. Westphalia, then, was the birth-place of this institution, and over Westphalia alone did it exercise authority. But the Westphalia of the middle ages did not exactly correspond with that of the later times. In a general sense it comprehended the country between the Rhine and the Weser; its southern boundary was the mountains of Hesse; its northern, the district of Friesland, which at that time extended from Holland to Sleswig. In the records and law-books of the middle ages, this land bears the mystic appellation of the _red earth_, a name derived, as one writer thinks, from the _gules_, or red, which was the colour of the field in the ducal shield of Saxony; another regards it as synonymous with the _bloody earth_; and a third hints that it may owe its origin to the _red_ colour of the soil in some districts of Westphalia. This land formed a large portion of the country of the Saxons, who, after a gallant resistance of thirty years, were forced to submit to the sway of Charlemagne, and to embrace the religion of their conqueror. The Saxons had hitherto lived in a state of rude independence, and their dukes and princes possessed little or no civil power, being merely the presidents in their assemblies and their leaders in war. Charlemagne thought it advisable to abolish this dignity altogether, and he extended to the country of the Saxons the French system of counts and counties. Each count was merely a royal officer who exercised in the district over which he was placed the civil and military authority. The _missi dominici_ or _regii_ were despatched from the court to hold their visitations in Saxony, as well as in the other dominions of Charles, and at these persons of all classes might appear and prefer their complaints to the representative of the king, if they thought themselves aggrieved by the count or any of the inferior officers. In the reign of Louis the German, the excellent institutions of Charlemagne had begun to fall into desuetude; anarchy and violence had greatly increased. The incursions of the Northmen had become most formidable, and the Vends[112] also gave great disturbance to Germany. The Saxon land being the part most immediately exposed to invasion, the emperor resolved to revive the ancient dignity of dukes, and to place the district under one head, who might direct the energies of the whole people against the invaders. The duke was a royal lieutenant, like the counts, only differing from them in the extent of the district over which he exercised authority. The first duke of Saxony was Count Ludolf, the founder of Gandersheim; on his death the dignity was conferred on his son Bruno, who, being slain in the bloody battle of Ebsdorf fought against the Northmen, was succeeded by his younger brother Otto, the father of Henry the Fowler. [Footnote 112: The Vends (_Wenden_) were a portion of the Slavonian race who dwelt along the south coast of the Baltic.] On the failure of the German branch of the Carlovingians, the different nations which composed the Germanic body appointed Conrad the Franconian to be their supreme head; for a new enemy, the Magyars, or Hungarians, now harassed the empire, and energy was demanded from its chief. Of this Conrad himself was so convinced, that, when dying, after a short reign, he recommended to the choice of the electors, not his own brother, but Henry the Fowler, Duke of Saxony, who had, in his conflicts with the Vends and the Northmen, given the strongest proofs of his talents and valour. Henry was chosen, and the measures adopted by him during his reign, and the defeat of the Hungarians, justified the act of his elevation. On the death of Henry, his son Otto, afterwards justly styled the Great, was unanimously chosen to succeed him in the imperial dignity. Otto conferred the Duchy of Saxony on Herman Billung. From their constant warfare with the Vends and the Northmen, the Saxons were now esteemed the most valiant nation in Germany, and they were naturally the most favoured by the emperors of the house of Saxony. This line ending with Henry II. in 1024, the sceptre passed to that of Franconia, under which and the succeeding line of Suabia, owing to the contests with the popes about investitures and to various other causes, the imperial power greatly declined in Germany; anarchy and feuds prevailed to an alarming extent; the castles of the nobles became dens of robbers; and law and justice were nowhere to be found. The most remarkable event of this disastrous period, and one closely connected with our subject, is the outlawry of Henry the Lion, Duke of Saxony and Bavaria. Magnus, the last of the Billungs of Saxony, died, leaving only two daughters, of whom the eldest was married to Henry the Black, Duke of Bavaria, who consequently had, according to the maxims of that age, a right to the Duchy of Saxony; but the Emperor Henry V. refused to admit his claim, and conferred it on Lothaire of Supplinburg. As, however, Henry the Black's son, Henry the Proud, was married to the only daughter of Lothaire, and this prince succeeded Henry V. in the empire, Henry found no difficulty in obtaining the Duchy of Saxony from his father-in-law, who also endeavoured to have him chosen his successor in the imperial dignity. But the other princes were jealous of him, and on the death of Lothaire they hastily elected Conrad of Suabia, who, under the pretext that no duke should possess two duchies, called on Henry to resign either Saxony or Bavaria. On his refusal, Conrad, in conjunction with the princes of the empire, pronounced them both forfeited, and conferred Bavaria on the Margraf of Austria, and Saxony on Albert the Bear, the son of the second daughter of Duke Magnus of Saxony. Saxony was, however, afterwards restored by Conrad to Henry the Lion, son of Henry the Proud, and Conrad's successor, Frederick Barbarossa, gave him again Bavaria. Henry had himself carried his arms from the Elbe to the Baltic, and conquered a considerable territory from the Vends, which he regarded as his own peculiar principality. He was now master of the greater part of Germany, and it was quite evident that he must either obtain the imperial dignity or fall. His pride and his severity made him many enemies; but as he had no child but a daughter, who was married to a cousin of the emperor, his power was regarded without much apprehension. It was, however, the ambition of Henry to be the father of a race of heroes, and, after the fashion of those times, he divorced his wife and espoused Matilda, daughter of Henry II. of England, by whom he had four sons. Owing to this and other circumstances all friendly feeling ceased between Henry and the emperor, whom, however, he accompanied on the expedition to Italy, which terminated in the battle of Legnano. But he suddenly drew off his forces and quitted the imperial army on the way, and Frederick, imputing the ill success which he met with in a great measure to the conduct of the Duke of Saxony, was, on his return to Germany, in a mood to lend a ready ear to any charges against him. These did not fail soon to pour in: the Saxon clergy, over whom he had arrogated a right of investiture, appeared as his principal accusers. Their charges, which were partly true, partly false, were listened to by Frederick and the princes of the empire, and the downfall of Henry was resolved upon. He was thrice summoned, but in vain, to appear and answer the charges made against him. He was summoned a fourth time, but to as little purpose; the sentence of outlawry was then formally pronounced at Würtzburg. He denied the legality of the sentence, and attempted to oppose its execution; several counts stood by him in his resistance; but he was forced to submit and sue for grace at Erfurt. The emperor pardoned him and permitted him to retain his allodial property on condition of his leaving Germany for three years. He was deprived of all his imperial fiefs, which were immediately bestowed upon others. In the division of the spoil of Henry the Lion Saxony was cut up into pieces; a large portion of it went to the Archbishop of Cologne; and Bernhard of Anhalt, son of Albert the Bear, obtained a considerable part of the remainder; the supremacy over Holstein, Mecklenburg, and Pomerania, ceased; and Lübeck became a free imperial city. All the archbishops, bishops, counts, and barons, seized as much as they could, and became immediate vassals of the empire. Neither Bernhard nor the Archbishop of Cologne was able completely to establish his power over the portion assigned him, and lawless violence everywhere prevailed. "There was no king in Israel, and every one did that which was right in his own eyes," is the language of the Chronicler[113]. [Footnote 113: Arnold of Lübeck, Chronica Slavorum, l. iii. c. 1., apud Leibnitz Scriptores Rerum Brunsvicarum, t. ii. p. 653.] We here again meet an instance of the compensatory principle which prevails in the arrangements of Providence. It was the period of turbulence and anarchy succeeding the outlawry of Henry the Lion which gave an impulse to the building or enlarging of towns in the north of Germany. The free Germans, as described by Tacitus, scorned to be pent up within walls and ditches; and their descendants in Saxony would seem to have inherited their sentiments, for there were no towns in that country till the time of Henry the Fowler. As a security against the Northmen, the Slavs, and the Magyars, this monarch caused pieces of land to be enclosed by earthen walls and ditches, within which was collected a third part of the produce of the surrounding country, and in which he made every ninth man of the population fix his residence. The courts of justice were held in these places to give them consequence; and, their strength augmenting with their population, they became towns capable of resisting the attacks of the enemy, and of giving shelter and defence to the people of the open country. Other towns, such as Münster, Osnabrück (_Osnaburgh_), Paderborn, and Minden, grew up gradually, from the desire of the people to dwell close to abbeys, churches, and episcopal residences, whence they might obtain succour in time of temporal or spiritual need, and derive protection from the reverence shown to the church. A third class of towns owed their origin to the stormy period of which we now write; for the people of the open country, the victims of oppression and tyranny, fled to where they might, in return for their obedience, meet with some degree of protection, and erected their houses at the foot of the castle of some powerful nobleman. These towns gradually increased in power, with the favour of the emperors, who, like other monarchs, viewing in them allies against the excessive power of the church and the nobility, gladly bestowed on them extensive privileges; and from these originated the celebrated Hanseatic League, to which almost every town of any importance in Westphalia belonged, either mediately or immediately. But the growth of cities, and the prosperity and the better system of social regulation which they presented, were not the only beneficial effects which resulted from the overthrow of the power of Henry the Lion. There is every reason to conclude that it was at this period that the Fehm-gerichte, or Secret Tribunals, were instituted in Westphalia; at least, the earliest document in which there is any clear and express mention of them is dated in the year 1267. This is an instrument by which Engelbert, Count of the Mark, frees one Gervin of Kinkenrode from the feudal obligations for his inheritance of Broke, which was in the county of Mark; and it is declared to have been executed at a place named Berle, the court being presided over by Bernhard of Henedorp, and the _Fehmenotes_ being present. By the Fehmenotes were at all times understood the initiated in the secrets of the Westphalian tribunals; so that we have here a clear and decisive proof of the existence of these tribunals at that time. In another document, dated 1280, the Fehmenotes again appear as witnesses, and after this time the mention of them becomes frequent. We thus find that, in little more than half a century after the outlawry of Henry the Lion, the Fehm-gerichte were in operation in Westphalia; and there is not the slightest allusion to them before that date, or any proof, at all convincing, to be produced in favour of their having been an earlier institution. Are we not, therefore, justified in adopting the opinion of those who place their origin in the first half of the thirteenth century, and ascribe it to the anarchy and confusion consequent on the removal of the power which had hitherto kept within bounds the excesses of the nobles and the people? And is it a conjecture altogether devoid of probability that some courageous and upright men may have formed a secret determination to apply a violent remedy to the intolerable evils which afflicted the country, and to have adopted those expedients for preserving the public peace, out of which gradually grew the Secret Tribunals? or that some powerful prince of the country, acting from purely selfish motives, devised the plan of the society, and appointed his judges to make the first essay of it[114]? [Footnote 114: Berck, pp. 259, 260.] Still it must be confessed that the origin of the Fehm-gerichte is involved in the same degree of obscurity which hangs over that of the Hanseatic league and so many other institutions of the middle ages; and little hopes can be entertained of this obscurity ever being totally dispelled. Conjecture will, therefore, ever have free scope of the subject; and the opinion which we have just expressed ourselves as inclined to adopt is only one of nine which have been already advanced on it. Four of these carry back the origin of the Fehm-gerichte to the time of Charlemagne, making them to have been either directly instituted by that great prince, or to have gradually grown out of some of his other institutions for the better governing of his states. A fifth places their origin in the latter half of the eleventh century, and regards them as an invention of the Westphalian clergy for forwarding the views of the popes in their attempt to arrive at dominion over all temporal princes. A sixth ascribes the institution to St. Engelbert, Archbishop of Cologne, to whom the Emperor Frederic II. committed the administration of affairs in Germany during his own absence in Sicily, and who was distinguished for his zeal in the persecution of heretics. He modelled it, the advocates of this opinion say, on that of the Inquisition, which had lately been established. The seventh and eighth theories are undeserving of notice. On the others we shall make a few remarks. The first writers who mention the Fehm-gerichte are Henry of Hervorden, a Dominican, who wrote against them in the reign of the Emperor Charles IV., about the middle of the fourteenth century; and Æneas Sylvius, the secretary of Frederic III., a century later. These writers are among those who refer the origin of the Fehm-gerichte to Charlemagne, and such was evidently the current opinion of the time--an opinion studiously disseminated by the members of the society, who sought to give it consequence in the eyes of the emperor and people, by associating it with the memory of the illustrious monarch of the West. There is, however, neither external testimony nor internal probability to support that opinion. Eginhart, the secretary and biographer of Charlemagne, and all the other contemporary writers, are silent on the subject; the valuable fragments of the ancient Saxon laws collected in the twelfth century make not the slightest allusion to these courts; and, in fine, their spirit and mode of procedure are utterly at variance with the Carlovingian institutions. As to the hypothesis which makes Archbishop Engelbert the author of the Fehm-gerichte, it is entirely unsupported by external evidence, and has nothing in its favour but the coincidence, in point of time, of Engelbert's administration with the first account which we have of this jurisdiction, and the similarity which it bore in the secrecy of its proceedings to that of the Holy Inquisition--a resemblance easy to be accounted for, without any necessity for having recourse to the supposition of the one being borrowed from the other. We can therefore only say with certainty that, in the middle of the thirteenth century, the Fehm-gerichte were existing and in operation in the country which we have described as the Westphalia of the middle ages. To this we may add that this jurisdiction extended over the whole of that country, and was originally confined to it, all the courts in other parts of Germany, which bore a resemblance to the Westphalian Fehm-gerichte, being of a different character and nature[115]. [Footnote 115: See Berck, l. i. c. 5, 6, 7.] It remains, before proceeding to a description of these tribunals, to give some account of the origin of their name. And here again we find ourselves involved in as much difficulty and uncertainty as when inquiring into the origin of the society itself. Almost every word in the German and cognate languages, which bears the slightest resemblance to the word _Fehm_[116], has been given by some writer or other as its true etymon. It is unnecessary, in the present sketch of the history of the Fehm-gerichte, to discuss the merits of each of the claimants: we shall content ourselves with remarking that, among those which appear to have most probability in their favour, is the Latin _Fama_, which was first proposed by Leibnitz. At the time when we have most reason for supposing these tribunals to have been instituted the Germans were familiar with the language of the civil and canonical laws; the Fehm-gerichte departed from the original maxim of German law, which was--_no accuser, no judge_, and, in imitation of those foreign laws[117], proceeded on _common fame_, and without any formal accusation against persons suspected of crime or of evil courses. Moreover, various tribunals, not in Westphalia, which proceeded in the same manner, on common report, were also called Fehm-gerichte, which may therefore be interpreted Fame-tribunals, or such as did not, according to the old German rule, require a formal accusation, but proceeded to the investigation of the truth of any charge which common fame or general report made against any person--a dangerous mode of proceeding, no doubt, and one liable to the greatest abuse, but which the lawless state of Germany at that period, and the consequent impunity which great criminals would else have enjoyed, from the fear of them, which would have kept back accusers and witnesses, perhaps abundantly justified. It is proper to observe, however, that _fem_ appears to be an old German word, signifying condemnation; and it is far from being unlikely, after all, that the Fehm-gerichte may mean merely the tribunals of condemnation--in other words, courts for the punishment of crime, or what we should call criminal courts. [Footnote 116: Spelt also _Fem_, _Fäm_, _Vem_, _Vehm_. In German _f_ and _v_ are pronounced alike, as also are _ä_ and _e_. The words from which _Fahm_ has been derived are _Fahne_, a standard; _Femen_, to skin; _Fehde_, feud; _Vemi_ (i. e. væ mihi), wo is me; _Ve_ or _Vaem_, which Dreyer says signifies, in the northern languages, _holy_; _Vitte_ (old German), prudence; _Vette_, punishment; the _Fimmiha_ of the Salic law; Swedish _Fem_, Islandic _Fimm_, five, such being erroneously supposed to be the number of judges in a Fehm, or court. Finally, Mözer deduces it from _Fahm_, which he says is employed in Austria and some other countries for _Rahm_, cream.] [Footnote 117: Common fame was a sufficient ground of arraignment in England, also, in the Anglo-Saxon period.] The Fehm-gerichte was not the only name which these tribunals bore; they were also called _Fehm-ding_, the word _ding_[118] being, in the middle ages, equivalent to _gericht_, or tribunal. They were also called the Westphalian tribunals, as they could only be holden in the _Red Land_, or Westphalia, and only Westphalians were amenable to their jurisdiction. They were further styled free-seats (_Frei-stühle_, _stühl_ also being the same as _gericht_), free-tribunals, &c., as only freemen were subject to them. A Frei-gericht, however, was not a convertible term with a Westphalian Fehm-gericht; the former was the genus, the latter the species. They are in the records also named Secret Tribunals, (_Heimliche Gerichte_), and Silent Tribunals (_Stillgerichte_), from the secrecy of their proceedings; Forbidden Tribunals (_Verbotene Gerichte_), the reason of which name is not very clear; Carolinian Tribunals, as having been, as was believed, instituted by Charles the Great; also the Free Bann, which last word was equivalent to _jurisdiction_. A Fehm-gericht was also termed a _Heimliche Acht_, and a _Heimliche beschlossene Acht_ (secret and secret-closed tribunal); _acht_ also being the same as _gericht_, or tribunal. [Footnote 118: In the northern languages, _Ting_; hence the _Store Ting_ (in our journals usually written _Storthing_), i. e. _Great Ting_, or Parliament of Norway.] CHAPTER II. The Tribunal-Lord--The Count--The Schöppen--The Messengers--The Public Court--The Secret Tribunal--Extent of its Jurisdiction--Places of holding the Courts--Time of holding them--Proceedings in them--Process where the criminal was caught in the fact--Inquisitorial Process. Having traced the origin of the Fehm-gerichte and their various appellations, as far as the existing documents and other evidences admit, we are now to describe the constitution and procedure of these celebrated tribunals, and to ascertain who were the persons that composed them; whence their authority was derived; and over what classes of persons their jurisdiction extended. Even in the periods of greatest anarchy in Germany, the emperor was regarded as the fountain of all judicial power and authority, more particularly where it extended to the right of inflicting capital punishment. The Fehm-gerichte, therefore, regarded the emperor as their head, from whom they derived all the power which they possessed, and acknowledged his right to control and modify their constitution and decisions. These rights of the emperors we shall, in the sequel, describe at length. Between the emperor and the Westphalian tribunal-lords (_Stuhlherren_), as they were styled, that is, lay and ecclesiastical territorial lords, there was no intermediate authority until the fourteenth century, when the Archbishop of Cologne was made the imperial lieutenant in Westphalia. Each tribunal-lord had his peculiar district, within which he had the power of erecting-tribunals, and beyond which his authority did not extend. He either presided in person in his court, or he appointed a count (_Freigraf_) to supply his place. The rights of a stuhlherr[119] had some resemblance to those of the owner of an advowson in this country. He had merely the power of nominating either himself or another person as count; the right to inflict capital punishment was to be conferred by the emperor or his deputy. To this end, when a tribunal-lord presented a count for investiture, he was obliged to certify on oath that the person so presented was truly and honestly, both by father and mother, born on Westphalian soil; that he stood in no ill repute; that he knew of no open crime he had committed; and that he believed him to be perfectly well qualified to preside over the county. [Footnote 119: _Stuhlherr_ is _tribunal-lord_, or, literally, _lord of the seat_ (of judgment); _stuhl_ (_Anglice_, stool) being a seat, or chair.] The count, on being appointed, was to swear that he would judge truly and justly, according to the law and the regulations of the emperor Charles and the _closed tribunal_; that he would be obedient to the emperor or king, and his lieutenant; and that he would repair, at least once in each year, to the general chapter which was to be held on the Westphalian land, and give an account of his conduct, &c. The income of the free-count arose from fees and a share in fines; he had also a fixed allowance in money or in kind from the stuhlherr. Each free-schöppe who was admitted made him a present, _to repair_, as the laws express it, _his countly hat_. If the person admitted was a knight, this fee was a mark of gold; if not, a mark of silver. Every one of the initiated who cleared himself by oath from any charge paid the count a cross-penny. He had a share of all the fines imposed in his court, and a fee on citations, &c. There was in general but one count to each tribunal; but instances occur of there being as many as seven or eight. The count presided in the court, and the citations of the accused proceeded from him. Next to the count were the assessors or (_Schöppen_)[120]. These formed the main body and strength of the society. They were nominated by the count with the approbation of the tribunal-lord. Two persons, who were already in the society, were obliged to vouch on oath for the fitness of the candidate to be admitted. It was necessary that he should be a German by birth; born in wedlock of free parents; of the Christian religion; neither ex-communicate nor outlawed; not involved in any Fehm-gericht process; a member of no spiritual order, &c. [Footnote 120: This word, which cannot be adequately translated, is the low-Latin _Scabini_, the French _Echevins_. We shall take the liberty of using it throughout. The schöppen were called frei-(_free_) schöppen, as the count was called _frei-graf_, the court _frei-stuhl_, on account of the jurisdiction of the tribunals being confined to freemen.] These schöppen were divided into two classes, the knightly, and the simple, respectable assessors; for, as the maxim that every man should be judged by his peers prevailed universally during the middle ages, it was necessary to conform to it also in the Fehm-tribunals. Previous to their admission to a knowledge of the secrets of the society, the schöppen were named Ignorant; when they had been initiated they were called Knowing (_Wissende_) or Fehmenotes. It was only these last who were admitted to the secret-tribunal. The initiation of a schöppe was attended with a good deal of ceremony. He appeared bare-headed before the assembled tribunal, and was there questioned respecting his qualifications. Then, kneeling down, with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand on a naked sword and a halter, he pronounced the following oath after the count:-- "I promise, on the holy marriage, that I will, from henceforth, aid, keep, and conceal the holy Fehms, from wife and child, from father and mother, from sister and brother, from fire and wind, from all that the sun shines on and the rain covers, from all that is between sky and ground, especially from the man who knows the law, and will bring before this free tribunal, under which I sit, all that belongs to the secret jurisdiction of the emperor, whether I know it to be true myself, or have heard it from trustworthy people, whatever requires correction or punishment, whatever is Fehm-free (_i. e._ a crime committed in the county), that it may be judged, or, with the consent of the accuser, be put off in grace; and will not cease so to do, for love or for fear, for gold or for silver, or for precious stones; and will strengthen this tribunal and jurisdiction with all my five senses and power; and that I do not take on me this office for any other cause than for the sake of right and justice; moreover, that I will ever further and honour this free tribunal more than any other free tribunals; and what I thus promise will I stedfastly and firmly keep, so help me God and his Holy Gospel." He was further obliged to swear that he would ever, to the best of his ability, enlarge the holy empire; and that he would undertake nothing with unrighteous hand against the land and people of the stuhlherr. The count then inquired of the officers of the court (the _Frohnboten_) if the candidate had gone through all the formalities requisite to reception, and when that officer had answered in the affirmative, the count revealed to the aspirant the secrets of the tribunal, and communicated to him the secret sign by which the initiated knew one another. What this sign was is utterly unknown: some say that when they met at table they used to turn the point of their knife to themselves, and the haft away from them. Others take the letters S S G G, which were found in an old MS. at Herford, to have been the sign, and interpret them _Stock Stein, Gras Grein_. These are, however, the most arbitrary conjectures, without a shadow of proof. The count then was bound to enter the name of the new member in his register, and henceforth he was one of the powerful body of the initiated. Princes and nobles were anxious to have their chancellors and ministers, corporate towns to have their magistrates, among the initiated. Many princes sought to be themselves members of this formidable association, and we are assured that in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries (which are the only ones of which we have any particular accounts) the number of the initiated exceeded 100,000. The duty of the initiated was to go through the country to serve citations and to trace out and denounce evil-doers; or, if they caught them in the fact, to execute instant justice upon them. They were also the count's assessors when the tribunal sat. For that purpose seven at least were required to be present, all belonging to the county in which the court was held; those belonging to other counties might attend, but they could not act as assessors; they only formed a part of the by-standers of the court. Of these there were frequently some hundreds present. All the initiated of every degree might go on foot and on horseback through the country, for daring was the man who would presume to injure them, as certain death was his inevitable lot. A dreadful punishment also awaited any one of them who should forget his vow and reveal the secrets of the society; he was to be seized, a cloth bound over his eyes, his hands tied behind his back, a halter put about his neck; he was to be thrown upon his belly, his tongue pulled out behind by the nape of his neck, and he was then to be hung seven feet higher than any other felon. It is doubtful, however, if there ever was a necessity for inflicting this punishment, for Æneas Sylvius, who wrote at the time when the society had degenerated, assures us that no member had ever been induced, by any motives whatever, to betray its secrets; and he describes the initiated as grave men and lovers of right and justice. Similar language is employed concerning them by other writers of the time. Besides the count and the assessors, there were required, for the due holding a Fehm-court, the officers named _Frohnboten_[121], or serjeants, or messengers, and a clerk to enter the decisions in what was called the blood-book (_Liber sanguinis_). These were, of course, initiated, or they could not be present. It was required that the messengers should be freemen belonging to the county, and have all the qualifications of the simple schöppen. Their duty was to attend on the court when sitting, and to take care that the ignorant, against whom there was any charge, were duly cited[122]. [Footnote 121: _Frohnbote_ is interpreted a _Holy Messenger_, or a _Servant of God_.] [Footnote 122: When a person was admitted into the society he paid, besides the fee to the count already mentioned, to each schöppe who was assisting there, and to each frohnbote, four livres Tournois.] The count was to hold two kinds of courts, the one public, named the Open or Public Court (_Offenbare Ding_), to which every freeman had access; the other private, called the Secret Tribunal (_Heimliche Acht_), at which no one who was not initiated could venture to appear. The former court was held at stated periods, and at least three times in each year. It was announced fourteen days previously by the messengers (_Frohnboten_), and every householder in the county, whether initiated or not, free or servile, was bound under a penalty of four heavy shillings, to appear at it and declare on oath what crimes he knew to have been committed in the county. When the count held the Secret Court, the clergy, who had received the tonsure and ordination, women and children, Jews and Heathens[123], and, as it would appear, the higher nobility, were exempted from its jurisdiction. The clergy were exempted, probably, from prudential motives, as it was not deemed safe to irritate the members of so powerful a body, by encroaching on their privileges; they might, however, voluntarily subject themselves to the Fehm-gerichte if they were desirous of partaking of the advantages of initiation. Women and children were exempt on account of their sex and age, and the period of infancy was extended, in the citations, to fourteen, eighteen, and sometimes twenty years of age. Jews, Heathens, and such like, were exempted on account of their unworthiness. The higher nobility were exempted (if such was really the case) in compliance with the maxim of German law that each person should be judged by his peers, as it was scarcely possible that in any county there could be found a count and seven assessors of equal rank with accused persons of that class. [Footnote 123: The natives of Prussia were still heathens at that time.] In their original constitution the Fehm-gerichte, agreeably to the derivation of the name from _Fem_, condemnation, were purely criminal courts, and had no jurisdiction in civil matters. They took cognizance of all offences against the Christian faith, the holy gospel, the holy ten commandments, the public peace, and private honour--a category, however, which might easily be made to include almost every transgression and crime that could be committed. We accordingly find in the laws of the Fehm-gerichte, sacrilege, robbery, rape, murder, apostacy, treason, perjury, coining, &c., &c., enumerated; and the courts, by an astute interpretation of the law, eventually managed to make matters which had not even the most remote appearance of criminality _Fehmbar_, or within their jurisdiction. But all exceptions were disregarded in cases of contumacy, or of a person being taken in the actual commission of an offence. When a person, after being duly cited, even in a civil case, did not appear to answer the charge against him, he was outlawed, and his offence became _fehmbar_; every judge was then authorized to seize the accused, whether he belonged to his county or not; the whole force of the initiated was now directed against him, and escape was hardly possible. Here it was that the superior power of the Fehm-gerichte exhibited itself. Other courts could outlaw as well as they, but no other had the same means of putting its sentences into execution. The only remedy which remained for the accused was to offer to appear and defend his cause, or to sue to the emperor for protection. In cases where a person was caught _flagranti delicto_, the Westphalian tribunals were competent to proceed to instant punishment. Those who derive their knowledge of the Fehm-gerichte from plays and romances are apt to imagine that they were always held in subterranean chambers, or in the deepest recesses of impenetrable forests, while night, by pouring her deepest gloom over them, added to their awfulness and solemnity. Here, as elsewhere, we must, however reluctantly, lend our aid to dispel the illusions of fiction. They were _not_ held either in woods or in vaults, and rarely even under a roof. There is only _one_ recorded instance of a Fehm-gericht being held under ground, viz., at Heinberg, under the house of John Menkin. At Paderborn indeed it was held in the town-house; there was also one held in the castle of Wulften. But the situation most frequently selected for holding a court was some place under the blue canopy of heaven, for the free German still retained the predilection of his ancestors for open space and expansion. Thus at Nordkirchen and Südkirchen (_north and south church_) the court was held in the churchyard; at Dortmund, in the market-place close by the town-house. But the favourite place for holding these courts was the neighbourhood of trees, as in the olden time: and we read of the tribunal at Arensberg in the orchard; of another under the hawthorn; of a third under the pear-tree; of a fourth under the linden, and so on. We also find the courts denominated simply from the trees by which they were held, such as the tribunal at the elder, that at the broad oak, &c. The idea of their being held at night is also utterly devoid of proof, no mention of any such practice being found in any of the remaining documents. It is much more analogous to Germanic usage to infer that, as the Public Court, and the German courts in general, were held in the morning, soon after the break of day, such was also the rule with the Secret Court. When an affair was brought before a Fehm-court, the first point to be determined was whether it was a matter of Fehm-jurisdiction. Should such prove to be the case, the accused was summoned to appear and answer the charge before the Public Court. All sorts of persons, Jews and Heathens included, might be summoned before this court, at which the uninitiated schöppen also gave attendance, and which was as public as any court in Germany. If the accused did not appear, or appeared and could not clear himself, the affair was transferred to the Secret Court. Civil matters also, which on account of a denial of satisfaction were brought before the Fehm-court, were, in like manner, in cases of extreme contumacy, transferred thither. The Fehm-tribunals had three different modes of procedure, namely, that in case of the criminal being taken in the fact, the inquisitorial, and the purely accusatorial. Two things were requisite in the first case; the criminal must be taken in the fact, and there must be three schöppen, at least, present to punish him. With respect to the first particular, the legal language of Saxony gave great extent to the term _taken in the fact_. It applied not merely to him who was seized in the instant of his committing the crime, but to him who was caught as he was running away. In cases of murder, those who were found with weapons in their hands were considered as taken in the fact; as also, in case of theft, was a person who had the key of any place in which stolen articles were found, unless he could prove that they came there without his consent or knowledge. The Fehm-law enumerated three tokens or proofs of guilt in these cases; the Habende Hand (_Having Hand_), or having the proof in his hand; the Blickende Schein (_looking appearance_), such as the wound in the body of one who was slain; and the Gichtige Mund (_faltering mouth_), or confession of the criminal. Still, under all these circumstances, it was necessary that he should be taken immediately; for if he succeeded in making his escape, and was caught again, as he was not this time taken in the fact, he must be proceeded against before the tribunal with all the requisite formalities. The second condition was, that there should be at least three initiated persons together, to entitle them to seize, try, and execute a person taken in the fact. These then were at the same time judges, accusers, witnesses, and executioners. We shall in the sequel describe their mode of procedure. It is a matter of uncertainty whether the rule of trial by peers was observed on these occasions: what is called the Arensberg Reformation of the Fehm-law positively asserts, that, in case of a person being taken _flagranti delicto_, birth formed no exemption, and the noble was to be tried like the commoner. The cases, however, in which three of the initiated happened to come on a criminal in the commission of the fact must have been of extremely rare occurrence. When a crime had been committed, and the criminal had not been taken in the fact, there remained two ways of proceeding against him, namely, the _inquisitorial_ and the _accusatorial_ processes. It depended on circumstances which of these should be adopted. In the case, however, of his being initiated, it was imperative that he should be proceeded against accusatorially. Supposing the former course to have been chosen,--which was usually done when the criminal had been taken in the fact, but had contrived to escape, or when he was a man whom common fame charged openly and distinctly with a crime,--he was not cited to appear before the court or vouchsafed a hearing. He was usually denounced by one of the initiated; the court then examined into the evidence of his guilt, and if it was found sufficient he was outlawed, or, as it was called, _forfehmed_[124], and his name was inscribed in the blood-book. A sentence was immediately drawn out, in which all princes, lords, nobles, towns, every person, in short, especially the initiated, were called upon to lend their aid to justice. This sentence, of course, could originally have extended only to Westphalia; but the Fehm-courts gradually enlarged their claims; their pretensions were favoured by the emperors, who regarded them as a support to their authority; and it was soon required that their sentence should be obeyed all over the empire, as emanating from the imperial power. [Footnote 124: In German _Verfehmt_. We have ventured to coin the word in the text. The English for answers to the German _ver_; _vergessen_ is _forget_; _verloren_ is _forlorn_.] Unhappy now was he who was _forfehmed_; the whole body of the initiated, that is 100,000 persons, were in pursuit of him. If those who met him were sufficient in number, they seized him at once; if they felt themselves too weak, they called on their brethren to aid, and every one of the society was bound, when thus called on by three or four of the initiated, who averred to him on oath that the man was _forfehmed_, to help to take him. As soon as they had seized the criminal they proceeded without a moment's delay to execution; they hung him on a tree by the road-side and not on a gallows, intimating thereby that they were entitled to exercise their office in the king's name anywhere they pleased, and without any regard to territorial jurisdiction. The halter which they employed was, agreeably to the usage of the middle ages, a _withy_; and they are said to have had so much practice, and to have arrived at such expertness in this business, that the word _Fehmen_ at last began to signify simply _to hang_, as _execution_ has come to do in English. It is more probable, however, that this, or something very near it, was the original signification of the word from which the tribunals took their name. Should the malefactor resist, his captors were authorised to knock him down and kill him. In this case they bound the dead body to a tree, and stuck their knives beside it, to intimate that he had not been slain by robbers, but had been executed in the name of the emperor. Were the person who was _forfehmed_ uninitiated, he had no means whatever of knowing his danger till the halter was actually about his neck; for the severe penalty which awaited any one who divulged the secrets of the Fehm-courts was such as utterly to preclude the chance of a friendly hint or warning to be on his guard. Should he, however, by any casualty, such, for instance, as making his escape from those who attempted to seize him, become aware of how he stood, he might, if he thought he could clear himself, seek the protection and aid of the Stuhlherr, or of the emperor. If any one knowingly associated with or entertained a person who was _forfehmed_, he became involved in his danger. It was necessary, however, to prove that he had done so knowingly--a point which was to be determined by the emperor, or by the judge of the district in which the accused resided. This rule originally had extended only to Westphalia, but the Fehm-judges afterwards assumed a right of punishing in any part of the empire the person who entertained one who was _forfehmed_. Nothing can appear more harsh and unjust than this mode of procedure to those who would apply the ideas and maxims of the present to former times. But violent evils require violent remedies; and the disorganized state of Europe in general, and of Germany in particular, during the middle ages, was such as almost to exceed our conception. Might it not then be argued that we ought to regard as a benefit, rather than as an evil, any institution which set some bounds to injustice and violence, by infusing into the bosom of the evil-doer a salutary fear of the consequences? When a man committed a crime he knew that there was a tribunal to judge it from which his power, however great it might be, would not avail to protect him; he knew not who were the initiated, or at what moment he might fall into their hands; his very brother might be the person who had denounced him; his intimate associates might be those who would seize and execute him. So strongly was the necessity of such a power felt in general, that several cities, such as Nuremberg, Cologne, Strasburg, and others, applied for and obtained permission from the emperors, to proceed to pass sentence of death on evil-doers even unheard, when the evidence of common fame against them was satisfactory to the majority of the town-council. Several counts also obtained similar privileges, so that there were, as we may see, Fehm-courts in other places besides Westphalia, but they were far inferior to those in power, not having a numerous body of schöppen at their devotion. It is finally to be observed that it was only when the crimes were of great magnitude, and the voice of fame loud and constant, that the inquisitorial process could be properly adopted. In cases of a minor nature the accused had a right to be heard in his own behalf. Here then the inquisitorial process had its limit: if report was not sufficiently strong and overpowering, and the matter was still dubious, the offender was to be proceeded against accusatorially. If he was one of the initiated, such was his undoubted right and privilege in all cases. CHAPTER III. Accusatorial process--Persons liable to it--Mode of citation--Mode of procedure--Right of appeal. As we have stated above, the first inquiry when a matter was brought before a Fehm-court was, did it come within its jurisdiction, and, on its being found to do so, the accused was summoned before the Public Court, and when he did not appear, or could not clear himself, the cause was transferred to the Secret Court. We shall now consider the whole procedure specially. The summons was at the expense of the accuser; it was to be written on good new parchment, without any erasures, and sealed with at least seven seals, to wit, those of the count and of six assessors. The seals of the different courts were different. The summonses varied according to whether the accused was a free-count, a free-schöppe, or one of the ignorant and uninitiated, a community, a noth-schöppe, or a mere vagabond. In all cases they were to be served by schöppen. They were to have on them the name of the count, of the accuser, and of the accused, the charge, and the place where the court was to be holden. The stuhlherr was also to be previously informed of it. For a good and legal service it was requisite that two schöppen should either serve the accused personally or leave the summons openly or clandestinely at his residence, or at the place where he had taken refuge. If he did not appear to answer the charge within six weeks and three days, he was again summoned by four persons. Six weeks was the least term set for appearing to this summons, and it was requisite that a piece of imperial coin should be given with it. Should he still neglect appearing, he was summoned for the third and last time by six schöppen and a count, and the term set was six weeks and three days as before. If the accused was not merely initiated but also a count, he was treated with corresponding respect. The first summons was served by seven schöppen, the second by fourteen and four counts, and the third by twenty-one and six counts. The uninitiated, whether bond or free, did not share in the preceding advantages. The summons was served on themselves, or at their residence, by a messenger, and only once. There is some doubt as to the period set for their appearance, but it seems to have been in general the ordinary one of six weeks and three days. The summons of a town or community was usually addressed to all the male inhabitants. In general some of them were specially named in it; the Arensberg Reformation directed that the names of at least thirty persons should be inserted. The term was six weeks and three days, and those who served the summons were required to be _true and upright_ schöppen. The noth-schöppe, that is, the person who had surreptitiously become possessed of the secrets of the society, was summoned but once. The usual time was allowed him for appearing to the charge. Should the accused be a mere vagabond, one who had no fixed residence, the course adopted was to send, six weeks and three days before the day the court was to sit, and post up four summonses at a cross-road which faced the four cardinal points, placing a piece of imperial money with each. This was esteemed good and valid service, and if the accused did not appear the court proceeded to act upon it. Notwithstanding the privileges which the members of the society enjoyed, and the precautions which were employed to ensure their safety, and moreover the deadly vengeance likely to be taken on any one who should aggrieve them, we are not to suppose the service of a summons to appear before a Fehm-court to have been absolutely free from danger. The tyrannic and self-willed noble, when in his own strong castle, and surrounded by his dependents, might not scruple to inflict summary chastisement on the audacious men who presumed to summon him to answer for his crimes before a tribunal; the magistrates of a town also might indignantly spurn at the citation to appear before a Fehm-court, and treat its messengers as offenders. To provide against these cases it was determined that it should be considered good service when the summons was affixed by night to the gate of a town or castle, to the door of the house of the accused, or to the nearest alms-house. The schöppen employed were then to desire the watchman, or some person who was going by, to inform the accused of the summons being there, and they were to take away with them a chip cut from the gate or door, as a proof of the service for the court. If the accused was resolved to obey the summons, he had only to repair on the appointed day to the place where the court was to be held, the summons being his protection. Those who would persuade us that the Fehm-courts were held by night in secret places say that the mode appointed for the accused to meet the court was for him to repair three-quarters of an hour before midnight to the next cross-roads, where a schöppe was always waiting for him, who bound his eyes and led him to where the court was sitting. This, however, is all mere fiction; for the place where the court was to be held was expressly mentioned in every summons. The Fehm-courts (like the German courts in general) were holden on a Tuesday[125]. If on this day the accused, or his attorney, appeared at the appointed place, and no court was holden, the summons abated or lost its force; the same was the case when admission was refused to him and his suite, a circumstance which sometimes occurred. But should he not appear to the first summons, he was fined the first time thirty shillings, the second time sixty, the third time he was _forfehmed_. The court had however the power of granting a further respite of six weeks and three days previous to passing this last severe sentence. This term of grace was called the King's Dag, or the Emperor Charles's Day of Grace. [Footnote 125: In German, _Dienstag_, probably _Dinstag_, i.e. _Court-day_.] The plea of necessary and unavoidable absence was, however, admitted in all cases, and the Fehm-law distinctly recognised four legal impediments to appearance, namely, imprisonment, sickness, the service of God (that is, pilgrimage), and the public service. The law also justly added the following cases:--inability to cross a river for want of a bridge or a boat, or on account of a storm; the loss of his horse when the accused was riding to the court, so that he could not arrive in time; absence from the country on knightly, mercantile, or other honest occasions; and lastly, the service of his lord or master. In short, any just excuse was admitted. As long as the impediment continued in operation all proceedings against the accused were void. If the impediment arose from his being in prison, or in the public service, or that of his master, he was to notify the same by letter sealed with his seal, or else by his own oath and those of two or three other persons. The other impediments above enumerated were to be sworn to by himself alone. If the accused neglected answering the two first summonses, but appeared to the third, he was required to pay the two fines for non-appearance; but if he declared himself too poor to pay them, he was obliged to place his two fore-fingers on the naked sword which lay before the court, and swear, _by the death which God endured on the cross_, that such was the case. It was then remitted to him, and the court proceeded to his trial. When a Fehm-court sat the count presided; before him lay on the table a naked sword and a withy-halter; the former, says the law, signifying the cross on which Christ suffered and the rigour of the court, the latter denoting the punishment of evil-doers, whereby the wrath of God is appeased. On his right and left stood the clerks of the court, the assessors, and the audience. All were bare-headed, to signify, says the law, that they would proceed openly and fairly, punish men only for the crimes which they had committed, and _cover no right with unright_. They were also to have their hands uncovered to signify that they would do nothing covertly and underhand. They were to have short cloaks on their shoulders, significatory of the warm love which they should have for justice; _for as the cloak covers all the other clothes and the body, so should their love cover justice_. They were to wear neither weapons nor harness, that no one might feel any fear of them, and to indicate that they were under the peace of the emperor, king, or empire. Finally, they were to be free from wrath and sober, that drunkenness might not lead them to pass unrighteous judgment, _for drunkenness causes much wickedness_. If one who was not initiated was detected in the assembly, his process was a brief one. He was seized without any ceremony, his hands and feet were tied together, and he was hung on the next tree. Should a noth-schöppe be caught in the assembly, a halter of oaken twigs was put about his neck, and he was thrown for nine days into a dark dungeon, at the end of which time he was brought to trial, and, if he failed in clearing himself, he was proceeded with according to law, that is, was hanged. The business of the day commenced, as in German courts in general, by the count asking of the messengers if it was the day and time for holding a court under the royal authority. An affirmative answer being given, the count then asked how many assessors should there be on the tribunal, and how the seat should be filled. When these questions were answered, he proclaimed the holding of the court. Each party was permitted to bring with him as many as thirty friends to act as witnesses and compurgators. Lest, however, they might attempt to impede the course of justice, they were required to appear unarmed. Each party had, moreover, the right of being represented by his attorney. The person so employed must be initiated; he must also be the peer of the party, and if he had been engaged on either side he could not, during any stage of the action, be employed on the other, even with the permission of the party which had just engaged him. When he presented himself before the court, his credentials were carefully examined, and if found strictly conformable to what the law had enjoined, they were declared valid. It was necessary that they should have been written on good, new, and sound parchment, without blot or erasure, and be sealed by the seals of at least two frei-schöppen. The attorney of a prince of the empire appeared with a green cross in his right hand, and a golden penny of the empire in his left. He was also to have a glove on his right hand. If there were two attorneys, they were both to bear crosses and pence. The attorney of a simple prince bore a silver penny. The old law, which loves to give a reason for every thing, says, "By the cross they intimate that the prince whom they represent will, in case he should be found guilty, amend his conduct according to the direction of the faith which Jesus Christ preached, and be constant and true to the holy Christian faith, and obedient to the holy empire and justice." All the preliminaries being arranged, the trial commenced by the charge against him being made known to the accused, who was called upon for his defence. If he did not wish to defend himself in person, he was permitted to employ an advocate whom he might have brought with him. If it was a civil suit, he might, however, stay the proceedings at once by giving good security for his satisfying the claims of the plaintiff, in which case he was allowed the usual grace of six weeks and three days. He might also except to the competence of the court, or to the legality of the summons, or to anything else which would, if defective, annul the proceedings. If the accused did not appear, the regular course was for the prosecutor to _overswear_ him; that is, himself to swear by the saints to the truth of what he had stated, and six true and genuine frei-schöppen to swear that they believed him to have spoken the truth. The older Fehm-law made a great distinction between the initiated and the ignorant, and one very much to the advantage of the former. The accused, if initiated, was allowed to clear himself from the charge by laying his two fore-fingers on the naked sword, and swearing by the saints "that he was innocent of the things and the deed which the court had mentioned to him, and which the accuser charged him with, so help him God and all the saints." He then threw a cross-penny (Kreutzer?) to the court and went his way, no one being permitted to let or hinder him. But if he was one of the uninitiated, he was not permitted to clear himself in this manner, and the truth of the fact was determined by the evidence given. It is plain, however, that such a regulation as this could properly only belong to the time when none but persons of irreproachable character were initiated. As the institution degenerated, this distinction was gradually lost sight of, and facts were determined by evidence without any regard to the rank of the accused. The accuser could prevent the accused from clearing himself thus easily, by offering himself and six compurgators to swear to the truth of his charge. If the accused wanted to outweigh this evidence, he was obliged to come forward with thirteen or twenty compurgators and swear to his innocence. If he could bring the last number he was acquitted, for the law did not allow it to be exceeded; but if he had but thirteen, the accuser might then overpower him by bringing forward twenty to vouch for his veracity. If the accuser had convicted the accused, he forthwith prayed the count to grant him a just sentence. The count never took on himself the office of finding the verdict; he always directed one of the assessors to perform it. If the assessor thought the matter too difficult for his judgment, he averred on oath that such was the case, and the court then gave the duty to another, who might free himself from the responsibility in the same manner. Should none of the assessors be able to come to a decision, the matter was put off till the next court-day. But if the assessor undertook the finding of the verdict, it lay with himself whether he should do so alone, or retire to take the opinion of the other assessors and the by-standers. To give the verdict due force it must be found sitting, otherwise it might be objected to. Whether or not the assessor was bound to decide according to the majority of voices is uncertain. When the verdict had been found the assessor appeared with his colleagues before the tribunal, and delivered it to the count, who then passed sentence. What, the penalties were for different offences was a secret known only to the initiated; but, if they were of a capital nature, the halter, as was intimated by the one which lay before the count, was the instrument of punishment. Should the accused not have appeared, and been in consequence outlawed, he was _forfehmed_ by the following awful curse: it was declared that "he should be excluded from the public peace, from all liberties and rights, and the highest _un-peace_, _un-grace_, and halter be appointed for him; that he should be cut off from all communication with any Christian people, and be cursed so that he might wither in his body, and neither become any more verdant, nor increase in any manner; that his wife should be held to be a widow, and his children orphans; that he should be without honour and without right, and given up to any one; that his neck should be left to the ravens, his body to all beasts, to the birds of the air and the fishes in the water; but his soul should be commended to God," &c., &c. If he continued a year and a day under the sentence of outlawry, all his goods then fell to the emperor or king. A prince, town, or community, that incurred the sentence of outlawry, lost thereby at once all liberties, privileges, and graces. Should the sentence passed be a capital one, the count flung the halter over his head out of the inclosure of the tribunal, the schöppen spat on it, and the name of the condemned was entered in the blood-book. If the criminal was present he was instantly seized, and, according to the custom of the middle ages, when, as in the East, no disgrace was attached to the office of executioner, the task of executing him was committed to the youngest schöppe present, who forthwith hung him from the nearest tree. The quality of the criminal was duly attended to; for if he was initiated he was hung seven feet higher than any other, as being esteemed a greater criminal. If the accused was not present, all the schöppen were, as we have already described, set in pursuit of him, and wherever they caught him they hanged him without any further ceremony. The sentence was kept a profound secret from the uninitiated. A copy of it, drawn up in the usual form, and sealed with seven seals, was given to the accuser. We thus see that the proceedings in the Fehm-courts were strictly consonant to justice, and even leaned to the side of mercy. But this was not all: the right of appeal was also secured to the accused in case the schöppen who consulted about the verdict did not agree, or that the witnesses did not correspond in their evidence; or, finally, if the verdict found was considered unjust or unsuitable; which last case afforded a most ample field of appeal, for it must have been very rarely that a sentence did not appear unjust or over-severe to the party who was condemned. It was, however, necessary that the appeal should be made on publication of the sentence, or at least before the court broke up. The parties were allowed to retire for a few minutes, to consult with their friends who had accompanied them. If they did not then say that they would appeal, the sentence was declared absolute, and they were forbidden, under heavy penalties, to oppose it in any other court. If they did resolve to appeal, both parties were obliged to give security _de lite prosequenda_. Should either party, being poor or a stranger, be unable to give security, his oath was held to be sufficient, that, as the law humanely and justly expresses it, "the stranger or the poor man may be able to seek his right in the Holy Roman Empire as well as the native or the rich man." The appeal lay to the general chapter of the _Secret closed Tribunal of the Imperial Chamber_, which usually, if not constantly, sat at Dortmund; or it lay to the emperor, or king, as the supreme head of these tribunals. In case of the monarch being initiated, he could examine into the cause himself; otherwise he was obliged to commit the inquiry to such of his councillors as were initiated, or to initiated commissioners, and that only on Westphalian soil. Of this species of appeal there are numerous instances. Finally, the appeal might be made to the imperial lieutenant, who then inquired into the matter himself, with the aid of some initiated schöppen, or brought it before the general chapter of which he was president. There was no appeal to the emperor from his sentence, or from that of the chapter. There were, besides the right of appeal, other means of averting the execution of the sentence of a Fehm-court. Such was what was called _replacing in the former state_, of which, however, it was only the initiated who could avail himself. Sentence having been passed on a person who had not appeared, he might voluntarily and personally repair to where the secret tribunal was sitting, and sue for this favour. He was to appear before the court which had passed the sentence, accompanied by two frei-schöppen, with a halter about his neck, with white gloves on him, and his hands folded, with an imperial coin and a green cross in them. He and his companions were then to fall down on their knees, and pray for him to be placed in the condition which he was in before the proceedings commenced against him. There was also what was called the complaint of nullity, in case the prescribed form of the proceedings had been violated. Some other means shall presently be noticed. CHAPTER IV. The General Chapter--Rights of the Emperor--Of his Lieutenant--Of the Stuhlherrn, or Tribunal-Lords. To complete the sketch of the Fehm-tribunals and their proceedings, we must state the rights and powers of the general chapter and of the emperor, his lieutenant, and the tribunal-lords. The general chapter was a general assembly of the Westphalian tribunal-lords, counts, and schöppen, summoned once a-year by the emperor or his lieutenant. Every count was bound by oath to appear at it. It could only be holden in Westphalia, and almost exclusively at Dortmund or Arensberg. No one could appear at it who was not initiated, not even the emperor himself. The president was the emperor, if present and initiated, otherwise the lieutenant or his substitute. The business of the general chapter was to inquire into the conduct and proceedings of the different Fehm-courts. The counts were therefore to give an account of all their proceedings during the past year; to furnish a list of the names of the schöppen who had been admitted, as well as of the suits which had been commenced, with the names of the accusers, the accused, the _forfehmed_, &c. Such counts as had neglected their duty were deposed by the general chapter. The general chapter was, as we have above observed, a court of appeal from all the Fehm-tribunals. In matters of great importance the decrees of the lower courts were, to give them greater weight, confirmed by the general chapter. It was finally at the general chapter that all regulations, laws, and reformations, concerning the Fehm-law and courts, were made. The emperor, even when the imperial authority was at the lowest, was regarded in Germany as the fountain of judicial authority. The right of passing capital sentence in particular was considered to emanate either mediately or immediately from him. The Fehm-courts were conspicuous for their readiness to acknowledge him as the source of their authority, and all their decrees were pronounced in his name. As superior lord and judge of all the counts and tribunals, the emperor had a right of inspection and reformation over them. He could summon and preside in a general chapter; he might enter any court; and the presiding count was obliged to give way and allow him to preside in his stead. He had the power to make new schöppen, provided he did so on Westphalian soil. Every schöppe was moreover bound to give a true answer to the emperor when he asked whether such a one was _forfehmed_ or not, and in what court. He could also depose disobedient counts, but only in Westphalia. The emperor could even withdraw a cause out of the hands of the tribunals. The right of appeal to him has been already noticed; but, besides this, he had a power of forbidding the count to proceed in the cause when the accused offered himself to him _for honour and right_; and it was at his own risk then that the count proceeded any further in the business. The emperor could also grant a safe-conduct to any person who might apply for it under apprehension of having been _forfehmed_, which safe-conduct the schöppen dared not violate. Even when a person had been _forfehmed_, the emperor could save him by issuing his command to stay execution of the sentence for a hundred years, six weeks, and a day. It is plain, that, to be able to exercise these rights, the emperor must be himself _initiated_, for otherwise he could not, for instance, appear where a court was sitting, make alterations in laws with which, if _ignorant_, he must necessarily be unacquainted, or extend mercy when he could not know who was _forfehmed_ or not. In the laws establishing the rights of the emperor it was therefore always inserted, _provided he be initiated_, and the acts of uninitiated emperors were by the Fehm-courts frequently declared invalid. The emperor had, therefore, his choice of setting a substitute over the Fehm-courts, or of being himself initiated. The latter course was naturally preferred, and each emperor, at his coronation at Aix-la-Chapelle, was initiated by the hereditary Count of Dortmund. Though Aix-la-Chapelle was not in Westphalia, the law sanctioned this departure from the general rule that frei-schöppen should only be made in that country. The emperor's lieutenant, who was almost always the Archbishop of Cologne, had the right of confirming such counts as were presented to him by the Tribunal-lords, and of investing them with the powers of life and death. He could also summon general chapters, and preside and exercise the other imperial rights in them. He might decide, with the aid of some schöppen, in cases of appeal to him, without bringing the affair before the general chapter; and he had the power of making schöppen at any tribunal in Westphalia, which proves that, like the emperor, he had free access to them all. Hence it is clear that he also must have been initiated. The dignity and pre-eminence of the Archbishop of Cologne, when this office had been conferred on him, caused a good deal of envy and jealousy among the lords of Westphalia, who had been hitherto his equals, and who considered themselves equally entitled to it with him. They never let slip an occasion of showing their feelings, and they always had their counts invested by the emperor, and not by the archbishop; nay, there are not wanting instances of their having such counts as he had invested confirmed and re-invested by the emperor. There now remain only the Tribunal-Lords (_Stuhl-herrn_) to be considered. The Tribunal-lord was the lord of the district in which there was a Fehm-tribunal. He might himself, if initiated, become the count of it, having previously obtained the power of life and death from the emperor, or his lieutenant; or, if he did not choose to do so, he might, as we have already seen, present a count to be invested, for whose conduct he was held responsible; and, if the count appointed by him misconducted himself, the Stuhl-herr was liable to a forfeiture of his rights. He was, in consequence, permitted to exercise a right of inspection over the Fehm-courts in his territory; no schöppe could be made, no cause brought into the court, not even a summons issued, without his approbation. There even lay a kind of appeal to him from the sentence of the count; and he could also, like the emperor, withdraw certain persons and causes from his jurisdiction. But as his power did not extend beyond his own territory, the count might refer those causes in which he wished, but was prohibited, to proceed, to the courts in other territories; he might also, if he apprehended opposition from the Tribunal-lord, require him (if initiated) to be present at the proceedings. The Tribunal-lord, if uninitiated, could, like the emperor in the same case, exercise these powers only by initiated deputies. The great advantage which resulted from the right of having Fehm-tribunals induced the high lords, both spiritual and temporal, to be very anxious to become possessed of this species of territorial property, and in consequence nearly all the lords in Westphalia had Fehm-tribunals. Even towns, such as Dortmund, Soëst, Münster, and Osnabrück, had these tribunals, either within their walls, or in their districts, or their neighbourhood, for it would not have been good policy in them to suffer this sort of _Status in Statu_, to be independent of their authority. CHAPTER V. Fehm-courts at Celle--At Brunswick--Tribunal of the Knowing in the Tyrol--The Castle of Baden--African Purrahs. We have now gone through the constitution and modes of procedure of the Fehm-tribunals of Westphalia, as far as the imperfect notices of them which have reached the present age permit. It remains to trace their history down to the last vestiges of them which appear. A matter of some curiosity should, however, be previously touched on, namely, how far they were peculiar to Westphalia, and what institutions resembling them may be elsewhere found. Fehm-tribunals were, in fact, as we have already observed, not peculiar to Westphalia. In a MS. life of Duke Julius of Celle, by Francis Algermann[126], of the year 1608, we read the following description of a Fehm-court, which the author remembered to have seen holden at Celle in his youth:-- [Footnote 126: Berck, p. 231, from Spittler's History of Hanover.] "When the Fehm-law[127] was to be put in operation, all the inhabitants of the district who were above twelve years of age were obliged to appear, without fail, on a heath or some large open place, and sit down on the ground. Some tables were then set in the middle of the assembly, at which the prince, his councillors, and bailiffs, took their seats. The Secret Judges then reported the delinquents and the offences; and they went round with a white wand and smote the offenders on the legs. Whoever then had a bad conscience, and knew himself to be guilty of a capital offence, was permitted to stand up and to quit the country within a day and a night. He might even wait till he got the second blow. But if he was struck the third time, the executioner was at hand, a pastor gave him the sacrament, and away with him to the nearest tree. [Footnote 127: _Vimricht_, i.e. _Fehm-law_, the German word, of which the author presently gives a childish etymology.] "But if a person was struck but once or twice, that was a paternal warning to him to amend his life thenceforward. Hence it was called _Jus Veniæ_, because there was grace in it, which has been corrupted and made _Vim-richt_." There were similar courts, we are told, at places named Wölpe and Rotenwald. Here the custom was for the Secret Judges, when they knew of any one having committed an offence which fell within the Fehm-jurisdiction, to give him a private friendly warning. To this end they set, during the night, a mark on his door, and at drinking-parties they managed to have the can sent past him. If these warnings took no effect the court was held. According to an ancient law-book, the Fehm-court at Brunswick was thus regulated and holden. Certain of the most prudent and respectable citizens, named _Fehmenotes_, had the secret duty of watching the conduct of their fellow-citizens and giving information of it to the council. Had so many offences been committed that it seemed time to hold a Fehm-court, a day was appointed for that purpose. Some members of the council from the different districts of the town met at midnight in St. Martin's churchyard, and then called all the council together. All the gates and entrances of the town were closed; all corners and bridges, and the boats both above and below the town, were guarded. The Fehm-clerk was then directed to begin his office, and the Fehmenotes were desired to give their informations to him to be put into legal form if the time should prove sufficient. At daybreak it was notified to the citizens that the council had resolved that the Fehm-court should be holden on this day, and they were directed to repair to the market-place as soon as the tocsin sounded. When the bell had tolled three times all who had assembled accompanied the council, through the gate of St. Peter, out of the town to what was called the Fehm-ditch. Here they separated; the council took their station on the space between the ditch and the town-gate, the citizens stood at the other side of the ditch. The Fehmenotes now mingled themselves among the townsmen, inquired after such offences as were not yet come to their knowledge, and communicated whatever information they obtained, and also their former discoveries (if they had not had time to do so in the night) to the clerk, to be put by him into proper form and laid before the council. The clerk having delivered his protocol to the council, they examined it and ascertained which of the offences contained in it were to be brought before a Fehm-court, and which not; for matters under the value of four shillings did not belong to it. The council then handed the protocol back to the clerk, who went with it to the Fehm-court, which now took its seat in presence of a deputation of the council. Those on whom theft had been committed were first brought forward and asked if they knew the thief. If they replied in the negative, they were obliged to swear by the saints to the truth of their answer; if they named an individual, and that it was the first charge against him, he was permitted to clear himself by oath; but if there was a second charge against him, his own oath was not sufficient, and he was obliged to bring six compurgators to swear along with him. Should there be a third charge, his only course was to clear himself by the ordeal. He was forthwith to wash his hand in water, and to take in it a piece of glowing-hot iron, which the beadles and executioners had always in readiness on the left of the tribunal, and to carry it a distance of nine feet. The Fehm-count, according to ancient custom, chose whom he would to find the verdict. The council could dissolve the court whenever they pleased. Such causes as had not come on, or were put off on account of sickness, or any other just impediment, were, on such occasions, noted and reserved for another session. It is evident, however, that this municipal court, of which the chief object was the punishment of theft, the grand offence of the middle ages, though called a Fehm-court, was widely different from those of the same name in Westphalia. The Tribunal of the Knowing (_Gericht der Wissenden_), in Tyrol, has also been erroneously supposed to be the same with the Westphalian courts. The mode of procedure in this was for the accuser to lay his finger on the head of the accused, and swear that he knew him to be an infamous person, while six reputable people, laying their fingers on the arm of the accuser, swore that they knew him to have sworn truly and honestly. This was considered sufficient evidence against any person, and the court proceeded to judgment on it. The ideal Fehm-court beneath the castle of Baden must not be passed over without notice, as it seems to be the model after which our popular novelist described his Fehm-tribunal in Switzerland! A female writer in Germany[128] informs us that beneath the castle of Baden the vaults extend to a considerable distance in labyrinthine windings, and were in former times appropriated to the secret mysteries of a Fehm-tribunal. Those who were brought before this awful tribunal were not conducted into the castle-vaults in the usual way; they were, lowered into the gloomy abyss by a cord in a basket, and restored to the light, if so fortunate as to be acquitted, in the same manner; so that they never could, however inclined, discover where they had been. The ordinary entrance led through a long dark passage, which was closed by a door of a single stone as large as a tombstone. This door revolved on invisible hinges, and fitted so exactly, that when it was shut the person who was inside could not distinguish it from the adjoining stones, or tell where it was that he had entered. It could only be opened on the outside by a secret spring. Proceeding along this passage you reached the torture-room, where you saw hooks in the wall, thumb-screws, and every species of instruments of torture. A door on the left opened into a recess, the place of the _Maiden's Kiss_. When any person who had been condemned was led hither, a stone gave way under his feet, and he fell into the arms of the Maiden, who, like the wife of Nabis, crushed him to death in her arms, which were thick set with spikes. Proceeding on farther, after passing through several doors, you came to the vault of the Tribunal. This was a long spacious quadrangle hung round with black. At the upper end was a niche in which were an altar and crucifix. In this place the chief judge sat; his assessors had their seats on wooden benches along the walls. [Footnote 128: Friederika Brun. Episoden aus Reisen durch das Südliche Deutschland, &c.] We need not to observe how totally different from the proceedings of a genuine Fehm-tribunal is all this. That there are vaults under the castle of Baden is certain, and the description above given is possibly correct. But the Fehm-court which was held in them is the mere coinage of the lady's brain, and utterly unlike any thing real, unless it be the Holy Office, whose secret proceedings never could vie in justice or humanity with those of the Westphalian Fehm-courts. It is, moreover, not confirmed by any document, or even by the tradition of the place, and would be undeserving of notice were it not for the reason assigned above. The similarity between the Fehm-courts and the Inquisition has been often observed. In the secrecy of their proceedings, and the great number of agents which they had at their devotion, they resemble each other; but the Holy Office had nothing to correspond to the public and repeated citations of the Fehm-courts, the fair trial given to the accused, the leaning towards mercy of the judges, and the right of appeal which was secured. The most remarkable resemblance to the Fehm-tribunals is (or was) to be found among the negroes on the west coast of Africa, as they are described by a French traveller[129]. These are the Purrahs of the Foollahs, who dwell between Sierra Leone river and Cape Monte. [Footnote 129: Golberry, Voyage en Afrique, t. i. p. 114, and seq.] There are five tribes of this people, who form a confederation, at the head of which is a union of warriors, which is called a Purrah. Each tribe has its own separate Purrah, and each Purrah has its chiefs and its tribunal, which is, in a more restricted sense, also called a Purrah. The general Purrah of the confederation is formed from the Purrahs of the five tribes. To be a member of the inferior Purrahs, a man must be thirty years of age; no one under fifty can have a seat in the general Purrah. The candidate for admission into an inferior Purrah has to undergo a most severe course of probation, in which all the elements are employed to try him. Before he is permitted to enter on this course, such of his relatives as are already members are obliged to pledge themselves for his fitness, and to swear to take his life if ever he should betray the secrets of the society. Having passed through the ordeal, he is admitted into the society and sworn to secrecy and obedience. If he is unmindful of his oath, he becomes the child of death. When he least expects it a warrior in disguise makes his appearance and says, "The great Purrah sends thee death." Every one present departs; no one ventures to make any opposition, and the victim falls. The subordinate Purrahs punish all crimes committed within their district, and take care that their sentences are duly executed. They also settle disputes and quarrels between the leading families. It is only on extraordinary occasions that the great Purrah meets. It then decides on the punishment of traitors and those who had resisted its decrees. Frequently too it has to interfere to put an end to wars between the tribes. When it has met on this account it gives information to the belligerents, directing them to abstain from hostilities, and menacing death if a drop more of blood should be spilt. It then inquires into the causes of the war, and condemns the tribe which is found to have been the aggressor to a four days' plundering. The warriors to whom the execution of this sentence is committed must, however, be selected from a neutral district. They arm and disguise themselves, put horrible-looking vizards on their faces, and with pitch-torches in their hands set out by night from the place of assembly. Making no delay, they reach the devoted district before the break of day, and in parties of from forty to sixty men, they fall unexpectedly on the devoted tribe, and, with fearful cries, making known the sentence of the great Purrah, proceed to put it into execution. The booty is then divided: one half is given to the injured tribe, the other falls to the great Purrah, who bestow one half of their share on the warriors who executed their sentence. Even a single family, if its power should appear to be increasing so fast as to put the society in fear for its independence, is condemned to a plundering by the Purrah. It was thus, though under more specious pretexts, that the Athenian democracy sought to reduce the power of their great citizens by condemning them to build ships, give theatrical exhibitions, and otherwise spend their fortunes. Nothing can exceed the dread which the Purrah inspires. The people speak of it with terror and awe, and look upon the members of it as enchanters who are in compact with the devil. The Purrah itself is solicitous to diffuse this notion as much as possible, esteeming it a good mean for increasing its power and influence. The number of its members is estimated at upwards of 6000, who recognise each other by certain words and signs. Its laws and secrets are, notwithstanding the great number of the members, most religiously concealed from the knowledge of the uninitiated. CHAPTER VI. The Emperor Lewis the Bavarian--Charles IV.--Wenceslaus--Rupertian Reformation--Encroachments of the Fehm-courts--Case of Nickel Weller and the town of Görlitz--Of the City of Dantzig--Of Hans David and the Teutonic Knights--Other instances of the presumption of the Free-counts--Citation of the Emperor Frederic III.--Case of the Count of Teckenburg. The history of the Fehm-gerichte, previous to the fifteenth century, offers but few events to detain attention. The Emperor Lewis the Bavarian appears to have exerted his authority on several occasions in granting privileges in Westphalia according, as it is expressly stated, to the Fehm-law. His successor, the luxurious Charles IV., acted with the same caprice respecting the Fehm-tribunals as he did in every thing else, granting privileges and revoking them just as it seemed to accord with his interest at the moment. This monarch attempted also to extend the Fehm-system beyond Westphalia, deeming it perhaps a good mean for bringing all Germany under the authority of his patrimonial kingdom of Bohemia. He therefore gave permission to the Bishop of Hildesheim to erect two Free-tribunals out of Westphalia. On the representations of the Archbishop of Cologne and the lords of Westphalia, however, he afterwards abolished them. Wenceslaus, the son of Charles, acted with his usual folly in the case of the Fehm-tribunals; he is said, as he could keep nothing secret, to have blabbed their private sign, and he took on him to make frei-schöppen, contrary to the law, out of Westphalia. These schöppen of the emperor's making did not, however, meet with much respect from the genuine ones, as the answer given to the Emperor Rupert by the Westphalian tribunals evinces. On his asking how they acted with regard to such schöppen, their reply was, "We ask them at what court they were made schöppen. Should it appear that they were made schöppen at courts which had no right so to do, we hang them, in case of their being met in Westphalia, on the instant, without any mercy." Wenceslaus, little as he cared about Germany in general, occasionally employed the Fehm-courts for the furtherance of his plans, and, in the year 1389, he had Count Henry of Wernengerode tried and hanged for treason by Westphalian schöppen. The reign of Wenceslaus is particularly distinguished by its being the period in which the Archbishop of Cologne arrived at the important office of lieutenant of the emperor over all the Westphalian tribunals. The reign of Rupert was, with respect to the Westphalian Fehm-courts, chiefly remarkable by the reformation of them named from him. This reformation, which is the earliest publicly-accredited source from which a knowledge of the Fehm-law can be derived, was made in the year 1404. It is a collection of decisions by which the rights and privileges of a king of the Romans are ascertained with respect to these tribunals. The Rupertian reformation, and the establishment of the office of lieutenant in the person of the Archbishop of Cologne, which was completed by either Rupert or his successor Sigismund, form together an epoch in the history of the Fehm-gerichte. Hitherto Westphalia alone was the scene of their operations, and their authority was of evident advantage to the empire. Their power had now attained its zenith; confidence in their strength led them to abuse it; and, during the century which elapsed between the Rupertian reformation and the establishment of the Perpetual Public Peace and the Imperial Chamber by the Emperor Maximilian, we shall have to contemplate chiefly their abuses and assumptions. The right of citation was what was chiefly abused by the Free-courts. Now that they were so formally acknowledged to act under the imperial authority, they began to regard Westphalia as too narrow a theatre for the display of their activity and their power. As imperial commissioners, they maintained that their jurisdiction extended to every place which acknowledged that of the emperor's, and there was hardly a corner of Germany free from the visits of their messengers; nay, even beyond the limits of the empire men trembled at their citations. It was chiefly the towns which were harassed by these citations, which were frequently issued at the instance of persons whom they had punished or expelled for their misdeeds. Their power and consequence did not protect even the greatest: we find, during the fifteenth century, some of the principal cities of the empire summoned before the tribunals of Westphalian counts. Thus in the records of those times we read of citations served on Bremen, Lübeck, Augsburg, Nuremberg, Erfurt, Görlitz, and Dantzig. Even Prussia and Livonia, then belonging to the order of the Teutonic knights, were annoyed by their interference. One of the most remarkable cases which this period presents is that of the uneasiness caused to the town of Görlitz by means of one of its inhabitants named Nickel Weller. This man, who was a Westphalian schöppe, was accused of having disinterred an unchristened child, and of having made a candle of the bone of its arm, which he had filled with the wax of an Easter-taper and with incense, and of having employed it in a barn in presence of his mother, his wife, and an old peasant, for magical purposes. As he could not deny the fact, he was, according to the law of those times, liable to be hanged; but the high-bailiff of Stein, and some other persons of consequence, interfering in his favour, the magistrates contented themselves with expelling him from the town and confiscating his goods. As it afterwards proved, they would have acted more wisely had they condemned him to perpetual imprisonment. Weller immediately repaired to Bresslau, and besought the council, the Bishop of Waradein, and the imperial chancellor, to advocate his cause. They acceded to his desire; but the magistrates of Görlitz perfectly justified their conduct. Weller, still indisposed to rest, applied to the pope, Innocent VIII., asserting that he could not to any purpose bring an accusation against the council of Görlitz within the town of the diocese of Meissen, and that he had no chance of justice there. The pope forthwith named John de' Medici and Dr. Nicholas Tauchen of Bresslau spiritual commissioners in this affair, and these desired the high-bailiff of Stein to do his best that Weller should recover his rights within the space of a month, on his taking his oath to the truth of his statements, otherwise they should be obliged themselves to take measures for that purpose. From some unassigned cause, however, nothing came of this, and Weller once more addressed himself to the pope, with whom the Bishop of Ostia became his advocate. He was re-admitted into the bosom of the Church; but the decree of the magistracy of Görlitz still remained in force, and the new commissioners appointed by the pope even confirmed it. Finding that he had nothing to expect from papal interference, Weller had at last recourse to the Fehm-tribunals, and on the 3d May, 1490, John of Hulschede, count of the tribunal at Brackel, cited the burgomasters, council, and all the lay inhabitants of Görlitz above the age of eighteen years, before his tribunal. This summons was served in rather a remarkable manner, for it was found fastened to a twig on a hedge, on a farm belonging to a man named Wenzel Emmerich, a little distance from the town. As by the Golden Bull of the Emperor Charles IV., and moreover by a special privilege granted by Sigismund, Görlitz was exempted from all foreign jurisdiction, the magistracy informed Vladislaus, King of Bohemia, of this citation, and implored his mediation. The Bohemian monarch accordingly addressed himself to the tribunal at Brackel, but George Hackenberg, who was at that time the free-count of that court, Hulschede being dead, did not even deign to give him an answer. Meanwhile the appointed period had elapsed without the people of Görlitz having appeared to the summons, and Weller, charging them with disobedience and contempt of court, prayed that they might be condemned in all the costs and penalties thereby incurred, and that he might be himself permitted to proceed with his complaint. To this end he estimated the losses and injuries which he had sustained at 500 Rhenish florins, and made a declaration to that effect on oath, with two joint-swearers. He was accordingly authorised by the court to indemnify himself in any manner he could at the expense of the people of Görlitz. It was farther added that, if any one should impede Weller in the prosecution of his rights, that person should _ipso facto_ fall under the heavy displeasure of the empire and the pains and penalties of the tribunal at Brackel, and be moreover obliged to pay all the costs of the accuser. On the 16th August of the same year, the count set a new peremptory term for the people of Görlitz, assuring them that, in case of disobedience, "he should be obliged, though greatly against his inclination, to pass the heaviest and most rigorous sentence on their persons, their lives, and their honour." The citation was this time found on the floor of the convent church. The council in consternation applied to the Archbishop of Cologne and to the free-count himself, to be relieved from this condition, but in vain; the count did not condescend to take any notice of their application, and when they did not appear at the set time, declared the town of Görlitz outlawed for contumacy. It appears that Weller had, for some cause or other, brought an accusation against the city of Bresslau also; for in the published decree of outlawry against Görlitz it was included. By this act it was prohibited to every person, under penalty of similar outlawry, to harbour any inhabitant of either of these towns; to eat or drink, or hold any intercourse with them, till they had reconciled themselves to the Fehm-tribunals, and given satisfaction to the complainant. Weller himself stuck up a copy of this decree on a market-day at Leipzig; but it was instantly torn down by some of the people of Görlitz who happened to be there. The two towns of Görlitz and Bresslau held a consultation at Liegnitz, to devise what measures it were best to adopt in order to relieve themselves from this system of persecution. They resolved that they would jointly and separately defend themselves and their proceedings by a public declaration, which should be posted up in Görlitz, Bresslau, Leipzig, and other places. They also resolved to lay their griefs before the Diet at Prague, and pray for its intercession with the Archbishop of Cologne and the Landgraf of Hessen. They accordingly did so, and the Diet assented to their desire; but their good offices were of no avail, and the answer of the landgraf clearly showed, either that he had no authority over his count, or that he was secretly pleased with what he had done. The indefatigable Weller now endeavoured to seize some of the people of Bresslau and Görlitz, in Hein and other places in Meissen. But they frustrated his plans by obtaining a promise of protection and safe-conduct from the Duke George. Weller, however, did not desist, and when Duke Albert came from the Netherlands to Meissen, he sought and obtained his protection. But here again he was foiled; for, when the high-bailiff and council of Görlitz had informed that prince of the real state of the case, he withdrew his countenance from him. Wearied out by this ceaseless teasing, the towns applied, through the king of Bohemia, to the Emperor Frederic III. for a mandate to all the subjects of the empire, and an inhibition to the tribunal at Brackel and all the free-counts and schöppen. These, when obtained, they took care to have secretly served on the council of Dortmund and the free-count of Brackel. By these means they appear to have put an end to their annoyances for the remainder of Weller's life. But, in the year 1502, his son and his son-in-law revived his claims on Görlitz. Count Ernest of Hohenstein interceded for them; but the council adhered firmly to their previous resolution, and declared that it was only to their own or to higher tribunals that they must look for relief. The matter then lay over for ten years, when it was again stirred by one Guy of Taubenheim, and was eventually settled by an amicable arrangement. As we have said, the Fehm-tribunals extended their claims of jurisdiction even to the Baltic. We find that a citizen of the town of Dantzig, named Hans Holloger, who was a free schöppe, was cited to appear before the tribunal of Elleringhausen, under the hawthorn, "because he had spoken what he ought not to have spoken about the Secret Tribunal." This might seem just enough, as he belonged to the society; but the town-council were commanded, under a penalty of fifty pounds of fine gold, to cast the accused into prison till he had given security for standing his trial. Even the powerful order of the Teutonic Knights, who were the masters of Prussia and Livonia, did not escape being annoyed by the Fehm-tribunals. How little their power availed against that formidable jurisdiction is evinced by the answer made by the Grand Master to the towns which sued to him for protection. "Beloved liegemen! you have besought us to protect you therefrom; we would cheerfully do it knew we but ways and means thereto." And when he wrote to Mangolt, the count of the tribunal at Freyenhagen, warning him against summoning before him the subjects of the order, the latter haughtily replied, "You have your rights from the empire, and I have power to judge over all who hold of the empire." The following very curious case occurred in the first half of the fifteenth century:-- A shopkeeper at Liebstadt died very much indebted to the two officers of the Teutonic order, whose business it was to keep the small towns in Prussia supplied with mercantile goods, and they accordingly seized on the effects which he had left behind him. These, however, were not sufficient to satisfy even the demands of one of them, much less of both, and they had made up their minds to rest content with the loss, when, to their surprise, Hans David, the son of the deceased, came forward with an account against the order of such amount, that, as it was observed, if all the houses in the town were sold, and all the townsmen taxed to the utmost, the produce would not discharge the one-half of it. He however produced a document purporting to be a bond of the order. This instrument bore all the marks of falsification; it was full of erasures and insertions; among the witnesses to it, some were set down as priors who were only simple brethren of the order; there were the names of others who had never seen it; it was asserted to have been attested and verified by the tribunal at Passnar, but in the records of that court there were not the slightest traces of it; the seal of the Grand Master, which was appended to every document of any importance, was wanting. Of course payment was resisted, but Hans David was told to pursue his claim, if he pleased, before the emperor and the pope, whom the order recognised as their superiors. As Hans David was under the protection of the king of Poland, he had recourse to that prince; but he declined interfering any farther than to apply for a safe-conduct for him that he might apply for a new inquiry. The Grand Master, on application being made to him, swore on his honour that he owed to the complainant nothing, and that the bond was a forgery; he moreover promised to answer the charge in any fit place that the complainant might select; nay, even in Prussia, and he granted him a safe-conduct as before. It is not known what course Hans David now adopted; but nine years afterwards (1441) we find him addressing himself to the Free-tribunal at Freyenhagen, whose count, the notorious Mangolt, forthwith issued his citations, "because, as he expressed himself, the order judges with the sword and gentle murder and burning." The Grand Master, indignant at this piece of arrogance, immediately brought the matter before the assembly of the free-counts at Coblentz, who declared the proceedings null, and Mangolt liable to punishment, as the knights were spiritual persons. He moreover applied to the emperor, who, to gratify him, issued a mandate, addressed to all princes of the empire, declaring the act of Mangolt to be a piece of iniquity, and null and void. Hans David was now cast into prison at Cologne, and, notwithstanding a prohibition of the Free-tribunal, was detained there for two years. Existing documents attest (though the fact is inexplicable) that the emperor directed the Archbishop of Cologne and the Margraf of Baden to examine anew into the affair, and to send the acts into the imperial chancery, and, finally, to set the complainant free on his oath, or on his giving bail to appear at Nuremberg. As this proceeding can only be ascribed to the influence of the Secret Tribunals, bent on annoying the order, it serves to show what their power and consequence must have been at that time. Two years afterwards it was clearly proved at Vienna that the bond had been forged, at the desire of Hans David, by a scholar of Elbingen, named Rothofé. As the case against the former was now so plain, it might be supposed that he would be punished at once. Instead of that, the emperor referred the parties to the pope, as Hans David had struck a prior of the order, and this last was not content with the satisfaction accorded by the emperor. The cause of the order was triumphant in Rome also, yet still Hans David found means to keep off the execution of the sentence already passed on him at Vienna. It was not till after the death of the then Grand Master that final judgment was formally delivered by Cardinal Jossi, and Hans David, his comrade Paul Frankleuen, and the Count Mangolt, were condemned to perpetual silence, and to payment of the sum of 6,000 Rhenish florins to the order, and, in case of disobedience, they were declared to be outlawed. All this, however, did not yet avail, and two years afterwards Jossi was obliged to apply to the emperor for the aid of the temporal arm for the execution of the sentence. The chaplain of the order at Vienna also found that Hans David had still the art to deceive many and gain them over to his cause, and he accordingly took care to have the whole account of his conduct posted up on the church-doors. Still the unwearied Hans David did not rest. He now went to the Free-tribunal at Waldeck, and had the art to deceive the count by his false representations. He assured him that the order had offered him no less than 15,000 florins and an annuity, if he would let his action drop; that they would have been extremely well content if he had escaped out of prison at Cologne, but that he preferred justice and truth to liberty. The order however succeeded here again in detecting and exposing his arts, and the count honestly confessed that he had been deceived by him. He cast him off forthwith, and Hans David, ceasing to annoy the order, devoted himself to astrology and conjuring for the rest of his days[130]. [Footnote 130: The following is one of his predictions, delivered by him, under the name of Master Von Dolete, in the year 1457: "In the ensuing month, September, the sun will appear like a black dragon; cruel winds will blow, the sea will roar, and men will be knocked to pieces by the wind. The sun will then be turned to blood; that betokeneth war in the East and West. A mighty emperor will die; the earth will quake, and few men will remain alive. Wherefore secure your houses and chambers; lay up provisions for thirty days in caverns," &c., &c. The arts of knaves and the language of impostors are the same in all ages and countries.] He had, however, caused the order abundance of uneasiness and expense. Existing documents prove that this affair cost them no less than upwards of 1580 ducats, and 7000 florins, which must be in a great measure ascribed to the secret machinations of the Free-tribunals, anxious to depress the Teutonic Knights, who stood in their way. In 1410 the Wild and Rhein Graf was summoned before the tribunal at Nordernau, and, in 1454, the Duke of Saxony before that at Limburg. The Elector-Palatine found it difficult, in 1448, to defend himself against a sentence passed on him by one of the Fehm-courts. Duke Henry of Bavaria found it necessary, on the following occasion, actually to become a frei-schöppe in order to save himself. One Gaspar, of Torringen, had accused him before the tribunal of Waldeck of "having taken from him his hereditary office of Chief Huntsman; of having seized and beaten his huntsmen and servants, taken his hounds, battered down his castle of Torringen, and taken from his wife her property and jewels, in despite of God, honour, and ancient right." The free-count forthwith cited the duke, who applied to the emperor Sigismund, and procured an inhibition to the count. The duke found it necessary, notwithstanding, to appear before the court; but he adopted the expedient of getting himself made a frei-schöppe, and then, probably in consequence of his rank and influence, procured a sentence to be passed in accordance with his wishes. Gaspar, who was probably an injured man, appealed to the emperor, who referred the matter to the Archbishop of Cologne, and we are not informed how it ended. But the audacity of the free-counts went so far as even to cite the head of the empire himself before their tribunals. The imperial chancery having, for just and good cause, declared several free-counts and their Tribunal-lord, Walrabe of Waldeck, to be outlawed, three free-counts had the hardihood, in 1470, to cite the emperor Frederic III., with his chancellor, the Bishop of Passau, and the assessors of the chancery-court, to appear before the free-tribunal between the gates of Wünnenberg in the diocese of Paderborn, "there to defend his person and highest honour under penalty of being held to be a disobedient emperor;" and on his not appearing, they had the impudence to cite him again, declaring that, if he did not appear, justice should take its course. Feeble, however, as was the character of the emperor, he did not give way to such assumptions. Even robbery and spoliation could find a defence with the Fehm-courts. Towards the end of the thirteenth century a count of Teckenburg plundered and ravaged the diocese of Münster. The bishop assembled his own people and called on his allies to aid him, and they took two castles belonging to the count and pushed him to extremity. To extricate himself he accused the bishop, and all those who were with him, before his Fehm-court, and though there were among them the Bishop of Paderborn, three counts, and several knights, the free-count had the boldness to cite them all to appear and defend their honour. The affair was eventually amicably arranged and the citation recalled. These instances may suffice to show how far the Fehm-tribunals had departed from the original object of their institution, and how corrupt and iniquitous they were become. CHAPTER VII. Cause of the degeneracy of the Fehm-courts--Attempts at reformation--Causes of their high reputation--Case of the Duke of Würtemberg--Of Kerstian Kerkerink--Causes of the decline of the Fehm-jurisdiction. The chief cause of the degeneracy of the Fehm-courts was the admission of improper persons into the society. Originally, as we have seen, no man was admitted to become a schöppe without producing satisfactory evidence as to the correctness of his character; but now, in the case of either count or schöppe, a sufficient sum of money availed to supersede inquiry, and the consequence was that men of the most disgraceful characters frequently presided at the tribunals and wielded the formidable powers of the society. A writer in the reign of Sigismund says, "that those who had gotten authority to hang men were hardly deserving enough to keep pigs; that they were themselves well worthy of the gallows if one cast a glance over their course of life; that they left not unobserved the mote in their brother's eye, but overlooked the beam in their own, &c." And it required no small courage in the writer thus to express himself; for, according to his own testimony, people then hardly ventured even to speak of the Secret Tribunals, so great was the awe in which they were held. The consequence was that justice was not to be had at any tribunal which was presided over by corrupt judges, as they selected assessors, and even by-standers, of the same character with themselves, and whatever verdict they pleased was found. The tribunal-lord generally winked at their proceedings, while the right of appeal to the emperor was treated with little respect; for these monarchs had generally affairs of more immediate importance to themselves to occupy their attention. The right of exemption was also trampled on; sovereign princes were, as we have seen, cited before the tribunals; so also were the Jews. Purely civil matters were now maintained to belong to the Fehm-jurisdiction, and parties in such cases were cited before the tribunals, and _forfehmed_ in case of disobedience. In short, the Fehm-jurisdiction was now become a positive evil instead of being, as heretofore, a benefit to the country. Various attempts were doubtless made to reform the Fehm-law and tribunals, such as the Arensberg reformation, the Osnaburgh regulation, and others, but to little purpose. The system, in fact, was at variance with the spirit which was now beginning to prevail, and could not be brought to accord with it. Before we proceed to the decline of the society, we will pause a moment to consider the causes of the great reputation and influence which it obtained and exercised during the period in which it flourished. The first and chief cause was the advantage which it was found to be of for the maintenance of social order and tranquillity. In the very worst and most turbulent times a portion of mankind will always be found desirous of peace and justice, even independently of any private interest; another portion, feeling themselves the victims of oppression, will gladly catch at any hope of protection; even the mighty and the oppressive themselves will at times view with satisfaction any institution which may avail to shield them against power superior to their own, or which they conceive may be made the instrument of extending and strengthening their consequence. The Fehm-jurisdiction was calculated to suit all these orders of persons. The fourteenth and fifteenth centuries were the most anarchic periods of Germany; the imperial power was feeble to control; and the characters of most of the emperors were such as to render still more unavailing the little authority which, as heads of the empire, they possessed. Sensible of their weakness, these monarchs generally favoured the Fehm-tribunals, which so freely, and even ostentatiously, recognised the imperial superiority, as long as it did not seek to control them or impede them in their proceedings. The knowledge which, if initiated, they could derive of the crimes and misdemeanors committed in the empire, and the power of directing the arms of the society against evil-doers, were also of no small importance, and they gradually became of opinion that their own existence was involved in that of the Fehm-courts. The nobles of Westphalia, in like manner, found their advantage in belonging to the society, and the office of tribunal-lord was, as we have seen, one of influence and emolument. But it was the more helpless and oppressed classes of society, more especially the unhappy serfs, that most rejoiced in the existence of the Fehm-tribunals; for there only could they hope to meet with sure redress when aggrieved, and frequently was a cause, when other courts had been appealed to in vain, brought before the Secret Tribunal, which judged without respect of persons. The accuser had farther not to fear the vengeance of the evil-doer, or his friends and dependents; for his name was kept a profound secret if the proofs which he could furnish were sufficient to justify the inquisitorial process already described, and thus the robber-noble, or the feudal tyrant, often met his merited punishment at a time when he perhaps least dreaded it, and when he held his victim, whose cries to justice had brought it on him, in the greatest contempt; for, like the Nemesis, or the "gloom-roaming" Erinnys of antiquity, the retributive justice of the Fehm-tribunals moved to vengeance with stealthy pace, and caught its victim in the midst of his security. A second cause was the opinion of these courts having been instituted by Charles the Great, a monarch whose memory was held in such high estimation and such just veneration during the middle ages. Emperors thought themselves bound to treat with respect the institution of him from whom they derived their authority; and the clergy themselves, exempt from its jurisdiction, were disposed to view with favour an institution established by the monarch to whom the Church was so deeply indebted, and of whose objects the punishment of heretics was one of the most prominent. A third, and not the least important cause, was the excellent organization of the society, which enabled it to give such effect to its decrees, and to which nothing in those times presented any parallel. The veil of secrecy which enveloped all its proceedings, and the number of agents ready to execute its mandates, inspired awe; the strict inquiry which was known to be made into the character of a man before he was admitted into it gained it respect. Its sentences were, though the proofs were unknown, believed to have emanated from justice; and bad men trembled, and good men rejoiced, as they beheld the body of a criminal suspended from a tree, and the schöppe's knife stuck beside it to intimate by whom he had been judged and condemned. The reign of the Emperor Maximilian was a period of great reform in Germany, and his establishment of the Perpetual Public Peace, and of the Imperial Chamber, joined with other measures, tended considerably to alter and improve the condition of the empire. The Fehm-tribunals should, as a matter of prudence, have endeavoured to accommodate themselves to the new order of things; but this is a part of wisdom of which societies and corporate bodies are rarely found capable; and, instead of relaxing in their pretensions, they even sought to extend them farther than before. Under their usual pretext--the denial of justice--they extended their citations to persons and places over which they had no jurisdiction, and thereby provoked the enmity and excited the active hostility of cities and powerful territorial lords. The most remarkable cases which this period presents of the perversion of the rights and powers of the Fehm-tribunals are the two following:-- Duke Ulrich of Würtemberg lived unhappily with his duchess Sabina. There was at his court a young nobleman named Hans Hutten, a member of an honourable and powerful family, to whose wife the duke was more particular in his attentions than could be agreeable to a husband. The duchess, on her side, testified a particular esteem for Hans Hutten, and the intimacy between them was such as the duke could not forgive. Hutten was either so vain or so inconsiderate as to wear publicly on his finger a valuable ring which had been given to him by the duchess. This filled up the measure of the jealousy and rage of the duke, and one day, at a hunting-party in the wood of Bebling, he contrived to draw Hutten away from the rest of the train, and, taking him at unawares, ran him through with his sword; he then took off his girdle, and with it suspended him from one of the oak-trees in the wood. When the murder was discovered he did not deny it, but asserted that he was a free schöppe, and had performed the deed in obedience to a mandate of the Secret Tribunal, to which he was bound to yield obedience. This tale, however, did not satisfy the family of Hutten, and they were as little content with the proposal made by the murderer of giving them satisfaction before a Westphalian tribunal. They loudly appealed to the emperor for justice, and the masculine eloquence of Ulrich von Hutten interested the public so strongly in their favour, that the emperor found himself obliged to issue a sentence of outlawry against the Duke of Würtemberg. At length, through the mediation of Cardinal Lang, an accommodation both with the Hutten family and the duchess was effected; but the enmity of the former was not appeased, and they some time afterwards lent their aid to effect the deposition of the duke and the confiscation of his property. It would seem that the Fehm-tribunals would have justified the assassination committed by the duke, at least that all confidence in their justice was now gone; and, at this period, even those writers who are most lavish in their praises of the schöppen of the olden time can find no language sufficiently strong to describe the iniquity of those of their own days. It was now become a common saying that the course of a Fehm-court was first to hang the accused and then to examine into the charges against him. By a solemn recess of the Diet at Triers, in 1512, it was declared "that by the Westphalian tribunals many an honest man had lost his honour, body, life, and property;" and the Archbishop of Cologne, who must have known them well, shortly afterwards asserted, among other charges, in a capitulation which he issued, that "by very many they were shunned and regarded as seminaries of villains." The second case to which we alluded affords a still stronger proof of their degeneracy. A man named Kerstian Kerkerink, who lived near the town of Münster, was accused, and probably with truth, of having committed repeated acts of adultery. The Free-tribunal of Münster determined to take cognizance of the affair, and they sent and had him taken out of his bed in the dead of the night. In order to prevent his making any noise and resistance, the persons who were employed assured him that he was to be brought before the tribunal of a respectable councillor of the city of Münster, and prevailed on him to put on his best clothes. They took him to a place named Beckman's-bush, where they kept him concealed while one of them conveyed intelligence of their success to the town-council. At break of day the tribunal-lords, free-count, and schöppen, taking with them a monk and a common hangman, proceeded to Beckman's-bush, and had the prisoner summoned before them. When he appeared he prayed to be allowed to have an advocate; but this request was refused, and the court proceeded forthwith to pass sentence of death. The unfortunate man now implored for the delay of but one single day to settle his affairs and make his peace with God; but this request also was strongly refused, and it was signified to him that he must die forthwith, and that if he wished he might make his confession, to which end a confessor had been brought to the place. When the unhappy wretch sued once more for favour, it was replied to him that he should find favour and be beheaded, not hung. The monk was then called forward, to hear his confession; when that was over the executioner (who had previously been sworn never to reveal what he saw) advanced and struck off the head of the delinquent. Meantime, information of what was going on had reached the town, and old and young came forth to witness the last act of the tragedy, or perhaps to interfere in favour of Kerkerink. But this had been foreseen and provided against; officers were set to watch all the approaches from the town till all was over, and when the people arrived they found nothing but the lifeless body of Kerkerink, which was placed in a coffin and buried in a neighbouring churchyard. The bishop and chapter of Münster expressed great indignation at this irregular proceeding and encroachment on their rights, and it served to augment the general aversion to the Fehm-courts. Our readers will at once perceive how much the proceedings in this case, which occurred in the year 1580, differed from those of former times. Then the accused was formally summoned, and he was allowed to have an advocate; here he was seized without knowing for what, and was hardly granted even the formality of a trial. Then the people who came, even accidentally, into the vicinity of a Fehm-court, would cross themselves and hasten away from the place, happy to escape with their lives: now they rush without apprehension to the spot where it was sitting, and the members of it fly at their approach. Finally, in severity as well as justice, the advantage was on the side of the old courts. The criminal suffered by the halter; we hear of no father confessor being present to console his last moments, and his body, instead of being deposited in consecrated earth, was left to be torn by the wild beasts and ravenous birds. The times were evidently altered! [Illustration: Seal of the Secret Tribunals.] The Fehm-tribunals were never formally abolished; but the excellent civil institutions of the Emperors Maximilian and Charles V., the consequent decrease of the turbulent and anarchic spirit, the introduction of the Roman law, the spread of the Protestant religion, and many other events of those times, conspired to give men an aversion for what now appeared to be a barbarous jurisdiction and only suited to such times as it was hoped and believed never could return. Some of the courts were abolished; exemptions and privileges against them were multiplied; they were prohibited all summary proceedings; their power gradually sank into insignificance; and, though up to the present century a shadow of them remained in some parts of Westphalia, they have long been only a subject of antiquarian curiosity as one of the most striking phenomena of the middle ages. They were only suited to a particular state of society: while that existed they were a benefit to the world; when it was gone they remained at variance with the state which succeeded, became pernicious, were hated and despised, lost all their influence and reputation, shared the fate of every thing human, whose character is instability and decay, and have left only their memorial behind them. * * * * * It is an important advance in civilization, and a great social gain, to have got rid, for all public purposes, of Secret Societies--both of their existence and of their use; for, that, like most of the other obsolete forms into which the arrangements of society have at one time or other resolved themselves, some of these mysterious and exclusive institutions, whether for preserving knowledge or dispensing justice, served, each in its day, purposes of the highest utility, which apparently could not have been accomplished by any other existing or available contrivance, has been sufficiently shown by the expositions that have been given, in the preceding pages, of the mechanism and working of certain of the most remarkable of their number. But it has been made at least equally evident that the evils attendant upon their operation, and inherent in their nature, were also very great, and that, considered even as the suitable remedies for a most disordered condition of human affairs, they were at best only not quite so bad as the disease. They were institutions for preserving knowledge, not by promoting, but by preventing that diffusion of it which, after all, both gives to it its chief value, and, in a natural state of things, most effectually ensures its purification, as well as its increase; and for executing justice, by trampling under foot the rights alike of the wrong-doer and of his victim. Mankind may be said to have stepped out of night into day, in having thrown off the burden and bondage of this form of the social system, and having attained to the power of pursuing knowledge in the spirit of knowledge, and justice in the spirit of justice. We have now escaped from that state of confusion and conflict in which one man's gain was necessarily another man's loss, and are fairly on our way towards that opposite state in which, in everything, as far as the constitution of this world will permit, the gain of one shall be the gain of all. This latter, to whatever degree it may be actually attainable, is the proper hope and goal of all human civilization. THE END. London: Printed by W. CLOWKS and SONS, Stamford Street. * * * * * Transcriber's Note: Variations in spelling, hyphens, and accents left as printed. 
7890	----	Blind Love by Wilkie Collins (completed by Walter Besant) CONTENTS PREFACE FIRST PERIOD I THE SOUR FRENCH WINE II THE MAN SHE REFUSED III THE REGISTERED PACKET IV THE GAME: MOUNTJOY LOSES V THE GAME: MOUNTJOY PLAYS A NEW CARD VI THE GAME: MOUNTJOY WINS VII DOCTORING THE DOCTOR VIII HER FATHER'S MESSAGE IX MR. VIMPANY ON INTOXICATION X THE MOCKERY OF DECEIT XI MRS. VIMPANY'S FAREWELL XII LORD HARRY's DEFENCE THE SECOND PERIOD XIII IRIS AT HOME XIV THE LADY'S MAID XV MR. HENLEY'S TEMPER XVI THE DOCTOR IN FULL DRESS XVII ON HAMPSTEAD HEATH XVIII PROFESSIONAL ASSISTANCE XIX MR. HENLEY AT HOME XX FIRST SUSPICIONS OF IRIS XXI THE PARTING SCENE XXII THE FATAL WORDS THE THIRD PERIOD XXIII NEWS OF IRIS XXIV LORD HARRY'S HONEYMOON XXV THE DOCTOR IN DIFFICULTIES XXVI LONDON AND PARIS XXVII THE BRIDE AT HOME XXVIII THE MAID AND THE KEYHOLE XXIX THE CONQUEST OF MR. VIMPANY XXX SAXON AND CELT XXXI THE SCHOOL FOR HUSBANDS XXXII GOOD-BYE TO IRIS XXXIII THE DECREE OF FATE XXXIV MY LORD'S MIND XXXV MY LADY'S MIND XXXVI THE DOCTOR MEANS MISCHIEF XXXVII THE FIRST QUARREL XXXVIII ICI ON PARLE FRANCAIS XXXIX THE MYSTERY OF THE HOSPITAL XL DIRE NECESSITY XLI THE MAN IS FOUND. XLII THE METTLESOME MAID XLIII FICTION: ATTEMPTED BY MY LORD XLIV FICTION: IMPROVED BY THE DOCTOR XLV FACT: RELATED BY FANNY XLVI MAN AND WIFE XLVII THE PATIENT AND MY LORD XLVIII "THE MISTRESS AND THE MAID" XLIX THE NURSE IS SENT AWAY L IN THE ALCOVE LI WHAT NEXT? LII THE DEAD MAN'S PHOTOGRAPH LIII THE WIFE'S RETURN LIV ANOTHER STEP LV THE ADVENTURES OF A FAITHFUL MAID LVI FANNY'S NARRATIVE LVII AT LOUVAIN LVIII OF COURSE THEY WILL PAY LIX THE CONSEQUENCES OF AN ADVERTISEMENT LX ON THE EVE OF A CHANGE LXI THE LAST DISCOVERY LXII THE BOARD OF DIRECTORS LXIII A REFUGE LXIV THE INVINCIBLES PREFACE IN the month of August 1889, and in the middle of the seaside holiday, a message came to me from Wilkie Collins, then, though we hoped otherwise, on his death-bed. It was conveyed to me by Mr. A. P. Watt. He told me that his son had just come from Wilkie Collins: that they had been speaking of his novel, "Blind Love," then running in the _Illustrated London News_: that the novel was, unfortunately, unfinished: that he himself could not possibly finish it: and that he would be very glad, if I would finish it if I could find the time. And that if I could undertake this work he would send me his notes of the remainder. Wilkie Collins added these words: "If he has the time I think he will do it: we are both old hands at this work, and understand it, and he knows that I would do the same for him if he were in my place." Under the circumstances of the case, it was impossible to decline this request. I wrote to say that time should be made, and the notes were forwarded to me at Robin Hood's Bay. I began by reading carefully and twice over, so as to get a grip of the story and the novelist's intention, the part that had already appeared, and the proofs so far as the author had gone. I then turned to the notes. I found that these were not merely notes such as I expected--simple indications of the plot and the development of events, but an actual detailed scenario, in which every incident, however trivial, was carefully laid down: there were also fragments of dialogue inserted at those places where dialogue was wanted to emphasise the situation and make it real. I was much struck with the writer's perception of the vast importance of dialogue in making the reader seize the scene. Description requires attention: dialogue rivets attention. It is not an easy task, nor is it pleasant, to carry on another man's work: but the possession of this scenario lightened the work enormously. I have been careful to adhere faithfully and exactly to the plot, scene by scene, down to the smallest detail as it was laid down by the author in this book. I have altered nothing. I have preserved and incorporated every fragment of dialogue. I have used the very language wherever that was written so carefully as to show that it was meant to be used. I think that there is only one trivial detail where I had to choose because it was not clear from the notes what the author had intended. The plot of the novel, every scene, every situation, from beginning to end, is the work of Wilkie Collins. The actual writing is entirely his up to a certain point: from that point to the end it is partly his, but mainly mine. Where his writing ends and mine begins, I need not point out. The practised critic will, no doubt, at once lay his finger on the spot. I have therefore carried out the author's wishes to the best of my ability. I would that he were living still, if only to regret that he had not been allowed to finish his last work with his own hand! WALTER BESANT. BLIND LOVE THE PROLOGUE I SOON after sunrise, on a cloudy morning in the year 1881, a special messenger disturbed the repose of Dennis Howmore, at his place of residence in the pleasant Irish town of Ardoon. Well acquainted apparently with the way upstairs, the man thumped on a bed-room door, and shouted his message through it: "The master wants you, and mind you don't keep him waiting." The person sending this peremptory message was Sir Giles Mountjoy of Ardoon, knight and banker. The person receiving the message was Sir Giles's head clerk. As a matter of course, Dennis Howmore dressed himself at full speed, and hastened to his employer's private house on the outskirts of the town. He found Sir Giles in an irritable and anxious state of mind. A letter lay open on the banker's bed, his night-cap was crumpled crookedly on his head, he was in too great a hurry to remember the claims of politeness, when the clerk said "Good morning." "Dennis, I have got something for you to do. It must be kept a secret, and it allows of no delay." "Is it anything connected with business, sir?" The banker lost his temper. "How can you be such an infernal fool as to suppose that anything connected with business could happen at this time in the morning? Do you know the first milestone on the road to Garvan?" "Yes, sir." "Very well. Go to the milestone, and take care that nobody sees you when you get there. Look at the back of the stone. If you discover an Object which appears to have been left in that situation on the ground, bring it to me; and don't forget that the most impatient man in all Ireland is waiting for you." Not a word of explanation followed these extraordinary instructions. The head clerk set forth on his errand, with his mind dwelling on the national tendencies to conspiracy and assassination. His employer was not a popular person. Sir Giles had paid rent when he owed it; and, worse still, was disposed to remember in a friendly spirit what England had done for Ireland, in the course of the last fifty years. If anything appeared to justify distrust of the mysterious Object of which he was in search, Dennis resolved to be vigilantly on the look-out for a gun-barrel, whenever he passed a hedge on his return journey to the town. Arrived at the milestone, he discovered on the ground behind it one Object only--a fragment of a broken tea-cup. Naturally enough, Dennis hesitated. It seemed to be impossible that the earnest and careful instructions which he had received could relate to such a trifle as this. At the same time, he was acting under orders which were as positive as tone, manner, and language could make them. Passive obedience appeared to be the one safe course to take--at the risk of a reception, irritating to any man's self-respect, when he returned to his employer with a broken teacup in his hand. The event entirely failed to justify his misgivings. There could be no doubt that Sir Giles attached serious importance to the contemptible discovery made at the milestone. After having examined and re-examined the fragment, he announced his intention of sending the clerk on a second errand--still without troubling himself to explain what his incomprehensible instructions meant. "If I am not mistaken," he began, "the Reading Rooms, in our town, open as early as nine. Very well. Go to the Rooms this morning, on the stroke of the clock." He stopped, and consulted the letter which lay open on his bed. "Ask the librarian," he continued, "for the third volume of Gibbon's 'Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.' Open the book at pages seventy-eight and seventy-nine. If you find a piece of paper between those two leaves, take possession of it when nobody is looking at you, and bring it to me. That's all, Dennis. And bear in mind that I shall not recover the use of my patience till I see you again." On ordinary occasions, the head clerk was not a man accustomed to insist on what was due to his dignity. At the same time he was a sensible human being, conscious of the consideration to which his responsible place in the office entitled him. Sir Giles's irritating reserve, not even excused by a word of apology, reached the limits of his endurance. He respectfully protested. "I regret to find, sir," he said, "that I have lost my place in my employer's estimation. The man to whom you confide the superintendence of your clerks and the transaction of your business has, I venture to think, some claim (under the present circumstances) to be trusted." The banker was now offended on his side. "I readily admit your claim," he answered, "when you are sitting at your desk in my office. But, even in these days of strikes, co-operations, and bank holidays, an employer has one privilege left--he has not ceased to be a Man, and he has not forfeited a man's right to keep his own secrets. I fail to see anything in my conduct which has given you just reason to complain." Dennis, rebuked, made his bow in silence, and withdrew. Did these acts of humility mean that he submitted? They meant exactly the contrary. He had made up his mind that Sir Giles Mountjoy's motives should, sooner or later, cease to be mysteries to Sir Giles Mountjoy's clerk. II CAREFULLY following his instructions, he consulted the third volume of Gibbon's great History, and found, between the seventy-eighth and seventy-ninth pages, something remarkable this time. It was a sheet of delicately-made paper, pierced with a number of little holes, infinitely varied in size, and cut with the smoothest precision. Having secured this curious object, while the librarian's back was turned, Dennis Howmore reflected. A page of paper, unintelligibly perforated for some purpose unknown, was in itself a suspicious thing. And what did suspicion suggest to the inquiring mind in South-Western Ireland, before the suppression of the Land League? Unquestionably---Police! On the way back to his employer, the banker's clerk paid a visit to an old friend--a journalist by profession, and a man of varied learning and experience as well. Invited to inspect the remarkable morsel of paper, and to discover the object with which the perforations had been made, the authority consulted proved to be worthy of the trust reposed in him. Dennis left the newspaper office an enlightened man--with information at the disposal of Sir Giles, and with a sense of relief which expressed itself irreverently in these words: "Now I have got him!" The bewildered banker looked backwards and forwards from the paper to the clerk, and from the clerk to the paper. "I don't understand it," he said. "Do you?" Still preserving the appearance of humility, Dennis asked leave to venture on a guess. The perforated paper looked, as he thought, like a Puzzle. "If we wait for a day or two," he suggested, "the Key to it may possibly reach us." On the next day, nothing happened. On the day after, a second letter made another audacious demand on the fast failing patience of Sir Giles Mountjoy. Even the envelope proved to be a Puzzle on this occasion; the postmark was "Ardoon." In other words, the writer had used the postman as a messenger, while he or his accomplice was actually in the town, posting the letter within half-a-minute's walk of the bank! The contents presented an impenetrable mystery, the writing looked worthy of a madman. Sentences appeared in the wildest state of confusion, and words were so mutilated as to be unintelligible. This time the force of circumstances was more than Sir Giles could resist. He took the clerk into his confidence at last. "Let us begin at the beginning," he said. "There is the letter you saw on my bed, when I first sent for you. I found it waiting on my table when I woke; and I don't know who put it there. Read it." Dennis read as follows: "Sir Giles Mountjoy,--I have a disclosure to make, in which one of the members of your family is seriously interested. Before I can venture to explain myself, I must be assured that I can trust to your good faith. As a test of this, I require you to fulfil the two conditions that follow--and to do it without the slightest loss of time. I dare not trust you yet with my address, or my signature. Any act of carelessness, on my part, might end fatally for the true friend who writes these lines. If you neglect this warning, you will regret it to the end of your life." To the conditions on which the letter insisted there is no need to allude. They had been complied with when the discoveries were made at the back of the milestone, and between the pages of Gibson's history. Sir Giles had already arrived at the conclusion that a conspiracy was in progress to assassinate him, and perhaps to rob the bank. The wiser head clerk pointed to the perforated paper and the incomprehensible writing received that morning. "If we can find out what these mean," he said, "you may be better able, sir, to form a correct opinion." "And who is to do that?" the banker asked. "I can but try, sir," was the modest reply, "if you see no objection to my making the attempt." Sir Giles approved of the proposed experiment, silently and satirically, by a bend of his head. Too discreet a man to make a suspiciously ready use of the information which he had privately obtained, Dennis took care that his first attempt should not be successful. After modestly asking permission to try again, he ventured on the second occasion to arrive at a happy discovery. Lifting the perforated paper, he placed it delicately over the page which contained the unintelligible writing. Words and sentences now appeared (through the holes in the paper) in their right spelling and arrangement, and addressed Sir Giles in these terms: "I beg to thank you, sir, for complying with my conditions. You have satisfied me of your good faith. At the same time, it is possible that you may hesitate to trust a man who is not yet able to admit you to his confidence. The perilous position in which I stand obliges me to ask for two or three days more of delay, before I can safely make an appointment with you. Pray be patient--and on no account apply for advice or protection to the police." "Those last words," Sir Giles declared, "are conclusive! The sooner I am under the care of the law the better. Take my card to the police-office." "May I say a word first, sir?" "Do you mean that you don't agree with me?" "I mean that." "You were always an obstinate man Dennis; and it grows on you as you get older. Never mind! Let's have it out. Who do _you_ say is the person pointed at in these rascally letters?" The head clerk took up the first letter of the two and pointed to the opening sentence: "Sir Giles Mountjoy, I have a disclosure to make in which one of the members of your family is seriously interested." Dennis emphatically repeated the words: "one of the members of your family." His employer regarded him with a broad stare of astonishment. "One of the members of my family?" Sir Giles repeated, on his side. "Why, man alive, what are you thinking of? I'm an old bachelor, and I haven't got a family." "There is your brother, sir." "My brother is in France--out of the way of the wretches who are threatening me. I wish I was with him!" "There are your brother's two sons, Sir Giles." "Well? And what is there to be afraid of? My nephew, Hugh, is in London--and, mind! not on a political errand. I hope, before long, to hear that he is going to be married--if the strangest and nicest girl in England will have him. What's wrong now?" Dennis explained. "I only wished to say, sir, that I was thinking of your other nephew." Sir Giles laughed. "Arthur in danger!" he exclaimed. "As harmless a young man as ever lived. The worst one can say of him is that he is throwing away his money--farming in Kerry." "Excuse me, Sir Giles; there's not much chance of his throwing away his money, where he is now. Nobody will venture to take his money. I met with one of Mr. Arthur's neighbours at the market yesterday. Your nephew is boycotted." "So much the better," the obstinate banker declared. "He will be cured of his craze for farming; and he will come back to the place I am keeping for him in the office." "God grant it!" the clerk said fervently. For the moment, Sir Giles was staggered. "Have you heard something that you haven't told me yet?" he asked. "No, sir. I am only bearing in mind something which--with all respect--I think you have forgotten. The last tenant on that bit of land in Kerry refused to pay his rent. Mr. Arthur has taken what they call an evicted farm. It's my firm belief," said the head clerk, rising and speaking earnestly, "that the person who has addressed those letters to you knows Mr. Arthur, and knows he is in danger--and is trying to save your nephew (by means of your influence), at the risk of his own life." Sir Giles shook his head. "I call that a far-fetched interpretation, Dennis. If what you say is true, why didn't the writer of those anonymous letters address himself to Arthur, instead of to me?" "I gave it as my opinion just now, sir, that the writer of the letter knew Mr. Arthur." "So you did. And what of that?" Dennis stood to his guns. "Anybody who is acquainted with Mr. Arthur," he persisted, "knows that (with all sorts of good qualities) the young gentleman is headstrong and rash. If a friend told him he was in danger on the farm, that would be enough of itself to make him stop where he is, and brave it out. Whereas you, sir, are known to be cautious and careful, and farseeing and discreet." He might have added: And cowardly and obstinate, and narrow-minded and inflated by stupid self-esteem. But respect for his employer had blindfolded the clerk's observation for many a long year past. If one man may be born with the heart of a lion, another man may be born with the mind of a mule. Dennis's master was one of the other men. "Very well put," Sir Giles answered indulgently. "Time will show, if such an entirely unimportant person as my nephew Arthur is likely to be assassinated. That allusion to one of the members of my family is a mere equivocation, designed to throw me off my guard. Rank, money, social influence, unswerving principles, mark ME out as a public character. Go to the police-office, and let the best man who happens to be off duty come here directly." Good Dennis Howmore approached the door very unwillingly. It was opened, from the outer side, before he had reached that end of the room. One of the bank porters announced a visitor. "Miss Henley wishes to know, sir, if you can see her." Sir Giles looked agreeably surprised. He rose with alacrity to receive the lady. III WHEN Iris Henley dies there will, in all probability, be friends left who remember her and talk of her--and there may be strangers present at the time (women for the most part), whose curiosity will put questions relating to her personal appearance. No replies will reward them with trustworthy information. Miss Henley's chief claim to admiration lay in a remarkable mobility of expression, which reflected every change of feeling peculiar to the nature of a sweet and sensitive woman. For this reason, probably, no descriptions of her will agree with each other. No existing likenesses will represent her. The one portrait that was painted of Iris is only recognisable by partial friends of the artist. In and out of London, photographic likenesses were taken of her. They have the honour of resembling the portraits of Shakespeare in this respect--compared with one another, it is not possible to discover that they present the same person. As for the evidence offered by the loving memory of her friends, it is sure to be contradictory in the last degree. She had a charming face, a commonplace face, an intelligent face--a poor complexion, a delicate complexion, no complexion at all--eyes that were expressive of a hot temper, of a bright intellect, of a firm character, of an affectionate disposition, of a truthful nature, of hysterical sensibility, of inveterate obstinacy--a figure too short; no, just the right height; no, neither one thing nor the other; elegant, if you like--dress shabby: oh, surely not; dress quiet and simple; no, something more than that; ostentatiously quiet, theatrically simple, worn with the object of looking unlike other people. In one last word, was this mass of contradictions generally popular, in the time when it was a living creature? Yes--among the men. No--not invariably. The man of all others who ought to have been fondest of her was the man who behaved cruelly to Iris--her own father. And, when the poor creature married (if she did marry), how many of you attended the wedding? Not one of us! And when she died, how many of you were sorry for her? All of us! What? no difference of opinion in that one particular? On the contrary, perfect concord, thank God. Let the years roll back, and let Iris speak for herself, at the memorable time when she was in the prime of her life, and when a stormy career was before her. IV BEING Miss Henley's godfather, Sir Giles was a privileged person. He laid his hairy hands on her shoulders, and kissed her on either cheek. After that prefatory act of endearment, he made his inquiries. What extraordinary combination of events had led Iris to leave London, and had brought her to visit him in his banking-house at Ardoon? "I wanted to get away from home," she answered; "and having nobody to go to but my godfather, I thought I should like to see You." "Alone!" cried Sir Giles. "No--with my maid to keep me company." "Only your maid, Iris? Surely you have acquaintances among young ladies like yourself?" "Acquaintances--yes. No friends." "Does your father approve of what you have done?" "Will you grant me a favour, godpapa?" "Yes--if I can." "Don't insist on my answering your last question." The faint colour that had risen in her face, when she entered the room, left it. At the same time, the expression of her mouth altered. The lips closed firmly; revealing that strongest of all resolutions which is founded on a keen sense of wrong. She looked older than her age: what she might be ten years hence, she was now. Sir Giles understood her. He got up, and took a turn in the room. An old habit, of which he had cured himself with infinite difficulty when he was made a Knight, showed itself again. He put his hands in his pockets. "You and your father have had another quarrel," he said, stopping opposite Iris. "I don't deny it," she replied. "Who is to blame?" She smiled bitterly. "The woman is always to blame." "Did your father tell you that?" "My father reminded me that I was twenty-one years old, last birthday--and told me that I could do as I liked. I understood him, and I left the house." "You will go back again, I suppose?" "I don't know." Sir Giles began pacing the room once more. His rugged face, telling its story of disaster and struggle in early life, showed signs of disappointment and distress. "Hugh promised to write to me," he said, "and he has not written. I know what that means; I know what you have done to offend your father. My nephew has asked you to marry him for the second time. And for the second time you have refused." Her face softened; its better and younger aspect revived. "Yes," she said, sadly and submissively; "I have refused him again." Sir Giles lost his temper. "What the devil is your objection to Hugh?" he burst out. "My father said the same thing to me," she replied, "almost in the same words. I made him angry when I tried to give my reason. I don't want to make you angry, too." He took no notice of this. "Isn't Hugh a good fellow?" he went on. "Isn't he affectionate? and kindhearted? and honourable?--aye, and a handsome man too, if you come to that." "Hugh is all that you say. I like him; I admire him; I owe to his kindness some of the happiest days of my sad life, and I am grateful--oh, with all my heart, I am grateful to Hugh!" "If that's true, Iris----" "Every word of it is true." "I say, if that's true--there's no excuse for you. I hate perversity in a young woman! Why don't you marry him?" "Try to feel for me," she said gently; "I can't love him." Her tone said more to the banker than her words had expressed. The secret sorrow of her life, which was known to her father, was known also to Sir Giles. "Now we have come to it at last!" he said. "You can't love my nephew Hugh. And you won't tell me the reason why, because your sweet temper shrinks from making me angry. Shall I mention the reason for you, my dear? I can do it in two words--Lord Harry." She made no reply; she showed no sign of feeling at what he had just said. Her head sank a little; her hands clasped themselves on her lap; the obstinate resignation which can submit to anything hardened her face, stiffened her figure--and that was all. The banker was determined not to spare her. "It's easy to see," he resumed, "that you have not got over your infatuation for that vagabond yet. Go where he may, into the vilest places and among the lowest people, he carries your heart along with him. I wonder you are not ashamed of such an attachment as that." He had stung her at last. She roused herself, and answered him. "Harry has led a wild life," she said; "he has committed serious faults, and he may live to do worse than he has done yet. To what degradation, bad company, and a bad bringing-up may yet lead him, I leave his enemies to foresee. But I tell you this, he has redeeming qualities which you, and people like you, are not good Christians enough to discover. He has friends who can still appreciate him--your nephew, Arthur Mountjoy, is one of them. Oh, I know it by Arthur's letters to me! Blame Lord Harry as you may, I tell you he has the capacity for repentance in him, and one day--when it is too late, I dare say--he will show it. I can never be his wife. We are parted, never in all likelihood to meet again. Well, he is the only man whom I have ever loved; and he is the only man whom I ever shall love. If you think this state of mind proves that I am as bad as he is, I won't contradict you. Do we any of us know how bad we are----? Have you heard of Harry lately?" The sudden transition, from an earnest and devoted defence of the man, to an easy and familiar inquiry about him, startled Sir Giles. For the moment, he had nothing to say; Iris had made him think. She had shown a capacity for mastering her strongest feelings, at the moment when they threatened to overcome her, which is very rarely found in a young woman. How to manage her was a problem for patient resolution to solve. The banker's obstinacy, rather than his conviction, had encouraged him to hold to the hope of Hugh's marriage, even after his nephew had been refused for the second time. His headstrong goddaughter had come to visit him of her own accord. She had not forgotten the days of her childhood, when he had some influence over her--when she had found him kinder to her than her father had ever been. Sir Giles saw that he had taken the wrong tone with Iris. His anger had not alarmed her; his opinion had not influenced her. In Hugh's interests, he determined to try what consideration and indulgence would do towards cultivating the growth of her regard for him. Finding that she had left her maid and her luggage at the hotel, he hospitably insisted on their removal to his own house. "While you are in Ardoon, Iris, you are my guest," he said. She pleased him by readily accepting the invitation--and then annoyed him by asking again if he had heard anything of Lord Harry. He answered shortly and sharply: "I have heard nothing. What is _your_ last news of him?" "News," she said, "which I sincerely hope is not true. An Irish paper has been sent to me, which reports that he has joined the secret society--nothing better than a society of assassins, I am afraid--which is known by the name of the Invincibles." As she mentioned that formidable brotherhood, Dennis Howmore returned from the police-office. He announced that a Sergeant was then waiting to receive instructions from Sir Giles. V IRIS rose to go. Her godfather courteously stopped her. "Wait here," he said, "until I have spoken to the Sergeant, and I will escort you to my house. My clerk will do what is necessary at the hotel. You don't look quite satisfied. Is the arrangement that I have proposed not agreeable to you?" Iris assured him that she gratefully acceded to the arrangement. At the same time, she confessed to having been a little startled, on discovering that he was in consultation with the police. "I remember that we are in Ireland," she explained, "and I am foolish enough to fear that you may be in some danger. May I hope that it is only a trifle?" Only a trifle! Among ether deficient sensibilities in the strange nature of Iris, Sir Giles had observed an imperfect appreciation of the dignity of his social position. Here was a new proof of it! The temptation to inspire sentiments of alarm--not unmingled with admiration--in the mind of his insensible goddaughter, by exhibiting himself as a public character threatened by a conspiracy, was more than the banker's vanity could resist. Before he left the room, he instructed Dennis to tell Miss Henley what had happened, and to let her judge for herself whether he had been needlessly alarmed by, what she was pleased to call, "a mere trifle." Dennis Howmore must have been more than mortal, if he could have related his narrative of events without being influenced by his own point of view. On the first occasion when he mentioned Arthur Mountjoy's name, Iris showed a sudden interest in his strange story which took him by surprise. "You know Mr. Arthur?" he said. "Knew him!" Iris repeated. "He was my playfellow when we were both children. He is as dear to me as if he was my brother. Tell me at once--is he really in danger?" Dennis honestly repeated what he had already said, on that subject, to his master. Miss Henley, entirely agreeing with him, was eager to warn Arthur of his position. There was no telegraphic communication with the village which was near his farm. She could only write to him, and she did write to him, by that day's post--having reasons of her own for anxiety, which forbade her to show her letter to Dennis. Well aware of the devoted friendship which united Lord Harry and Arthur Mountjoy--and bearing in mind the newspaper report of the Irish lord's rash association with the Invincibles--her fears now identified the noble vagabond as the writer of the anonymous letters, which had so seriously excited her godfather's doubts of his own safety. When Sir Giles returned, and took her with him to his house, he spoke of his consultation with the Sergeant in terms which increased her dread of what might happen in the future. She was a dull and silent guest, during the interval that elapsed before it would be possible to receive Arthur's reply. The day arrived--and the post brought no relief to her anxieties. The next day passed without a letter. On the morning of the fourth day, Sir Giles rose later than usual. His correspondence was sent to him from the office, at breakfast-time. After opening one of the letters, he dispatched a messenger in hot haste to the police. "Look at that," he said, handing the letter to Iris. "Does the assassin take me for a fool?" She read the lines that follow: "Unforeseen events force me, Sir Giles, to run a serious risk. I must speak to you, and it must not be by daylight. My one hope of safety is in darkness. Meet me at the first milestone, on the road to Garvan, when the moon sets at ten o'clock to-night. No need to mention your name. The password is: _Fidelity."_ "Do you mean to go?" Iris asked. "Do I mean to be murdered!" Sir Giles broke out. "My dear child, do pray try to think before you speak. The Sergeant will represent me, of course." "And take the man prisoner?" Iris added. "Certainly!" With that startling reply, the banker hurried away to receive the police in another room. Iris dropped into the nearest chair. The turn that the affair had now taken filled her with unutterable dismay. Sir Giles came back, after no very long absence, composed and smiling. The course of proceeding had been settled to his complete satisfaction. Dressed in private clothes, the Sergeant was to go to the milestone at the appointed time, representing the banker in the darkness, and giving the password. He was to be followed by two of his men who would wait in concealment, within hearing of his whistle, if their services were required. "I want to see the ruffian when he is safely handcuffed," Sir Giles explained; "and I have arranged to wait for the police, to-night, at my office." There was but one desperate way that Iris could now discern of saving the man who had confided in her godfather's honour, and whose trust had already been betrayed. Never had she loved the outlawed Irish lord--the man whom she was forbidden, and rightly forbidden, to marry--as she loved him at that moment. Let the risk be what it might, this resolute woman had determined that the Sergeant should not be the only person who arrived at the milestone, and gave the password. There was one devoted friend to Lord Harry, whom she could always trust--and that friend was herself. Sir Giles withdrew, to look after his business at the bank. She waited until the clock had struck the servants' dinner hour, and then ascended the stairs to her godfather's dressing-room. Opening his wardrobe, she discovered in one part of it a large Spanish cloak, and, in another part, a high-crowned felt hat which he wore on his country excursions. In the dark, here was disguise enough for her purpose. As she left the dressing-room, a measure of precaution occurred to her, which she put in action at once. Telling her maid that she had some purchases to make in the town, she went out, and asked her way to Garvan of the first respectable stranger whom she met in the street. Her object was to walk as far as the first milestone, in daylight, so as to be sure of finding it again by night. She had made herself familiar with the different objects on the road, when she returned to the banker's house. As the time for the arrest drew nearer, Sir Giles became too restless to wait patiently at home. He went away to the police-office, eager to hear if any new counter-conspiracy had occurred to the authorities. It was dark soon after eight o'clock, at that time of the year. At nine the servants assembled at the supper-table. They were all downstairs together, talking, and waiting for their meal. Feeling the necessity of arriving at the place of meeting, in time to keep out of the Sergeant's way, Iris assumed her disguise as the clock struck nine. She left the house without a living creature to notice her, indoors or out. Clouds were gathering over the sky. The waning moon was only to be seen at intervals, as she set forth on her way to the milestone. VI THE wind rose a little, and the rifts in the clouds began to grow broader as Iris gained the high road. For a while, the glimmer of the misty moonlight lit the way before her. As well as she could guess, she had passed over more than half of the distance between the town and the milestone before the sky darkened again. Objects by the wayside grew shadowy and dim. A few drops of rain began to fall. The milestone, as she knew--thanks to the discovery of it made by daylight--was on the right-hand side of the road. But the dull-grey colour of the stone was not easy to see in the dark. A doubt troubled her whether she might not have passed the milestone. She stopped and looked at the sky. The threatening of rain had passed away: signs showed themselves which seemed to promise another break in the clouds. She waited. Low and faint, the sinking moonlight looked its last at the dull earth. In front of her, there was nothing to be seen but the road. She looked back--and discovered the milestone. A rough stone wall protected the land on either side of the road. Nearly behind the milestone there was a gap in this fence, partially closed by a hurdle. A half-ruined culvert, arching a ditch that had run dry, formed a bridge leading from the road to the field. Had the field been already chosen as a place of concealment by the police? Nothing was to be seen but a footpath, and the dusky line of a plantation beyond it. As she made these discoveries, the rain began to fall again; the clouds gathered once more; the moonlight vanished. At the same moment an obstacle presented itself to her mind, which Iris had thus far failed to foresee. Lord Harry might approach the milestone by three different ways: that is to say--by the road from the town, or by the road from the open country, or by way of the field and the culvert. How could she so place herself as to be sure of warning him, before he fell into the hands of the police? To watch the three means of approach in the obscurity of the night, and at one and the same time, was impossible. A man in this position, guided by reason, would in all probability have wasted precious time in trying to arrive at the right decision. A woman, aided by love, conquered the difficulty that confronted her in a moment. Iris decided on returning to the milestone, and on waiting there to be discovered and taken prisoner by the police. Supposing Lord Harry to be punctual to his appointment, he would hear voices and movements, as a necessary consequence of the arrest, in time to make his escape. Supposing him on the other hand to be late, the police would be on the way back to the town with their prisoner: he would find no one at the milestone, and would leave it again in safety. She was on the point of turning, to get back to the road, when something on the dark surface of the field, which looked like a darker shadow, became dimly visible. In another moment it seemed to be a shadow that moved. She ran towards it. It looked like a man as she drew nearer. The man stopped. "The password," he said, in tones cautiously lowered. "Fidelity," she answered in a whisper. It was too dark for a recognition of his features; but Iris knew him by his tall stature--knew him by the accent in which he had asked for the password. Erroneously judging of her, on his side, as a man, he drew back again. Sir Giles Mountjoy was above the middle height; the stranger in a cloak, who had whispered to him, was below it. "You are not the person I expected to meet," he said. "Who are you?" Her faithful heart was longing to tell him the truth. The temptation to reveal herself, and to make the sweet confession of her happiness at having saved him, would have overpowered her discretion, but for a sound that was audible on the road behind them. In the deep silence of the time and place mistake was impossible. It was the sound of footsteps. There was just time to whisper to him: "Sir Giles has betrayed you. Save yourself." "Thank you, whoever you are!" With that reply, he suddenly and swiftly disappeared. Iris remembered the culvert, and turned towards it. There was a hiding-place under the arch, if she could only get down into the dry ditch in time. She was feeling her way to the slope of it with her feet, when a heavy hand seized her by the arm; and a resolute voice said: "You are my prisoner." She was led back into the road. The man who had got her blew a whistle. Two other men joined him. "Show a light," he said; "and let's see who the fellow is." The shade was slipped aside from a lantern: the light fell full on the prisoner's face. Amazement petrified the two attendant policemen. The pious Catholic Sergeant burst into speech: "Holy Mary! it's a woman!" Did the secret societies of Ireland enrol women? Was this a modern Judith, expressing herself by anonymous letters, and bent on assassinating a financial Holofernes who kept a bank? What account had she to give of herself? How came she to be alone in a desolate field on a rainy night? Instead of answering these questions, the inscrutable stranger preferred a bold and brief request. "Take me to Sir Giles"--was all she said to the police. The Sergeant had the handcuffs ready. After looking at the prisoner's delicate wrists by the lantern-light, he put his fetters back in his pocket. "A lady--and no doubt about it," he said to one of his assistants. The two men waited, with a mischievous interest in seeing what he would do next. The list of their pious officer's virtues included a constitutional partiality for women, which exhibited the merciful side of justice when a criminal wore a petticoat. "We will take you to Sir Giles, Miss," he said--and offered his arm, instead of offering his handcuffs. Iris understood him, and took his arm. She was silent--unaccountably silent as the men thought--on the way to the town. They heard her sigh: and, once, the sigh sounded more like a sob; little did they suspect what was in that silent woman's mind at the time. The one object which had absorbed the attention of Iris had been the saving of Lord Harry. This accomplished, the free exercise of her memory had now reminded her of Arthur Mountjoy. It was impossible to doubt that the object of the proposed meeting at the milestone had been to take measures for the preservation of the young man's life. A coward is always more or less cruel. The proceedings (equally treacherous and merciless) by which Sir Giles had provided for his own safety, had delayed--perhaps actually prevented--the execution of Lord Harry's humane design. It was possible, horribly possible, that a prompt employment of time might have been necessary to the rescue of Arthur from impending death by murder. In the agitation that overpowered her, Iris actually hurried the police on their return to the town. Sir Giles had arranged to wait for news in his private room at the office--and there he was, with Dennis Howmore in attendance to receive visitors. The Sergeant went into the banker's room alone, to make his report. He left the door ajar; Iris could hear what passed. "Have you got your prisoner?" Sir Giles began. "Yes, your honour." "Is the wretch securely handcuffed?" "I beg your pardon, sir, it isn't a man." "Nonsense, Sergeant; it can't be a boy." The Sergeant confessed that it was not a boy. "It's a woman," he said. "What!!!" "A woman," the patient officer repeated--"and a young one. She asked for You." "Bring her in." Iris was not the sort of person who waits to be brought in. She walked in, of her own accord. VII "GOOD Heavens!" cried Sir Giles. "Iris! With my cloak on!! With my hat in her hand!!! Sergeant, there has been some dreadful mistake. This is my god-daughter--Miss Henley." "We found her at the milestone, your honour. The young lady and nobody else." Sir Giles appealed helplessly to his god-daughter. "What does this mean?" Instead of answering, she looked at the Sergeant. The Sergeant, conscious of responsibility, stood his ground and looked at Sir Giles. His face confessed that the Irish sense of humour was tickled: but he showed no intention of leaving the room. Sir Giles saw that Iris would enter into no explanation in the man's presence. "You needn't wait any longer," he said. "What am I to do, if you please, with the prisoner?" the Sergeant inquired. Sir Giles waived that unnecessary question away with his hand. He was trebly responsible--as knight, banker, and magistrate into the bargain. "I will be answerable," he replied, "for producing Miss Henley, if called upon. Good night." The Sergeant's sense of duty was satisfied. He made the military salute. His gallantry added homage to the young lady under the form of a bow. Then, and then only, he walked with dignity out of the room. "Now," Sir Giles resumed, "I presume I may expect to receive an explanation. What does this impropriety mean? What were you doing at the milestone?" "I was saving the person who made the appointment with you," Iris said; "the poor fellow had no ill-will towards you--who had risked everything to save your nephew's life. Oh, sir, you committed a terrible mistake when you refused to trust that man!" Sir Giles had anticipated the appearance of fear, and the reality of humble apologies. She had answered him indignantly, with a heightened colour, and with tears in her eyes. His sense of his own social importance was wounded to the quick. "Who is the man you are speaking of?" he asked loftily. "And what is your excuse for having gone to the milestone to save him--hidden under my cloak, disguised in my hat?" "Don't waste precious time in asking questions!" was the desperate reply. "Undo the harm that you have done already. Your help--oh, I mean what I say!--may yet preserve Arthur's life. Go to the farm, and save him." Sir Giles's anger assumed a new form, it indulged in an elaborate mockery of respect. He took his watch from his pocket, and consulted it satirically. "Must I make an excuse?" he asked with a clumsy assumption of humility. "No! you must go." "Permit me to inform you, Miss Henley, that the last train started more than two hours since." "What does that matter? You are rich enough to hire a train." Sir Giles, the actor, could endure it no longer; he dropped the mask, and revealed Sir Giles, the man. His clerk was summoned by a peremptory ring of the bell. "Attend Miss Henley to the house," he said. "You may come to your senses after a night's rest," he continued, turning sternly to Iris. "I will receive your excuses in the morning." In the morning, the breakfast was ready as usual at nine o'clock. Sir Giles found himself alone at the table. He sent an order to one of the women-servants to knock at Miss Henley's door. There was a long delay. The housekeeper presented herself in a state of alarm; she had gone upstairs to make the necessary investigation in her own person. Miss Henley was not in her room; the maid was not in her room; the beds had not been slept in; the heavy luggage was labelled--"To be called for from the hotel." And there was an end of the evidence which the absent Iris had left behind her. Inquiries were made at the hotel. The young lady had called there, with her maid, early on that morning. They had their travelling-bags with them; and Miss Henley had left directions that the luggage was to be placed under care of the landlord until her return. To what destination she had betaken herself nobody knew. Sir Giles was too angry to remember what she had said to him on the previous night, or he might have guessed at the motive which had led to her departure. "Her father has done with her already," he said; "and I have done with her now." The servants received orders not to admit Miss Henley, if her audacity contemplated a return to her godfather's house. VIII ON the afternoon of the same day, Iris arrived at the village situated in the near neighbourhood of Arthur Mountjoy's farm. The infection of political excitement (otherwise the hatred of England) had spread even to this remote place. On the steps of his little chapel, the priest, a peasant himself, was haranguing his brethren of the soil. An Irishman who paid his landlord was a traitor to his country; an Irishman who asserted his free birthright in the land that he walked on was an enlightened patriot. Such was the new law which the reverend gentleman expounded to his attentive audience. If his brethren there would like him to tell them how they might apply the law, this exemplary Christian would point to the faithless Irishman, Arthur Mountjoy. "Buy not of him, sell not to him; avoid him if he approaches you; starve him out of the place. I might say more, boys--you know what I mean." To hear the latter part of this effort of oratory, without uttering a word of protest, was a trial of endurance under which Iris trembled. The secondary effect of the priest's address was to root the conviction of Arthur's danger with tenfold tenacity in her mind. After what she had just heard, even the slightest delay in securing his safety might be productive of deplorable results. She astonished a barefooted boy, on the outskirts of the crowd, by a gift of sixpence, and asked her way to the farm. The little Irishman ran on before her, eager to show the generous lady how useful he could be. In less than half an hour, Iris and her maid were at the door of the farm-house. No such civilised inventions appeared as a knocker or a bell. The boy used his knuckles instead--and ran away when he heard the lock of the door turned on the inner side. He was afraid to be seen speaking to any living creature who inhabited the "evicted farm." A decent old woman appeared, and inquired suspiciously "what the ladies wanted." The accent in which she spoke was unmistakably English. When Iris asked for Mr. Arthur Mountjoy the reply was: "Not at home." The housekeeper inhospitably attempted to close the door. "Wait one moment," Iris said. "Years have changed you; but there is something in your face which is not quite strange to me. Are you Mrs. Lewson?" The woman admitted that this was her name. "But how is it that you are a stranger to me?" she asked distrustfully. "If you have been long in Mr. Mountjoy's service," Iris replied, "you may perhaps have heard him speak of Miss Henley?" Mrs. Lewson's face brightened in an instant; she threw the door wide open with a glad cry of recognition. "Come in, Miss, come in! Who would have thought of seeing you in this horrible place? Yes; I was the nurse who looked after you all three--when you and Mr. Arthur and Mr. Hugh were playfellows together." Her eyes rested longingly on her favourite of bygone days. The sensitive sympathies of Iris interpreted that look. She prettily touched her cheek, inviting the nurse to kiss her. At this act of kindness the poor old woman broke down; she apologised quaintly for her tears: "Think, Miss, how _I_ must remember that happy time--when _you_ have not forgotten it." Shown into the parlour, the first object which the visitor noticed was the letter that she had written to Arthur lying unopened on the table. "Then he is really out of the house?" she said with a feeling of relief. He had been away from the farm for a week or more. Had he received a warning from some other quarter? and had he wisely sought refuge in flight? The amazement in the housekeeper's face, when she heard these questions, pleaded for a word of explanation. Iris acknowledged without reserve the motives which had suggested her journey, and asked eagerly if she had been mistaken in assuming that Arthur was in danger of assassination. Mrs. Lewson shook her head. Beyond all doubt the young master was in danger. But Miss Iris ought to have known his nature better than to suppose that he would beat a retreat, if all the land-leaguers in Ireland threatened him together. No! It was his bold way to laugh at danger. He had left his farm to visit a friend in the next county; and it was shrewdly guessed that a young lady who was staying in the house was the attraction which had kept him so long away. "Anyhow, he means to come back to-morrow," Mrs. Lewson said. "I wish he would think better of it, and make his escape to England while he has the chance. If the savages in these parts must shoot somebody, I'm here--an old woman that can't last much longer. Let them shoot me." Iris asked if Arthur's safety was assured in the next county, and in the house of his friend. "I can't say, Miss; I have never been to the house. He is in danger if he persists in coming back to the farm. There are chances of shooting him all along his road home. Oh, yes; he knows it, poor dear, as well as I do. But, there!--men like him are such perverse creatures. He takes his rides just as usual. No; he won't listen to an old woman like me; and, as for friends to advise him, the only one of them that has darkened our doors is a scamp who had better have kept away. You may have heard tell of him. The old Earl, his wicked father, used to be called by a bad name. And the wild young lord is his father's true son." "Not Lord Harry?" Iris exclaimed. The outbreak of agitation in her tone and manner was silently noticed by her maid. The housekeeper did not attempt to conceal the impression that had been produced upon her. "I hope you don't know such a vagabond as that?" she said very seriously. "Perhaps you are thinking of his brother--the eldest son--a respectable man, as I have been told?" Miss Henley passed over these questions without notice. Urged by the interest in her lover, which was now more than ever an interest beyond her control, she said: "Is Lord Harry in danger, on account of his friend?" "He has nothing to fear from the wretches who infest our part of the country," Mrs. Lewson replied. "Report says he's one of themselves. The police--there's what his young lordship has to be afraid of, if all's true that is said about him. Anyhow, when he paid his visit to my master, he came secretly like a thief in the night. And I heard Mr. Arthur, while they were together here in the parlour, loud in blaming him for something that he had done. No more, Miss, of Lord Harry! I have something particular to say to you. Suppose I promise to make you comfortable--will you please wait here till to-morrow, and see Mr. Arthur and speak to him? If there's a person living who can persuade him to take better care of himself, I do believe it will be you." Iris readily consented to wait for Arthur Mountjoy's return. Left together, while Mrs. Lewson was attending to her domestic duties, the mistress noticed an appearance of pre-occupation in the maid's face. "Are you beginning to wish, Rhoda," she said, "that I had not brought you to this strange place, among these wild people?" The maid was a quiet amiable girl, evidently in delicate health. She smiled faintly. "I was thinking, Miss, of another nobleman besides the one Mrs. Lewson mentioned just now, who seems to have led a reckless life. It was printed in a newspaper that I read before we left London." "Was his name mentioned?" Iris asked. "No, Miss; I suppose they were afraid of giving offence. He tried so many strange ways of getting a living--it was almost like reading a story-book." The suppression of the name suggested a suspicion from which Iris recoiled. Was it possible that her maid could be ignorantly alluding to Lord Harry? "Do you remember this hero's adventures?" she said. "I can try, Miss, if you wish to hear about him." The newspaper narrative appeared to have produced a vivid impression on Rhoda's mind. Making allowance for natural hesitations and mistakes, and difficulties in expressing herself correctly, she repeated with a singularly clear recollection the substance of what she had read. IX THE principal characters in the story were an old Irish nobleman, who was called the Earl, and the youngest of his two sons, mysteriously distinguished as "the wild lord." It was said of the Earl that he had not been a good father; he had cruelly neglected both his sons. The younger one, badly treated at school, and left to himself in the holidays, began his adventurous career by running away. He got employment (under an assumed name) as a ship's boy. At the outset, he did well; learning his work, and being liked by the Captain and the crew. But the chief mate was a brutal man, and the young runaway's quick temper resented the disgraceful infliction of blows. He made up his mind to try his luck on shore, and attached himself to a company of strolling players. Being a handsome lad, with a good figure and a fine clear voice, he did very well for a while on the country stage. Hard times came; salaries were reduced; the adventurer wearied of the society of actors and actresses. His next change of life presented him in North Britain as a journalist, employed on a Scotch newspaper. An unfortunate love affair was the means of depriving him of this new occupation. He was recognised, soon afterwards, serving as assistant steward in one of the passenger steamers voyaging between Liverpool and New York. Arrived in this last city, he obtained notoriety, of no very respectable kind, as a "medium" claiming powers of supernatural communication with the world of spirits. When the imposture was ultimately discovered, he had gained money by his unworthy appeal to the meanly prosaic superstition of modern times. A long interval had then elapsed, and nothing had been heard of him, when a starving man was discovered by a traveller, lost on a Western prairie. The ill-fated Irish lord had associated himself with an Indian tribe--had committed some offence against their laws--and had been deliberately deserted and left to die. On his recovery, he wrote to his elder brother (who had inherited the title and estates on the death of the old Earl) to say that he was ashamed of the life that he had led, and eager to make amendment by accepting any honest employment that could be offered to him. The traveller who had saved his life, and whose opinion was to be trusted, declared that the letter represented a sincerely penitent state of mind. There were good qualities in the vagabond, which only wanted a little merciful encouragement to assert themselves. The reply that he received from England came from the lawyers employed by the new Earl. They had arranged with their agents in New York to pay to the younger brother a legacy of a thousand pounds, which represented all that had been left to him by his father's will. If he wrote again his letters would not be answered; his brother had done with him. Treated in this inhuman manner, the wild lord became once more worthy of his name. He tried a new life as a betting man at races and trotting-matches. Fortune favoured him at the outset, and he considerably increased his legacy. With the customary infatuation of men who gain money by risking the loss of it, he presumed on his good luck. One pecuniary disaster followed another, and left him literally penniless. He was found again, in England, exhibiting an open boat in which he and a companion had made one of those foolhardy voyages across the Atlantic, which have now happily ceased to interest the public. To a friend who remonstrated with him, he answered that he reckoned on being lost at sea, and on so committing a suicide worthy of the desperate life that he had led. The last accounts of him, after this, were too vague and too contradictory to be depended on. At one time it was reported that he had returned to the United States. Not long afterwards unaccountable paragraphs appeared in newspapers declaring, at one and the same time, that he was living among bad company in Paris, and that he was hiding disreputably in an ill famed quarter of the city of Dublin, called "the Liberties." In any case there was good reason to fear that Irish-American desperadoes had entangled the wild lord in the network of political conspiracy. The maid noticed a change in the mistress which surprised her, when she had reached the end of the newspaper story. Of Miss Henley's customary good spirits not a trace remained. "Few people, Rhoda, remember what they read as well as you do." She said it kindly and sadly--and she said no more. There was a reason for this. Now at one time, and now at another, Iris had heard of Lord Harry's faults and failings in fragments of family history. The complete record of his degraded life, presented in an uninterrupted succession of events, had now forced itself on her attention for the first time. It naturally shocked her. She felt, as she had never felt before, how entirely right her father had been in insisting on her resistance to an attachment which was unworthy of her. So far, but no farther, her conscience yielded to its own conviction of what was just. But the one unassailable vital force in this world is the force of love. It may submit to the hard necessities of life; it may acknowledge the imperative claims of duty; it may be silent under reproach, and submissive to privation--but, suffer what it may, it is the master-passion still; subject to no artificial influences, owning no supremacy but the law of its own being. Iris was above the reach of self-reproach, when her memory recalled the daring action which had saved Lord Harry at the milestone. Her better sense acknowledged Hugh Mountjoy's superiority over the other man--but her heart, her perverse heart, remained true to its first choice in spite of her. She made an impatient excuse and went out alone to recover her composure in the farm-house garden. The hours of the evening passed slowly. There was a pack of cards in the house; the women tried to amuse themselves, and failed. Anxiety about Arthur preyed on the spirits of Miss Henley and Mrs. Lewson. Even the maid, who had only seen him during his last visit to London, said she wished to-morrow had come and gone. His sweet temper, his handsome face, his lively talk had made Arthur a favourite everywhere. Mrs. Lewson had left her comfortable English home to be his housekeeper, when he tried his rash experiment of farming in Ireland. And, more wonderful still, even wearisome Sir Giles became an agreeable person in his nephew's company. Iris set the example of retiring at an early hour to her room. There was something terrible in the pastoral silence of the place. It associated itself mysteriously with her fears for Arthur; it suggested armed treachery on tiptoe, taking its murderous stand in hiding; the whistling passage of bullets through the air; the piercing cry of a man mortally wounded, and that man, perhaps----? Iris shrank from her own horrid thought. A momentary faintness overcame her; she opened the window. As she put her head out to breathe the cool night-air, a man on horseback rode up to the house. Was it Arthur? No: the light-coloured groom's livery that he wore was just visible. Before he could dismount to knock at the door, a tall man walked up to him out of the darkness. "Is that Miles?" the tall man asked. The groom knew the voice. Iris was even better acquainted with it. She, too, recognised Lord Harry. X THERE was the Irish lord at the very time when Iris was most patiently resigned never to see him more, never to think of him as her husband again--reminding her of the first days of their love, and of their mutual confession of it! Fear of herself kept her behind the curtain; while interest in Lord Harry detained her at the window in hiding. "All well at Rathco?" he asked--mentioning the name of the house in which Arthur was one of the guests. "Yes, my lord. Mr. Mountjoy leaves us to-morrow." "Does he mean to return to the farm?" "Sorry I am to say it; he does mean that." "Has he fixed any time, Miles, for starting on his journey?" Miles instituted a search through his pockets, and accompanied it by an explanation. Yes, indeed, Master Arthur had fixed a time; he had written a note to say so to Mistress Lewson, the housekeeper; he had said, "Drop the note at the farm, on your way to the village." And what might Miles want at the village, in the dark? Medicine, in a hurry, for one of his master's horses that was sick and sinking. And, speaking of that, here, thank God, was the note! Iris, listening and watching alternately, saw to her surprise the note intended for Mrs. Lewson handed to Lord Harry. "Am I expected," he asked jocosely, "to read writing without a light?" Miles produced a small lantern which was strapped to his groom's belt. "There's parts of the road not over safe in the dark," he said as he raised the shade which guarded the light. The wild lord coolly opened the letter, and read the few careless words which it contained. "To Mrs. Lewson:--Dear old girl, expect me back to-morrow to dinner at three o'clock. Yours, ARTHUR." There was a pause. "Are there any strangers at Rathco?" Lord Harry asked. "Two new men," Miles replied, "at work in the grounds." There was another pause. "How can I protect him?" the young lord said, partly to himself, partly to Miles. He suspected the two new men---spies probably who knew of Arthur's proposed journey home, and who had already reported to their employers the hour at which he would set out. Miles ventured to say a word: "I hope you won't be angry with me, my lord"---- "Stuff and nonsense! Was I ever angry with you, when I was rich enough to keep a servant, and when you were the man?" The Irish groom answered in a voice that trembled with strong feeling. "You were the best and kindest master that ever lived on this earth. I can't see you putting your precious life in peril"---- "My precious life?" Lord Harry repeated lightly. "You're thinking of Mr. Mountjoy, when you say that. _His_ life is worth saving. As for my life"---- He ended the sentence by a whistle, as the best way he could hit on of expressing his contempt for his own existence. "My lord! my lord!" Miles persisted; "the Invincibles are beginning to doubt you. If any of them find you hanging about Mr. Mountjoy's farm, they'll try a shot at you first, and ask afterwards whether it was right to kill you or not." To hear this said--and said seriously--after the saving of him at the milestone, was a trial of her firmness which Iris was unable to resist. Love got the better of prudence. She drew back the window-curtain. In another moment, she would have added her persuasion to the servant's warning, if Lord Harry himself had not accidentally checked her by a proceeding, on his part, for which she was not prepared. "Show the light," he said; "I'll write a line to Mr. Mountjoy." He tore off the blank page from the note to the housekeeper, and wrote to Arthur, entreating him to change the time of his departure from Rathco, and to tell no creature in the house, or out of the house, at what new hour he had arranged to go. "Saddle your horse yourself," the letter concluded. It was written in a feigned hand, without a signature. "Give that to Mr. Mountjoy," Lord Harry said. "If he asks who wrote it, don't frighten him about me by telling the truth. Lie, Miles! Say you don't know." He next returned the note for Mrs. Lewson. "If she notices that it has been opened," he resumed, "and asks who has done it, lie again. Good-night, Miles--and mind those dangerous places on your road home." The groom darkened his lantern; and the wild lord was lost to view, round the side of the house. Left by himself, Miles rapped at the door with the handle of his whip. "A letter from Mr. Arthur," he called out. Mrs. Lewson at once took the note, and examined it by the light of the candle on the hall-table. "Somebody has been reading this!" she exclaimed, stepping out to the groom, and showing him the torn envelope. Miles, promptly obeying his instructions, declared that he knew nothing about it, and rode away. Iris descended the stairs, and joined Mrs. Lewson in the hall before she had closed the door. The housekeeper at once produced Arthur's letter. "It's on my mind, Miss," she said, "to write an answer, and say something to Mr. Arthur which will persuade him to take care of himself, on his way back to the farm. The difficulty is, how am I to express it? You would be doing a kind thing if you would give me a word of advice." Iris willingly complied. A second note, from the anxious housekeeper, might help the effect of the few lines which Lord Harry had written. Arthur's letter informed Iris that he had arranged to return at three o'clock. Lord Harry's question to the groom, and the man's reply, instantly recurred to her memory: "Are there any strangers at Rathco?"--"Two new men at work in the grounds." Arriving at the same conclusion which had already occurred to Lord Harry, Iris advised the housekeeper, in writing to Arthur, to entreat him to change the hour, secretly, at which he left his friend's house on the next day. Warmly approving of this idea, Mrs. Lewson hurried into the parlour to write her letter. "Don't go to bed yet, Miss," she said; "I want you to read it before I send it away the first thing to-morrow morning." Left alone in the hall, with the door open before her, Iris looked out on the night, thinking. The lives of the two men in whom she was interested--in widely different ways--were now both threatened; and the imminent danger, at that moment, was the danger of Lord Harry. He was an outlaw whose character would not bear investigation; but, to give him his due, there was no risk which he was not ready to confront for Arthur's sake. If he was still recklessly lingering, on the watch for assassins in the dangerous neighbourhood of the farm, who but herself possessed the influence which would prevail on him to leave the place? She had joined Mrs. Lewson at the door with that conviction in her mind. In another instant, she was out of the house, and beginning her search in the dark. Iris made the round of the building; sometimes feeling her way in obscure places; sometimes calling to Lord Harry cautiously by his name. No living creature appeared; no sound of a movement disturbed the stillness of the night. The discovery of his absence, which she had not dared to hope for, was the cheering discovery which she had now made. On her way back to the house, she became conscious of the rashness of the act into which her own generous impulse had betrayed her. If she and Lord Harry had met, could she have denied the tender interest in him which her own conduct would then have revealed? Would he not have been justified in concluding that she had pardoned the errors and the vices of his life, and that he might without impropriety remind her of their engagement, and claim her hand in marriage? She trembled as she thought of the concessions which he might have wrung from her. "Never more," she determined, "shall my own folly be answerable for it, if he and I meet again." She had returned to Mrs. Lewson, and had read over the letter to Arthur, when the farm clock, striking the hour, reminded them that it was time to retire. They slept badly that night. At six in the morning, one of the two labourers who had remained faithful to Arthur was sent away on horseback with the housekeeper's reply, and with orders to wait for an answer. Allowing time for giving the horse a rest, the man might be expected to return before noon. IX IT was a fine sunshiny day; Mrs. Lewson's spirits began to improve. "I have always held the belief," the worthy old woman confessed, "that bright weather brings good luck--of course provided the day is not a Friday. This is Wednesday. Cheer up, Miss." The messenger returned with good news. Mr. Arthur had been as merry as usual. He had made fun of another letter of good advice, received without a signature. "But Mrs. Lewson must have her way," he said. "My love to the old dear--I'll start two hours later, and be back to dinner at five." "Where did Mr. Arthur give you that message?" Iris inquired. "At the stables, Miss, while I was putting up the horse. The men about were all on the broad grin when they heard Mr. Arthur's message." Still in a morbid state of mind, Iris silently regretted that the message had not been written, instead of being delivered by word of mouth. Here, again, she (like the wild lord) had been afraid of listeners. The hours wore slowly on until it was past four o'clock. Iris could endure the suspense no longer. "It's a lovely afternoon," she said to Mrs. Lewson. "Let us take a walk along the road, and meet Arthur." To this proposal the housekeeper readily agreed. It was nearly five o'clock when they reached a place at which a by-road branched off, through a wood, from the highway which they had hitherto followed. Mrs. Lewson found a seat on a felled tree. "We had better not go any farther," she said. Iris asked if there was any reason for this. There was an excellent reason. A few yards farther on, the high road had been diverted from the straight line (in the interest of a large agricultural village), and was then directed again into its former course. The by-road through the wood served as a short cut, for horsemen and pedestrians, from one divergent point to the other. It was next to a certainty that Arthur would return by the short cut. But if accident or caprice led to his preferring the highway, it was clearly necessary to wait for him within view of both the roads. Too restless to submit to a state of passive expectation, Iris proposed to follow the bridle path through the wood for a little way, and to return if she failed to see anything of Arthur. "You are tired," she said kindly to her companion: "pray don't move." Mrs. Lewson looked needlessly uneasy: "You might lose yourself, Miss. Mind you keep to the path!" Iris followed the pleasant windings of the woodland track. In the hope of meeting Arthur she considerably extended the length of her walk. The white line of the high road, as it passed the farther end of the wood, showed itself through the trees. She turned at once to rejoin Mrs. Lewson. On her way back she made a discovery. A ruin which she had not previously noticed showed itself among the trees on her left hand. Her curiosity was excited; she strayed aside to examine it more closely. The crumbling walls, as she approached them, looked like the remains of an ordinary dwelling-house. Age is essential to the picturesque effect of decay: a modern ruin is an unnatural and depressing object--and here the horrid thing was. As she turned to retrace her steps to the road, a man walked out of the inner space enclosed by all that was left of the dismantled house. A cry of alarm escaped her. Was she the victim of destiny, or the sport of chance? There was the wild lord whom she had vowed never to see again: the master of her heart--perhaps the master of her fate! Any other man would have been amazed to see her, and would have asked how it had happened that the English lady presented herself to him in an Irish wood. This man enjoyed the delight of seeing her, and accepted it as a blessing that was not to be questioned. "My angel has dropped from Heaven," he said. "May Heaven be praised!" He approached her; his arms closed round her. She struggled to free herself from his embrace. At that moment they both heard the crackle of breaking underwood among the trees behind them. Lord Harry looked round. "This is a dangerous place," he whispered; "I'm waiting to see Arthur pass safely. Submit to be kissed, or I am a dead man." His eyes told her that he was truly and fearfully in earnest. Her head sank on his bosom. As he bent down and kissed her, three men approached from their hiding-place among the trees. They had no doubt been watching him, under orders from the murderous brotherhood to which they belonged. Their pistols were ready in their hands--and what discovery had they made? There was the brother who had been denounced as having betrayed them, guilty of no worse treason than meeting his sweetheart in a wood! "We beg your pardon, my lord," they cried, with a thoroughly Irish enjoyment of their own discomfiture--and burst into a roar of laughter--and left the lovers together. For the second time, Iris had saved Lord Harry at a crisis in his life. "Let me go!" she pleaded faintly, trembling with superstitious fear for the first time in her experience of herself. He held her to him as if he would never let her go again. "Oh, my Sweet, give me a last chance. Help me to be a better man! You have only to will it, Iris, and to make me worthy of you." His arms suddenly trembled round her, and dropped. The silence was broken by a distant sound, like the report of a shot. He looked towards the farther end of the wood. In a minute more, the thump of a horse's hoofs at a gallop was audible, where the bridlepath was hidden among the trees. It came nearer--nearer---the creature burst into view, wild with fright, and carrying an empty saddle. Lord Harry rushed into the path and seized the horse as it swerved at the sight of him. There was a leather pocket attached to the front of the saddle. "Search it!" he cried to Iris, forcing the terrified animal back on its haunches. She drew out a silver travelling-flask. One glance at the name engraved on it told him the terrible truth. His trembling hands lost their hold. The horse escaped; the words burst from his lips: "Oh, God, they've killed him!" THE END OF THE PROLOGUE THE STORY FIRST PERIOD CHAPTER I THE SOUR FRENCH WINE WHILE the line to be taken by the new railway between Culm and Everill was still under discussion, the engineer caused some difference of opinion among the moneyed men who were the first Directors of the Company, by asking if they proposed to include among their Stations the little old town of Honeybuzzard. For years past, commerce had declined, and population had decreased in this ancient and curious place. Painters knew it well, and prized its mediaeval houses as a mine of valuable material for their art. Persons of cultivated tastes, who were interested in church architecture of the fourteenth century, sometimes pleased and flattered the Rector by subscribing to his fund for the restoration of the tower, and the removal of the accumulated rubbish of hundreds of years from the crypt. Small speculators, not otherwise in a state of insanity, settled themselves in the town, and tried the desperate experiment of opening a shop; spent their little capital, put up the shutters, and disappeared. The old market-place still showed its list of market-law's, issued by the Mayor and Corporation in the prosperous bygone times; and every week there were fewer and fewer people to obey the laws. The great empty enclosure looked more cheerful, when there was no market held, and when the boys of the town played in the deserted place. In the last warehouse left in a state of repair, the crane was generally idle; the windows were mostly shut up; and a solitary man represented languishing trade, idling at a half-opened door. The muddy river rose and fell with the distant tide. At rare intervals a collier discharged its cargo on the mouldering quay, or an empty barge took in a load of hay. One bold house advertised, in a dirty window, apartments to let. There was a lawyer in the town, who had no occasion to keep a clerk; and there was a doctor who hoped to sell his practice for anything that it would fetch. The directors of the new railway, after a stormy meeting, decided on offering (by means of a Station) a last chance of revival to the dying town. The town had not vitality enough left to be grateful; the railway stimulant produced no effect. Of all his colleagues in Great Britain and Ireland, the station-master at Honeybuzzard was the idlest man--and this, as he said to the unemployed porter, through no want of energy on his own part. Late on a rainy autumn afternoon, the slow train left one traveller at the Station. He got out of a first-class carriage; he carried an umbrella and a travelling-bag; and he asked his way to the best inn. The station-master and the porter compared notes. One of them said: "Evidently a gentleman." The other added: "What can he possibly want here?" The stranger twice lost his way in the tortuous old streets of the town before he reached the inn. On giving his orders, it appeared that he wanted three things: a private room, something to eat, and, while the dinner was being cooked, materials for writing a letter. Answering her daughter's questions downstairs, the landlady described her guest as a nice-looking man dressed in deep mourning. "Young, my dear, with beautiful dark brown hair, and a grand beard, and a sweet sorrowful look. Ah, his eyes would tell anybody that his black clothes are not a mere sham. Whether married or single, of course I can't say. But I noticed the name on his travelling-bag. A distinguished name in my opinion--Hugh Mountjoy. I wonder what he'll order to drink when he has his dinner? What a mercy it will be if we can get rid of another bottle of the sour French wine!" The bell in the private room rang at that moment; and the landlady's daughter, it is needless to say, took the opportunity of forming her own opinion of Mr. Hugh Mountjoy. She returned with a letter in her hand, consumed by a vain longing for the advantages of gentle birth. "Ah, mother, if I was a young lady of the higher classes, I know whose wife I should like to be!" Not particularly interested in sentimental aspirations, the landlady asked to see Mr. Mountjoy's letter. The messenger who delivered it was to wait for an answer. It was addressed to: "Miss Henley, care of Clarence Vimpany, Esquire, Honeybuzzard." Urged by an excited imagination, the daughter longed to see Miss Henley. The mother was at a loss to understand why Mr. Mountjoy should have troubled himself to write the letter at all. "If he knows the young lady who is staying at the doctor's house," she said, "why doesn't he call on Miss Henley?" She handed the letter back to her daughter. "There! let the ostler take it; he's got nothing to do." "No, mother. The ostler's dirty hands mustn't touch it--I'll take the letter myself. Perhaps I may see Miss Henley." Such was the impression which Mr. Hugh Mountjoy had innocently produced on a sensitive young person, condemned by destiny to the barren sphere of action afforded by a country inn! The landlady herself took the dinner upstairs--a first course of mutton chops and potatoes, cooked to a degree of imperfection only attained in an English kitchen. The sour French wine was still on the good woman's mind. "What would you choose to drink, sir?" she asked. Mr. Mountjoy seemed to feel no interest in what he might have to drink. "We have some French wine, sir." "Thank you, ma'am; that will do." When the bell rang again, and the time came to produce the second course of cheese and celery, the landlady allowed the waiter to take her place. Her experience of the farmers who frequented the inn, and who had in some few cases been induced to taste the wine, warned her to anticipate an outbreak of just anger from Mr. Mountjoy. He, like the others, would probably ask what she "meant by poisoning him with such stuff as that." On the return of the waiter, she put the question: "Did the gentleman complain of the French wine?" "He wants to see you about it, ma'am." The landlady turned pale. The expression of Mr. Mountjoy's indignation was evidently reserved for the mistress of the house. "Did he swear," she asked, "when he tasted it?" "Lord bless you, ma'am, no! Drank it out of a tumbler, and--if you will believe me--actually seemed to like it." The landlady recovered her colour. Gratitude to Providence for having sent a customer to the inn, who could drink sour wine without discovering it, was the uppermost feeling in her ample bosom as she entered the private room. Mr. Mountjoy justified her anticipations. He was simple enough--with his tumbler before him, and the wine as it were under his nose--to begin with an apology. "I am sorry to trouble you, ma'am. May I ask where you got this wine?" "The wine, sir, was one of my late husband's bad debts. It was all he could get from a Frenchman who owed him money." "It's worth money, ma'am." "Indeed, sir?" "Yes, indeed. This is some of the finest and purest claret that I have tasted for many a long day past." An alarming suspicion disturbed the serenity of the landlady's mind. Was his extraordinary opinion of the wine sincere? Or was it Mr. Mountjoy's wicked design to entrap her into praising her claret and then to imply that she was a cheat by declaring what he really thought of it? She took refuge in a cautious reply: "You are the first gentleman, sir, who has not found fault with it." "In that case, perhaps you would like to get rid of the wine?" Mr. Mountjoy suggested. The landlady was still cautious. "Who will buy it of me, sir?" "I will. How much do you charge for it by the bottle?" It was, by this time, clear that he was not mischievous--only a little crazy. The worldly-wise hostess took advantage of that circumstance to double the price. Without hesitation, she said: "Five shillings a bottle, sir." Often, too often, the irony of circumstances brings together, on this earthly scene, the opposite types of vice and virtue. A lying landlady and a guest incapable of deceit were looking at each other across a narrow table; equally unconscious of the immeasurable moral gulf that lay between them, Influenced by honourable feeling, innocent Hugh Mountjoy lashed the landlady's greed for money to the full-gallop of human cupidity. "I don't think you are aware of the value of your wine," he said. "I have claret in my cellar which is not so good as this, and which costs more than you have asked. It is only fair to offer you seven-and-sixpence a bottle." When an eccentric traveller is asked to pay a price, and deliberately raises that price against himself, where is the sensible woman--especially if she happens to be a widow conducting an unprofitable business--who would hesitate to improve the opportunity? The greedy landlady raised her terms. "On reflection, sir, I think I ought to have ten shillings a bottle, if you please." "The wine may be worth it," Mountjoy answered quietly; "but it is more than I can afford to pay. No, ma'am; I will leave you to find some lover of good claret with a longer purse than mine." It was in this man's character, when he said No, to mean No. Mr. Mountjoy's hostess perceived that her crazy customer was not to be trifled with. She lowered her terms again with the headlong hurry of terror. "You shall have it, Sir, at your own price," said this entirely shameless and perfectly respectable woman. The bargain having been closed under these circumstances, the landlady's daughter knocked at the door. "I took your letter myself, sir," she said modestly; "and here is the answer." (She had seen Miss Henley, and did not think much of her.) Mountjoy offered the expression of his thanks, in words never to be forgotten by a sensitive young person, and opened his letter. It was short enough to be read in a moment; but it was evidently a favourable reply. He took his hat in a hurry, and asked to be shown the way to Mr. Vimpany's house. CHAPTER II THE MAN SHE REFUSED MOUNTJOY had decided on travelling to Honeybuzzard, as soon as he heard that Miss Henley was staying with strangers in that town. Having had no earlier opportunity of preparing her to see him, he had considerately written to her from the inn, in preference to presenting himself unexpectedly at the doctor's house. How would she receive the devoted friend, whose proposal of marriage she had refused for the second time, when they had last met in London? The doctor's place of residence, situated in a solitary by-street, commanded a view, not perhaps encouraging to a gentleman who followed the medical profession: it was a view of the churchyard. The door was opened by a woman-servant, who looked suspiciously at the stranger. Without waiting to be questioned, she said her master was out. Mountjoy mentioned his name, and asked for Miss Henley. The servant's manner altered at once for the better; she showed him into a small drawing-room, scantily and cheaply furnished. Some poorly-framed prints on the walls (a little out of place perhaps in a doctor's house) represented portraits of famous actresses, who had been queens of the stage in the early part of the present century. The few books, too, collected on a little shelf above the chimney-piece, were in every case specimens of dramatic literature. "Who reads these plays?" Mountjoy asked himself. "And how did Iris find her way into this house?" While he was thinking of her, Miss Henley entered the room. Her face was pale and careworn; tears dimmed her eyes when Mountjoy advanced to meet her. In his presence, the horror of his brother's death by assassination shook Iris as it had not shaken her yet. Impulsively, she drew his head down to her, with the fond familiarity of a sister, and kissed his forehead. "Oh, Hugh, I know how you and Arthur loved each other! No words of mine can say how I feel for you." "No words are wanted, my dear," he answered tenderly. "Your sympathy speaks for itself." He led her to the sofa and seated himself by her side. "Your father has shown me what you have written to him," he resumed; "your letter from Dublin and your second letter from this place. I know what you have so nobly risked and suffered in poor Arthur's interests. It will be some consolation to me if I can make a return--a very poor return, Iris--for all that Arthur's brother owes to the truest friend that ever man had. No," he continued, gently interrupting the expression of her gratitude. "Your father has not sent me here--but he knows that I have left London for the express purpose of seeing you, and he knows why. You have written to him dutifully and affectionately; you have pleaded for pardon and reconciliation, when he is to blame. Shall I venture to tell you how he answered me, when I asked if he had no faith left in his own child? 'Hugh,' he said, 'you are wasting words on a man whose mind is made up. I will trust my daughter when that Irish lord is laid in his grave--not before.' That is a reflection on you, Iris, which I cannot permit, even when your father casts it. He is hard, he is unforgiving; but he must, and shall, be conquered yet. I mean to make him do you justice; I have come here with that purpose, and that purpose only, in view. May I speak to you of Lord Harry?" "How can you doubt it!" "My dear, this is a delicate subject for me to enter on." "And a shameful subject for me!" Iris broke out bitterly. "Hugh! you are an angel, by comparison with that man--how debased I must be to love him--how unworthy of your good opinion! Ask me anything you like; have no mercy on me. Oh," she cried, with reckless contempt for herself, "why don't you beat me? I deserve it!" Mountjoy was well enough acquainted with the natures of women to pass over that passionate outbreak, instead of fanning the flame in her by reasoning and remonstrance. "Your father will not listen to the expression of feeling," he continued; "but it is possible to rouse his sense of justice by the expression of facts. Help me to speak to him more plainly of Lord Harry than you could speak in your letters. I want to know what has happened, from the time when events at Ardoon brought you and the young lord together again, to the time when you left him in Ireland after my brother's death. If I seem to expect too much of you, Iris, pray remember that I am speaking with a true regard for your interests." In those words, he made his generous appeal to her. She proved herself to be worthy of it. Stated briefly, the retrospect began with the mysterious anonymous letters which had been addressed to Sir Giles. Lord Harry's explanation had been offered to Iris gratefully, but with some reserve, after she had told him who the stranger at the milestone really was. "I entreat you to pardon me, if I shrink from entering into particulars," he had said. "Circumstances, at the time, amply justified me in the attempt to use the banker's political influence as a means of securing Arthur's safety. I knew enough of Sir Giles's mean nature to be careful in trusting him; but I did hope to try what my personal influence might do. If he had possessed a tenth part of your courage, Arthur might have been alive, and safe in England, at this moment. I can't say any more; I daren't say any more; it maddens me when I think of it!" He abruptly changed the subject, and interested Iris by speaking of other and later events. His association with the Invincibles--inexcusably rash and wicked as he himself confessed it to be--had enabled him to penetrate, and for a time to defeat secretly, the murderous designs of the brotherhood. His appearances, first at the farmhouse and afterwards at the ruin in the wood were referable to changes in the plans of the assassins which had come to his knowledge. When Iris had met with him he was on the watch, believing that his friend would take the short way back through the wood, and well aware that his own life might pay the penalty if he succeeded in warning Arthur. After the terrible discovery of the murder (committed on the high road), and the escape of the miscreant who had been guilty of the crime, the parting of Lord Harry and Miss Henley had been the next event. She had left him, on her return to England, and had refused to consent to any of the future meetings between them which he besought her to grant. At this stage in the narrative, Mountjoy felt compelled to ask questions more searching than he had put to Iris yet. It was possible that she might be trusting her own impressions of Lord Harry, with the ill-placed confidence of a woman innocently self-deceived. "Did he submit willingly to your leaving him?" Mountjoy said. "Not at first," she replied. "Has he released you from that rash engagement, of some years since, which pledged you to marry him?" "No." "Did he allude to the engagement, on this occasion?" "He said he held to it as the one hope of his life." "And what did you say?" "I implored him not to distress me." "Did you say nothing more positive than that?" "I couldn't help thinking, Hugh, of all that he had tried to do to save Arthur. But I insisted on leaving him--and I have left him." "Do you remember what he said at parting?" "He said, 'While I live, I love you.'" As she repeated the words, there was an involuntary change to tenderness in her voice which was not lost on Mountjoy. "I must be sure," he said to her gravely, "of what I tell your father when I go back to him. Can I declare, with a safe conscience, that you will never see Lord Harry again?" "My mind is made up never to see him again." She had answered firmly so far. Her next words were spoken with hesitation, in tones that faltered. "But I am sometimes afraid," she said, "that the decision may not rest with me." "What do you mean?" "I would rather not tell you." "That is a strange answer, Iris." "I value your good opinion, Hugh, and I am afraid of losing it." "Nothing has ever altered my opinion of you," he replied, "and nothing ever will." She looked at him anxiously, with the closest attention. Little by little, the expression of doubt in her face disappeared; she knew how he loved her--she resolved to trust him. "My friend," she began abruptly, "education has done nothing for me. Since I left Ireland, I have sunk (I don't know how or why) into a state of superstitious fear. Yes! I believe in a fatality which is leading me back to Lord Harry, in spite of myself. Twice already, since I left home, I have met with him; and each time I have been the means of saving him--once at the milestone, and once at the ruin in the wood. If my father still accuses me of being in love with an adventurer, you can say with perfect truth that I am afraid of him. I _am_ afraid of the third meeting. I have done my best to escape from that man; and, step by step, as I think I am getting away, Destiny is taking me back to him. I may be on my way to him here, hidden in this wretched little town. Oh, don't despise me! Don't be ashamed of me!" "My dear, I am interested--deeply interested in you. That there may be some such influence as Destiny in our poor mortal lives, I dare not deny. But I don't agree with your conclusion. What Destiny has to do with you and with me, neither you nor I can pretend to know beforehand. In the presence of that great mystery, humanity must submit to be ignorant. Wait, Iris--wait!" She answered him with the simplicity of a docile child: "I will do anything you tell me." Mountjoy was too fond of her to say more of Lord Harry, for that day. He was careful to lead the talk to a topic which might be trusted to provoke no agitating thoughts. Finding Iris to all appearance established in the doctor's house, he was naturally anxious to know something of the person who must have invited her--the doctor's wife. CHAPTER III THE REGISTERED PACKET MOUNTJOY began by alluding to the second of Miss Henley's letters to her father, and to a passage in it which mentioned Mrs. Vimpany with expressions of the sincerest gratitude. "I should like to know more," he said, "of a lady whose hospitality at home seems to equal her kindness as a fellow-traveller. Did you first meet with her on the railway?" "She travelled by the same train to Dublin, with me and my maid, but not in the same carriage," Iris answered; "I was so fortunate as to meet with her on the voyage from Dublin to Holyhead. We had a rough crossing; and Rhoda suffered so dreadfully from sea-sickness that she frightened me. The stewardess was attending to ladies who were calling for her in all directions; I really don't know what misfortune might not have happened, if Mrs. Vimpany had not come forward in the kindest manner, and offered help. She knew so wonderfully well what was to be done, that she astonished me. 'I am the wife of a doctor,' she said; 'and I am only imitating what I have seen my husband do, when his assistance has been required, at sea, in weather like this.' In her poor state of health, Rhoda was too much exhausted to go on by the train, when we got to Holyhead. She is the best of good girls, and I am fond of her, as you know. If I had been by myself, I daresay I should have sent for medical help. What do you think dear Mrs. Vimpany offered to do? 'Your maid is only faint,' she said. 'Give her rest and some iced wine, and she will be well enough to go on by the slow train. Don't be frightened about her; I will wait with you.' And she did wait. Are there many strangers, Hugh, who are as unselfishly good to others as my chance-acquaintance in the steamboat?" "Very few, I am afraid." Mountjoy made that reply with some little embarrassment; conscious of a doubt of Mrs. Vimpany's disinterested kindness, which seemed to be unworthy of a just man. Iris went on. "Rhoda was sufficiently recovered," she said, "to travel by the next train, and there seemed to be no reason for feeling any more anxiety. But, after a time, the fatigue of the journey proved to be too much for her. The poor girl turned pale--and fainted. Mrs. Vimpany revived her, but as it turned out, only for a while. She fell into another fainting fit; and my travelling-companion began to look anxious. There was some difficulty in restoring Rhoda to her senses. In dread of another attack, I determined to stop at the next station. It looked such a poor place, when we got to it, that I hesitated. Mrs. Vimpany persuaded me to go on. The next station, she said, was _her_ station. 'Stop there,' she suggested, 'and let my husband look at the girl. I ought not perhaps to say it, but you will find no better medical man out of London.' I took the good creature's advice gratefully. What else could I do?" "What would you have done," Mountjoy inquired, "if Rhoda had been strong enough to get to the end of the journey?" "I should have gone on to London, and taken refuge in a lodging--you were in town, as I believed, and my father might relent in time. As it was, I felt my lonely position keenly. To meet with kind people, like Mr. Vimpany and his wife, was a real blessing to such a friendless creature as I am--to say nothing of the advantage to Rhoda, who is getting better every day. I should like you to see Mrs. Vimpany, if she is at home. She is a little formal and old fashioned in her manner--but I am sure you will be pleased with her. Ah! you look round the room! They are poor, miserably poor for persons in their position, these worthy friends of mine. I have had the greatest difficulty in persuading them to let me contribute my share towards the household expenses. They only yielded when I threatened to go to the inn. You are looking very serious, Hugh. Is it possible that you see some objection to my staying in this house?" The drawing-room door was softly opened, at the moment when Iris put that question. A lady appeared on the threshold. Seeing the stranger, she turned to Iris. "I didn't know, dear Miss Henley, that you had a visitor. Pray pardon my intrusion." The voice was deep; the articulation was clear; the smile presented a certain modest dignity which gave it a value of its own. This was a woman who could make such a commonplace thing as an apology worth listening to. Iris stopped her as she was about to leave the room. "I was just wishing for you," she said. "Let me introduce my old friend, Mr. Mountjoy. Hugh, this is the lady who has been so kind to me--Mrs. Vimpany." Hugh's impulse, under the circumstances, was to dispense with the formality of a bow, and to shake hands. Mrs. Vimpany met this friendly advance with a suavity of action, not often seen in these days of movement without ceremony. She was a tall slim woman, of a certain age. Art had so cleverly improved her complexion that it almost looked like nature. Her cheeks had lost the plumpness of youth, but her hair (thanks again perhaps to Art) showed no signs of turning grey. The expression of her large dark eyes--placed perhaps a little too near her high aquiline nose--claimed admiration from any person who was so fortunate as to come within their range of view. Her hands, long, yellow, and pitiably thin, were used with a grace which checked to some extent their cruel betrayal of her age. Her dress had seen better days, but it was worn with an air which forbade it to look actually shabby. The faded lace that encircled her neck fell in scanty folds over her bosom. She sank into a chair by Hugh's side. "It was a great pleasure to me, Mr. Mountjoy, to offer my poor services to Miss Henley; I can't tell you how happy her presence makes me in our little house." The compliment was addressed to Iris with every advantage that smiles and tones could offer. Oddly artificial as it undoubtedly was, Mrs. Vimpany's manner produced nevertheless an agreeable impression. Disposed to doubt her at first, Mountjoy found that she was winning her way to a favourable change in his opinion. She so far interested him, that he began to wonder what her early life might have been, when she was young and handsome. He looked again at the portraits of actresses on the walls, and the plays on the bookshelf--and then (when she was speaking to Iris) he stole a sly glance at the doctor's wife. Was it possible that this remarkable woman had once been an actress? He attempted to put the value of that guess to the test by means of a complimentary allusion to the prints. "My memory as a playgoer doesn't extend over many years," he began; "but I can appreciate the historical interest of your beautiful prints." Mrs. Vimpany bowed gracefully--and dumbly. Mountjoy tried again. "One doesn't often see the famous actresses of past days," he proceeded, "so well represented on the walls of an English house." This time, he had spoken to better purpose. Mrs. Vimpany answered him in words. "I have many pleasant associations with the theatre," she said, "first formed in the time of my girlhood." Mountjoy waited to hear something more. Nothing more was said. Perhaps this reticent lady disliked looking back through a long interval of years, or perhaps she had her reasons for leaving Mountjoy's guess at the truth still lost in doubt. In either case, she deliberately dropped the subject. Iris took it up. Sitting by the only table in the room, she was in a position which placed her exactly opposite to one of the prints--the magnificent portrait of Mrs. Siddons as The Tragic Muse. "I wonder if Mrs. Siddons was really as beautiful as that?" she said, pointing to the print. "Sir Joshua Reynolds is reported to have sometimes flattered his sitters." Mrs. Vimpany's solemn self-possessed eyes suddenly brightened; the name of the great actress seemed to interest her. On the point, apparently, of speaking, she dropped the subject of Mrs. Siddons as she had dropped the subject of the theatre. Mountjoy was left to answer Iris. "We are none of us old enough," he reminded her, "to decide whether Sir Joshua's brush has been guilty of flattery or not." He turned to Mrs. Vimpany, and attempted to look into her life from a new point of view. "When Miss Henley was so fortunate as to make your acquaintance," he said, "you were travelling in Ireland. Was it your first visit to that unhappy country?" "I have been more than once in Ireland." Having again deliberately disappointed Mountjoy, she was assisted in keeping clear of the subject of Ireland by a fortunate interruption. It was the hour of delivery by the afternoon-post. The servant came in with a small sealed packet, and a slip of printed paper in her hand. "It's registered, ma'am," the woman announced. "The postman says you are to please sign this. And he seems to be in a hurry." She placed the packet and the slip of paper on the table, near the inkstand. Having signed the receipt, Mrs. Vimpany took up the packet, and examined the address. She instantly looked at Iris, and looked away again. "Will you excuse me for a moment?" saying this she left the room, without opening the packet. The moment the door closed on her, Iris started up, and hurried to Mountjoy. "Oh, Hugh," she said, "I saw the address on that packet when the servant put it on the table!" "My dear, what is there to excite you in the address?" "Don't speak so loud! She may be listening outside the door." Not only the words, but the tone in which they were spoken, amazed Mountjoy. "Your friend, Mrs. Vimpany!" he exclaimed. "Mrs. Vimpany was afraid to open the packet in our presence," Iris went on: "you must have seen that. The handwriting is familiar to me; I am certain of the person who wrote the address." "Well? And who is the person?" She whispered in his ear: "Lord Harry." CHAPTER IV THE GAME: MOUNTJOY LOSES SURPRISE silenced Hugh for the moment. Iris understood the look that he fixed on her, and answered it. "I am quite sure," she told him, "of what I say." Mountjoy's well-balanced mind hesitated at rushing to a conclusion. "I am sure you are convinced of what you tell me," he said. "But mistakes do sometimes happen in forming a judgment of handwriting." In the state of excitement that now possessed her, Iris was easily irritated; she was angry with Hugh for only supposing that she might have made a mistake. He had himself, as she reminded him, seen Lord Harry's handwriting in past days. Was it possible to be mistaken in those bold thickly-written characters, with some of the letters so quaintly formed? "Oh, Hugh, I am miserable enough as it is," she broke out; "don't distract me by disputing what I know! Think of a woman so kind, so disinterested, so charming--the very opposite of a false creature--think of Mrs. Vimpany having deceived me!" There was not the slightest reason, thus far, for placing that interpretation on what had happened. Mountjoy gently, very gently, remonstrated. "My dear, we really don't know yet that Mrs. Vimpany has been acting under Lord Harry's instructions. Wait a little before you suspect your fellow-traveller of offering her services for the purpose of deceiving you." Iris was angry with him again: "Why did Mrs. Vimpany never tell me she knew Lord Harry? Isn't that suspicious?" Mountjoy smiled. "Let me put a question on my side," he said. "Did _you_ tell Mrs. Vimpany you knew Lord Harry?" Iris made no reply; her face spoke for her. "Well, then," he urged, "is _your_ silence suspicious? I am far, mind, from saying that this may not be a very unpleasant discovery. Only let us be sure first that we are right." With most of a woman's merits, Miss Henley had many of a woman's faults. Still holding to her own conclusion, she asked how they could expect to be sure of anything if they addressed their inquiries to a person who had already deceived them. Mountjoy's inexhaustible indulgence still made allowances for her. "When Mrs. Vimpany comes back," he said, "I will find an opportunity of mentioning Lord Harry's name. If she tells us that she knows him, there will be good reason in that one circumstance, as it seems to me, for continuing to trust her." "Suppose she shams ignorance," Iris persisted, "and looks as if she had never heard of his name before?" "In that case, I shall own that I was wrong, and shall ask you to forgive me." The finer and better nature of Iris recovered its influence at these words. "It is I who ought to beg pardon," she said. "Oh, I wish I could think before I speak: how insolent and ill-tempered I have been! But suppose I turn out to be right, Hugh, what will you do then?" "Then, my dear, it will be my duty to take you and your maid away from this house, and to tell your father what serious reasons there are"---- He abruptly checked himself. Mrs. Vimpany had returned; she was in perfect possession of her lofty courtesy, sweetened by the modest dignity of her smile. "I have left you, Miss Henley, in such good company," she said, with a gracious inclination of her head in the direction of Mountjoy, "that I need hardly repeat my apologies--unless, indeed, I am interrupting a confidential conversation." It was possible that Iris might have betrayed herself, when the doctor's wife had looked at her after examining the address on the packet. In this case Mrs. Vimpany's allusion to "a confidential conversation" would have operated as a warning to a person of experience in the by-ways of deceit. Mountjoy's utmost exertion of cunning was not capable of protecting him on such conditions as these. The opportunity of trying his proposed experiment with Lord Harry's name seemed to have presented itself already. He rashly seized on it. "You have interrupted nothing that was confidential," he hastened to assure Mrs. Vimpany. "We have been speaking of a reckless young gentleman, who is an acquaintance of ours. If what I hear is true, he has already become public property; his adventures have found their way into some of the newspapers." Here, if Mrs. Vimpany had answered Hugh's expectations, she ought to have asked who the young gentleman was. She merely listened in polite silence. With a woman's quickness of perception, Iris saw that Mountjoy had not only pounced on his opportunity prematurely, but had spoken with a downright directness of allusion which must at once have put such a ready-witted person as Mrs. Vimpany on her guard. In trying to prevent him from pursuing his unfortunate experiment in social diplomacy, Iris innocently repeated Mountjoy's own mistake. She, too, seized her opportunity prematurely. That is to say, she was rash enough to change the subject. "You were talking just now, Hugh, of our friend's adventures," she said; "I am afraid you will find yourself involved in an adventure of no very agreeable kind, if you engage a bed at the inn. I never saw a more wretched-looking place." It was one of Mrs. Vimpany's many merits that she seldom neglected an opportunity of setting her friends at their ease. "No, no, dear Miss Henley," she hastened to say; "the inn is really a more clean and comfortable place than you suppose. A hard bed and a scarcity of furniture are the worst evils which your friend has to fear. Do you know," she continued, addressing herself to Mountjoy, "that I was reminded of a friend of mine, when you spoke just now of the young gentleman whose adventures are in the newspapers. Is it possible that you referred to the brother of the present Earl of Norland? A handsome young Irishman--with whom I first became acquainted many years since. Am I right in supposing that you and Miss Henley know Lord Harry?" she asked. What more than this could an unprejudiced mind require? Mrs. Vimpany had set herself right with a simplicity that defied suspicion. Iris looked at Mountjoy. He appeared to know when he was beaten. Having acknowledged that Lord Harry was the young gentleman of whom he and Miss Henley had been speaking, he rose to take leave. After what had passed, Iris felt the necessity of speaking privately to Hugh. The necessary excuse presented itself in the remote situation of the inn. "You will never find your way back," she said, "through the labyrinth of crooked streets in this old town. Wait for me a minute, and I will be your guide." Mrs. Vimpany protested. "My dear! let the servant show the way." Iris held gaily to her resolution, and ran away to her room. Mrs. Vimpany yielded with her best grace. Miss Henley's motive could hardly have been plainer to her, if Miss Henley had confessed it herself. "What a charming girl!" the doctor's amiable wife said to Mountjoy, when they were alone. "If I were a man, Miss Iris is just the young lady that I should fall in love with." She looked significantly at Mountjoy. Nothing came of it. She went on: "Miss Henley must have had many opportunities of being married; but the right man has, I fear, not yet presented himself." Once more her eloquent eyes consulted Mountjoy, and once more nothing came of it. Some women are easily discouraged. Impenetrable Mrs. Vimpany was one of the other women; she had not done with Mountjoy yet--she invited him to dinner on the next day. "Our early hour is three o'clock," she said modestly. "Pray join us. I hope to have the pleasure of introducing my husband." Mountjoy had his reasons for wishing to see the husband. As he accepted the invitation, Miss Henley returned to accompany him to the inn. Iris put the inevitable question to Hugh as soon as they were out of the doctor's house--"What do you say of Mrs. Vimpany now?" "I say that she must have been once an actress," Mountjoy answered; "and that she carries her experience of the stage into private life." "What do you propose to do next?" "I propose to wait, and see Mrs. Vimpany's husband to-morrow." "Why?" "Mrs. Vimpany, my dear, is too clever for me. If--observe, please, that I do her the justice of putting it in that way--if she is really Lord Harry's creature, employed to keep watch on you, and to inform him of your next place of residence in England, I own that she has completely deceived me. In that case, it is just possible that the husband is not such a finished and perfect humbug as the wife. I may be able to see through him. I can but try." Iris sighed. "I almost hope you may not succeed," she said. Mountjoy was puzzled, and made no attempt to conceal it. "I thought you only wanted to get at the truth," he answered. "My mind might be easier, perhaps, if I was left in doubt," she suggested. "A perverse way of thinking has set up my poor opinion against yours. But I am getting back to my better sense. I believe you were entirely right when you tried to prevent me from rushing to conclusions; it is more than likely that I have done Mrs. Vimpany an injustice. Oh, Hugh, I ought to keep a friend--I who have so few friends--when I have got one! And there is another feeling in me which I must not conceal from you. When I remember Lord Harry's noble conduct in trying to save poor Arthur, I cannot believe him capable of such hateful deceit as consenting to our separation, and then having me secretly watched by a spy. What monstrous inconsistency! Can anybody believe it? Can anybody account for it?" "I think I can account for it, Iris, if you will let me make the attempt. You are mistaken to begin with." "How am I mistaken?" "You shall see. There is no such creature as a perfectly consistent human being on the face of the earth--and, strange as it may seem to you, the human beings themselves are not aware of it. The reason for this curious state of things is not far to seek. How can people who are ignorant--as we see every day--of their own characters be capable of correctly estimating the characters of others? Even the influence of their religion fails to open their eyes to the truth. In the Prayer which is the most precious possession of Christendom, their lips repeat the entreaty that they may not be led into temptation--but their minds fail to draw the inference. If that pathetic petition means anything, it means that virtuous men and women are capable of becoming vicious men and women, if a powerful temptation puts them to the test. Every Sunday, devout members of the congregation in church--models of excellence in their own estimation, and in the estimation of their neighbours--declare that they have done those things which they ought not to have done, and that there is no health in them. Will you believe that they are encouraged by their Prayer-books to present this sad exposure of the frailty of their own admirable characters? How inconsistent--and yet how entirely true! Lord Harry, as you rightly say, behaved nobly in trying to save my dear lost brother. He ought, as you think, and as other people think, to be consistently noble, after that, in all his thoughts and actions, to the end of his life. Suppose that temptation does try him--such temptation, Iris, as you innocently present--why doesn't he offer a superhuman resistance? You might as well ask, Why is he a mortal man? How inconsistent, how improbable, that he should have tendencies to evil in him, as well as tendencies to good! Ah, I see you don't like this. It would be infinitely more agreeable (wouldn't it?) if Lord Harry was one of the entirely consistent characters which are sometimes presented in works of fiction. Our good English readers are charmed with the man, the woman, or the child, who is introduced to them by the kind novelist as a being without faults. Do they stop to consider whether this is a true picture of humanity? It would be a terrible day for the book if they ever did that. But the book is in no danger. The readers would even fail to discover the falseness of the picture, if they were presented to themselves as perfect characters. 'We mustn't say so, but how wonderfully like us!' There would be the only impression produced. I am not trying to dishearten you; I want to encourage you to look at humanity from a wider and truer point of view. Do not be too readily depressed, if you find your faith shaken in a person whom you have hitherto believed to be good. That person has been led into temptation. Wait till time shows you that the evil influence is not everlasting, and that the good influence will inconsistently renew your faith out of the very depths of your despair. Humanity, in general, is neither perfectly good nor perfectly wicked: take it as you find it. Is this a hard lesson to learn? Well! it's easy to do what other people do, under similar circumstances. Listen to the unwelcome truth to-day, my dear; and forget it to-morrow." They parted at the door of the inn. CHAPTER V THE GAME: MOUNTJOY PLAYS A NEW CARD MR. VIMPANY (of the College of Surgeons) was a burly man, heavily built from head to foot. His bold round eyes looked straight at his fellow-creatures with an expression of impudent good humour; his whiskers were bushy, his hands were big, his lips were thick, his legs were solid. Add to this a broad sunburnt face, and a grey coat with wide tails, a waistcoat with a check pattern, and leather riding-gaiters--and no stranger could have failed to mistake Mr. Vimpany for a farmer of the old school. He was proud of the false impression that he created. "Nature built me to be a farmer," he used to say. "But my poor foolish old mother was a lady by birth, and she insisted on her son being a professional man. I hadn't brains for the Law, or money for the Army, or morals for the Church. And here I am a country doctor--the one representative of slavery left in the nineteenth century. You may not believe me, but I never see a labourer at the plough that I don't envy him." This was the husband of the elegant lady with the elaborate manners. This was the man who received Mountjoy with a "Glad to see you, sir," and a shake of the hand that hurt him. "Coarse fare," said Mr. Vimpany, carving a big joint of beef; "but I can't afford anything better. Only a pudding to follow, and a glass of glorious old sherry. Miss Henley is good enough to excuse it--and my wife's used to it--and you will put up with it, Mr. Mountjoy, if you are half as amiable as you look. I'm an old-fashioned man. The pleasure of a glass of wine with you, sir." Hugh's first experience of the "glorious old sherry" led him to a discovery, which proved to be more important than he was disposed to consider it at the moment. He merely observed, with some amusement, that Mr. Vimpany smacked his lips in hearty approval of the worst sherry that his guest had ever tasted. Here, plainly self-betrayed, was a medical man who was an exception to a general rule in the profession--here was a doctor ignorant of the difference between good wine and bad! Both the ladies were anxious to know how Mountjoy had passed the night at the inn. He had only time to say that there was nothing to complain of, when Mr. Vimpany burst into an explosion of laughter. "Oh, but you must have had something to complain of!" said the big doctor. "I would bet a hundred, if I could afford it, that the landlady tried to poison you with her sour French wine." "Do you speak of the claret at the inn, after having tasted it?" Mountjoy asked. "What do you take me for?" cried Mr. Vimpany. "After all I have heard of that claret, I am not fool enough to try it myself, I can tell you." Mountjoy received this answer in silence. The doctor's ignorance and the doctor's prejudice, in the matter of wine, had started a new train of thought in Hugh's mind, which threatened serious consequences to Mr. Vimpany himself. There was a pause at the table; nobody spoke. The doctor saw condemnation of his rudeness expressed in his wife's face. He made a rough apology to Mountjoy, who was still preoccupied. "No offence, I hope? It's in the nature of me, sir, to speak my mind. If I could fawn and flatter, I should have got on better in my profession. I'm what they call a rough diamond. No, offence, I say?" "None whatever, Mr. Vimpany." "That's right! Try another glass of sherry." Mountjoy took the sherry. Iris looked at him, lost in surprise. It was unlike Hugh to be interested in a stranger's opinion of wine. It was unlike him to drink wine which was evidently not to his taste. And it was especially unlike his customary courtesy to let himself fall into thought at dinner-time, when there were other persons at the table. Was he ill? Impossible to look at him, and not see that he was in perfect health. What did it mean? Finding Mountjoy inattentive, Mr. Vimpany addressed himself to Iris. "I had to ride hard, Miss Henley, to get home in time for dinner. There are patients, I must tell you, who send for the doctor, and then seem to think they know more about it than the very man whom they have called in to cure them. It isn't he who tells them what their illness is; it's they who tell him. They dispute about the medical treatment that's best for them, and the one thing they are never tired of doing is talking about their symptoms. It was an old man's gabble that kept me late to-day. However, the Squire, as they call him in these parts, is a patient with a long purse; I am obliged to submit." "A gentleman of the old school, dear Miss Henley," Mrs. Vimpany explained. "Immensely rich. Is he better?" she asked, turning to her husband. "Better?" cried the outspoken doctor. "Pooh! there's nothing the matter with him but gluttony. He went to London, and consulted a great man, a humbug with a handle to his name. The famous physician got rid of him in no time--sent him abroad to boil himself in foreign baths. He came home again worse than ever, and consulted poor Me. I found him at dinner--a perfect feast, I give you my word of honour!--and the old fool gorging himself till he was black in the face. His wine, I should have said, was not up to the mark; wanted body and flavour, you know. Ah, Mr. Mountjoy, this seems to interest you; reminds you of the landlady's wine--eh? Well, sir, how do you think I treated the Squire? Emptied his infirm old inside with an emetic--and there he was on his legs again. Whenever he overeats himself he sends for me; and pays liberally. I ought to be grateful to him, and I am. Upon my soul, I believe I should be in the bankruptcy court but for the Squire's stomach. Look at my wife! She's shocked at me. We ought to keep up appearances, my dear? Not I! When I am poor, I say I am poor. When I cure a patient, I make no mystery of it; everybody's welcome to know how it's done. Don't be down-hearted, Arabella; nature never meant your husband for a doctor, and there's the long and the short of it. Another glass of sherry, Mr. Mountjoy?" All social ceremonies--including the curious English custom which sends the ladies upstairs, after dinner, and leaves the gentlemen at the table--found a devoted adherent in Mrs. Vimpany. She rose as if she had been presiding at a banquet, and led Miss Henley affectionately to the drawing-room. Iris glanced at Hugh. No; his mind was not at ease yet; the preoccupied look had not left his face. Jovial Mr. Vimpany pushed the bottle across the table to his guest, and held out a handful of big black cigars. "Now for the juice of the grape," he cried, "and the best cigar in all England!" He had just filled his glass, and struck a light for his cigar, when the servant came in with a note. Some men relieve their sense of indignation in one way, and some in another. The doctor's form of relief was an oath. "Talk about slavery!" he shouted. "Find me such a slave in all Africa as a man in my profession. There isn't an hour of the day or night that he can call his own. Here's a stupid old woman with an asthma, who has got another spasmodic attack--and I must leave my dinner-table and my friend, just as we are enjoying ourselves. I have half a mind not to go." The inattentive guest suddenly set himself right in his host's estimation. Hugh remonstrated with an appearance of interest in the case, which the doctor interpreted as a compliment to himself: "Oh, Mr. Vimpany, humanity! humanity!" "Oh, Mr. Mountjoy, money! money!" the facetious doctor answered. "The old lady is our Mayor's mother, sir. You don't seem to be quick at taking a joke. Make your mind easy; I shall pocket my fee." As soon as he had closed the door, Hugh Mountjoy uttered a devout ejaculation. "Thank God!" he said--and walked up and down the room, free to think without interruption at last. The subject of his meditations was the influence of intoxication in disclosing the hidden weaknesses and vices of a man's character by exhibiting them just as they are, released from the restraint which he exercises over himself when he is sober. That there was a weak side, and probably a vicious side, in Mr. Vimpany's nature it was hardly possible to doubt. His blustering good humour, his audacious self-conceit, the tones of his voice, the expression in his eyes, all revealed him (to use one expressive word) as a humbug. Let drink subtly deprive him of his capacity for self-concealment! and the true nature of his wife's association with Lord Harry might sooner or later show itself--say, in after-dinner talk, under skilful management. The right method of entrapping him into a state of intoxication (which might have presented serious difficulties under other circumstances) was suggested, partly by his ignorance of the difference between good wine and bad, and partly by Mountjoy's knowledge of the excellent quality of the landlady's claret. He had recognised, as soon as he tasted it, that finest vintage of Bordeaux, which conceals its true strength--to a gross and ignorant taste--under the exquisite delicacy of its flavour. Encourage Mr. Vimpany by means of a dinner at the inn, to give his opinion as a man whose judgment in claret was to be seriously consulted--and permit him also to discover that Hugh was rich enough to have been able to buy the wine--and the attainment of the end in view would be simply a question of time. There was certainly the chance to be reckoned with, that his thick head might prove to be too strong for the success of the experiment. Mountjoy determined to try it, and did try it nevertheless. Mr. Vimpany returned from his medical errand, thoroughly well satisfied with himself. "The Mayor's mother has reason to thank you, sir," he announced. "If you hadn't hurried me away, the wretched old creature would have been choked. A regular stand-up fight, by Jupiter, between death and the doctor!--and the doctor has won! Give me the reward of merit. Pass the bottle." He took up the decanter, and looked at it. "Why, what have you been about?" he asked. "I made up my mind that I should want the key of the cellar when I came back, and I don't believe you have drunk a drop in my absence. What does it mean?" "It means that I am not worthy of your sherry," Mountjoy answered. "The Spanish wines are too strong for my weak digestion." Mr. Vimpany burst into one of his explosions of laughter. "You miss the landlady's vinegar--eh?" "Yes, I do! Wait a minute, doctor; I have a word to say on my side--and, like you, I mean what I say. The landlady's vinegar is some of the finest Chateau Margaux I have ever met with--thrown away on ignorant people who are quite unworthy of it." The doctor's natural insolence showed itself. "You have bought this wonderful wine, of course?" he said satirically. "That," Mountjoy answered, "is just what I have done." For once in his life, Mr. Vimpany's self-sufficient readiness of speech failed him. He stared at his guest in dumb amazement. On this occasion, Mountjoy improved the opportunity to good purpose. Mr. Vimpany accepted with the utmost readiness an invitation to dine on the next day at the inn. But he made a condition. "In case I don't agree with you about that Chateau--what-you-call-it," he said, "you won't mind my sending home for a bottle of sherry?" The next event of the day was a visit to the most interesting monument of antiquity in the town. In the absence of the doctor, caused by professional engagements, Miss Henley took Mountjoy to see the old church--and Mrs. Vimpany accompanied them, as a mark of respect to Miss Henley's friend. When there was a chance of being able to speak confidentially, Iris was eager in praising the doctor's wife. "You can't imagine, Hugh, how agreeable she has been, and how entirely she has convinced me that I was wrong, shamefully wrong, in thinking of her as I did. She sees that you dislike her, and yet she speaks so nicely of you. 'Your clever friend enjoys your society,' she said; 'pray accompany me when I take him to see the church.' How unselfish!" Mountjoy kept his own counsel. The generous impulses which sometimes led Iris astray were, as he well knew, beyond the reach of remonstrance. His own opinion of Mrs. Vimpany still pronounced steadily against her. Prepared for discoveries, on the next day, which might prove too serious to be trifled with, he now did his best to provide for future emergencies. After first satisfying himself that there was nothing in the present state of the maid's health which need detain her mistress at Honeybuzzard, he next completed his preparations by returning to the inn, and writing to Mr. Henley. With strict regard to truth, his letter presented the daughter's claim on the father under a new point of view. Whatever the end of it might be, Mr. Henley was requested to communicate his intentions by telegraph. Will you receive Iris? was the question submitted. The answer expected was: Yes or No. CHAPTER VI THE GAME: MOUNTJOY WINS MR. HENLEY's telegram arrived at the inn the next morning. He was willing to receive his daughter, but not unreservedly. The message was characteristic of the man: "Yes--on trial." Mountjoy was not shocked, was not even surprised. He knew that the successful speculations, by means of which Mr. Henley had accumulated his wealth, had raised against him enemies, who had spread scandalous reports which had never been completely refuted. The silent secession of friends, in whose fidelity he trusted, had hardened the man's heart and embittered his nature. Strangers in distress, who appealed to the rich retired merchant for help, found in their excellent references to character the worst form of persuasion that they could have adopted. Paupers without a rag of reputation left to cover them, were the objects of charity whom Mr. Henley relieved. When he was asked to justify his conduct, he said: "I have a sympathy with bad characters---I am one of them myself." With the arrival of the dinner hour the doctor appeared, in no very amiable humour, at the inn. "Another hard day's work," he said; "I should sink under it, if I hadn't a prospect of getting rid of my practice here. London--or the neighbourhood of London--there's the right place for a man like Me. Well? Where's the wonderful wine? Mind! I'm Tom-Tell-Truth; if I don't like your French tipple, I shall say so." The inn possessed no claret glasses; they drank the grand wine in tumblers as if it had been vin ordinaire. Mr. Vimpany showed that he was acquainted with the formalities proper to the ceremony of tasting. He filled his makeshift glass, he held it up to the light, and looked at the wine severely; he moved the tumbler to and fro under his nose, and smelt at it again and again; he paused and reflected; he tasted the claret as cautiously as if he feared it might be poisoned; he smacked his lips, and emptied his glass at a draught; lastly, he showed some consideration for his host's anxiety, and pronounced sentence on the wine. "Not so good as you think it, sir. But nice light claret; clean and wholesome. I hope you haven't given too much for it?" Thus far, Hugh had played a losing game patiently. His reward had come at last. After what the doctor had just said to him, he saw the winning card safe in his own hand. The bad dinner was soon over. No soup, of course; fish, in the state of preservation usually presented by a decayed country town; steak that rivalled the toughness of india-rubber; potatoes whose aspect said, "stranger, don't eat us"; pudding that would have produced a sense of discouragement, even in the mind of a child; and the famous English cheese which comes to us, oddly enough, from the United States, and stings us vindictively when we put it into our mouths. But the wine, the glorious wine, would have made amends to anybody but Mr. Vimpany for the woeful deficiencies of the food. Tumbler-full after tumbler-full of that noble vintage poured down his thirsty and ignorant throat; and still he persisted in declaring that it was nice light stuff, and still he unforgivingly bore in mind the badness of the dinner. "The feeding here," said this candid man, "is worse if possible than the feeding at sea, when I served as doctor on board a passenger-steamer. Shall I tell you how I lost my place? Oh, say so plainly, if you don't think my little anecdote worth listening to!" "My dear sir, I am waiting to hear it." "Very good. No offence, I hope? That's right! Well, sir, the captain of the ship complained of me to the owners; I wouldn't go round, every morning, and knock at the ladies' cabin-doors, and ask how they felt after a sea-sick night. Who doesn't know what they feel, without knocking at their doors? Let them send for the doctor when they want him. That was how I understood my duty; and there was the line of conduct that lost me my place. Pass the wine. Talking of ladies, what do you think of my wife? Did you ever see such distinguished manners before? My dear fellow, I have taken a fancy to you. Shake hands. I'll tell you another little anecdote. Where do you think my wife picked up her fashionable airs and graces? Ho! ho! On the stage! The highest branch of the profession, sir--a tragic actress. If you had seen her in Lady Macbeth, Mrs. Vimpany would have made your flesh creep. Look at me, and feast your eyes on a man who is above hypocritical objections to the theatre. Haven't I proved it by marrying an actress? But we don't mention it here. The savages in this beastly place wouldn't employ me, if they knew I had married a stage-player. Hullo! The bottle's empty again. Ha! here's another bottle, full. I love a man who has always got a full bottle to offer his friend. Shake hands. I say, Mountjoy, tell me on your sacred word of honour, can you keep a secret? My wife's secret, sir! Stop! let me look at you again. I thought I saw you smile. If a man smiles at me, when I am opening my whole heart to him, by the living jingo, I would knock that man down at his own table! What? you didn't smile? I apologise. Your hand again; I drink your health in your own good wine. Where was I? What was I talking about?" Mountjoy carefully humoured his interesting guest. "You were about to honour me," he said, "by taking me into your confidence." Mr. Vimpany stared in tipsy bewilderment. Mountjoy tried again in plainer language: "You were going to tell me a secret." This time, the doctor grasped the idea. He looked round cunningly to the door. "Any eavesdroppers?" he asked. "Hush! Whisper--this is serious--whisper! What was it I was going to tell you? What was the secret, old boy?" Mountjoy answered a little too readily: "I think it related to Mrs. Vimpany." Mrs. Vimpany's husband threw himself back in his chair, snatched a dirty handkerchief out of his pocket, and began to cry. "Here's a false friend!" the creature whimpered. "Asks me to dinner, and takes advantage of my dependent situation to insult my wife. The loveliest of women, the sweetest of women, the innocentest of women. Oh, my wife! my wife!" He suddenly threw his handkerchief to the other end of the room, and burst out laughing. "Ho! ho! Mountjoy, what an infernal fool you must be to take me seriously. I can act, too. Do you think I care about my wife? She was a fine woman once: she's a bundle of old rags now. But she has her merits. Hush! I want to know something. Have you got a lord among your circle of acquaintance?" Experience made Mountjoy more careful; perhaps a little too careful. He only said "Yes." The doctor's dignity asserted itself. "That's a short answer, sir, to a man in my position. If you want me to believe you, mention your friend's name." Here was a chance at last! "His name;" Mountjoy began, "is Lord Harry--" Mr. Vimpany lost his dignity in an instant. He struck his heavy fist on the table, with a blow that made the tumblers jump. "Coincidence!" he cried. "How wonderful--no; that's not the word--providential is the word--how providential are coincidences! I mean, of course, to a rightly constituted mind. Let nobody contradict me! When I say a rightly constituted mind I speak seriously; and a young man like you will be all the better for it. Mountjoy! dear Mountjoy! jolly Mountjoy! my wife's lord is your lord--Lord Harry. No; none of your nonsense--I won't have any more wine. Yes, I will; it might hurt your feelings if I didn't drink with you. Pass the bottle. Ha! That's a nice ring you've got on your finger. Perhaps you think it valuable? It's nothing, sir; it's dross, it's dirt, compared to my wife's diamond pin! There's a jewel, if you like! It will be worth a fortune to us when we sell it. A gift, dear sir! I'm afraid I've been too familiar with you. Speaking as a born gentleman, I beg to present my respects, and I call you 'dear sir.' Did I tell you the diamond pin was a gift? It's nothing of the sort; we are under no obligation; my wife, my admirable wife, has earned that diamond pin. By registered post; and what I call a manly letter from Lord Harry. He is deeply obliged (I give you the sense of it) by what my wife has done for him; ready money is scarce with my lord; he sends a family jewel, with his love. Oh, I'm not jealous. He's welcome to love Mrs. Vimpany, in her old age, if he likes. Did you say that, sir? Did you say that Lord Harry, or any man, was welcome to love Mrs. Vimpany? I have a great mind to throw this bottle at your head. No, I won't; it's wasting good wine! How kind of you to give me good wine. Who are you? I don't like dining with a stranger. Do you know any friend of mine? Do you know a man named Mountjoy? Do you know two men named Mountjoy? No: you don't. One of them is dead: killed by those murdering scoundrels what do you call them? Eh, what?" The doctor's voice began to falter, his head dropped; he slumbered suddenly and woke suddenly, and began talking again suddenly. "Would you like to be made acquainted with Lord Harry? I'll give you a sketch of his character before I introduce him. Between ourselves, he's a desperate wretch. Do you know why he employed my wife, my admirable wife? You will agree with me; he ought to have looked after his young woman himself. We've got his young woman safe in our house. A nice girl. Not my style; my medical knowledge certifies she's cold-blooded. Lord Harry has only to come over here and find her. Why the devil doesn't he come? What is it keeps him in Ireland? Do you know? I seem to have forgotten. My own belief is I've got softening of the brain. What's good for softening of the brain? There isn't a doctor living who won't tell you the right remedy--wine. Pass the wine. If this claret is worth a farthing, it's worth a guinea a bottle. I ask you in confidence; did you ever hear of such a fool as my wife's lord? His name escapes me. No matter; he stops in Ireland--hunting. Hunting what? The fox? Nothing so noble; hunting assassins. He's got some grudge against one of them. Means to kill one of them. A word in your ear; they'll kill him. Do you ever bet? Five to one, he's a dead man before the end of the week. When is the end of the week? Tuesday, Wednesday--no, Saturday--that's the beginning of the week--no, it isn't--the beginning of the week isn't the Sabbath--Sunday, of course--we are not Christians, we are Jews--I mean we are Jews, we are not Christians--I mean--" The claret got the better of his tongue, at last. He mumbled and muttered; he sank back in his chair; he chuckled; he hiccupped; he fell asleep. All and more than all that Mountjoy feared, he had now discovered. In a state of sobriety, the doctor was probably one of those men who are always ready to lie. In a state of intoxication the utterances of his drunken delirium might unconsciously betray the truth. The reason which he had given for Lord Harry's continued absence in Ireland, could not be wisely rejected as unworthy of belief. It was in the reckless nature of the wild lord to put his own life in peril, in the hope of revenging Arthur Mountjoy on the wretch who had killed him. Taking this bad news for granted, was there any need to distress Iris by communicating the motive which detained Lord Harry in his own country? Surely not! And, again, was there any immediate advantage to be gained by revealing the true character of Mrs. Vimpany, as a spy, and, worse still, a spy who was paid? In her present state of feeling, Iris would, in all probability, refuse to believe it. Arriving at these conclusions, Hugh looked at the doctor snoring and choking in an easy-chair. He had not wasted the time and patience devoted to the stratagem which had now successfully reached its end. After what he had just heard--thanks to the claret--he could not hesitate to accomplish the speedy removal of Iris from Mr. Vimpany's house; using her father's telegram as the only means of persuasion on which it was possible to rely. Mountjoy left the inn without ceremony, and hurried away to Iris in the hope of inducing her to return to London with him that night. CHAPTER VII DOCTORING THE DOCTOR ASKING for Miss Henley at the doctor's door, Hugh was informed that she had gone out, with her invalid maid, for a walk. She had left word, if Mr. Mountjoy called in her absence, to beg that he would kindly wait for her return. On his way up to the drawing-room, Mountjoy heard Mrs. Vimpany's sonorous voice occupied, as he supposed, in reading aloud. The door being opened for him, he surprised her, striding up and down the room with a book in her hand; grandly declaiming without anybody to applaud her. After what Hugh had already heard, he could only conclude that reminiscences of her theatrical career had tempted the solitary actress to make a private appearance, for her own pleasure, in one of those tragic characters to which her husband had alluded. She recovered her self-possession on Mountjoy's appearance, with the ease of a mistress of her art. "Pardon me," she said, holding up her book with one hand, and tapping it indicatively with the other: "Shakespeare carries me out of myself. A spark of the poet's fire burns in the poet's humble servant. May I hope that I have made myself understood? You look as if you had a fellow-feeling for me." Mountjoy did his best to fill the sympathetic part assigned to him, and only succeeded in showing what a bad actor he would have been, if he had gone on the stage. Under the sedative influence thus administered, Mrs. Vimpany put away her book, and descended at once from the highest poetry to the lowest prose. "Let us return to domestic events," she said indulgently. "Have the people at the inn given you a good dinner?" "The people did their best," Mountjoy answered cautiously. "Has my husband returned with you?" Mrs. Vimpany went on. Mountjoy began to regret that he had not waited for Iris in the street. He was obliged to acknowledge that the doctor had not returned with him. "Where is Mr. Vimpany?" "At the inn." "What is he doing there?" Mountjoy hesitated. Mrs. Vimpany rose again into the regions of tragic poetry. She stepped up to him, as if he had been Macbeth, and she was ready to use the daggers. "I understand but too well," she declared in terrible tones. "My wretched husband's vices are known to me. Mr. Vimpany is intoxicated." Hugh tried to make the best of it. "Only asleep," he said. Mrs. Vimpany looked at him once more. This time, it was Queen Katharine looking at Cardinal Wolsey. She bowed with lofty courtesy, and opened the door. "I have occasion," she said, "to go out"----and made an exit. Five minutes later, Mountjoy (standing at the window, impatiently on the watch for the return of Iris) saw Mrs. Vimpany in the street. She entered a chemist's shop, on the opposite side of the way, and came out again with a bottle in her hand. It was enclosed in the customary medical wrapping of white paper. Majestically, she passed out of sight. If Hugh had followed her he would have traced the doctor's wife to the door of the inn. The unemployed waiter was on the house-steps, looking about him--with nothing to see. He made his bow to Mrs. Vimpany, and informed her that the landlady had gone out. "You will do as well," was the reply. "Is Mr. Vimpany here?" The waiter smiled, and led the way through the passage to the foot of the stairs. "You can hear him, ma'am." It was quite true; Mr. Vimpany's snoring answered for Mr. Vimpany. His wife ascended the first two or three stairs, and stopped to speak again to the waiter. She asked what the two gentlemen had taken to drink with their dinner. They had taken "the French wine." "And nothing else?" The waiter ventured on a little joke. "Nothing else," he said--"and more than enough of it, too." "Not more than enough, I suppose, for the good of the house," Mrs. Vimpany remarked. "I beg your pardon, ma'am; the claret the two gentlemen drank is not charged for in the bill." "What do you mean?" The waiter explained that Mr. Mountjoy had purchased the whole stock of the wine. Suspicion, as well as surprise, appeared in Mrs. Vimpany's face. She had hitherto thought it likely that Miss Henley's gentleman-like friend might be secretly in love with the young lady. Her doubts of him, now, took a wider range of distrust. She went on up the stairs by herself, and banged the door of the private room as the easiest means of waking the sleeping man. To the utmost noise that she could make in this way, he was perfectly impenetrable. For a while she waited, looking at him across the table with unutterable contempt. There was the man to whom the religion of the land and the law of the land, acting together in perfect harmony, had fettered her for life! Some women, in her position, might have wasted time in useless self-reproach. Mrs. Vimpany reviewed her miserable married life with the finest mockery of her own misfortune. "Virtue," she said to herself, "is its own reward." Glancing with careless curiosity at the disorder of the dinner-table, she noticed some wine still left in the bottom of her husband's glass. Had artificial means been used to reduce him to his present condition? She tasted the claret. No; there was nothing in the flavour of it which betrayed that he had been drugged. If the waiter was to be believed, he had only drunk claret--and there he was, in a state of helpless stupefaction, nevertheless. She looked again at the dinner-table, and discovered one, among the many empty bottles, with some wine still left in it. After a moment of reflection, she took a clean tumbler from the sideboard. Here was the wine which had been an object of derision to Mr. Vimpany and his friends. They were gross feeders and drinkers; and it might not be amiss to put their opinions to the test. She was not searching for the taste of a drug now; her present experiment proposed to try the wine on its own merits. At the time of her triumphs on the country stage--before the date of her unlucky marriage--rich admirers had entertained the handsome actress at suppers, which offered every luxury that the most perfect table could supply. Experience had made her acquainted with the flavour of the finest claret--and that experience was renewed by the claret which she was now tasting. It was easy to understand why Mr. Mountjoy had purchased the wine; and, after a little thinking, his motive for inviting Mr. Vimpany to dinner seemed to be equally plain. Foiled in their first attempt at discovery by her own prudence and tact, his suspicions had set their trap. Her gross husband had been tempted to drink, and to talk at random (for Mr. Mountjoy's benefit) in a state of intoxication! What secrets might the helpless wretch not have betrayed before the wine had completely stupefied him? Urged by rage and fear, she shook him furiously. He woke; he glared at her with bloodshot eyes; he threatened her with his clenched fist. There was but one way of lifting his purblind stupidity to the light. She appealed to his experience of himself, on many a former occasion: "You fool, you have been drinking again--and there's a patient waiting for you." To that dilemma he was accustomed; the statement of it partially roused him. Mrs. Vimpany tore off the paper wrapping, and opened the medicine-bottle which she had brought with her. He stared at it; he muttered to himself: "Is she going to poison me?" She seized his head with one hand, and held the open bottle to his nose. "Your own prescription," she cried, "for yourself and your hateful friends." His nose told him what words might have tried vainly to say: he swallowed the mixture. "If I lose the patient," he muttered oracularly, "I lose the money." His resolute wife dragged him out of his chair. The second door in the dining-room led into an empty bed-chamber. With her help, he got into the room, and dropped on the bed. Mrs. Vimpany consulted her watch. On many a former occasion she had learnt what interval of repose was required, before the sobering influence of the mixture could successfully assert itself. For the present, she had only to return to the other room. The waiter presented himself, asking if there was anything he could do for her. Familiar with the defective side of her husband's character, he understood what it meant when she pointed to the bedroom door. "The old story, ma'am," he said, with an air of respectful sympathy. "Can I get you a cup of tea?" Mrs. Vimpany accepted the tea, and enjoyed it thoughtfully. She had two objects in view--to be revenged on Mountjoy, and to find a way of forcing him to leave the town before he could communicate his discoveries to Iris. How to reach these separate ends, by one and the same means, was still the problem which she was trying to solve, when the doctor's coarse voice was audible, calling for somebody to come to him. If his head was only clear enough, by this time, to understand the questions which she meant to put, his answers might suggest the idea of which she was in search. Rising with alacrity, Mrs. Vimpany returned to the bed-chamber. "You miserable creature," she began, "are you sober now?" "I'm as sober as you are." "Do you know," she went on, "why Mr. Mountjoy asked you to dine with him?" "Because he's my friend." "He is your worst enemy. Hold your tongue! I'll explain what I mean directly. Rouse your memory, if you have got a memory left. I want to know what you and Mr. Mountjoy talked about after dinner." He stared at her helplessly. She tried to find her way to his recollection by making suggestive inquiries. It was useless; he only complained of being thirsty. His wife lost her self-control. She was too furiously angry with him to be able to remain in the room. Recovering her composure when she was alone, she sent for soda-water and brandy. Her one chance of making him useful was to humour his vile temper; she waited on him herself. In some degree, the drink cleared his muddled head. Mrs. Vimpany tried his memory once more. Had he said this? Had he said that? Yes: he thought it likely. Had he, or had Mr. Mountjoy, mentioned Lord Harry's name? A glimmer of intelligence showed itself in his stupid eyes. Yes--and they had quarrelled about it: he rather thought he had thrown a bottle at Mr. Mountjoy's head. Had they, either of them, said anything about Miss Henley? Oh, of course! What was it? He was unable to remember. Had his wife done bothering him, now? "Not quite," she replied. "Try to understand what I am going to say to you. If Lord Harry comes to us while Miss Henley is in our house--" He interrupted her: "That's your business." "Wait a little. It's my business, if I hear beforehand that his lordship is coming. But he is quite reckless enough to take us by surprise. In that case, I want you to make yourself useful. If you happen to be at home, keep him from seeing Miss Henley until I have seen her first." "Why?" "I want an opportunity, my dear, of telling Miss Henley that I have been wicked enough to deceive her, before she finds it out for herself. I may hope she will forgive me, if I confess everything." The doctor laughed: "What the devil does it matter whether she forgives you or not?" "It matters a great deal." "Why, you talk as if you were fond of her!" "I am." The doctor's clouded intelligence was beginning to clear; he made a smart reply: "Fond of her, and deceiving her--aha!" "Yes," she said quietly, "that's just what it is. It has grown on me, little by little; I can't help liking Miss Henley." "Well," Mr. Vimpany remarked, "you _are_ a fool!" He looked at her cunningly. "Suppose I do make myself useful, what am I to gain by it?" "Let us get back," she suggested, "to the gentleman who invited you to dinner, and made you tipsy for his own purposes." "I'll break every bone in his skin!" "Don't talk nonsense! Leave Mr. Mountjoy to me." "Do _you_ take his part? I can tell you this. If I drank too much of that poisonous French stuff, Mountjoy set me the example. He was tipsy--as you call it--shamefully tipsy, I give you my word of honour. What's the matter now?" His wife (so impenetrably cool, thus far) had suddenly become excited. There was not the smallest fragment of truth in what he had just said of Hugh, and Mrs. Vimpany was not for a moment deceived by it. But the lie had, accidentally, one merit--it suggested to her the idea which she had vainly tried to find over her cup of tea. "Suppose I show you how you may be revenged on Mr. Mountjoy," she said. "Well?" "Will you remember what I asked you to do for me, if Lord Harry takes us by surprise?" He produced his pocket-diary, and told her to make a memorandum of it. She wrote as briefly as if she had been writing a telegram: "Keep Lord Harry from seeing Miss Henley, till I have seen her first." "Now," she said, taking a chair by the bedside, "you shall know what a clever wife you have got. Listen to me." CHAPTER VIII HER FATHER'S MESSAGE LOOKING out of the drawing-room window, for the tenth time at least, Mountjoy at last saw Iris in the street, returning to the house. She brought the maid with her into the drawing-room, in the gayest of good spirits, and presented Rhoda to Mountjoy. "What a blessing a good long walk is, if we only knew it!" she exclaimed. "Look at my little maid's colour! Who would suppose that she came here with heavy eyes and pale cheeks? Except that she loses her way in the town, whenever she goes out alone, we have every reason to congratulate ourselves on our residence at Honeybuzzard. The doctor is Rhoda's good genius, and the doctor's wife is her fairy godmother." Mountjoy's courtesy having offered the customary congratulations, the maid was permitted to retire; and Iris was free to express her astonishment at the friendly relations established (by means of the dinner-table) between the two most dissimilar men on the face of creation. "There is something overwhelming," she declared, "in the bare idea of your having asked him to dine with you--on such a short acquaintance, and being such a man! I should like to have peeped in, and seen you entertaining your guest with the luxuries of the hotel larder. Seriously, Hugh, your social sympathies have taken a range for which I was not prepared. After the example that you have set me, I feel ashamed of having doubted whether Mr. Vimpany was worthy of his charming wife. Don't suppose that I am ungrateful to the doctor! He has found his way to my regard, after what he has done for Rhoda. I only fail to understand how he has possessed himself of _your_ sympathies." So she ran on, enjoying the exercise of her own sense of humour in innocent ignorance of the serious interests which she was deriding. Mountjoy tried to stop her, and tried in vain. "No, no," she persisted as mischievously as ever, "the subject is too interesting to be dismissed. I am dying to know how you and your guest got through the dinner. Did he take more wine than was good for him? And, when he forgot his good manners, did he set it all right again by saying, 'No offence,' and passing the bottle?" Hugh could endure it no longer. "Pray control your high spirits for a moment," he said. "I have news for you from home." Those words put an end to her outbreak of gaiety, in an instant. "News from my father?" she asked. "Yes." "Is he coming here?" "No; I have heard from him." "A letter?" "A telegram," Mountjoy explained, "in answer to a letter from me. I did my best to press your claims on him, and I am glad to say I have not failed." "Hugh, dear Hugh! have you succeeded in reconciling us?" Mountjoy produced the telegram. "I asked Mr. Henley," he said, "to let me know at once whether he would receive you, and to answer plainly Yes or No. The message might have been more kindly expressed--but, at any rate, it is a favourable reply." Iris read the telegram. "Is there another father in the world," she said sadly, "who would tell his daughter, when she asks to come home, that he will receive her on trial?" "Surely, you are not offended with him, Iris?" She shook her head. "I am like you," she said. "I know him too well to be offended. He shall find me dutiful, he shall find me patient. I am afraid I must not expect you to wait for me in Honeybuzzard. Will you tell my father that I hope to return to him in a week's time?" "Pardon me, Iris, I see no reason why you should waste a week in this town. On the contrary, the more eager you show yourself to return to your father, the more likely you are to recover your place in his estimation. I had planned to take you home by the next train." Iris looked at him in astonishment. "Is it possible that you mean what you say?" she asked. "My dear, I do most assuredly mean what I say. Why should you hesitate? What possible reason can there be for staying here any longer?" "Oh, Hugh, how you disappoint me! What has become of your kind feeling, your sense of justice, your consideration for others? Poor Mrs. Vimpany!" "What has Mrs. Vimpany to do with it?" Iris was indignant. "What has Mrs. Vimpany to do with it?" she repeated. "After all that I owe to that good creature's kindness; after I have promised to accompany her--she has so few happy days, poor soul!--on excursions to places of interest in the neighbourhood, do you expect me to leave her--no! it's worse than that--do you expect me to throw her aside like an old dress that I have worn out? And this after I have so unjustly, so ungratefully suspected her in my own thoughts? Shameful! shameful!" With some difficulty, Mountjoy controlled himself. After what she had just said, his lips were sealed on the subject of Mrs. Vimpany's true character. He could only persist in appealing to her duty to her father. "You are allowing your quick temper to carry you to strange extremities," he answered. "If I think it of more importance to hasten a reconciliation with your father than to encourage you to make excursions with a lady whom you have only known for a week or two, what have I done to deserve such an outbreak of anger? Hush! Not a word more now! Here is the lady herself." As he spoke, Mrs. Vimpany joined them; returning from her interview with her husband at the inn. She looked first at Iris, and at once perceived signs of disturbance in the young lady's face. Concealing her anxiety under that wonderful stage smile, which affords a refuge to so many secrets, Mrs. Vimpany said a few words excusing her absence. Miss Henley answered, without the slightest change in her friendly manner to the doctor's wife. The signs of disturbance were evidently attributable to some entirely unimportant cause, from Mrs. Vimpany's point of view. Mr. Mountjoy's discoveries had not been communicated yet. In Hugh's state of mind, there was some irritating influence in the presence of the mistress of the house, which applied the spur to his wits. He mischievously proposed submitting to her the question in dispute between Iris and himself. "It is a very simple matter," he said to Mrs. Vimpany. "Miss Henley's father is anxious that she should return to him, after an estrangement between them which is happily at an end. Do you think she ought to allow any accidental engagements to prevent her from going home at once? If she requests your indulgence, under the circumstances, has she any reason to anticipate a refusal?" Mrs. Vimpany's expressive eyes looked up, with saintly resignation, at the dirty ceiling--and asked in dumb show what she had done to deserve the injury implied by a doubt. "Mr. Mountjoy," she said sternly, "you insult me by asking the question."--"Dear Miss Henley," she continued, turning to Iris, _"you_ will do me justice, I am sure. Am I capable of allowing my own feelings to stand in the way, when your filial duty is concerned? Leave me, my sweet friend. Go! I entreat you, go home!" She retired up the stage--no, no; she withdrew to the other end of the room--and burst into the most becoming of all human tears, theatrical tears. Impulsive Iris hastened to comfort the personification of self-sacrifice, the model of all that was most unselfish in female submission. "For shame! for shame!" she whispered, as she passed Mountjoy. Beaten again by Mrs. Vimpany--with no ties of relationship to justify resistance to Miss Henley; with two women against him, entrenched behind the privileges of their sex--the one last sacrifice of his own feelings, in the interests of Iris, that Hugh could make was to control the impulse which naturally urged him to leave the house. In the helpless position in which he had now placed himself, he could only wait to see what course Mrs. Vimpany might think it desirable to take. Would she request him, in her most politely malicious way, to bring his visit to an end? No: she looked at him--hesitated--directed a furtive glance towards the view of the street from the window--smiled mysteriously--and completed the sacrifice of her own feelings in these words: "Dear Miss Henley, let me help you to pack up." Iris positively refused. "No," she said, "I don't agree with Mr. Mountjoy. My father leaves it to me to name the day when we meet. I hold you, my dear, to our engagement--I don't leave an affectionate friend as I might leave a stranger." Even if Mr. Mountjoy communicated his discoveries to Miss Henley, on the way home, there would be no danger now of her believing him. Mrs. Vimpany put her powerful arm round the generous Iris, and, with infinite grace, thanked her by a kiss. "Your kindness will make my lonely lot in life harder than ever to bear," she murmured, "when you are gone." "But we may hope to meet in London," Iris reminded her; "unless Mr. Vimpany alters his mind about leaving this place." "My husband will not do that, dear. He is determined to try his luck, as he says, in London. In the meantime you will give me your address, won't you? Perhaps you will even promise to write to me?" Iris instantly gave her promise, and wrote down her address in London. Mountjoy made no attempt to interfere: it was needless. If the maid had not fallen ill on the journey, and if Mrs. Vimpany had followed Miss Henley to London, there would have been little to fear in the discovery of her address--and there was little to fear now. The danger to Iris was not in what might happen while she was living under her father's roof, but in what might happen if she was detained (by plans for excursions) in Mr. Vimpany's house, until Lord Harry might join her there. Rather than permit this to happen, Hugh (in sheer desperation) meditated charging Mrs. Vimpany, to her face, with being the Irish lord's spy, and proving the accusation by challenging her to produce the registered letter and the diamond pin. While he was still struggling with his own reluctance to inflict this degrading exposure on a woman, the talk between the two ladies came to an end. Mrs. Vimpany returned again to the window. On this occasion, she looked out into the street--with her handkerchief (was it used as a signal?) exhibited in her hand. Iris, on her side, advanced to Mountjoy. Easily moved to anger, her nature was incapable of sullen perseverance in a state of enmity. To see Hugh still patiently waiting--still risking the chances of insult--devoted to her, and forgiving her--was at once a reproach that punished Iris, and a mute appeal that no true woman's heart could resist. With tears in her eyes she said to him: "There must be no coolness between you and me. I lost my temper, and spoke shamefully to you. My dear, I am indeed sorry for it. You are never hard on me--you won't be hard on me now?" She offered her hand to him. He had just raised it to his lips--when the drawing-room door was roughly opened. They both looked round. The man of all others whom Hugh least desired to see was the man who now entered the room. The victim of "light claret"--privately directed to lurk in the street, until he saw a handkerchief fluttering at the window--had returned to the house; primed with his clever wife's instructions; ready and eager to be even with Mountjoy for the dinner at the inn. CHAPTER IX MR. VIMPANY ON INTOXICATION THERE was no unsteadiness in the doctor's walk, and no flush on his face. He certainly did strut when he entered the room; and he held up his head with dignity, when he discovered Mountjoy. But he seemed to preserve his self-control. Was the man sober again already? His wife approached him with her set smile; the appearance of her lord and master filled Mrs. Vimpany with perfectly-assumed emotions of agreeable surprise. "This is an unexpected pleasure," she said. "You seldom favour us with your company, my dear, so early in the evening! Are there fewer patients in want of your advice than usual?" "You are mistaken, Arabella. I am here in the performance of a painful duty." The doctor's language, and the doctor's manner, presented him to Iris in a character that was new to her. What effect had he produced on Mrs. Vimpany? That excellent friend to travellers in distress lowered her eyes to the floor, and modestly preserved silence. Mr. Vimpany proceeded to the performance of his duty; his painful responsibility seemed to strike him at first from a medical point of view. "If there is a poison which undermines the sources of life," he remarked, "it is alcohol. If there is a vice that degrades humanity, it is intoxication. Mr. Mountjoy, are you aware that I am looking at you?" "Impossible not to be aware of that," Hugh answered. "May I ask why you are looking at me?" It was not easy to listen gravely to Mr. Vimpany's denunciation of intemperance, after what had taken place at the dinner of that day. Hugh smiled. The moral majesty of the doctor entered its protest. "This is really shameful," he said. "The least you can do is to take it seriously." "What is it?" Mountjoy asked. "And why am I to take it seriously?" Mr. Vimpany's reply was, to say the least of it, indirect. If such an expression may be permitted, it smelt of the stage. Viewed in connection with Mrs. Vimpany's persistent assumption of silent humility, it suggested to Mountjoy a secret understanding, of some kind, between husband and wife. "What has become of your conscience, sir?" Mr. Vimpany demanded. "Is that silent monitor dead within you? After giving me a bad dinner, do you demand an explanation? Ha! you shall have it." Having delivered himself to this effect, he added action to words. Walking grandly to the door, he threw it open, and saluted Mountjoy with an ironical bow. Iris observed that act of insolence; her colour rose, her eyes glittered. "Do you see what he has just done?" she said to Mrs. Vimpany. The doctor's wife answered softly: "I don't understand it." After a glance at her husband, she took Iris by the hand: "Dear Miss Henley, shall we retire to my room?" Iris drew her hand away. "Not unless Mr. Mountjoy wishes it," she said. "Certainly not!" Hugh declared. "Pray remain here; your presence will help me to keep my temper." He stepped up to Mr. Vimpany. "Have you any particular reason for opening that door?" he asked. The doctor was a rascal; but, to do him justice, he was no coward. "Yes," he said, "I have a reason." "What is it, if you please?" "Christian forbearance," Mr. Vimpany answered. "Forbearance towards me?" Mountjoy continued. The doctor's dignity suddenly deserted him. "Aha, my boy, you have got it at last!" he cried. "It's pleasant to understand each other, isn't it? You see, I'm a plain-spoken fellow; I don't wish to give offence. If there's one thing more than another I pride myself on, it's my indulgence for human frailty. But, in my position here, I'm obliged to be careful. Upon my soul, I can't continue my acquaintance with a man who--oh, come! come! don't look as if you didn't understand me. The circumstances are against you, sir. You have treated me infamously." "Under what circumstances have I treated you infamously?" Hugh asked. "Under pretence of giving me a dinner," Mr. Vimpany shouted--"the worst dinner I ever sat down to!" His wife signed to him to be silent. He took no notice of her. She insisted on being understood. "Say no more!" she warned him, in a tone of command. The brute side of his nature, roused by Mountjoy's contemptuous composure, was forcing its way outwards; he set his wife at defiance. "Then don't let him look at me as if he thought I was in a state of intoxication!" cried the furious doctor. "There's the man, Miss, who tried to make me tipsy," he went on, actually addressing himself to Iris. "Thanks to my habits of sobriety, he has been caught in his own trap. _He's_ intoxicated. Ha, friend Mountjoy, have you got the right explanation at last? There's the door, sir!" Mrs. Vimpany felt that this outrage was beyond endurance. If something was not done to atone for it, Miss Henley would be capable--her face, at that moment, answered for her--of leaving the house with Mr. Mountjoy. Mrs. Vimpany seized her husband indignantly by the arm. "You brute, you have spoilt everything!" she said to him. "Apologise directly to Mr. Mountjoy. You won't?" "I won't!" Experience had taught his wife how to break him to her will. "Do you remember my diamond pin?" she whispered. He looked startled. Perhaps he thought she had lost the pin. "Where is it?" he asked eagerly. "Gone to London to be valued. Beg Mr. Mountjoy's pardon, or I will put the money in the bank--and not one shilling of it do you get." In the meanwhile, Iris had justified Mrs. Vimpany's apprehensions. Her indignation noticed nothing but the insult offered to Hugh. She was too seriously agitated to be able to speak to him. Still admirably calm, his one anxiety was to compose her. "Don't be afraid," he said; "it is impossible that I can degrade myself by quarrelling with Mr. Vimpany. I only wait here to know what you propose to do. You have Mrs. Vimpany to think of." "I have nobody to think of but You," Iris replied. "But for me, you would never have been in this house. After the insult that has been offered to you--oh, Hugh, I feel it too!--let us return to London together. I have only to tell Rhoda we are going away, and to make my preparations for travelling. Send for me from the inn, and I will be ready in time for the next train." Mrs. Vimpany approached Mountjoy, leading her husband. "Sorry I have offended you," the doctor said. "Beg your pardon. It's only a joke. No offence, I hope?" His servility was less endurable than his insolence. Telling him that he need say no more, Mountjoy bowed to Mrs. Vimpany, and left the room. She returned his bow mechanically, in silence. Mr. Vimpany followed Hugh out--thinking of the diamond pin, and eager to open the house door, as another act of submission which might satisfy his wife. Even a clever woman will occasionally make mistakes; especially when her temper happens to have been roused. Mrs. Vimpany found herself in a false position, due entirely to her own imprudence. She had been guilty of three serious errors. In the first place she had taken it for granted that Mr. Vimpany's restorative mixture would completely revive the sober state of his brains. In the second place, she had trusted him with her vengeance on the man who had found his way to her secrets through her husband's intemperance. In the third place, she had rashly assumed that the doctor, in carrying out her instructions for insulting Mountjoy, would keep within the limits which she had prescribed to him, when she hit on the audacious idea of attributing his disgraceful conduct to the temptation offered by his host's example. As a consequence of these acts of imprudence, she had exposed herself to a misfortune that she honestly dreaded--the loss of the place which she had carefully maintained in Miss Henley's estimation. In the contradictory confusion of feelings, so often found in women, this deceitful and dangerous creature had been conquered--little by little, as she had herself described it--by that charm of sweetness and simplicity in Iris, of which her own depraved nature presented no trace. She now spoke with hesitation, almost with timidity, in addressing the woman whom she had so cleverly deceived, at the time when they first met. "Must I give up all, Miss Henley, that I most value?" she asked. "I hardly understand you, Mrs. Vimpany." "I will try to make it plainer. Do you really mean to leave me this evening?" "I do." "May I own that I am grieved to hear it? Your departure will deprive me of some happy hours, in your company." "Your husband's conduct leaves me no alternative," Iris replied. "Pray do not humiliate me by speaking of my husband! I only want to know if there is a harder trial of my fortitude still to come. Must I lose the privilege of being your friend?" "I hope I am not capable of such injustice as that," Iris declared. "It would be hard indeed to lay the blame of Mr. Vimpany's shameful behaviour on you. I don't forget that you made him offer an apology. Some women, married to such a man as that, might have been afraid of him. No, no; you have been a good friend to me--and I mean to remember it." Mrs. Vimpany's gratitude was too sincerely felt to be expressed with her customary readiness. She only said what the stupidest woman in existence could have said: "Thank you." In the silence that followed, the rapid movement of carriage wheels became audible in the street. The sound stopped at the door of the doctor's house. CHAPTER X THE MOCKERY OF DECEIT HAD Mountjoy arrived to take Iris away, before her preparations for travelling were complete? Both the ladies hurried to the window, but they were too late. The rapid visitor, already hidden from them under the portico, was knocking smartly at the door. In another minute, a man's voice in the hall asked for "Miss Henley." The tones--clear, mellow, and pleasantly varied here and there by the Irish accent--were not to be mistaken by any one who had already hear them. The man in the hall was Lord Harry. In that serious emergency, Mrs. Vimpany recovered her presence of mind. She made for the door, with the object of speaking to Lord Harry before he could present himself in the drawing-room. But Iris had heard him ask for her in the hall; and that one circumstance instantly stripped of its concealments the character of the woman in whose integrity she had believed. Her first impression of Mrs. Vimpany--so sincerely repented, so eagerly atoned for--had been the right impression after all! Younger, lighter, and quicker than the doctor's wife, Iris reached the door first, and laid her hand on the lock. "Wait a minute," she said. Mrs. Vimpany hesitated. For the first time in her life at a loss what to say, she could only sign to Iris to stand back. Iris refused to move. She put her terrible question in the plainest words: "How does Lord Harry know that I am in this house?" The wretched woman (listening intently for the sound of a step on the stairs) refused to submit to a shameful exposure, even now. To her perverted moral sense, any falsehood was acceptable, as a means of hiding herself from discovery by Iris. In the very face of detection, the skilled deceiver kept up the mockery of deceit. "My dear," she said, "what has come to you? Why won't you let me go to my room?" Iris eyed her with a look of scornful surprise. "What next?" she said. "Are you impudent enough to pretend that I have not found you out, yet?" Sheer desperation still sustained Mrs. Vimpany's courage. She played her assumed character against the contemptuous incredulity of Iris, as she had sometimes played her theatrical characters against the hissing and hooting of a brutal audience. "Miss Henley," she said, "you forget yourself!" "Do you think I didn't see in your face," Iris rejoined, "that you heard him, too? Answer my question." "What question?" "You have just heard it." "No!" "You false woman!" "Don't forget, Miss Henley, that you are speaking to a lady." "I am speaking to Lord Harry's spy!" Their voices rose loud; the excitement on either side had reached its climax; neither the one nor the other was composed enough to notice the sound of the carriage-wheels, leaving the house again. In the meanwhile, nobody came to the drawing-room door. Mrs. Vimpany was too well acquainted with the hot-headed Irish lord not to conclude that he would have made himself heard, and would have found his way to Iris, but for some obstacle, below stairs, for which he was not prepared. The doctor's wife did justice to the doctor at last. Another person had, in all probability, heard Lord Harry's voice--and that person might have been her husband. Was it possible that he remembered the service which she had asked of him; and, even if he had succeeded in calling it to mind, was his discretion to be trusted? As those questions occurred to her, the desire to obtain some positive information was more than she was able to resist. Mrs. Vimpany attempted to leave the drawing-room for the second time. But the same motive had already urged Miss Henley to action. Again, the younger woman outstripped the older. Iris descended the stairs, resolved to discover the cause of the sudden suspension of events in the lower part of the house. CHAPTER XI MRS. VIMPANY'S FAREWELL THE doctor's wife followed Miss Henley out of the room, as far as the landing--and waited there. She had her reasons for placing this restraint on herself. The position of the landing concealed her from the view of a person in the hall. If she only listened for the sound of voices she might safely discover whether Lord Harry was, or was not, still in the house. In the first event, it would be easy to interrupt his interview with Iris, before the talk could lead to disclosures which Mrs. Vimpany had every reason to dread. In the second event, there would be no need to show herself. Meanwhile, Iris opened the dining-room door and looked in. Nobody was there. The one other room on the ground floor, situated at the back of the building, was the doctor's consulting-room. She knocked at the door. Mr. Vimpany's voice answered: "Come in." There he was alone, drinking brandy and water, and smoking his big black cigar. "Where is Lord Harry?" she said. "In Ireland, I suppose," Mr. Vimpany answered quietly. Iris wasted no time in making useless inquiries. She closed the door again, and left him. He, too, was undoubtedly in the conspiracy to keep her deceived. How had it been done? Where was the wild lord, at that moment? Whilst she was pursuing these reflections in the hall, Rhoda came up from the servants' tea-table in the kitchen. Her mistress gave her the necessary instructions for packing, and promised to help her before long. Mrs. Vimpany's audacious resolution to dispute the evidence of her own senses, still dwelt on Miss Henley's mind. Too angry to think of the embarrassment which an interview with Lord Harry would produce, after they had said their farewell words in Ireland, she was determined to prevent the doctor's wife from speaking to him first, and claiming him as an accomplice in her impudent denial of the truth. If he had been, by any chance, deluded into leaving the house, he would sooner or later discover the trick that had been played on him, and would certainly return. Iris took a chair in the hall. * * * * * * * It is due to the doctor to relate that he had indeed justified his wife's confidence in him. The diamond pin, undergoing valuation in London, still represented a present terror in his mind. The money, the money--he was the most attentive husband in England when he thought of the money! At the time when Lord Harry's carriage stopped at his house-door, he was in the dining-room, taking a bottle of brandy from the cellaret in the sideboard. Looking instantly out of the window, he discovered who the visitor was, and decided on consulting his instructions in the pocket-diary. The attempt was rendered useless, as soon as he had opened the book, by the unlucky activity of the servant in answering the door. Her master stopped her in the hall. He was pleasantly conscious of the recovery of his cunning. But his memory (far from active under the most favourable circumstances) was slower than ever at helping him now. On the spur of the moment he could only call to mind that he had been ordered to prevent a meeting between Lord Harry and Iris. "Show the gentleman into my consulting-room," he said. Lord Harry found the doctor enthroned on his professional chair, surprised and delighted to see his distinguished friend. The impetuous Irishman at once asked for Miss Henley. "Gone," Mr. Vimpany answered "Gone--where?" the wild lord wanted to know next. "To London." "By herself?" "No; with Mr. Hugh Mountjoy." Lord Harry seized the doctor by the shoulders, and shook him: "You don't mean to tell me Mountjoy is going to marry her?" Mr. Vimpany feared nothing but the loss of money. The weaker and the older man of the two, he nevertheless followed the young lord's example, and shook him with right good-will. "Let's see how you like it in your turn," he said. "As for Mountjoy, I don't know whether he is married or single--and don't care." "The devil take your obstinacy! When did they start?" "The devil take your questions! They started not long since." "Might I catch them at the station?" "Yes; if you go at once." So the desperate doctor carried out his wife's instructions--without remembering the conditions which had accompanied them. The way to the station took Lord Harry past the inn. He saw Hugh Mountjoy through the open house door paying his bill at the bar. In an instant the carriage was stopped, and the two men (never on friendly terms) were formally bowing to each other. "I was told I should find you," Lord Harry said, "with Miss Henley, at the station." "Who gave you your information?" "Vimpany--the doctor." "He ought to know that the train isn't due at the station for an hour yet." "Has the blackguard deceived me? One word more, Mr. Mountjoy. Is Miss Henley at the inn?" "No." "Are you going with her to London?" "I must leave Miss Henley to answer that." "Where is she, sir?" "There is an end to everything, my lord, in the world we live in. You have reached the end of my readiness to answer questions." The Englishman and the Irishman looked at each other: the Anglo-Saxon was impenetrably cool; the Celt was flushed and angry. They might have been on the brink of a quarrel, but for Lord Harry's native quickness of perception, and his exercise of it at that moment. When he had called at Mr. Vimpany's house, and had asked for Iris, the doctor had got rid of him by means of a lie. After this discovery, at what conclusion could he arrive? The doctor was certainly keeping Iris out of his way. Reasoning in this rapid manner, Lord Harry let one offence pass, in his headlong eagerness to resent another. He instantly left Mountjoy. Again the carriage rattled back along the street; but it was stopped before it reached Mr. Vimpany's door. Lord Harry knew the people whom he had to deal with, and took measures to approach the house silently, on foot. The coachman received orders to look out for a signal, which should tell him when he was wanted again. Mr. Vimpany's ears, vigilantly on the watch for suspicious events, detected no sound of carriage wheels and no noisy use of the knocker. Still on his guard, however, a ring at the house-bell disturbed him in his consulting-room. Peeping into the hall, he saw Iris opening the door, and stole back to his room. "The devil take her!" he said, alluding to Miss Henley, and thinking of the enviable proprietor of the diamond pin. At the unexpected appearance of Iris, Lord Harry forgot every consideration which ought to have been present to his mind, at that critical moment. He advanced to her with both hands held out in cordial greeting. She signed to him contemptuously to stand back--and spoke in tones cautiously lowered, after a glance at the door of the consulting-room. "My only reason for consenting to see you," she said, "is to protect myself from further deception. Your disgraceful conduct is known to me. Go now," she continued, pointing to the stairs, "and consult with your spy, as soon as you like." The Irish lord listened--guiltily conscious of having deserved what she had said to him--without attempting to utter a word in excuse. Still posted at the head of the stairs, the doctor's wife heard Iris speaking; but the tone was not loud enough to make the words intelligible at that distance; neither was any other voice audible in reply. Vaguely suspicions of some act of domestic treachery, Mrs. Vimpany began to descend the stairs. At the turning which gave her a view of the hall, she stopped; thunderstruck by the discovery of Lord Harry and Miss Henley, together. The presence of a third person seemed, in some degree, to relieve Lord Harry. He ran upstairs to salute Mrs. Vimpany, and was met again by a cold reception and a hostile look. Strongly and strangely contrasted, the two confronted each other on the stairs. The faded woman, wan and ghastly under cruel stress of mental suffering, stood face to face with a fine, tall, lithe man, in the prime of his health and strength. Here were the bright blue eyes, the winning smile, and the natural grace of movement, which find their own way to favour in the estimation of the gentler sex. This irreclaimable wanderer among the perilous by-ways of the earth--christened "Irish blackguard," among respectable members of society, when they spoke of him behind his back--attracted attention, even among the men. Looking at his daring, finely-formed face, they noticed (as an exception to a general rule, in these days) the total suppression, by the razor, of whiskers, moustache, and beard. Strangers wondered whether Lord Harry was an actor or a Roman Catholic priest. Among chance acquaintances, those few favourites of Nature who are possessed of active brains, guessed that his life of adventure might well have rendered disguise necessary to his safety, in more than one part of the world. Sometimes they boldly put the question to him. The hot temper of an Irishman, in moments of excitement, is not infrequently a sweet temper in moments of calm. What they called Lord Harry's good-nature owned readily that he had been indebted, on certain occasions, to the protection of a false beard, And perhaps a colouring of his face and hair to match. The same easy disposition now asserted itself, under the merciless enmity of Mrs. Vimpany's eyes. "If I have done anything to offend you," he said, with an air of puzzled humility, "I'm sure I am sorry for it. Don't be angry, Arabella, with an old friend. Why won't you shake hands?" "I have kept your secret, and done your dirty work," Mrs. Vimpany replied. "And what is my reward? Miss Henley can tell you how your Irish blundering has ruined me in a lady's estimation. Shake hands, indeed! You will never shake hands with Me again as long as you live!" She said those words without looking at him; her eyes were resting on Iris now. From the moment when she had seen the two together, she knew that it was all over; further denial in the face of plain proofs would be useless indeed! Submission was the one alternative left. "Miss Henley," she said, "if you can feel pity for another woman's sorrow and shame, let me have a last word with you--out of this man's hearing." There was nothing artificial in her tones or her looks; no acting could have imitated the sad sincerity with which she spoke. Touched by that change, Iris accompanied her as she ascended the stairs. After a little hesitation, Lord Harry followed them. Mrs. Vimpany turned on him when they reached the drawing-room landing. "Must I shut the door in your face?" she asked. He was as pleasantly patient as ever: "You needn't take the trouble to do that, my dear; I'll only ask your leave to sit down and wait on the stairs. When you have done with Miss Henley, just call me in. And, by the way, don't be alarmed in case of a little noise--say a heavy man tumbling downstairs. If the blackguard it's your misfortune to be married to happens to show himself, I shall be under the necessity of kicking him. That's all." Mrs. Vimpany closed the door. She spoke to Iris respectfully, as she might have addressed a stranger occupying a higher rank in life than herself. "There is an end, madam, to one short acquaintance; and, as we both know, an end to it for ever. When we first met--let me tell the truth at last!--I felt a malicious pleasure in deceiving you. After that time, I was surprised to find that you grew on my liking, Can you understand the wickedness that tried to resist you? It was useless; your good influence has been too strong for me. Strange, isn't it? I have lived a life of deceit, among bad people. What could you expect of me, after that? I heaped lies on lies--I would have denied that the sun was in the heavens--rather than find myself degraded in your opinion. Well! that is all over--useless, quite useless now. Pray don't mistake me. I am not attempting to excuse myself; a confession was due to you; the confession is made. It is too late to hope that you will forgive me. If you will permit it, I have only one favour to ask. Forget me." She turned away with a last hopeless look, who said as plainly as if in words: "I am not worth a reply." Generous Iris insisted on speaking to her. "I believe you are truly sorry for what you have done," she said; "I can never forget that--I can never forget You." She held out her pitying hand. Mrs. Vimpany was too bitterly conscious of the past to touch it. Even a spy is not beneath the universal reach of the heartache. There were tears in the miserable woman's eyes when she had looked her last at Iris Henley. CHAPTER XII LORD HARRY's DEFENCE AFTER a short interval, the drawing-room door was opened again. Waiting on the threshold, the Irish lord asked if he might come in. Iris replied coldly. "This is not my house," she said; "I must leave you to decide for yourself." Lord Harry crossed the room to speak to her and stopped. There was no sign of relenting towards him in that dearly-loved face. "I wonder whether it would be a relief to you," he suggested with piteous humility, "if I went away?" If she had been true to herself, she would have said, Yes. Where is the woman to be found, in her place, with a heart hard enough to have set her that example? She pointed to a chair. He felt her indulgence gratefully. Following the impulse of the moment, he attempted to excuse his conduct. "There is only one thing I can say for myself," he confessed, "I didn't begin by deceiving you. While you had your eye on me, Iris, I was an honourable man." This extraordinary defence reduced her to silence. Was there another man in the world who would have pleaded for pardon in that way? "I'm afraid I have not made myself understood," he said. "May I try again?" "If you please." The vagabond nobleman made a resolute effort to explain himself intelligibly, this time: "See now! We said good-bye, over there, in the poor old island. Well, indeed I meant it, when I owned that I was unworthy of you. _I_ didn't contradict you, when you said you could never be my wife, after such a life as I have led. And, do remember, I submitted to your returning to England, without presuming to make a complaint. Ah, my sweet girl, it was easy to submit, while I could look at you, and hear the sound of your voice, and beg for that last kiss--and get it. Reverend gentlemen talk about the fall of Adam. What was that to the fall of Harry, when he was back in his own little cottage, without the hope of ever seeing you again? To the best of my recollection, the serpent that tempted Eve was up a tree. I found the serpent that tempted Me, sitting waiting in my own armchair, and bent on nothing worse than borrowing a trifle of money. Need I say who she was? I don't doubt that you think her a wicked woman." Never ready in speaking of acts of kindness, on her own part, Iris answered with some little reserve: "I have learnt to think better of Mrs. Vimpany than you suppose." Lord Harry began to look like a happy man, for the first time since he had entered the room. "I ought to have known it!" he burst out. "Yours is the well-balanced mind, dear, that tempers justice with mercy. Mother Vimpany has had a hard life of it. Just change places with her for a minute or so--and you'll understand what she has had to go through. Find yourself, for instance, in Ireland, without the means to take you back to England. Add to that, a husband who sends you away to make money for him at the theatre, and a manager (not an Irishman, thank God!) who refuses to engage you--after your acting has filled his dirty pockets in past days--because your beauty has faded with time. Doesn't your bright imagination see it all now? My old friend Arabella, ready and anxious to serve me--and a sinking at this poor fellow's heart when he knew, if he once lost the trace of you, he might lose it for ever--there's the situation, as they call it on the stage. I wish I could say for myself what I may say for Mrs. Vimpany. It's such a pleasure to a clever woman to engage in a little deceit--we can't blame her, can we?" Iris protested gently against a code of morality which included the right of deceit among the privileges of the sex. Lord Harry slipped through her fingers with the admirable Irish readiness; he agreed with Miss Henley that he was entirely wrong. "And don't spare me while you're about it," he suggested. "Lay all the blame of that shameful stratagem on my shoulders. It was a despicable thing to do. When I had you watched, I acted in a manner--I won't say unworthy of a gentleman; have I been a gentleman since I first ran away from home? Why, it's even been said my way of speaking is no longer the way of a gentleman; and small wonder, too, after the company I've kept. Ah, well! I'm off again, darling, on a sea voyage. Will you forgive me now? or will you wait till I come back, if I do come back? God knows!" He dropped on his knees, and kissed her hand. "Anyway," he said, "whether I live or whether I die, it will be some consolation to remember that I asked your pardon--and perhaps got it." "Take it, Harry; I can't help forgiving you!" She had done her best to resist him, and she had answered in those merciful words. The effect was visible, perilously visible, as he rose from his knees. Her one chance of keeping the distance between them, on which she had been too weak to insist, was not to encourage him by silence. Abruptly, desperately, she made a commonplace inquiry about his proposed voyage. "Tell me," she resumed, "where are you going when you leave England?" "Oh, to find money, dear, if I can--to pick up diamonds, or to hit on a mine of gold, and so forth." The fine observation of Iris detected something not quite easy in his manner, as he made that reply. He tried to change the subject: she deliberately returned to it. "Your account of your travelling plans is rather vague," she told him. "Do you know when you are likely to return?" He took her hand. One of the rings on her fingers happened to be turned the wrong way. He set it in the right position, and discovered an opal. "Ah! the unlucky stone!" he cried, and turned it back again out of sight. She drew away her hand. "I asked you," she persisted, "when you expect to return?" He laughed--not so gaily as usual. "How do I know I shall ever get back?" he answered. "Sometimes the seas turn traitor, and sometimes the savages. I have had so many narrow escapes of my life, I can't expect my luck to last for ever." He made a second attempt to change the subject. "I wonder whether you're likely to pay another visit to Ireland? My cottage is entirely at your disposal, Iris dear. Oh, when I'm out of the way, of course! The place seemed to please your fancy, when you saw it. You will find it well taken care of, I answer for that." Iris asked who was taking care of his cottage. The wild lord's face saddened. He hesitated; rose from his chair restlessly, and walked away to the window; returned, and made up his mind to reply. "My dear, you know her. She was the old housekeeper at--" His voice failed him. He was unable, or unwilling, to pronounce the name of Arthur's farm. Knowing, it is needless to say, that he had alluded to Mrs. Lewson, Iris warmly commended him for taking care of her old nurse. At the same time, she remembered the unfriendly terms in which the housekeeper had alluded to Lord Harry, when they had talked of him. "Did you find no difficulty," she asked, "in persuading Mrs. Lewson to enter your service?" "Oh, yes, plenty of difficulty; I found my bad character in my way, as usual." It was a relief to him, at that moment, to talk of Mrs. Lewson; the Irish humour and the Irish accent both asserted themselves in his reply. "The curious old creature told me to my face I was a scamp. I took leave to remind her that it was the duty of a respectable person, like herself, to reform scamps; I also mentioned that I was going away, and she would be master and mistress too on my small property. That softened her heart towards me. You will mostly find old women amenable, if you get at them by way of their dignity. Besides, there was another lucky circumstance that helped me. The neighbourhood of my cottage has some attraction for Mrs. Lewson. She didn't say particularly what it was--and I never asked her to tell me." "Surely you might have guessed it, without being told," Iris reminded him. "Mrs. Lewson's faithful heart loves poor Arthur's memory--and Arthur's grave is not far from your cottage." "Don't speak of him!" It was said loudly, peremptorily, passionately. He looked at her with angry astonishment in his face. "You loved him too!" he said. "Can you speak of him quietly? The noblest, truest, sweetest man that ever the Heavens looked on, foully assassinated. And the wretch who murdered him still living, free--oh, what is God's providence about?--is there no retribution that will follow him? no just hand that will revenge Arthur's death?" As those fierce words escaped him, he was no longer the easy, gentle, joyous creature whom Iris had known and loved. The furious passions of the Celtic race glittered savagely in his eyes, and changed to a grey horrid pallor the healthy colour that was natural to his face. "Oh, my temper, my temper!" he cried, as Iris shrank from him. "She hates me now, and no wonder." He staggered away from her, and burst into a convulsive fit of crying, dreadful to hear. Compassion, divine compassion, mastered the earthlier emotion of terror in the great heart of the woman who loved him. She followed him, and laid her hand caressingly on his shoulder. "I don't hate you, my dear," she said. "I am sorry for Arthur--and, oh, so sorry for You!" He caught her in his arms. His gratitude, his repentance, his silent farewell were all expressed in a last kiss. It was a moment, never to be forgotten to the end of their lives. Before she could speak, before she could think, he had left her. She called him back, through the open door. He never returned; he never even replied. She ran to the window, and threw it up--and was just in time to see him signal to the carriage and leap into it. Her horror of the fatal purpose that was but too plainly rooted in him--her conviction that he was on the track of the assassin, self devoted to exact the terrible penalty of blood for blood--emboldened her to insist on being heard. "Come back," she cried. "I must, I will, speak with you." He waved his hand to her with a gesture of despair. "Start your horses," he shouted to the coachman. Alarmed by his voice and his look, the man asked where he should drive to. Lord Harry pointed furiously to the onward road. "Drive," he answered, "to the Devil!" THE END OF THE FIRST PERIOD THE SECOND PERIOD CHAPTER XIII IRIS AT HOME A LITTLE more than four months had passed, since the return of Iris to her father's house. Among other events which occurred, during the earlier part of that interval, the course adopted by Hugh Mountjoy, when Miss Henley's suspicions of the Irish lord were first communicated to him, claims a foremost place. It was impossible that the devoted friend of Iris could look at her, when they met again on their way to the station, without perceiving the signs of serious agitation. Only waiting until they were alone in the railway-carriage, she opened her heart unreservedly to the man in whose clear intellect and true sympathy she could repose implicit trust. He listened to what she could repeat of Lord Harry's language with but little appearance of surprise. Iris had only reminded him of one, among the disclosures which had escaped Mr. Vimpany at the inn. Under the irresistible influence of good wine, the doctor had revealed the Irish lord's motive for remaining in his own country, after the assassination of Arthur Mountjoy. Hugh met the only difficulty in his way, without shrinking from it. He resolved to clear his mind of its natural prejudice against the rival who had been preferred to him, before he assumed the responsibility of guiding Iris by his advice. When he had in some degree recovered confidence in his own unbiased judgment, he entered on the question of Lord Harry's purpose in leaving England. Without attempting to dispute the conclusion at which Iris had arrived, he did his best to alleviate her distress. In his opinion, he was careful to tell her, a discovery of the destination to which Lord Harry proposed to betake himself, might be achieved. The Irish lord's allusion to a new adventure, which would occupy him in searching for diamonds or gold, might indicate a contemplated pursuit of the assassin, as well as a plausible excuse to satisfy Iris. It was at least possible that the murderer might have been warned of his danger if he remained in England, and that he might have contemplated directing his flight to a distant country, which would not only offer a safe refuge, but also hold out (in its mineral treasures) a hope of gain. Assuming that these circumstances had really happened, it was in Lord Harry's character to make sure of his revenge, by embarking in the steamship by which the assassin of Arthur Mountjoy was a passenger. Wild as this guess at the truth undoubtedly was, it had one merit: it might easily be put to the test. Hugh had bought the day's newspaper at the station. He proposed to consult the shipping advertisements relating, in the first place, to communication with the diamond-mines and the goldfields of South Africa. This course of proceeding at once informed him that the first steamer, bound for that destination, would sail from London in two days' time. The obvious precaution to take was to have the Dock watched; and Mountjoy's steady old servant, who knew Lord Harry by sight, was the man to employ. Iris naturally inquired what good end could be attained, if the anticipated discovery actually took place. To this Mountjoy answered, that the one hope--a faint hope, he must needs confess--of inducing Lord Harry to reconsider his desperate purpose, lay in the influence of Iris herself. She must address a letter to him, announcing that his secret had been betrayed by his own language and conduct, and declaring that she would never again see him, or hold any communication with him, if he persisted in his savage resolution of revenge. Such was the desperate experiment which Mountjoy's generous and unselfish devotion to Iris now proposed to try. The servant (duly entrusted with Miss Henley's letter) was placed on the watch--and the event which had been regarded as little better than a forlorn hope, proved to be the event that really took place. Lord Harry was a passenger by the steamship. Mountjoy's man presented the letter entrusted to him, and asked respectfully if there was any answer. The wild lord read it--looked (to use the messenger's own words) like a man cut to the heart--seemed at a loss what to say or do--and only gave a verbal answer: "I sincerely thank Miss Henley, and I promise to write when the ship touches at Madeira." The servant continued to watch him when he went on board the steamer; saw him cast a look backwards, as if suspecting that he might have been followed; and then lost sight of him in the cabin. The vessel sailed after a long interval of delay, but he never reappeared on the deck. The ambiguous message sent to her aroused the resentment of Iris; she thought it cruel. For some weeks perhaps to come, she was condemned to remain in doubt, and was left to endure the trial of her patience, without having Mountjoy at hand to encourage and console her. He had been called away to the south of France by the illness of his father. But the fortunes of Miss Henley, at this period of her life, had their brighter side. She found reason to congratulate herself on the reconciliation which had brought her back to her father. Mr. Henley had received her, not perhaps with affection, but certainly with kindness. "If we don't get in each other's way, we shall do very well; I am glad to see you again." That was all he had said to her, but it meant much from a soured and selfish man. Her only domestic anxiety was caused by another failure in the health of her maid. The Doctor declared that medical help would be of no avail, while Rhoda Bennet remained in London. In the country she had been born and bred, and to the country she must return. Mr. Henley's large landed property, on the north of London, happened to include a farm in the neighbourhood of Muswell Hill. Wisely waiting for a favourable opportunity, Iris alluded to the good qualities which had made Rhoda almost as much her friend as her servant, and asked leave to remove the invalid to the healthy air of the farm. Her anxiety about the recovery of a servant so astonished Mr. Henley, that he was hurried (as he afterwards declared) into granting his daughter's request. After this concession, the necessary arrangements were easily made. The influence of Iris won the goodwill of the farmer and his wife; Rhoda, as an expert and willing needlewoman, being sure of a welcome, for her own sake, in a family which included a number of young children. Miss Henley had only to order her carriage, and to be within reach of the farm. A week seldom passed without a meeting between the mistress and the maid. In the meantime, Mountjoy (absent in France) did not forget to write to Iris. His letters offered little hope of a speedy return. The doctors had not concealed from him that his father's illness would end fatally; but there were reserves of vital power still left, which might prolong the struggle. Under these melancholy circumstances, he begged that Iris would write to him. The oftener she could tell him of the little events of her life at home, the more kindly she would brighten the days of a dreary life. Eager to show, even in a trifling matter, how gratefully she appreciated Mountjoy's past kindness, Iris related the simple story of her life at home, in weekly letters addressed to her good friend. After telling Hugh (among other things) of Rhoda's establishment at the farm, she had some unexpected results to relate, which had followed the attempt to provide herself with a new maid. Two young women had been successively engaged--each recommended, by the lady whom she had last served, with that utter disregard of moral obligation which appears to be shamelessly on the increase in the England of our day. The first of the two maids, described as "rather excitable," revealed infirmities of temper which suggested a lunatic asylum as the only fit place for her. The second young woman, detected in stealing eau-de-cologne, and using it (mixed with water) as an intoxicating drink, claimed merciful construction of her misconduct, on the ground that she had been misled by the example of her last mistress. At the third attempt to provide herself with a servant, Iris was able to report the discovery of a responsible person who told the truth--an unmarried lady of middle age. In this case, the young woman was described as a servant thoroughly trained in the performance of her duties, honest, sober, industrious, of an even temper, and unprovided with a "follower" in the shape of a sweetheart. Even her name sounded favourably in the ear of a stranger--it was Fanny Mere. Iris asked how a servant, apparently possessed of a faultless character, came to be in want of a situation. At this question the lady sighed, and acknowledged that she had "made a dreadful discovery," relating to the past life of her maid. It proved to be the old, the miserably old, story of a broken promise of marriage, and of the penalty paid as usual by the unhappy woman. "I will say nothing of my own feelings," the maiden lady explained. "In justice to the other female servants, it was impossible for me to keep such a person in my house; and, in justice to you, I must most unwillingly stand in the way of Fanny Mere's prospects by mentioning my reason for parting with her." "If I could see the young woman and speak to her," Iris said, "I should like to decide the question of engaging her, for myself." The lady knew the address of her discharged servant, and--with some appearance of wonder--communicated it. Miss Henley wrote at once, telling Fanny Mere to come to her on the following day. When she woke on the next morning, later than usual, an event occurred which Iris had been impatiently expecting for some time past. She found a letter waiting on her bedside table, side by side with her cup of tea. Lord Harry had written to her at last. Whether he used his pen or his tongue, the Irish lord's conduct was always more or less in need of an apology. Here were the guilty one's new excuses, expressed in his customary medley of frank confession and flowery language: "I am fearing, my angel, that I have offended you. You have too surely said to yourself, This miserable Harry might have made me happy by writing two lines--and what does he do? He sends a message in words which tell me nothing. "My sweet girl, the reason why is that I was in two minds when your man stopped me on my way to the ship. "Whether it was best for you--I was not thinking of myself--to confess the plain truth, or to take refuge in affectionate equivocation, was more than I could decide at the time. When minutes are enough for your intelligence, my stupidity wants days. Well! I saw it at last. A man owes the truth to a true woman; and you are a true woman. There you find a process of reasoning--I have been five days getting hold of it. "But tell me one thing first. Brutus killed a man; Charlotte Corday killed a man. One of the two victims was a fine tyrant, and the other a mean tyrant. Nobody blames those two historical assassins. Why then blame me for wishing to make a third? Is a mere modern murderer beneath my vengeance, by comparison with two classical tyrants who did _their_ murders by deputy? The man who killed Arthur Mountjoy is (next to Cain alone) the most atrocious homicide that ever trod the miry ways of this earth. There is my reply! I call it a crusher. "So now my mind is easy. Darling, let me make your mind easy next. "When I left you at the window of Vimpany's house, I was off to the other railroad to find the murderer in his hiding-place by the seaside. He had left it; but I got a trace, and went back to London--to the Docks. Some villain in Ireland, who knows my purpose, must have turned traitor. Anyhow, the wretch has escaped me. "Yes; I searched the ship in every corner. He was not on board. Has he gone on before me, by an earlier vessel? Or has he directed his flight to some other part of the world? I shall find out in time. His day of reckoning will come, and he, too, shall know a violent death! Amen. So be it. Amen. "Have I done now? Bear with me, gentle Iris--there is a word more to come. "You will wonder why I went on by the steamship--all the way to South Africa--when I had failed to find the man I wanted, on board. What was my motive? You, you alone, are always my motive. Lucky men have found gold, lucky men have found diamonds. Why should I not be one of them? My sweet, let us suppose two possible things; my own elastic convictions would call them two likely things, but never mind that. Say, I come back a reformed character; there is your only objection to me, at once removed! And take it for granted that I return with a fortune of my own finding. In that case, what becomes of Mr. Henley's objection to me? It melts (as Shakespeare says somewhere) into thin air. Now do take my advice, for once. Show this part of my letter to your excellent father, with my love. I answer beforehand for the consequences. Be happy, my Lady Harry--as happy as I am--and look for my return on an earlier day than you may anticipate. Yours till death, and after. "HARRY." Like the Irish lord, Miss Henley was "in two minds," while she rose, and dressed herself. There were parts of the letter for which she loved the writer, and parts of it for which she hated him. What a prospect was before that reckless man--what misery, what horror, might not be lying in wait in the dreadful future! If he failed in the act of vengeance, that violent death of which he had written so heedlessly might overtake him from another hand. If he succeeded, the law might discover his crime, and the infamy of expiation on the scaffold might be his dreadful end. She turned, shuddering, from the contemplation of those hideous possibilities, and took refuge in the hope of his safe, his guiltless return. Even if his visions of success, even if his purposes of reform (how hopeless at his age!) were actually realised, could she consent to marry the man who had led his life, had written this letter, had contemplated (and still cherished) his merciless resolution of revenge? No woman in her senses could let the bare idea of being his wife enter her mind. Iris opened her writing-desk, to hide the letter from all eyes but her own. As she secured it with the key, her heart sank under the return of a terror remembered but too well. Once more, the superstitious belief in a destiny that was urging Lord Harry and herself nearer and nearer to each other, even when they seemed to be most widely and most surely separated, thrilled her under the chilling mystery of its presence. She dropped helplessly into a chair. Oh, for a friend who could feel for her, who could strengthen her, whose wise words could restore her to her better and calmer self! Hugh was far away; and Iris was left to suffer and to struggle alone. Heartfelt aspirations for help and sympathy! Oh, irony of circumstances, how were they answered? The housemaid entered the room, to announce the arrival of a discharged servant, with a lost character. "Let the young woman come in," Iris said. Was Fanny Mere the friend whom she had been longing for? She looked at her troubled face in the glass--and laughed bitterly. CHAPTER XIV THE LADY'S MAID IT was not easy to form a positive opinion of the young woman who now presented herself in Miss Henley's room. If the Turkish taste is truly reported as valuing beauty in the female figure more than beauty in the female face, Fanny Mere's personal appearance might have found, in Constantinople, the approval which she failed to receive in London. Slim and well balanced, firmly and neatly made, she interested men who met her by accident (and sometimes even women), if they happened to be walking behind her. When they quickened their steps, and, passing on, looked back at her face, they lost all interest in Fanny from that moment. Painters would have described the defect in her face as "want of colour." She was one of the whitest of fair female human beings. Light flaxen hair, faint blue eyes with no expression in them, and a complexion which looked as if it had never been stirred by a circulation of blood, produced an effect on her fellow-creatures in general which made them insensible to the beauty of her figure, and the grace of her movements. There was no betrayal of bad health in her strange pallor: on the contrary, she suggested the idea of rare physical strength. Her quietly respectful manner was, so to say, emphasised by an underlying self-possession, which looked capable of acting promptly and fearlessly in the critical emergencies of life. Otherwise, the expression of character in her face was essentially passive. Here was a steady, resolute young woman, possessed of qualities which failed to show themselves on the surface--whether good qualities or bad qualities experience alone could determine. Finding it impossible, judging by a first impression, to arrive at any immediate decision favourable or adverse to the stranger, Iris opened the interview with her customary frankness; leaving the consequences to follow as they might. "Take a seat, Fanny," she said, "and let us try if we can understand each other. I think you will agree with me that there must be no concealments between us. You ought to know that your mistress has told me why she parted with you. It was her duty to tell me the truth, and it is my duty not to be unjustly prejudiced against you after what I have heard. Pray believe me when I say that I don't know, and don't wish to know, what your temptation may have been--" "I beg your pardon, Miss, for interrupting you. My temptation was vanity." Whether she did or did not suffer in making that confession, it was impossible to discover. Her tones were quiet; her manner was unobtrusively respectful; the pallor of her face was not disturbed by the slightest change of colour. Was the new maid an insensible person? Iris began to fear already that she might have made a mistake. "I don't expect you to enter into particulars," she said; "I don't ask you here to humiliate yourself." "When I got your letter, Miss, I tried to consider how I might show myself worthy of your kindness," Fanny answered. "The one way I could see was not to let you think better of me than I deserve. When a person, like me, is told, for the first time, that her figure makes amends for her face, she is flattered by the only compliment that has been paid to her in all her life. My excuse, Miss (if I have an excuse) is a mean one---I couldn't resist a compliment. That is all I have to say." Iris began to alter her opinion. This was not a young woman of the ordinary type. It began to look possible, and more than possible, that she was worthy of a helping hand. The truth seemed to be in her. "I understand you, and feel for you." Having replied in those words, Iris wisely and delicately changed the subject. "Let me hear how you are situated at the present time," she continued. "Are your parents living?" "My father and mother are dead, Miss." "Have you any other relatives?" "They are too poor to be able to do anything for me. I have lost my character--and I am left to help myself." "Suppose you fail to find another situation?" Iris suggested. "Yes, Miss?" "How can you help yourself?" "I can do what other girls have done." "What do you mean?" "Some of us starve on needlework. Some take to the streets. Some end it in the river. If there is no other chance for me, I think I shall try that way," said the poor creature, as quietly as if she was speaking of some customary prospect that was open to her. "There will be nobody to be sorry for me--and, as I have read, drowning is not a very painful death." "You shock me, Fanny! I, for one, should be sorry for you." "Thank you, Miss." "And try to remember," Iris continued, "that there may be chances in the future which you don't see yet. You speak of what you have read, and I have already noticed how clearly and correctly you express yourself. You must have been educated. Was it at home? or at school? "I was once sent to school," Fanny replied, not quite willingly. "Was it a private school?" "Yes." That short answer warned Iris to be careful. "Recollections of school," she said good-humouredly, "are not the pleasantest recollections in some of our lives. Perhaps I have touched on a subject which is disagreeable to you?" "You have touched on one of my disappointments, Miss. While my mother lived, she was my teacher. After her death, my father sent me to school. When he failed in business, I was obliged to leave, just as I had begun to learn and like it. Besides, the girls found out that I was going away, because there was no money at home to pay the fees--and that mortified me. There is more that I might tell you. I have a reason for hating my recollections of the school--but I mustn't mention that time in my life which your goodness to me tries to forget." All that appealed to her, so simply and so modestly, in that reply, was not lost on Iris. After an interval of silence, she said: "Can you guess what I am thinking of, Fanny?" "No, Miss." "I am asking myself a question. If I try you in my service shall I never regret it?" For the first time, strong emotion shook Fanny Mere. Her voice failed her, in the effort to speak. Iris considerately went on. "You will take the place," she said, "of a maid who has been with me for years--a good dear creature who has only left me through ill-health. I must not expect too much of you; I cannot hope that you will be to me what Rhoda Bennet has been." Fanny succeeded in controlling herself. "Is there any hope," she asked, "of my seeing Rhoda Bennet?" "Why do you wish to see her?" "You are fond of her, Miss---that is one reason." "And the other?" "Rhoda Bennet might help me to serve you as I want to serve you; she might perhaps encourage me to try if I could follow her example." Fanny paused, and clasped her hands fervently. The thought that was in her forced its way to expression. "It's so easy to feel grateful," she said--"and, oh, so hard to show it!" "Come to me," her new mistress answered, "and show it to-morrow." Moved by that compassionate impulse, Iris said the words which restored to an unfortunate creature a lost character and a forfeited place in the world. CHAPTER XV MR. HENLEY'S TEMPER PROVIDED by nature with ironclad constitutional defences against illness, Mr. Henley was now and then troubled with groundless doubts of his own state of health. Acting under a delusion of this kind, he imagined symptoms which rendered a change of residence necessary from his town house to his country house, a few days only after his daughter had decided on the engagement of her new maid. Iris gladly, even eagerly, adapted her own wishes to the furtherance of her father's plans. Sorely tried by anxiety and suspense, she needed all that rest and tranquillity could do for her. The first week in the country produced an improvement in her health. Enjoying the serene beauty of woodland and field, breathing the delicious purity of the air--sometimes cultivating her own corner in the garden, and sometimes helping the women in the lighter labours of the dairy--her nerves recovered their tone, and her spirits rose again to their higher level. In the performance of her duties the new maid justified Miss Henley's confidence in her, during the residence of the household in the country. She showed, in her own undemonstrative way, a grateful sense of her mistress's kindness. Her various occupations were intelligently and attentively pursued; her even temper never seemed to vary; she gave the servants no opportunities of complaining of her. But one peculiarity in her behaviour excited hostile remark, below-stairs. On the occasions when she was free to go out for the day, she always found some excuse for not joining any of the other female servants, who might happen to be similarly favoured. The one use she made of her holiday was to travel by railway to some place unknown; always returning at the right time in the evening. Iris knew enough of the sad circumstances to be able to respect her motives, and to appreciate the necessity for keeping the object of these solitary journeys a secret from her fellow-servants. The pleasant life in the country house had lasted for nearly a month, when the announcement of Hugh's approaching return to England reached Iris. The fatal end of his father's long and lingering illness had arrived, and the funeral had taken place. Business, connected with his succession to the property, would detain him in London for a few days. Submitting to this necessity, he earnestly expressed the hope of seeing Iris again, the moment he was at liberty. Hearing the good news, Mr. Henley obstinately returned to his plans--already twice thwarted--for promoting the marriage of Mountjoy and Iris. He wrote to invite Hugh to his house in a tone of cordiality which astonished his daughter; and when the guest arrived, the genial welcome of the host had but one defect--Mr. Henley overacted his part. He gave the two young people perpetual opportunities of speaking to each other privately; and, on the principle that none are so blind as those who won't see, he failed to discover that the relations between them continued to be relations of friendship, do what he might. Hugh's long attendance on his dying father had left him depressed in spirits; Iris understood him, and felt for him. He was not ready with his opinion of the new maid, after he had seen Fanny Mere. "My inclination," he said, "is to trust the girl. And yet, I hesitate to follow my inclination--and I don't know why." When Hugh's visit came to an end, he continued his journey in a northerly direction. The property left to him by his father included a cottage, standing in its own grounds, on the Scotch shore of the Solway Firth. The place had been neglected during the long residence of the elder Mr. Mountjoy on the Continent. Hugh's present object was to judge, by his own investigation, of the necessity for repairs. On the departure of his guest, Mr. Henley (still obstinately hopeful of the marriage on which he had set his mind) assumed a jocular manner towards Iris, and asked if the Scotch cottage was to be put in order for the honeymoon. Her reply, gently as it was expressed, threw him into a state of fury. His vindictive temper revelled, not only in harsh words, but in spiteful actions. He sold one of his dogs which had specially attached itself to Iris; and, seeing that she still enjoyed the country, he decided on returning to London. She submitted in silence. But the events of that past time, when her father's merciless conduct had driven her out of his house, returned ominously to her memory. She said to herself: "Is a day coming when I shall leave him again?" It was coming--and she little knew how. CHAPTER XVI THE DOCTOR IN FULL DRESS MR. HENLEY'S household had been again established in London, when a servant appeared one morning with a visiting card, and announced that a gentleman had called who wished to see Miss Henley. She looked at the card. The gentleman was Mr. Vimpany. On the point of directing the man to say that she was engaged, Iris checked herself. Mrs. Vimpany's farewell words had produced a strong impression on her. There had been moments of doubt and gloom in her later life, when the remembrance of that unhappy woman was associated with a feeling (perhaps a morbid feeling) of self-reproach. It seemed to be hard on the poor penitent wretch not to have written to her. Was she still leading the same dreary life in the mouldering old town? Or had she made another attempt to return to the ungrateful stage? The gross husband, impudently presenting himself with his card and his message, could answer those questions if he could do nothing else. For that reason only Iris decided that she would receive Mr. Vimpany. On entering the room, she found two discoveries awaiting her, for which she was entirely unprepared. The doctor's personal appearance exhibited a striking change; he was dressed, in accordance with the strictest notions of professional propriety, entirely in black. More remarkable still, there happened to be a French novel among the books on the table--and that novel Mr. Vimpany, barbarous Mr. Vimpany, was actually reading with an appearance of understanding it! "I seem to surprise you," said the doctor. "Is it this?" He held up the French novel as he put the question. "I must own that I was not aware of the range of your accomplishments," Iris answered. "Oh, don't talk of accomplishments! I learnt my profession in Paris. For nigh on three years I lived among the French medical students. Noticing this book on the table, I thought I would try whether I had forgotten the language--in the time that has passed (you know) since those days. Well, my memory isn't a good one in most things, but strange to say (force of habit, I suppose), some of my French sticks by me still. I hope I see you well, Miss Henley. Might I ask if you noticed the new address, when I sent up my card?" "I only noticed your name." The doctor produced his pocket-book, and took out a second card. With pride he pointed to the address: "5 Redburn Road, Hampstead Heath." With pride he looked at his black clothes. "Strictly professional, isn't it?" he said. "I have bought a new practice; and I have become a new man. It isn't easy at first. No, by jingo--I beg your pardon--I was about to say, my own respectability rather bothers me; I shall get used to it in time. If you will allow me, I'll take a liberty. No offence, I hope?" He produced a handful of his cards, and laid them out in a neat little semicircle on the table. "A word of recommendation, when you have the chance, would be a friendly act on your part," he explained. "Capital air in Redburn Road, and a fine view of the Heath out of the garret windows--but it's rather an out-of-the-way situation. Not that I complain; beggars mustn't be choosers. I should have preferred a practice in a fashionable part of London; but our little windfall of money--" He came to a full stop in the middle of a sentence. The sale of the superb diamond pin, by means of which Lord Harry had repaid Mrs. Vimpany's services, was, of all domestic events, the last which it might be wise to mention in the presence of Miss Henley. He was awkwardly silent. Taking advantage of that circumstance, Iris introduced the subject in which she felt interested. "How is Mrs. Vimpany?" she asked. "Oh, she's all right!" "Does she like your new house?" The doctor made a strange reply. "I really can't tell you," he said. "Do you mean that Mrs. Vimpany declines to express an opinion?" He laughed. "In all my experience," he said, "I never met with a woman who did that! No, no; the fact is, my wife and I have parted company. There's no need to look so serious about it! Incompatibility of temper, as the saying is, has led us to a friendly separation. Equally a relief on both sides. She goes her way, I go mine." His tone disgusted Iris--and she let him see it. "Is it of any use to ask you for Mrs. Vimpany's address?" she inquired. His atrocious good-humour kept its balance as steadily as ever: "Sorry to disappoint you. Mrs. Vimpany hasn't given me her address. Curious, isn't it? The fact is, she moped a good deal, after you left us; talked of her duty, and the care of her soul, and that sort of thing. When I hear where she is, I'll let you know with pleasure. To the best of my belief, she's doing nurse's work somewhere." "Nurse's work? What do you mean?" "Oh, the right thing--all in the fashion. She belongs to what they call a Sisterhood; goes about, you know, in a shabby black gown, with a poke bonnet. At least, so Lord Harry told me the other day." In spite of herself, Iris betrayed the agitation which those words instantly roused in her. "Lord Harry!" she exclaimed. "Where is he? In London?" "Yes--at Parker's Hotel." "When did he return?" "Oh, a few days ago; and--what do you think?--he's come back from the goldfields a lucky man. Damn it, I've let the cat out of the bag! I was to keep the thing a secret from everybody, and from you most particularly. He's got some surprise in store for you. Don't tell him what I've done! We had a little misunderstanding, in past days, at Honeybuzzard--and, now we are friends again, I don't want to lose his lordship's interest." Iris promised to be silent. But to know that the wild lord was in England again, and to remain in ignorance whether he had, or had not, returned with the stain of bloodshed on him, was more than she could endure. "There is one question I must ask you," she said. "I have reason to fear that Lord Harry left this country, with a purpose of revenge--" Mr. Vimpany wanted no further explanation. "Yes, yes; I know. You may be easy about that. There's been no mischief done, either one way or the other. The man he was after, when he landed in South Africa (he told me so himself) has escaped him." With that reply, the doctor got up in a hurry to bring his visit to an end. He proposed to take to flight, he remarked facetiously, before Miss Henley wheedled him into saying anything more. After opening the door, however, he suddenly returned to Iris, and added a last word in the strictest confidence. "If you won't forget to recommend me to your friends," he said, "I'll trust you with another secret. You will see his lordship in a day or two, when he returns from the races. Good-bye." The races! What was Lord Harry doing at the races? CHAPTER XVII ON HAMPSTEAD HEATH IRIS had only to remember the manner in which she and Mountjoy had disappointed her father, to perceive the serious necessity of preventing Mountjoy's rival from paying a visit at Mr. Henley's house. She wrote at once to Lord Harry, at the hotel which Mr. Vimpany had mentioned, entreating him not to think of calling on her. Being well aware that he would insist on a meeting, she engaged to write again and propose an appointment. In making this concession, Iris might have found it easier to persuade herself that she was yielding to sheer necessity, if she had not been guiltily conscious of a feeling of pleasure at the prospect of seeing Lord Harry again, returning to her an innocent man. There was some influence, in this train of thought, which led her mind back to Hugh. She regretted his absence--wondered whether he would have proposed throwing her letter to the Irish lord into the fire--sighed, closed the envelope, and sent the letter to the post. On the next day, she had arranged to drive to Muswell Hill, and to pay the customary visit to Rhoda. Heavy rain obliged her to wait for a fitter opportunity. It was only on the third day that the sky cleared, and the weather was favourable again. On a sunshiny autumn morning, with a fine keen air blowing, she ordered the open carriage. Noticing, while Fanny Mere was helping her to dress, that the girl looked even paler than usual, she said, with her customary kindness to persons dependent on her, "You look as if a drive in the fresh air would do you good--you shall go with me to the farm, and see Rhoda Bennet." When they stopped at the house, the farmer's wife appeared, attending a gentleman to the door. Iris at once recognised the local medical man. "You're not in attendance, I hope, on Rhoda Bennet?" she said. The doctor acknowledged that there had been some return of the nervous derangement from which the girl suffered. He depended mainly (he said) on the weather allowing her to be out as much as possible in the fresh air, and on keeping her free from all agitation. Rhoda was so far on the way to recovery, that she was now walking in the garden by his advice. He had no fear of her, provided she was not too readily encouraged, in her present state, to receive visitors. Her mistress would be, of course, an exception to this rule. But even Miss Henley would perhaps do well not to excite the girl by prolonging her visit. There was one other suggestion which he would venture to make, while he had the opportunity. Rhoda was not, as he thought, warmly enough clothed for the time of year; and a bad cold might be easily caught by a person in her condition. Iris entered the farm-house; leaving Fanny Mere, after what the doctor had said on the subject of visitors, to wait for her in the carriage. After an absence of barely ten minutes Miss Henley returned; personally changed, not at all to her own advantage, by the introduction of a novelty in her dress. She had gone into the farmhouse, wearing a handsome mantle of sealskin. When she came out again, the mantle had vanished, and there appeared in its place a common cloak of drab-coloured cloth. Noticing the expression of blank amazement in the maid's face, Iris burst out laughing. "How do you think I look in my new cloak?" she asked. Fanny saw nothing to laugh at in the sacrifice of a sealskin mantle. "I must not presume, Miss, to give an opinion," she said gravely. "At any rate," Iris continued, "you must be more than mortal if my change of costume doesn't excite your curiosity. I found Rhoda Bennet in the garden, exposed to the cold wind in this ugly flimsy thing. After what the doctor had told me, it was high time to assert my authority. I insisted on changing cloaks with Rhoda. She made an attempt, poor dear, to resist; but she knows me of old--and I had my way. I am sorry you have been prevented from seeing her; you shall not miss the opportunity when she is well again. Do you admire a fine view? Very well; we will vary the drive on our return. Go back," she said to the coachman, "by Highgate and Hampstead." Fanny's eyes rested on the shabby cloak with a well-founded distrust of it as a protection against the autumn weather. She ventured to suggest that her mistress might feel the loss (in an open carriage) of the warm mantle which she had left on Rhoda's shoulders. Iris made light of the doubt expressed by her maid. But by the time they had passed Highgate, and had approached the beginning of the straight road which crosses the high ridge of Hampstead Heath, she was obliged to acknowledge that she did indeed feel the cold. "You ought to be a good walker," she said, looking at her maid's firm well-knit figure. "Exercise is all I want to warm me. What do you say to going home on foot?" Fanny was ready and willing to accompany her mistress. The carriage was dismissed, and they set forth on their walk. As they passed the inn called "The Spaniards," two women who were standing at the garden gate stared at Iris, and smiled. A few paces further on, they were met by an errand-boy. He too looked at the young lady, and put his hand derisively to his head, with a shrill whistle expressive of malicious enjoyment. "I appear to amuse these people," Iris said. "What do they see in me?" Fanny answered with an effort to preserve her gravity, which was not quite successfully disguised: "I beg your pardon, Miss; I think they notice the curious contrast between your beautiful bonnet and your shabby cloak." Persons of excitable temperament have a sense of ridicule, and a dread of it, unintelligible to their fellow-creatures who are made of coarser material. For the moment, Iris was angry. "Why didn't you tell me of it," she asked sharply, "before I sent away the carriage? How can I walk back, with everybody laughing at me?" She paused--reflected a little--and led the way off the high road, on the right, to the fine clump of fir-trees which commands the famous view in that part of the Heath. "There's but one thing to be done," she said, recovering her good temper; "we must make my grand bonnet suit itself to my miserable cloak. You will pull out the feather and rip off the lace (and keep them for yourself, if you like), and then I ought to look shabby enough from head to foot, I am sure! No; not here; they may notice us from the road--and what may the fools not do when they see you tearing the ornaments off my bonnet! Come down below the trees, where the ground will hide us." They had nearly descended the steep slope which leads to the valley, below the clump of firs, when they were stopped by a terrible discovery. Close at their feet, in a hollow of the ground, was stretched the insensible body of a man. He lay on his side, with his face turned away from them. An open razor had dropped close by him. Iris stooped over the prostate man, to examine his face. Blood flowing from a frightful wound in his throat, was the first thing that she saw. Her eyes closed instinctively, recoiling from that ghastly sight. The next instant she opened them again, and saw his face. Dying or dead, it was the face of Lord Harry. The shriek that burst from her, on making that horrible discovery, was heard by two men who were crossing the lower heath at some distance. They saw the women, and ran to them. One of the men was a labourer; the other, better dressed, looked like a foreman of works. He was the first who arrived on the spot. "Enough to frighten you out of your senses, ladies," he said civilly. "It's a case of suicide, I should say, by the look of it." "For God's sake, let us do something to help him!" Iris burst out. "I know him! I know him!" Fanny, equal to the emergency, asked Miss Henley for her handkerchief, joined her own handkerchief to it, and began to bandage the wound. "Try if his pulse is beating," she said quietly to her mistress. The foreman made himself useful by examining the suicide's pockets. Iris thought she could detect a faint fluttering in the pulse. "Is there no doctor living near?" she cried. "Is there no carriage to be found in this horrible place?" The foreman had discovered two letters. Iris read her own name on one of them. The other was addressed "To the person who may find my body." She tore the envelope open. It contained one of Mr. Vimpany's cards, with these desperate words written on it in pencil: "Take me to the doctor's address, and let him bury me, or dissect me, whichever he pleases." Iris showed the card to the foreman. "Is it near here?" she asked. "Yes, Miss; we might get him to that place in no time, if there was a conveyance of any kind to be found." Still preserving her presence of mind, Fanny pointed in the direction of "The Spaniards" inn. "We might get what we want there," she said. "Shall I go?" Iris signed to her to attend to the wounded man, and ascended the sloping ground. She ran on towards the road. The men, directed by Fanny, raised the body and slowly followed her, diverging to an easier ascent. As Iris reached the road, a four-wheel cab passed her. Without an instant's hesitation, she called to the driver to stop. He pulled up his horse. She confronted a solitary gentleman, staring out of the window of the cab, and looking as if he thought that a lady had taken a liberty with him. Iris allowed the outraged stranger no opportunity of expressing his sentiments. Breathless as she was, she spoke first. "Pray forgive me--you are alone in the cab--there is room for a gentleman, dangerously wounded--he will bleed to death if we don't find help for him--the place is close by--oh, don't refuse me!" She looked back, holding fast by the cab door, and saw Fanny and the men slowly approaching. "Bring him here!" she cried. "Do nothing of the sort!" shouted the gentleman in possession of the cab. But Fanny obeyed her mistress; and the men obeyed Fanny. Iris turned indignantly to the merciless stranger. "I ask you to do an act of Christian kindness," she said. "How can you, how dare you, hesitate?" "Drive on!" cried the stranger. "Drive on, at your peril," Iris added, on her side. The cabman sat, silent and stolid, on the box, waiting for events. Slowly the men came in view, bearing Lord Harry, still insensible. The handkerchiefs on his throat were saturated with blood. At that sight, the cowardly instincts of the stranger completely mastered him. "Let me out!" he clamoured; "let me out!" Finding the cab left at her disposal, Iris actually thanked him! He looked at her with an evil eye. "I have my suspicions, I can tell you," he muttered. "If this comes to a trial in a court of law, I'm not going to be mixed up with it. Innocent people have been hanged before now, when appearances were against them." He walked off; and, by way of completing the revelation of his own meanness, forgot to pay his fare. On the point of starting the horse to pursue him, the cabman was effectually stopped. Iris showed him a sovereign. Upon this hint (like Othello) he spoke. "All right, Miss. I see your poor gentleman is a-bleeding. You'll take care--won't you?--that he doesn't spoil my cushions." The driver was not a ill-conditioned man; he put the case of his property indulgently, with a persuasive smile. Iris turned to the two worthy fellows, who had so readily given her their help, and bade them good-bye, with a solid expression of her gratitude which they both remembered for many a long day to come. Fanny was already in the cab supporting Lord Harry's body. Iris joined her. The cabman drove carefully to Mr. Vimpany's new house. CHAPTER XVIII PROFESSIONAL ASSISTANCE NUMBER Five was near the centre of the row of little suburban houses called Redburn Road. When the cab drew up at the door Mr. Vimpany himself was visible, looking out of the window on the ground floor--and yawning as he looked. Iris beckoned to him impatiently. "Anything wrong?" he asked, as he approached the door of the cab. She drew back, and silently showed him what was wrong. The doctor received the shock with composure. When he happened to be sober and sad, looking for patients and failing to find them, Mr. Vimpany's capacity for feeling sympathy began and ended with himself. "This is a new scrape, even for Lord Harry," he remarked. "Let's get him into the house." The insensible man was carried into the nearest room on the ground floor. Pale and trembling, Iris related what had happened, and asked if there was no hope of saving him. "Patience!" Mr. Vimpany answered; "I'll tell you directly." He removed the bandages, and examined the wound. "There's been a deal of blood lost," he said; "I'll try and pull him through. While I am about it, Miss, go upstairs, if you please, and find your way to the drawing-room." Iris hesitated. The doctor opened a neat mahogany box. "The tools of my trade," he continued; "I'm going to sew up his lordship's throat." Shuddering as she heard those words, Iris hurried out of the room. Fanny followed her mistress up the stairs. In her own very different way, the maid was as impenetrably composed as Mr. Vimpany himself. "There was a second letter found in the gentleman's pocket, Miss," she said. "Will you excuse my reminding you that you have not read it yet." Iris read the lines that follow: "Forgive me, my dear, for the last time. My letter is to say that I shall trouble you no more in this world--and, as for the other world, who knows? I brought some money back with me, from the goldfields. It was not enough to be called a fortune--I mean the sort of fortune which might persuade your father to let you marry me. Well! here in England, I had an opportunity of making ten times more of it on the turf; and, let me add, with private information of the horses which I might certainly count on to win. I don't stop to ask by what cruel roguery I was tempted to my ruin. My money is lost; and, with it, my last hope of a happy and harmless life with you comes to an end. I die, Iris dear, with the death of that hope. Something in me seems to shrink from suicide in the ugly gloom of great overgrown London. I prefer to make away with myself among the fields, where the green will remind me of dear old Ireland. When you think of me sometimes, say to yourself the poor wretch loved me--and perhaps the earth will lie lighter on Harry for those kind words, and the flowers (if you favour me by planting a few) may grow prettier on my grave." There it ended. The heart of Iris sank as she read that melancholy farewell, expressed in language at once wild and childish. If he survived his desperate attempt at self-destruction, to what end would it lead? In silence, the woman who loved him put his letter back in her bosom. Watching her attentively--affected, it was impossible to say how, by that mute distress--Fanny Mere proposed to go downstairs, and ask once more what hope there might be for the wounded man. Iris knew the doctor too well to let the maid leave her on a useless errand. "Some men might be kindly ready to relieve my suspense," she said; "the man downstairs is not one of them. I must wait till he comes to me, or sends for me. But there is something I wish to say to you, while we are alone. You have been but a short time in my service, Fanny. Is it too soon to ask if you feel some interest in me?" "If I can comfort you or help you, Miss, be pleased to tell me how." She made that reply respectfully, in her usual quiet manner; her pale cheeks showing no change of colour, her faint blue eyes resting steadily on her mistress's face. Iris went on: "If I ask you to keep what has happened, on this dreadful day, a secret from everybody, may I trust you--little as you know of me--as I might have trusted Rhoda Bennet?" "I promise it, Miss." In saying those few words, the undemonstrative woman seemed to think that she had said enough. Iris had no alternative but to ask another favour. "And whatever curiosity you may feel, will you be content to do me a kindness--without wanting an explanation?" "It is my duty to respect my mistress's secrets; I will do my duty." No sentiment, no offer of respectful sympathy; a positive declaration of fidelity, left impenetrably to speak for itself. Was the girl's heart hardened by the disaster which had darkened her life? Or was she the submissive victim of that inbred reserve, which shrinks from the frank expression of feeling, and lives and dies self-imprisoned in its own secrecy? A third explanation, founded probably on a steadier basis, was suggested by Miss Henley's remembrance of their first interview. Fanny's nature had revealed a sensitive side, when she was first encouraged to hope for a refuge from ruin followed perhaps by starvation and death. Judging so far from experience, a sound conclusion seemed to follow. When circumstances strongly excited the girl, there was a dormant vitality in her that revived. At other times when events failed to agitate her by a direct appeal to personal interests, her constitutional reserve held the rule. She could be impenetrably honest, steadily industrious, truly grateful--but the intuitive expression of feeling, on ordinary occasions, was beyond her reach. After an interval of nearly half an hour, Mr. Vimpany made his appearance. Pausing in the doorway, he consulted his watch, and entered on a calculation which presented him favourably from a professional point of view. "Allow for time lost in reviving my lord when he fainted, and stringing him up with a drop of brandy, and washing my hands (look how clean they are!), I haven't been more than twenty minutes in mending his throat. Not bad surgery, Miss Henley." "Is his life safe, Mr. Vimpany?" "Thanks to his luck--yes." "His luck?" "To be sure! In the first place, he owes his life to your finding him when you did; a little later, and it would have been all over with Lord Harry. Second piece of luck: catching the doctor at home, just when he was most wanted. Third piece of luck: our friend didn't know how to cut his own throat properly. You needn't look black at me, Miss; I'm not joking. A suicide with a razor in his hand has generally one chance in his favour--he is ignorant of anatomy. That is my lord's case. He has only cut through the upper fleshy part of his throat, and has missed the larger blood vessels. Take my word for it, he will do well enough now; thanks to you, thanks to me, and thanks to his own ignorance. What do you say to that way of putting it? Ha! my brains are in good working order to-day; I haven't been drinking any of Mr. Mountjoy's claret--do you take the joke, Miss Henley?" Chuckling over the recollection of his own drunken audacity, he happened to notice Fanny Mere. "Hullo! is this another injured person in want of me? You're as white as a sheet, Miss. If you're going to faint, do me a favour--wait till I can get the brandy-bottle. Oh! it's natural to you, is it? I see. A thick skin and a slow circulation; you will live to be an old woman. A friend of yours, Miss Henley?" Fanny answered composedly for herself: "I am Miss Henley's maid, sir." "What's become of the other one?" Mr. Vimpany asked. "Aye? aye? Staying at a farm-house for the benefit of her health, is she? If I had been allowed time enough, I would have made a cure of Rhoda Bennet. There isn't a medical man in England who knows more than I do of the nervous maladies of women--and what is my reward? Is my waiting-room crammed with rich people coming to consult me? Do I live in a fashionable Square? Have I even been made a Baronet? Damn it--I beg your pardon, Miss Henley--but it is irritating, to a man of my capacity, to be completely neglected. For the last three days not a creature has darkened the doors of this house. Could I say a word to you?" He led Iris mysteriously into a corner of the room. "About our friend downstairs?" he began. "When may we hope that he will be well again, Mr. Vimpany?" "Maybe in three weeks. In a month at most. I have nobody here but a stupid servant girl. We ought to have a competent nurse. I can get a thoroughly trained person from the hospital; but there's a little difficulty. I am an outspoken man. When I am poor, I own I am poor. My lord must be well fed; the nurse must be well fed. Would you mind advancing a small loan, to provide beforehand for the payment of expenses?" Iris handed her purse to him, sick of the sight of Mr. Vimpany. "Is that all?" she asked, making for the door. "Much obliged. That's all." As they approached the room on the ground floor, Iris stopped: her eyes rested on the doctor. Even to that coarse creature, the eloquent look spoke for her. Fanny noticed it, and suddenly turned her head aside. Over the maid's white face there passed darkly an expression of unutterable contempt. Her mistress's weakness had revealed itself--weakness for one of the betrayers of women; weakness for a man! In the meantime, Mr. Vimpany (having got the money) was ready to humour the enviable young lady with a well-filled purse. "Do you want to see my lord before you go?" he asked, amused at the idea. "Mind! you mustn't disturb him! No talking, and no crying. Ready? Now look at him." There he lay on a shabby little sofa, in an ugly little room; his eyes closed; one helpless hand hanging down; a stillness on his ghastly face, horribly suggestive of the stillness of death--there he lay, the reckless victim of his love for the woman who had desperately renounced him again and again, who had now saved him for the third time. Ah, how her treacherous heart pleaded for him! Can you drive him away from you after this? You, who love him, what does your cold-blooded prudence say, when you look at him now? She felt herself drawn, roughly and suddenly, back into the passage. The door was closed; the doctor was whispering to her. "Hold up, Miss! I expected better things of you. Come! come!--no fainting. You'll find him a different man to-morrow. Pay us a visit, and judge for yourself." After what she had suffered, Iris hungered for sympathy. "Isn't it pitiable?" she said to her maid as they left the house. "I don't know, Miss." "You don't know? Good heavens, are you made of stone? Have you no such thing as a heart in you?" "Not for the men," Fanny answered. "I keep my pity for the women." Iris knew what bitter remembrances made their confession in those words. How she missed Rhoda Bennet at that moment! CHAPTER XIX MR. HENLEY AT HOME FOR a month, Mountjoy remained in his cottage on the shores of the Solway Firth, superintending the repairs. His correspondence with Iris was regularly continued; and, for the first time in his experience of her, was a cause of disappointment to him. Her replies revealed an incomprehensible change in her manner of writing, which became more and more marked in each succeeding instance. Notice it as he might in his own letters, no explanation followed on the part of his correspondent. She, who had so frankly confided her joys and sorrows to him in past days, now wrote with a reserve which seemed only to permit the most vague and guarded allusion to herself. The changes in the weather; the alternation of public news that was dull, and public news that was interesting; the absence of her father abroad, occasioned by doubt of the soundness of his investments in foreign securities; vague questions relating to Hugh's new place of abode, which could only have proceeded from a preoccupied mind--these were the topics on which Iris dwelt, in writing to her faithful old friend. It was hardly possible to doubt that something must have happened, which she had reasons--serious reasons, as it seemed only too natural to infer--for keeping concealed from Mountjoy. Try as he might to disguise it from himself, he now knew how dear, how hopelessly dear, she was to him by the anxiety that he suffered, and by the jealous sense of injury which defied his self-command. His immediate superintendence of the workmen at the cottage was no longer necessary. Leaving there a representative whom he could trust, he resolved to answer his last letter, received from Iris, in person. The next day he was in London. Calling at the house, he was informed that Miss Henley was not at home, and that it was impossible to say with certainty when she might return. While he was addressing his inquiries to the servant, Mr. Henley opened the library door. "Is that you, Mountjoy?" he asked. "Come in: I want to speak to you." Short and thick-set, with a thin-lipped mouth, a coarsely-florid complexion, and furtive greenish eyes; hard in his manner, and harsh in his voice; Mr. Henley was one of the few heartless men, who are innocent of deception on the surface: he was externally a person who inspired, at first sight, feelings of doubt and dislike. His manner failed to show even a pretence of being glad to see Hugh. What he had to say, he said walking up and down the room, and scratching his bristly iron-gray hair from time to time. Those signs of restlessness indicated, to those who knew him well, that he had a selfish use to make of a fellow-creature, and failed to see immediately how to reach the end in view. "I say, Mountjoy," he began, "have you any idea of what my daughter is about?" "I don't even understand what you mean," Hugh replied. "For the last month I have been in Scotland." "You and she write to each other, don't you?" "Yes." "Hasn't she told you--" "Excuse me for interrupting you, Mr. Henley; she has told me nothing." Mr. Henley stared absently at the superbly-bound books on his library-shelves (never degraded by the familiar act of reading), and scratched his head more restlessly than ever. "Look here, young man. When you were staying with me in the country, I rather hoped it might end in a marriage engagement. You and Iris disappointed me--not for the first time. But women do change their minds. Suppose she had changed her mind, after having twice refused you? Suppose she had given you an opportunity--" Hugh interrupted him again. "It's needless to suppose anything of the sort, sir; she would not have given me an opportunity." "Don't fence with me, Mountjoy! I'll put it in a milder way, if you prefer being humbugged. Do you feel any interest in that perverse girl of mine?" Hugh answered readily and warmly: "The truest interest!" Even Mr. Henley was human; his ugly face looked uglier still. It assumed the self-satisfied expression of a man who had carried his point. "Now I can go on, my friend, with what I had to say to you. I have been abroad on business, and only came back the other day. The moment I saw Iris I noticed something wrong about her. If I had been a stranger, I should have said: That young woman is not easy in her mind. Perfectly useless to speak to her about it. Quite happy and quite well--there was her own account of herself. I tried her maid next, a white-livered sulky creature, one of the steadiest liars I have ever met with. 'I know of nothing amiss with my mistress, sir.' There was the maid's way of keeping the secret, whatever it may be! I don't know whether you may have noticed it, in the course of your acquaintance with me--I hate to be beaten." "No, Mr. Henley, I have not noticed it." "Then you are informed of it now. Have you seen my housekeeper?" "Once or twice, sir." "Come! you're improving; we shall make something of you in course of time. Well, the housekeeper was the next person I spoke to about my daughter. Had she seen anything strange in Miss Iris, while I was away from home? There's a dash of malice in my housekeeper's composition; I don't object to a dash of malice. When the old woman is pleased, she shows her yellow fangs. She had something to tell me: 'The servants have been talking, sir, about Miss Iris.' 'Out with it, ma'am! what do they say?' 'They notice, sir, that their young lady has taken to going out in the forenoon, regularly every day: always by herself, and always in the same direction. I don't encourage the servants, Mr. Henley: there was something insolent in the tone of suspicion that they adopted. I told them that Miss Iris was merely taking her walk. They reminded me that it must be a cruelly long walk; Miss Iris being away regularly for four or five hours together, before she came back to the house. After that' (says the housekeeper) 'I thought it best to drop the subject.' What do you think of it yourself, Mountjoy? Do you call my daughter's conduct suspicious?" "I see nothing suspicious, Mr. Henley. When Iris goes out, she visits a friend." "And always goes in the same direction, and always visits the same friend," Mr. Henley added. "I felt a curiosity to know who that friend might be; and I made the discovery yesterday. When you were staying in my house in the country, do you remember the man who waited on you?" Mountjoy began to feel alarmed for Iris; he answered as briefly as possible. "Your valet," he said. "That's it! Well, I took my valet into my confidence--not for the first time, I can tell you: an invaluable fellow. When Iris went out yesterday, he tracked her to a wretched little suburban place near Hampstead Heath, called Redburn Road. She rang the bell at Number Five, and was at once let in--evidently well known there. My clever man made inquiries in the neighbourhood. The house belongs to a doctor, who has lately taken it. Name of Vimpany." Mountjoy was not only startled, but showed it plainly. Mr. Henley, still pacing backwards and forwards, happened by good fortune to have his back turned towards his visitor, at that moment. "Now I ask you, as a man of the world," Mr. Henley resumed, "what does this mean? If you're too cautious to speak out--and I must say it looks like it--shall I set you the example?" "Just as you please, sir." "Very well, then; I'll tell you what I suspect. When Iris is at home, and when there's something amiss in my family, I believe that scoundrel Lord Harry to be at the bottom of it. There's my experience, and there's my explanation. I was on the point of ordering my carriage, to go to the doctor myself, and insist on knowing what the attraction is that takes my daughter to his house, when I heard your voice in the hall. You tell me you are interested in Iris. Very well; you are just the man to help me." "May I ask how, Mr. Henley?" "Of course you may. You can find your way to her confidence, if you choose to try; she will trust you, when she won't trust her father. I don't care two straws about her other secrets; but I do want to know whether she is, or is not, plotting to marry the Irish blackguard. Satisfy me about that, and you needn't tell me anything more. May I count on you to find out how the land lies?" Mountjoy listened, hardly able to credit the evidence of his own senses; he was actually expected to insinuate himself into the confidence of Iris, and then to betray her to her father! He rose, and took his hat--and, without even the formality of a bow, opened the door. "Does that mean No?" Mr. Henley called after him. "Most assuredly," Mountjoy answered--and closed the door behind him. CHAPTER XX FIRST SUSPICIONS OF IRIS FROM the last memorable day, on which Iris had declared to him that he might always count on her as his friend, but never as his wife, Hugh had resolved to subject his feelings to a rigorous control. As to conquering his hopeless love, he knew but too well that it would conquer him, on any future occasion when he and Iris happened to meet. He had been true to his resolution, at what cost of suffering he, and he alone knew. Sincerely, unaffectedly, he had tried to remain her friend. But the nature of the truest and the firmest man has its weak place, where the subtle influence of a woman is concerned. Deeply latent, beyond the reach of his own power of sounding, there was jealousy of the Irish lord lurking in Mountjoy, and secretly leading his mind when he hesitated in those emergencies of his life which were connected with Iris. Ignorant of the influence which was really directing him, he viewed with contempt Mr. Henley's suspicions of a secret understanding between his daughter and the man who was, by her own acknowledgment, unworthy of the love with which it had been her misfortune to regard him. At the same time, Hugh's mind was reluctantly in search of an explanation, which might account (without degrading Iris) for her having been traced to the doctor's house. In his recollection of events at the old country town, he found a motive for her renewal of intercourse with such a man as Mr. Vimpany, in the compassionate feeling with which she regarded the doctor's unhappy wife. There might well be some humiliating circumstance, recently added to the other trials of Mrs. Vimpany's married life, which had appealed to all that was generous and forgiving in the nature of Iris. Knowing nothing of the resolution to live apart which had latterly separated the doctor and his wife, Mountjoy decided on putting his idea to the test by applying for information to Mrs. Vimpany at her husband's house. In the nature of a sensitive man the bare idea of delay, under these circumstances, was unendurable. Hugh called the first cab that passed him, and drove to Hampstead. Careful--morbidly careful, perhaps--not to attract attention needlessly to himself, he stopped the cab at the entrance to Redburn Road, and approached Number Five on foot. A servant-girl answered the door. Mountjoy asked if Mrs. Vimpany was at home. The girl made no immediate reply. She seemed to be puzzled by Mountjoy's simple question. Her familiar manner, with its vulgar assumption of equality in the presence of a stranger, revealed the London-bred maid-servant of modern times. "Did you say _Mrs._ Vimpany?" she inquired sharply. "Yes." "There's no such person here." It was Mountjoy's turn to be puzzled. "Is this Mr. Vimpany's house?" he said. "Yes, to be sure it is." "And yet Mrs. Vimpany doesn't live here?" "No Mrs. Vimpany has darkened these doors," the girl declared positively. "Are you sure you are not making a mistake?" "Quite sure. I have been in the doctor's service since he first took the house." Determined to solve the mystery, if it could be done, Mountjoy asked if he could see the doctor. No: Mr. Vimpany had gone out. "There's a young person comes to us," the servant continued. "I wonder whether you mean her, when you ask for Mrs. Vimpany? The name _she_ gives is Henley." "Is Miss Henley here, now?" "You can't see her--she's engaged." She was not engaged with Mrs. Vimpany, for no such person was known in the house. She was not engaged with the doctor, for the doctor had gone out. Mountjoy looked at the hat-stand in the passage, and discovered a man's hat and a man's greatcoat. To whom did they belong? Certainly not to Mr. Vimpany, who had gone out. Repellent as it was, Mr. Henley's idea that the explanation of his daughter's conduct was to be found in the renewed influence over her of the Irish lord, now presented itself to Hugh's mind under a new point of view. He tried in vain to resist the impression that had been produced on him. A sense of injury, which he was unable to justify to himself, took possession of him. Come what might of it, he determined to set at rest the doubts of which he was ashamed, by communicating with Iris. His card-case proved to be empty when he opened it; but there were letters in his pocket, addressed to him at his hotel in London. Removing the envelope from one of these, he handed it to the servant: "Take that to Miss Henley, and ask when I can see her." The girl left him in the passage, and went upstairs to the drawing-room. In the flimsily-built little house, he could hear the heavy step of a man, crossing the room above, and then the resonant tones of a man's voice raised as if in anger. Had she given him already the right to be angry with her? He thought of the time, when the betrayal of Lord Harry's vindictive purpose in leaving England had frightened her--when he had set aside his own sense of what was due to him, for her sake--and had helped her to communicate, by letter, with the man whose fatal ascendency over Iris had saddened his life. Was what he heard, now, the return that he had deserved? After a short absence, the servant came back with a message. "Miss Henley begs you will excuse her. She will write to you." Would this promised letter be like the other letters which he had received from her in Scotland? Mountjoy's gentler nature reminded him that he owed it to his remembrance of happier days, and truer friendship, to wait and see. He was just getting into the cab, on his return to London, when a closed carriage, with one person in it, passed him on its way to Redburn Road. In that person he recognised Mr. Henley. As the cab-driver mounted to his seat, Hugh saw the carriage stop at Number Five. CHAPTER XXI THE PARTING SCENE THE evening had advanced, and the candles had just been lit in Mountjoy's sitting-room at the hotel. His anxiety to hear from Iris had been doubled and trebled, since he had made the discovery of her father's visit to the doctor's house, at a time when it was impossible to doubt that Lord Harry was with her. Hugh's jealous sense of wrong was now mastered by the nobler emotions which filled him with pity and alarm, when he thought of Iris placed between the contending claims of two such men as the heartless Mr. Henley and the reckless Irish lord. He had remained at the hotel, through the long afternoon, on the chance that she might write to him speedily by the hand of a messenger--and no letter had arrived. He was still in expectation of news which might reach him by the evening post, when the waiter knocked at the door. "A letter?" Mountjoy asked. "No, sir," the man answered; "a lady." Before she could raise her veil, Hugh had recognised Iris. Her manner was subdued; her face was haggard; her hand lay cold and passive in his hand, when he advanced to bid her welcome. He placed a chair for her by the fire. She thanked him and declined to take it. With the air of a woman conscious of committing an intrusion, she seated herself apart in a corner of the room. "I have tried to write to you, and I have not been able to do it." She said that with a dogged resignation of tone and manner, so unlike herself that Mountjoy looked at her in dismay. "My friend," she went on, "your pity is all I may hope for; I am no longer worthy of the interest you once felt in me." Hugh saw that it would be useless to remonstrate. He asked if it had been his misfortune to offend her. "No," she said, "you have not offended me." "Then what in Heaven's name does this change in you mean?" "It means," she said, as coldly as ever, "that I have lost my self-respect; it means that my father has renounced me, and that you will do well to follow his example. Have I not led you to believe that I could never be the wife of Lord Harry? Well, I have deceived you---I am going to marry him." "I can't believe it, Iris! I won't believe it!" She handed him the letter, in which the Irishman had declared his resolution to destroy himself. Hugh read it with contempt. "Did my lord's heart fail him?" he asked scornfully. "He would have died by his own hand, Mr. Mountjoy----" "Oh, Iris--_'Mr.!'"_ "I will say 'Hugh,' if you prefer it--but the days of our familiar friendship are none the less at an end. I found Lord Harry bleeding to death from a wound in his throat. It was in a lonely place on Hampstead Heath; I was the one person who happened to pass by it. For the third time, you see, it has been my destiny to save him. How can I forget that? My mind will dwell on it. I try to find happiness--oh, only happiness enough for me--in cheering my poor Irishman, on his way back to the life that I have preserved. There is my motive, if I have a motive. Day after day I have helped to nurse him. Day after day I have heard him say things to me--what is the use of repeating them? After years of resistance I have given way; let that be enough. My one act of discretion has been to prevent a quarrel between my father and Harry. I beg your pardon, I ought to have said Lord Harry. When my father came to the house, I insisted on speaking with him alone. I told him what I have just told you. He said: 'Think again before you make your choice between that man and me. If you decide to marry him, you will live and die without one farthing of my money to help you.' He put his watch on the table between us, and gave me five minutes to make up my mind. It was a long five minutes, but it ended at last. He asked me which he was to do--leave his will as it was, or go to his lawyer and make another. I said, 'You will do as you please, sir.' No; it was not a hasty reply--you can't make that excuse for me. I knew what I was saying; and I saw the future I was preparing for myself, as plainly as you see it--" Hugh could endure no longer the reckless expression of her despair. "No!" he cried, "you don't see your future as I see it. Will you hear what I have to say, before it is too late?" "It is too late already. But I will listen to you if you wish it." "And, while you listen," Mountjoy added, "you will acquit me of being influenced by a selfish motive. I have loved you dearly. Perhaps, in secret, I love you still. But, this I know: if you were to remain a single woman for the rest of your life, there would be no hope for Me. Do you believe that I am speaking the truth?" "You always speak the truth." "I speak in your interest, at least. You think you see your future life plainly--you are blind to your future life. You talk as if you were resigned to suffer. Are you resigned to lose your sense of right and wrong? Are you resigned to lead the life of an outlaw, and--worse still--not to feel the disgrace of it?" "Go on, Hugh." "You won't answer me?" "I won't shock you." "You don't discourage me, my dear; I am still obstinate in the hope of restoring you to your calmer and truer self. Let me do every justice to Lord Harry. I believe, sincerely believe, that his miserable life has not utterly destroyed in him the virtues which distinguish an honourable man. But he has one terrible defect. In his nature, there is the fatal pliability which finds companionable qualities in bad friends. In this aspect of his character, he is a dangerous man--and he may be (forgive me!) a bad husband. It is a thankless task to warn you to any good purpose. A wife--and a loving wife more than another--feels the deteriorating influence of a husband who is not worthy of her. His ways of thinking are apt to become, little by little, her ways of thinking. She makes allowances for him, which he does not deserve; her sense of right and wrong becomes confused; and before she is aware of it herself, she has sunk to his level. Are you angry with me?" "How can I be angry with you? Perhaps you are right." "Do you really mean that?" "Oh, yes." "Then, for God's sake, reconsider your decision! Let me go to your father." "Mere waste of time," Iris answered. "Nothing that you can say will have the least effect on him." "At any rate," Mountjoy persisted, "I mean to try." Had he touched her? She smiled--how bitterly Hugh failed to perceive. "Shall I tell you what happened to me when I went home to-day?" she said. "I found my maid waiting in the hall--with everything that belongs to me, packed up for my departure. The girl explained that she had been forced to obey my father's positive orders. I knew what that meant--I had to leave the house, and find a place to live in." "Not by yourself, Iris?" "No--with my maid. She is a strange creature; if she feels sympathy, she never expresses it. 'I am your grateful servant, Miss. Where you go, I go.' That was all she said; I was not disappointed--I am getting used to Fanny Mere already. Mine is a lonely lot--isn't it? I have acquaintances among the few ladies who sometimes visit at my father's house, but no friends. My mother's family, as I have always been told, cast her off when she married a man in trade, with a doubtful reputation. I don't even know where my relations live. Isn't Lord Harry good enough for me, as I am now? When I look at my prospects, is it wonderful if I talk like a desperate woman? There is but one encouraging circumstance that I can see. This misplaced love of mine that everybody condemns has, oddly enough, a virtue that everybody must admire. It offers a refuge to a woman who is alone in the world." Mountjoy denied indignantly that she was alone in the world. "Is there any protection that a man can offer to a woman," he asked, "which I am not ready and eager to offer to You? Oh, Iris, what have I done to deserve that you should speak of yourself as friendless in my hearing!" He had touched her at last. Their tender charm showed itself once more in her eyes and in her smile. She rose and approached him. "What exquisite kindness it must be," she said, "that blinds a clever man like you to obstacles which anyone else can see! Remember, dear Hugh, what the world would say to that protection which your true heart offers to me. Are you my near relation? are you my guardian? are you even an old man? Ah me! you are only an angel of goodness whom I must submit to lose. I shall still count on your kindness when we see each other no more. You will pity me, when you hear that I have fallen lower and lower; you will be sorry for me, when I end in disgracing myself." "Even then, Iris, we shall not be separated. The loving friend who is near you now, will be your loving friend still." For the first time in her life, she threw her arms round him. In the agony of that farewell, she held him to her bosom. "Goodbye, dear," she said faintly--and kissed him. The next moment, a deadly pallor overspread her face. She staggered as she drew back, and dropped into the chair that she had just left. In the fear that she might faint, Mountjoy hurried out in search of a restorative. His bed-chamber was close by, at the end of the corridor; and there were smelling-salts in his dressing-case. As he raised the lid, he heard the door behind him, the one door in the room, locked from the outer side. He rushed to the door, and called to her. From the farther end of the corridor, her voice reached him for the last time, repeating the last melancholy word: "Good-bye." No renewal of the miserable parting scene: no more of the heartache--Iris had ended it! CHAPTER XXII THE FATAL WORDS WHEN Mountjoy had rung for the servant, and the bedroom door had been unlocked, it was too late to follow the fugitive. Her cab was waiting for her outside; and the attention of the porter had been distracted, at the same time, by a new arrival of travellers at the hotel. It is more or less in the nature of all men who are worthy of the name, to take refuge from distress in action. Hugh decided on writing to Iris, and on making his appeal to her father, that evening. He abstained from alluding, in his letter, to the manner in which she had left him; it was her right, it was even her duty to spare herself. All that he asked was to be informed of her present place of residence, so that he might communicate the result--in writing only if she preferred it--of his contemplated interview with her father. He addressed his letter to the care of Mr. Vimpany, to be forwarded, and posted it himself. This done, he went on at once to Mr. Henley's house. The servant who opened the door had evidently received his orders. Mr. Henley was "not at home." Mountjoy was in no humour to be trifled with. He pushed the man out of his way, and made straight for the dining-room. There, as his previous experience of the habits of the household had led him to anticipate, was the man whom he was determined to see. The table was laid for Mr. Henley's late dinner. Hugh's well-meant attempt to plead the daughter's cause with the father ended as Iris had said it would end. After hotly resenting the intrusion on him that had been committed, Mr. Henley declared that a codicil to his will, depriving his daughter absolutely of all interest in his property, had been legally executed that day. For a time, Mountjoy's self-control had resisted the most merciless provocation. All that it was possible to effect, by patient entreaty and respectful remonstrance, he had tried again and again, and invariably in vain. At last, Mr. Henley's unbridled insolence triumphed. Hugh lost his temper--and, in leaving the heartless old man, used language which he afterwards remembered with regret. To feel that he had attempted to assert the interests of Iris, and that he had failed, was, in Hugh's heated state of mind, an irresistible stimulant to further exertion. It was perhaps not too late yet to make another attempt to delay (if not to prevent) the marriage. In sheer desperation, Mountjoy resolved to inform Lord Harry that his union with Miss Henley would be followed by the utter ruin of her expectations from her father. Whether the wild lord only considered his own interests, or whether he was loyally devoted to the interests of the woman whom he loved, in either case the penalty to be paid for the marriage was formidable enough to make him hesitate. The lights in the lower window, and in the passage, told Hugh that he had arrived in good time at Redburn Road. He found Mr. Vimpany and the young Irishman sitting together, in the friendliest manner, under the composing influence of tobacco. Primed, as he would have said himself, with only a third glass of grog, the hospitable side of the doctor's character was displayed to view. He at once accepted Mountjoy's visit as offering a renewal of friendly relations between them. "Forgive and forget," he said, "there's the way to settle that little misunderstanding, after our dinner at the inn. You know Mr. Mountjoy, my lord? That's right. Draw in your chair, Mountjoy. My professional prospects threaten me with ruin--but while I have a roof over my head, there's always a welcome for a friend. My dear fellow, I have every reason to believe that the doctor who sold me this practice was a swindler. The money is gone, and the patients don't come. Well! I am not quite bankrupt yet; I can offer you a glass of grog. Mix for yourself--we'll make a night of it." Hugh explained (with the necessary excuses) that his object was to say a few words to Lord Harry in private. The change visible in the doctor's manner, when he had been made acquainted with this circumstance, was not amiably expressed; he had the air of a man who suspected that an unfair advantage had been taken of him. Lord Harry, on his side, appeared to feel some hesitation in granting a private interview to Mr. Mountjoy. "Is it about Miss Henley?" he asked. Hugh admitted that it was. Lord Harry thereupon suggested that they might be acting wisely if they avoided the subject. Mountjoy answered that there were, on the contrary, reasons for approaching the subject sufficiently important to have induced him to leave London for Hampstead at a late hour of the night. Hearing this, Lord Harry rose to lead the way to another room. Excluded from his visitor's confidence, Mr. Vimpany could at least remind Mountjoy that he exercised authority as master of the house. "Oh, take him upstairs, my lord," said the doctor; "you are at home under my humble roof!" The two young men faced each other in the barely-furnished drawing-room; both sufficiently doubtful of the friendly result of the conference to abstain from seating themselves. Hugh came to the point, without wasting time in preparatory words. Admitting that he had heard of Miss Henley's engagement, he asked if Lord Harry was aware of the disastrous consequences to the young lady which would follow her marriage. The reply to this was frankly expressed. The Irish lord knew nothing of the consequences to which Mr. Mountjoy had alluded. Hugh at once enlightened him, and evidently took him completely by surprise. "May I ask, sir," he said, "if you are speaking from your own personal knowledge?" "I have just come, my lord, from Mr. Henley's house; and what I have told you, I heard from his own lips." There was a pause. Hugh was already inclined to think that he had raised an obstacle to the immediate celebration of the marriage. A speedy disappointment was in store for him. Lord Harry was too fond of Iris to be influenced, in his relations with her, by mercenary considerations. "You put it strongly," he said. "But let me tell you, Miss Henley is far from being so dependent on her father--he ought to be ashamed of himself, but that's neither here nor there--I say, she is far from being so dependent on her father as you seem to think. I am not, I beg to inform you, without resources which I shall offer to her with all my heart and soul. Perhaps you wish me to descend to particulars? Oh, it's easily done; I have sold my cottage in Ireland." "For a large sum--in these times?" Hugh inquired. "Never mind the sum, Mr. Mountjoy--let the fact be enough for you. And, while we are on the question of money (a disgusting question, with which I refuse to associate the most charming woman in existence), don't forget that Miss Henley has an income of her own; derived, as I understand, from her mother's fortune, You will do me the justice, sir, to believe that I shall not touch a farthing of it." "Certainly! But her mother's fortune," Mountjoy continued, obstinately presenting the subject on its darkest side, "consists of shares in a Company. Shares rise and fall--and Companies some times fail." "And a friend's anxiety about Miss Henley's affairs sometimes takes a mighty disagreeable form," the Irishman added, his temper beginning to show itself without disguise. "Let's suppose the worst that can happen, and get all the sooner to the end of a conversation which is far from being agreeable to me. We'll say, if you like, that Miss Henley's shares are waste paper, and her pockets (God bless her!) as empty as pockets can be, does she run any other risk that occurs to your ingenuity in becoming my wife?" "Yes, she does!" Hugh was provoked into saying. "In the case you have just supposed, she runs the risk of being left a destitute widow--if you die." He was prepared for an angry reply--for another quarrel added, on that disastrous night, to the quarrel with Mr. Henley. To his astonishment, Lord Harry's brightly-expressive eyes rested on him with a look of mingled distress and alarm. "God forgive me!" he said to himself, "I never thought of that! What am I to do? what am I to do?" Mountjoy observed that deep discouragement, and failed to understand it. Here was a desperate adventurer, whose wanderings had over and over again placed his life in jeopardy, now apparently overcome by merely having his thoughts directed to the subject of death! To place on the circumstances such a construction as this was impossible, after a moment's reflection. The other alternative was to assume that there must be some anxiety burdening Lord Harry's mind, which he had motives for keeping concealed--and here indeed the true explanation had been found. The Irish lord had reasons, known only to himself, for recoiling from the contemplation of his own future. After the murder of Arthur Mountjoy, he had severed his connection with the assassinating brotherhood of the Invincibles; and he had then been warned that he took this step at the peril of his life, if he remained in Great Britain after he had made himself an object of distrust to his colleagues. The discovery, by the secret tribunal, of his return from South Africa would be followed inevitably by the sentence of death. Such was the terrible position which Mountjoy's reply had ignorantly forced him to confront. His fate depended on the doubtful security of his refuge in the doctor's house. While Hugh was still looking at him, in grave doubt, a new idea seemed to spring to life in Lord Harry's mind. He threw off the oppression that had weighed on his spirits in an instant. His manner towards Mountjoy changed, with the suddenness of a flash of light, from the extreme of coldness to the extreme of cordiality. "I have got it at last!" he exclaimed. "Let's shake hands. My dear sir, you're the best friend I have ever had!" The cool Englishman asked: "In what way?" "In this way, to be sure! You have reminded me that I can provide for Miss Henley--and the sooner the better. There's our friend the doctor down-stairs, ready to be my reference. Don't you see it?" Obstacles that might prevent the marriage Mountjoy was ready enough to see. Facilities that might hasten the marriage found his mind hard of access to new impressions. "Are you speaking seriously?" he said. The Irishman's irritable temper began to show itself again. "Why do you doubt it?" he asked. "I fail to understand you," Mountjoy replied. Never--as events were yet to prove--had words of such serious import fallen from Lord Harry's lips as the words that he spoke next. "Clear your mind of jealousy," he said, "and you will understand me well enough. I agree with you that I am bound to provide for my widow--and I mean to do it by insuring my life." THE END OF THE SECOND PERIOD THIRD PERIOD CHAPTER XXIII NEWS OF IRIS AFTER his interview with the Irish lord, Mountjoy waited for two days, in the expectation of hearing from Iris. No reply arrived. Had Mr. Vimpany failed to forward the letter that had been entrusted to him? On the third day, Hugh wrote to make inquiries. The doctor returned the letter that had been confided to his care, and complained in his reply of the ungrateful manner in which he had been treated. Miss Henley had not trusted him with her new address in London; and Lord Harry had suddenly left Redburn Road; bidding his host goodbye in a few lines of commonplace apology, and nothing more. Mr. Vimpany did not deny that he had been paid for his medical services; but, he would ask, was nothing due to friendship? Was one man justified in enjoying another man's hospitality, and then treating him like a stranger? "I have done with them both--and I recommend you, my dear sir, to follow my example." In those terms the angry (and sober) doctor expressed his sentiments, and offered his advice. Mountjoy laid down the letter in despair. His last poor chance of preventing the marriage depended on his being still able to communicate with Iris--and she was as completely lost to him as if she had taken flight to the other end of the world. It might have been possible to discover her by following the movements of Lord Harry, but he too had disappeared without leaving a trace behind him. The precious hours and days were passing--and Hugh was absolutely helpless. Tortured by anxiety and suspense, he still lingered at the hotel in London. More than once, he decided on giving up the struggle, and returning to his pretty cottage in Scotland. More than once, he deferred taking the journey. At one time, he dreaded to hear that Iris was married, if she wrote to him. At another time, he felt mortified and disappointed by the neglect which her silence implied. Was she near him, or far from him? In England, or out of England? Who could say! After more weary days of waiting and suffering a letter arrived, addressed to Mountjoy in a strange handwriting, and bearing the post-mark of Paris. The signature revealed that his correspondent was Lord Harry. His first impulse was to throw the letter into the fire, unread. There could be little doubt, after the time that had passed, of the information that it would contain. Could he endure to be told of the marriage of Iris, by the man who was her husband? Never! There was something humiliating in the very idea of it. He arrived at that conclusion--and what did he do in spite of it? He read the letter. Lord Harry wrote with scrupulous politeness of expression. He regretted that circumstances had prevented him from calling on Mr. Mountjoy, before he left England. After the conversation that had taken place at Mr. Vimpany's house, he felt it his duty to inform Mr. Mountjoy that he had insured his life--and, he would add, for a sum of money amply, and more than amply, sufficient to provide for his wife in the event of her surviving him. Lady Harry desired her kind regards, and would write immediately to her old and valued friend. In the meantime, he would conclude by repeating the expression of his sense of obligation to Mr. Mountjoy. Hugh looked back at the first page of the letter, in search of the writer's address. It was simply, "Paris." The intention to prevent any further correspondence, or any personal communication, could hardly have been more plainly implied. In another moment, the letter was in the fire. In two days more, Hugh heard from Iris. She, too, wrote regretfully of the sudden departure from England; adding, however, that it was her own doing. A slip of the tongue, on Lord Harry's part, in the course of conversation, had led her to fear that he was still in danger from political conspirators with whom he had imprudently connected himself. She had accordingly persuaded him to tell her the whole truth, and had thereupon insisted on an immediate departure for the Continent. She and her husband were now living in Paris; Lord Harry having friends in that city whose influence might prove to be of great importance to his pecuniary prospects. Some sentences followed, expressing the writer's grateful remembrance of all that she had owed to Hugh in past days, and her earnest desire that they might still hear of each other, from time to time, by correspondence. She could not venture to anticipate the pleasure of receiving a visit from him, under present circumstances. But, she hoped that he would not object to write to her, addressing his letters, for the present, to post-restante. In a postscript a few words were added, alluding to Mr. Vimpany. Hugh was requested not to answer any inquiries which that bad man might venture to make, relating to her husband or to herself. In the bygone days, she had been thankful to the doctor for the care which he had taken, medically speaking, of Rhoda Bonnet. But, since that time, his behaviour to his wife, and the opinions which he had expressed in familiar conversation with Lord Harry, had convinced her that he was an unprincipled person. All further communication with him (if her influence could prevent it) must come to an end. Still as far as ever from feeling reconciled to the marriage, Mountjoy read this letter with a feeling of resentment which disinclined him to answer it. He believed (quite erroneously) that Iris had written to him under the superintendence of her husband. There were certain phrases which had been, as he chose to suspect, dictated by Lord Harry's distrust--jealous distrust, perhaps--of his wife's friend. Mountjoy would wait to reply, until, as he bitterly expressed it, Iris was able to write to him without the assistance of her master. Again he thought of returning to Scotland--and, again, he hesitated. On this occasion, he discovered objections to the cottage which had not occurred to him while Iris was a single woman. The situation was solitary; his nearest neighbours were fishermen. Here and there, at some little distance, there were only a few scattered houses inhabited by retired tradesmen. Further away yet, there was the country-seat of an absent person of distinction, whose health suffered in the climate of Scotland. The lonely life in prospect, on the shores of the Solway, now daunted Mountjoy for the first time. He decided on trying what society in London would do to divert his mind from the burdens and anxieties that weighed on it. Acquaintances whom he had neglected were pleasantly surprised by visits from their rich and agreeable young friend. He attended dinner parties; he roused hope in mothers and daughters by accepting invitations to balls; he reappeared at his club. Was there any relief to his mind in this? was there even amusement? No; he was acting a part, and he found it a hard task to keep up appearances. After a brief and brilliant interval, society knew him no more. Left by himself again, he enjoyed one happy evening in London. It was the evening on which he relented, in spite of himself, and wrote to Iris. CHAPTER XXIV LORD HARRY'S HONEYMOON THE next day, Hugh received a visit from the last person in the little world of his acquaintance whom he expected to see. The lost Mrs. Vimpany presented herself at the hotel. She looked unnaturally older since Mountjoy had last seen her. Her artificial complexion was gone. The discarded rouge that had once overlaid her cheeks, through a long succession of years, had left the texture of the skin coarse, and had turned the colour of it to a dull yellowish tinge. Her hair, once so skilfully darkened, was now permitted to tell the truth, and revealed the sober colouring of age, in gray. The lower face had fallen away in substance; and even the penetrating brightness of her large dark eyes was a little dimmed. All that had been left in her of the attractions of past days, owed its vital preservation to her stage training. Her suave grace of movement, and the deep elocutionary melody of her voice, still identified Mrs. Vimpany--disguised as she was in a dress of dull brown, shorn without mercy of the milliner's hideous improvements to the figure. "Will you shake hands with me, Mr. Mountjoy?" Those were the first words she said to him, in a sad subdued manner, on entering the room. "Why not?" Hugh asked, giving her his hand. "You can have no very favourable remembrance of me," she answered. "But I hope to produce a better impression--if you can spare me a little of your time. You may, or may not, have heard of my separation from my husband. Anyway, it is needless to trouble you on the subject; you know Mr. Vimpany; you can guess what I have suffered, and why I have left him. If he comes to you, I hope you will not tell him where Lady Harry is."-- Hugh interposed: "Pray don't speak of her by that name! Call her 'Iris,' as I do." A faint reflection of the old stage-smile trembled on Mrs. Vimpany's worn and weary face. "Ah, Mr. Mountjoy, I know whom she ought to have married! The worst enemy of women is their ignorance of men--and they only learn to know better, when it is too late. I try to be hopeful for Iris, in the time to come, but my fears conquer me." She paused, sighed, and pressed her open hand on her bosom; unconsciously betraying in that action some of the ineradicable training of the theatre. "I am almost afraid to say that I love Iris," she resumed; "but this I know; if I am not so bad as I once was, I owe it to that dearest and sweetest of women! But for the days that I passed in her company, I might never have tried to atone for my past life by works of mercy. When other people take the way of amendment, I wonder whether they find it as hard to follow, at first, as I did?" "There is no doubt of it, Mrs. Vimpany--if people are sincere. Beware of the sinners who talk of sudden conversion and perfect happiness. May I ask how you began your new life?" "I began unhappily, Mr. Mountjoy--I joined a nursing Sisterhood. Before long, a dispute broke out among them. Think of women who call themselves Christians, quarrelling about churches and church services--priest's vestments and attitudes, and candles and incense! I left them, and went to a hospital, and found the doctors better Christians than the Sisters. I am not talking about my own poor self (as you will soon see) without a reason. My experience in the hospital led to other things. I nursed a lady through a tedious illness, and was trusted to take her to some friends in the south of France. On my return, I thought of staying for a few days in Paris--it was an opportunity of seeing how the nurses did their work in the French hospitals. And, oh, it was far more than that! In Paris, I found Iris again." "By accident?" Hugh asked. "I am not sure," Mrs. Vimpany answered, "that there are such things as meetings by accident. She and her husband were among the crowds of people on the Boulevards, who sit taking their coffee in view of the other crowds, passing along the street. I went by, without noticing them. _She_ saw me, and sent Lord Harry to bring me back. I have been with them every day, at her invitation, from that time to this; and I have seen their life." She stopped, noticing that Hugh grew restless. "I am in doubt," she said, "whether you wish to hear more of their life in Paris." Mountjoy at once controlled himself. "Go on," he said quietly. "Even if I tell you that Iris is perfectly happy?" "Go on," Hugh repeated. "May I confess," she resumed, "that her husband is irresistible--not only to his wife, but even to an old woman like me? After having known him for years at his worst, as well as at his best, I am still foolish enough to feel the charm of his high spirits and his delightful good-humour. Sober English people, if they saw him now, would almost think him a fit subject to be placed under restraint. One of his wild Irish ideas of expressing devotion to his wife is, that they shall forget they are married, and live the life of lovers. When they dine at a restaurant, he insists on having a private room. He takes her to public balls, and engages her to dance with him for the whole evening. When she stays at home and is a little fatigued, he sends me to the piano, and whirls her round the room in a waltz. 'Nothing revives a woman,' he says, 'like dancing with the man she loves.' When she is out of breath, and I shut up the piano, do you know what he does? He actually kisses Me--and says he is expressing his wife's feeling for me when she is not able to do it herself! He sometimes dines out with men, and comes back all on fire with the good wine, and more amiable than ever. On these occasions his pockets are full of sweetmeats, stolen for 'his angel' from the dessert. 'Am I a little tipsy?' he asks. 'Oh, don't be angry; it's all for love of you. I have been in the highest society, my darling; proposing your health over and over and over again, and drinking to you deeper than all the rest of the company. You don't blame me? Ah, but I blame myself. I was wrong to leave you, and dine with men. What do I want with the society of men, when I have your society? Drinking your health is a lame excuse. I will refuse all invitations for the future that don't include my wife.' And--mind!--he really means it, at the time. Two or three days later, he forgets his good resolutions, and dines with the men again, and comes home with more charming excuses, and stolen sweetmeats, and good resolutions. I am afraid I weary you, Mr. Mountjoy?" "You surprise me," Hugh replied. "Why do I hear all this of Lord Harry?" Mrs. Vimpany left her chair. The stage directions of other days had accustomed her to rise, when the character she played had anything serious to say. Her own character still felt the animating influence of dramatic habit: she rose now, and laid her hand impressively on Mountjoy's shoulder. "I have not thoughtlessly tried your patience," she said. "Now that I am away from the influence of Lord Harry, I can recall my former experience of him: and I am afraid I can see the end that is coming. He will drift into bad company; he will listen to bad advice; and he will do things in the future which he might shrink from doing now. When that time comes, I fear him! I fear him!" "When that time comes," Hugh repeated, "if I have any influence left over his wife, he shall find her capable of protecting herself. Will you give me her address in Paris? "Willingly--if you will promise not to go to her till she really needs you?" "Who is to decide when she needs me?" "I am to decide," Mrs. Vimpany answered; "Iris writes to me confidentially. If anything happens which she may be unwilling to trust to a letter, I believe I shall hear of it from her maid." "Are you sure the maid is to be relied on?" Mountjoy interposed. "She is a silent creature, so far as I know anything of her," Mrs. Vimpany admitted; "and her manner doesn't invite confidence. But I have spoken with Fanny Mere; I am satisfied that she is true to her mistress and grateful to her mistress in her own strange way. If Iris is in any danger, I shall not be left in ignorance of it. Does this incline you to consult with me, before you decide on going to Paris? Don't stand on ceremony; say honestly, Yes or No." Honestly, Hugh said Yes. He was at once trusted with the address of Iris. At the same time, Mrs. Vimpany undertook that he should know what news she received from Paris as soon as she knew it herself. On that understanding they parted, for the time being. CHAPTER XXV THE DOCTOR IN DIFFICULTIES SLOWLY the weeks passed. Strictly Mrs. Vimpany kept her promise. When she heard from Iris the letter was always sent to Hugh, to be returned after he had read it. Events in the lives of the newly-married pair, many of which pointed to the end that Mrs. Vimpany saw and dreaded, were lightly, sometimes jestingly, related by the young wife. Her blind belief in her husband, sincerely asserted in the earlier part of the correspondence, began to betray, in her later letters, signs of self delusion. It was sad indeed to see that bright intelligence rendered incapable of conceiving suspicions, which might have occurred to the mind of a child. When the latest news from Paris followed, in due course, Mountjoy was informed of it by a note from Mrs. Vimpany expressed in these terms: "My last letter from Iris is really no letter at all. It simply encloses a circular, with her love, and asks me to send it on to you. If it is in your power to make inquiries in the right quarter, I am sure you will not hesitate to take the trouble. There can be little doubt, as I think, that Lord Harry is engaged in a hazardous speculation, more deeply than his wife is willing to acknowledge." The circular announced the contemplated publication of a weekly newspaper, printed partly in English, and partly in French, having its chief office in Paris, and being intended to dispute the advantages of a European circulation with the well-known Continental journal called "Galignani's Messenger." A first list of contributors included names of some notoriety in the literature of England and the literature of France. Speculators who wished to know, in the first place, on what security they might reckon, were referred to the managing committee, represented by persons of importance in the financial worlds of London and Paris. Being in a position to make the inquiries which Mrs. Vimpany had suggested, Hugh received information which verified the statements contained in the circular, and vouched for the good faith of those persons who were concerned in directing the speculation. So far, so good. But, when the question of success was next discussed, the authorities consulted shook their wise heads. It was impossible to say what losses might not be suffered, and what sums of money might not be required, before the circulation of the new journal would justify the hope of success. This opinion Hugh communicated to Mrs. Vimpany; Iris was informed of it by that day's post. A longer time than usual elapsed before any further news of Lord Harry and his wife was received by Mountjoy. When he did at last hear again from Mrs. Vimpany, she forwarded a letter from Iris dated from a new address, in the suburb of Paris called Passy. From motives of economy (Iris wrote) her husband had decided on a change of residence. They were just established in their new abode, with the advantages of a saving in rent, a pretty little garden to cultivate, and purer air to breathe than the air of Paris. There the letter ended, without the slightest allusion to the forthcoming newspaper, or to the opinion that had been pronounced on the prospects of success. In forwarding this letter, Mrs. Vimpany wrote on the blank page as follows: "I am sorry to add that some disquieting news of my husband has reached me. For the present, I will say no more. It is at least possible that the report may not be worthy of belief." A few days later the report was confirmed, under circumstances which had certainly not been foreseen. Mr. Vimpany himself arrived at the hotel, on a visit to Mountjoy. Always more or less superior to the amiable weakness of modesty, the doctor seemed to have risen higher than ever in his own estimation, since Hugh had last seen him. He strutted; he stared confidently at persons and things; authority was in his voice when he spoke, and lofty indulgence distinguished his manner when he listened. "How are you?" he cried with a grand gaiety, as he entered the room. "Fine weather, isn't it, for the time of year? You don't look well. I wonder whether you notice any change in me? "You seem to be in good spirits," Hugh replied, not very cordially. "Do I carry my head high?" Mr. Vimpany went on. "When calamity strikes at a man, don't let him cringe and cry for pity--let him hit back again! Those are my principles. Look at me. Now do look at me. Here I am, a cultivated person, a member of an honourable profession, a man of art and accomplishment--stripped of every blessed thing belonging to me but the clothes I stand up in. Give me your hand, Mountjoy. It's the hand, sir, of a bankrupt." "You don't seem to mind it much," Mountjoy remarked. "Why should I mind it?" asked the doctor. "There isn't a medical man in England who has less reason to reproach himself than I have. Have I wasted money in rash speculations? Not a farthing. Have I been fool enough to bet at horse races? My worst enemy daren't say it of me. What have I done then? I have toiled after virtue--that's what I have done. Oh, there's nothing to laugh at! When a doctor tries to be the medical friend of humanity; when he only asks leave to cure disease, to soothe pain, to preserve life--isn't that virtue? And what is my reward? I sit at home, waiting for my suffering fellow-creatures; and the only fellow-creatures who come to me are too poor to pay. I have gone my rounds, calling on the rich patients whom I bought when I bought the practice. Not one of them wanted me. Men, women, and children, were all inexcusably healthy--devil take them! Is it wonderful if a man becomes bankrupt, in such a situation as mine? By Jupiter, I go farther than that! I say, a man owes it to himself (as a protest against undeserved neglect) to become a bankrupt. If you will allow me, I'll take a chair." He sat down with an air of impudent independence and looked round the room. A little cabinet, containing liqueurs, stood open on the sideboard. Mr. Vimpany got up again. "May I take a friendly liberty?" he said--and helped himself, without waiting for permission. Hugh bore with this, mindful of the mistake that he had committed in consenting to receive the doctor. At the same time, he was sufficiently irritated to take a friendly liberty on his side. He crossed the room to the sideboard, and locked up the liqueurs. Mr. Vimpany's brazen face flushed deeply (not with shame); he opened his lips to say something worthy of himself, controlled the impulse, and burst into a boisterous laugh. He had evidently some favour still to ask. "Devilish good!" he broke out cheerfully. "Do you remember the landlady's claret? Ha! you don't want to tempt me this time. Well! well! to return to my bankruptcy." Hugh had heard enough of his visitor's bankruptcy. "I am not one of your creditors," he said. Mr. Vimpany made a smart reply: "Don't you be too sure of that. Wait a little." "Do you mean," Mountjoy asked, "that you have come here to borrow money of me?" "Time---give me time," the doctor pleaded: "this is not a matter to be dispatched in a hurry; this is a matter of business. You will hardly believe it," he resumed, "but I have actually been in my present position, once before." He looked towards the cabinet of liqueurs. "If I had the key," he said, "I should like to try a drop more of your good Curacoa. You don't see it?" "I am waiting to hear what your business is," Hugh replied. Mr. Vimpany's pliable temper submitted with perfect amiability. "Quite right," he said; "let us return to business. I am a man who possesses great fertility of resource. On the last occasion when my creditors pounced on my property, do you think I was discouraged? Nothing of the sort! My regular medical practice had broken down under me. Very well--I tried my luck as a quack. In plain English, I invented a patent medicine. The one thing wanting was money enough to advertise it. False friends buttoned up their pockets. You see?" "Oh, yes; I see." "In that case," Mr. Vimpany continued, "you will not be surprised to hear that I draw on my resources again. You have no doubt noticed that we live in an age of amateurs. Amateurs write, paint, compose music, perform on the stage. I, too, am one of the accomplished persons who have taken possession of the field of Art. Did you observe the photographic portraits on the walls of my dining-room? They are of my doing, sir--whether you observed them or not I am one of the handy medical men, who can use the photograph. Not that I mention it generally; the public have got a narrow-minded notion that a doctor ought to be nothing but a doctor. My name won't appear in a new work that I am contemplating. Of course, you want to know what my new work is. I'll tell you, in the strictest confidence. Imagine (if you can) a series of superb photographs of the most eminent doctors in England, with memoirs of their lives written by themselves; published once a month, price half-a-crown. If there isn't money in that idea, there is no money in anything. Exert yourself, my good friend. Tell me what you think of it?" "I don't understand the subject," Mountjoy replied. "May I ask why you take _me_ into your confidence?" "Because I look upon you as my best friend." "You are very good. But surely, Mr. Vimpany, you have older friends in your circle of acquaintance than I am." "Not one," the doctor answered promptly, "whom I trust as I trust you. Let me give you a proof of it." "Is the proof in any way connected with money?" Hugh inquired. "I call that hard on me," Mr. Vimpany protested. "No unfriendly interruptions, Mountjoy! I offer a proof of kindly feeling. Do you mean to hurt me?" "Certainly not. Go on." "Thank you; a little encouragement goes a long way with me. I have found a bookseller, who will publish my contemplated work, on commission. Not a soul has yet seen the estimate of expenses. I propose to show it to You." "Quite needless, Mr. Vimpany." "Why quite needless?" "Because I decline lending you the money." "No, no, Mountjoy! You can't really mean that?" "I do mean it." "No!" "Yes!" The doctor's face showed a sudden change of expression---a sinister and threatening change. "Don't drive me into a corner," he said. "Think of it again." Hugh's capacity for controlling himself gave way at last. "Do you presume to threaten me?" he said. "Understand, if you please, that my mind is made up, and that nothing you can say or do will alter it." With that declaration he rose from his chair, and waited for Mr. Vimpany's departure. The doctor put on his hat. His eyes rested on Hugh, with a look of diabolical malice: "The time is not far off, Mr. Mountjoy, when you may be sorry you refused me." He said those words deliberately--and took his leave. Released from the man's presence, Hugh found himself strangely associating the interests of Iris with the language--otherwise beneath notice--which Mr. Vimpany had used on leaving the room. In desperate straits for want of money, how would the audacious bankrupt next attempt to fill his empty purse? If he had, by any chance, renewed his relations with his Irish friend--and such an event was at least possible--his next experiment in the art of raising a loan might take him to Paris. Lord Harry had already ventured on a speculation which called for an immediate outlay of money, and which was only expected to put a profit into his pocket at some future period. In the meanwhile, his resources in money had their limits; and his current expenses would make imperative demands on an ill-filled purse. If the temptation to fail in his resolution to respect his wife's fortune was already trying his fortitude, what better excuse could be offered for yielding than the necessities of an old friend in a state of pecuniary distress? Looking at the position of Iris, and at the complications which threatened it, from this point of view, Mountjoy left the hotel to consult with Mrs. Vimpany. It rested with her to decide whether the circumstances justified his departure for Paris. CHAPTER XXVI LONDON AND PARIS INFORMED of all that Hugh could tell her relating to his interview with her husband, Mrs. Vimpany understood and appreciated his fears for the future. She failed, however, to agree with him that he would do well to take the journey to France, under present circumstances. "Wait a little longer in London," she said. "If Iris doesn't write to me in the next few days there will be a reason for her silence; and in that case (as I have already told you) I shall hear from Fanny Mere. You shall see me when I get a letter from Paris." On the last morning in the week, Mrs. Vimpany was announced. The letter that she brought with her had been written by Fanny Mere. With the pen in her hand, the maid's remarkable character expressed itself as strongly as ever:-- "Madam,--I said I would let you know what goes on here, when I thought there was need of it. There seems to be need now. Mr. Vimpany came to us yesterday. He has the spare bedroom. My mistress says nothing, and writes nothing. For that reason, I send you the present writing.--Your humble servant, F." Mountjoy was perplexed by this letter, plain as it was. "It seems strange," he said, "that Iris herself has not written to you. She has never hitherto concealed her opinion of Mr. Vimpany." "She is concealing it now," Mr. Vimpany's wife replied gravely. "Do you know why?" "I am afraid I do. Iris will not hesitate at any sacrifice of herself to please Lord Harry. She will give him her money when he wants it. If he tells her to alter her opinion of my husband, she will obey him. He can shake her confidence in me, whenever he pleases; and he has very likely done it already." "Surely it is time for me to go to her now?" Hugh said. "Full time," Mrs. Vimpany admitted--"if you can feel sure of yourself. In the interests of Iris, can you undertake to be cool and careful?" "In the interests of Iris, I can undertake anything." "One word more," Mrs. Vimpany continued, "before you take your departure. No matter whether appearances are for him, or against him, be always on your guard with my husband. Let me hear from you while you are away; and don't forget that there is an obstacle between you and Iris, which will put even your patience and devotion to a hard trial." "You mean her husband?" "I do." There was no more to be said, Hugh set forth on his journey to Paris. * * * * * * * On the morning after his arrival in the French capital, Mountjoy had two alternatives to consider. He might either write to Iris, and ask when it would be convenient to her to receive him--or he might present himself unexpectedly in the cottage at Passy. Reflection convinced him that his best chance of placing an obstacle in the way of deception would be to adopt the second alternative, and to take Lord Harry and the doctor by surprise. He went to Passy. The lively French taste had brightened the cottage with colour: the fair white window curtains were tied with rose-coloured ribbons, the blinds were gaily painted, the chimneys were ornamental, the small garden was a paradise of flowers. When Mountjoy rang the bell, the gate was opened by Fanny Mere. She looked at him in grave astonishment. "Do they expect you?" she asked. "Never mind that," Hugh answered. "Are they at home?" "They have just finished breakfast, sir." "Do you remember my name?" "Yes, sir." "Then show me in." Fanny opened the door of a room on the ground floor, and announced: "Mr. Mountjoy." The two men were smoking; Iris was watering some flowers in the window. Her colour instantly faded when Hugh entered the room. In doubt and alarm, her eyes questioned Lord Harry. He was in his sweetest state of good-humour. Urged by the genial impulse of the moment, he set the example of a cordial reception. "This is an agreeable surprise, indeed," he said, shaking hands with Mountjoy in his easy amiable way. "It's kind of you to come and see us." Relieved of anxiety (evidently when she had not expected it), Iris eagerly followed her husband's example: her face recovered its colour, and brightened with its prettiest smile. Mr. Vimpany stood in a corner; his cigar went out: his own wife would hardly have known him again--he actually presented an appearance of embarrassment! Lord Harry burst out laughing: "Look at him Iris! The doctor is shy for the first time in his life." The Irish good-humour was irresistible. The young wife merrily echoed her husband's laugh. Mr. Vimpany, observing the friendly reception offered to Hugh, felt the necessity of adapting himself to circumstances. He came out of his corner with an apology: "Sorry I misbehaved myself, Mr. Mountjoy, when I called on you in London. Shake hands. No offence--eh?" Iris, in feverish high spirits, mimicked the doctor's coarse tones when he repeated his favourite form of excuse. Lord Harry clapped his hands, delighted with his wife's clever raillery: "Ha! Mr. Mountjoy, you don't find that her married life has affected her spirits! May I hope that you have come here to breakfast? The table is ready as you see"---- "And I have been taking lessons, Hugh, in French ways of cooking eggs," Iris added; "pray let me show you what I can do." The doctor chimed in facetiously: "I'm Lady Harry's medical referee; you'll find her French delicacies half digested for you, sir, before you can open your mouth: signed, Clarence Vimpany, member of the College of Surgeons." Remembering Mrs. Vimpany's caution, Hugh concealed his distrust of this outbreak of hospitable gaiety, and made his excuses. Lord Harry followed, with more excuses, on his part. He deplored it--but he was obliged to go out. Had Mr. Mountjoy met with the new paper which was to beat "Galiguani" out of the field? The "Continental Herald "--there was the title. "Forty thousand copies of the first number have just flown all over Europe; we have our agencies in every town of importance, at every point of the compass; and, one of the great proprietors, my dear sir, is the humble individual who now addresses you." His bright eyes sparkled with boyish pleasure, as he made that announcement of his own importance. If Mr. Mountjoy would kindly excuse him, he had an appointment at the office that morning. "Get your hat, Vimpany. The fact is our friend here carries a case of consumption in his pocket; consumption of the purse, you understand. I am going to enrol him among the contributors to the newspaper. A series of articles (between ourselves) exposing the humbug of physicians, and asserting with fine satirical emphasis the overstocked state of the medical profession. Ah, well! you'll be glad (won't you?) to talk over old times with Iris. My angel, show our good friend the 'Continental Herald,' and mind you keep him here till we get back. Doctor, look alive! Mr. Mountjoy, au revoir." They shook hands again heartily. As Mrs. Vimpany had confessed, there was no resisting the Irish lord. But Hugh's strange experience of that morning was not at an end, yet. CHAPTER XXVII THE BRIDE AT HOME LEFT alone with the woman whose charm still held him to her, cruelly as she had tried his devotion by her marriage, Mountjoy found the fluent amiability of the husband imitated by the wife. She, too, when the door had hardly closed on Lord Harry, was bent on persuading Hugh that her marriage had been the happiest event of her life. "Will you think the worse of me," she began, "if I own that I had little expectation of seeing you again?" "Certainly not, Iris." "Consider my situation," she went on. "When I remember how you tried (oh, conscientiously tried!) to prevent my marriage--how you predicted the miserable results that would follow, if Harry's life and my life became one--could I venture to hope that you would come here, and judge for yourself? Dear and good friend, I have nothing to fear from the result; your presence was never more welcome to me than it is now!" Whether it was attributable to prejudice on Mountjoy's part, or to keen and just observation, he detected something artificial in the ring of her enthusiasm; there was not the steady light of truth in her eyes, which he remembered in the past and better days of their companionship. He was a little--just a little--irritated. The temptation to remind her that his distrust of Lord Harry had once been her distrust too, proved to be more than his frailty could resist. "Your memory is generally exact," he said; "but it hardly serves you now as well as usual." "What have I forgotten?" "You have forgotten the time, my dear, when your opinion was almost as strongly against a marriage with Lord Harry as mine." Her answer was ready on the instant: "Ah, I didn't know him then as well as I know him now!" Some men, in Mountjoy's position, might have been provoked into hinting that there were sides to her husband's character which she had probably not discovered yet. But Hugh's gentle temper--ruffled for a moment only--had recovered its serenity. Her friend was her true friend still; he said no more on the subject of her marriage. "Old habits are not easily set aside," he reminded her. "I have been so long accustomed to advise you and help you, that I find myself hoping there may be some need for my services still. Is there no way in which I might relieve you of the hateful presence of Mr. Vimpany?" "My dear Hugh, I wish you had not mentioned Mr. Vimpany." Mountjoy concluded that the subject was disagreeable to her. "After the opinion of him which you expressed in your letter to me," he said, "I ought not to have spoken of the doctor. Pray forgive me." Iris looked distressed. "Oh, you are quite mistaken! The poor doctor has been sadly misjudged; and I"--she shook her head, and sighed penitently--"and, I," she resumed, "am one among other people who have ignorantly wronged him. Pray consult my husband. Hear what he can tell you--and you will pity Mr. Vimpany. The newspaper makes such large demands on our means that we can do little to help him. With your recommendation he might find some employment." "He has already asked me to assist him, Iris; and I have refused. I can't agree with your change of opinion about Mr. Vimpany." "Why not? Is it because he has separated from his wife?" "That is one reason, among many others," Mountjoy replied. "Indeed, indeed you are wrong! Lord Harry has known Mrs. Vimpany for years, and he says--I am truly sorry to hear it--that the separation is her fault." Hugh changed the subject again. The purpose which had mainly induced him to leave England had not been mentioned yet. Alluding to the newspaper, and to the heavy pecuniary demands made by the preliminary expenses of the new journal, he reminded Iris that their long and intimate friendship permitted him to feel some interest in her affairs. "I won't venture to express an opinion," he added; "let me only ask if Lord Harry's investments in this speculation have compelled him to make some use of your little fortune?" "My husband refused to touch my fortune," Iris answered. "But"--She paused, there. "Do you know how honourably, how nobly, he has behaved?" she abruptly resumed. "He has insured his life: he has burdened himself with the payment of a large sum of money every year. And all for me, if I am so unfortunate (which God forbid!) as to survive him. When a large share in the newspaper was for sale, do you think I could be ungrateful enough to let him lose the chance of making our fortune, when the profits begin to come in? I insisted on advancing the money--we almost quarrelled about it--but, you know how sweet he is. I said: 'Don't distress me'; and the dearest of men let me have my own way." Mountjoy listened in silence. To have expressed what he felt would have been only to mortify and offend Iris. Old habit (as he had said) had made the idea of devoting himself to her interests the uppermost idea in his mind. He asked if the money had all been spent. Hearing that some of it was still left, he resolved on making the attempt to secure the remains of her fortune to herself. "Tell me," he said, "have you ever heard of such a thing as buying an annuity?" She knew nothing about it. He carefully explained the method by which a moderate sum of money might be made to purchase a sufficient income for life. She offered no objection, when he proposed to write to his lawyer in London for the necessary particulars. But when he asked her to tell him what the sum was of which she might be still able to dispose, Iris hesitated, and made no reply. This time, Hugh arrived at the right conclusion. It was only too plain to him that what remained of her money represented an amount so trifling that she was ashamed to mention it. Of the need for helping her, there could be no doubt now; and, as for the means, no difficulties presented themselves to Mountjoy--always excepting the one obstacle likely to be offered by the woman herself. Experience warned him to approach her delicately, by the indirect way. "You know me well enough," he said, "to feel sure that I am incapable of saying anything which can embarrass you, or cause a moment's misunderstanding between two old friends. Won't you look at me, Iris, when I am speaking to you?" She still looked away from him. "I am afraid of what you are going to say to me," she answered coldly. "Then let me say it at once. In one of your letters, written long since--I don't suppose you remember it--you told me that I was an obstinate man when I once took a thing into my head. You were quite right. My dear, I have taken it into my head that you will be as ready as ever to accept my advice, and will leave me (as your man of business) to buy the annuity"-- She stopped him. "No," she cried, "I won't hear a word more! Do you think I am insensible to years of kindness that I have never deserved? Do you think I forget how nobly you have forgiven me for those cruel refusals which have saddened your life? Is it possible that you expect me to borrow money of You?" She started wildly to her feet. "I declare, as God hears me, I would rather die than take that base, that shameful advantage of all your goodness to me. The woman never lived who owed so much to a man, as I owe to you--but not money! Oh, my dear, not money! not money!" He was too deeply touched to be able to speak to her--and she saw it. "What a wretch I am," she said to herself; "I have made his heart ache!" He heard those words. Still feeling for her--never, never for himself!--he tried to soothe her. In the passion of her self-reproach, she refused to hear him. Pacing the room from end to end, she fanned the fiery emotion that was consuming her. Now, she reviled herself in language that broke through the restraints by which good breeding sets its seal on a woman's social rank. And now, again, she lost herself more miserably still, and yielded with hysteric recklessness to a bitter outburst of gaiety. "If you wish to be married happily," she cried, "never be as fond of any other woman as you have been of me. We are none of us worth it. Laugh at us, Hugh--do anything but believe in us. We all lie, my friend. And I have been lying--shamelessly! shamelessly!" He tried to check her. "Don't talk in that way, Iris," he said sternly. She laughed at him. "Talk?" she repeated. "It isn't that; it's a confession." "I don't desire to hear your confession." "You must hear it--you have drawn it out of me. Come! we'll enjoy my humiliation together. Contradict every word I said to you about that brute and blackguard, the doctor--and you will have the truth. What horrid inconsistency, isn't it? I can't help myself; I am a wretched, unreasonable creature; I don't know my own mind for two days together, and all through my husband--I am so fond of him; Harry is delightfully innocent; he's like a nice boy; he never seemed to think of Mr. Vimpany, till it was settled between them that the doctor was to come and stay here----and then he persuaded me--oh, I don't know how!--to see his friend in quite a new light. I believed him--and I believe him still--I mean I _would_ believe him, but for you. Will you do me a favour? I wish you wouldn't look at me with those eyes that won't lie; I wish you wouldn't speak to me with that voice which finds things out. Oh, good Heavens, do you suppose I would let you think that my husband is a bad man, and my marriage an unhappy one? Never! If it turns my blood to sit and eat at the same table with Mr. Vimpany, I'm not cruel enough to blame the dear doctor. It's my wickedness that's to blame. We shall quarrel, if you tell me that Harry is capable of letting a rascal be his friend. I'm happy; I'm happy; I'm happy!--do you understand that? Oh, Hugh, I wish you had never come to see me!" She burst into a passionate fit of weeping, broken down at last under the terrible strain laid on her. "Let me hide myself!" was all that Iris could say to her old friend--before she ran out of the room, and left him. CHAPTER XXVIII THE MAID AND THE KEYHOLE DEEPLY as she had grieved him, keenly as he felt that his worst fears for her threatened already to be realised, it was characteristic of Mountjoy that he still refused to despair of Iris--even with the husband's influence against him. The moral deterioration of her, revealed in the false words that she had spoken, and in the deceptions that she had attempted, would have justified the saddest misgivings, but for the voluntary confession which had followed, and the signs which it had shown of the better nature still struggling to assert itself. How could Hugh hope to encourage that effort of resistance to the evil influences that were threatening her--first and foremost, among them, being the arrival of Vimpany at the cottage? His presence kept her in a state of perpetual contention, between her own wise instincts which distrusted him, and her husband's authoritative assertions which recommended him to her confidence. No greater service could be rendered to Iris than the removal of this man--but how could it be accomplished, without giving offence to her husband? Mountjoy's mind was still in search of a means of overcoming the obstacle thus presented, when he heard the door open. Had Iris recovered herself? or had Lord Harry and his friend returned? The person who now entered the room was the strange and silent maid, Fanny Mere. "Can I speak to you, sir?" "Certainly. What is it?" "Please give me your address." "For your mistress?" "Yes." "Does she wish to write to me?" "Yes." Hugh gave the strange creature the address of his hotel in Paris. For a moment, her eyes rested on him with an expression of steady scrutiny. She opened the door to go out---stopped--considered--came back again. "I want to speak for myself," she said. "Do you care to hear what a servant has to say?" Mountjoy replied that he was ready to hear what she had to say. She at once stepped up to him, and addressed him in these words: "I think you are fond of my mistress?" An ordinary man might have resented the familiar manner in which she had expressed herself. Mountjoy waited for what was still to come. Fanny Mere abruptly went on, with a nearer approach to agitation in her manner than she had shown yet: "My mistress took me into her service; she trusted me when other ladies would have shown me the door. When she sent for me to see her, my character was lost; I had nobody to feel for me, nobody to help me. She is the one friend who held out a hand to me. I hate the men; I don't care for the women. Except one. Being a servant I mustn't say I love that one. If I was a lady, I don't know that I should say it. Love is cant; love is rubbish. Tell me one thing. Is the doctor a friend of yours?" "The doctor is nothing of the kind." "Perhaps he is your enemy?" "I can hardly say that." She looked at Hugh discontentedly. "I want to get at it," she said. "Why can't we understand each other? Will you laugh at me, if I say the first thing that comes into my head? Are you a good swimmer?" An extraordinary question, even from Fanny Mere. It was put seriously--and seriously Mountjoy answered it. He said that he was considered to be a good swimmer. "Perhaps," she continued, "you have saved people's lives." "I have twice been so fortunate as to save lives," he replied. "If you saw the doctor drowning, would you save him? _I_ wouldn't!" "Do you hate him as bitterly as that?" Hugh asked. She passed the question over without notice. "I wish you would help me to get at it," she persisted. "Suppose you could rid my mistress of that man by giving him a kick, would you up with your foot and do it?" "Yes--with pleasure." "Thank you, sir. Now I've got it. Mr. Mountjoy, the doctor is the curse of my mistress's life. I can't bear to see it. If we are not relieved of him somehow, I shall do something wrong. When I wait at table, and see him using his knife, I want to snatch it out of his hand, and stick it into him. I had a hope that my lord might turn him out of the house when they quarrelled. My lord is too wicked himself to do it. For the love of God, sir, help my mistress--or show me the way how!" Mountjoy began to be interested. "How do you know," he asked, "that Lord Harry and the doctor have quarrelled?" Without the slightest appearance of embarrassment, Fanny Mere informed him that she had listened at the door, while her master and his friend were talking of their secrets. She had also taken an opportunity of looking through the keyhole. "I suppose, sir," said this curious woman, still speaking quite respectfully, "you have never tried that way yourself?" "Certainly not!" "Wouldn't you do it to serve my mistress?" "No." "And yet, you're fond of her! You are a merciful one--the only merciful one, so far as I know--among men. Perhaps, if you were frightened about her, you might be more ready with your help. I wonder whether I can frighten you? Will you let me try?" The woman's faithful attachment to Iris pleaded for her with Hugh. "Try, if you like," he said kindly. Speaking as seriously as ever, Fanny proceeded to describe her experience at the keyhole. What she had seen was not worth relating. What she had heard proved to be more important. The talk between my lord and the doctor had been about raising money. They had different notions of how to do that. My lord's plan was to borrow what was wanted, on his life-insurance. The doctor told him he couldn't do that, till his insurance had been going on for three or four years at least. "I have something better and bolder to propose," says Mr. Vimpany. It must have been also something wicked--for he whispered it in the master's ear. My lord didn't take to it kindly. "How do you think I could face my wife," he says, "if she discovered me?" The doctor says: "Don't be afraid of your wife; Lady Harry will get used to many things which she little thought of before she married you." Says my lord to that: "I have done my best, Vimpany, to improve my wife's opinion of you. If you say much more, I shall come round to her way of thinking. Drop it!"--"All right," says the doctor, "I'll drop it now, and wait to pick it up again till you come to your last bank note." There the talk ended for that day---and Fanny would be glad to know what Mr. Mountjoy thought of it. "I think you have done me a service," Hugh replied. "Tell me how, sir." "I can only tell you this, Fanny. You have shown me how to relieve your mistress of the doctor." For the first time, the maid's impenetrable composure completely failed her. The smouldering fire in Fanny Mere flamed up. She impulsively kissed Mountjoy's hand. The moment her lips touched it she shrank back: the natural pallor of her face became whiter than ever. Startled by the sudden change, Hugh asked if she was ill. She shook her head. "It isn't that. Yours is the first man's hand I have kissed, since--" She checked herself. "I beg you won't ask me about it. I only meant to thank you, sir; I do thank you with all my heart--I mustn't stay here any longer." As she spoke the sound of a key was heard, opening the lock of the cottage-door. Lord Harry had returned. CHAPTER XXIX THE CONQUEST OF MR. VIMPANY THE Irish lord came in--with his medical friend sulkily in attendance on him. He looked at Fanny, and asked where her mistress was. "My lady is in her room, sir." Hearing this, he turned sharply to Mountjoy. On the point of speaking, he seemed to think better of it, and went to his wife's room. The maid followed. "Get rid of him now," she whispered to Hugh, glancing at the doctor. Mr. Vimpany was in no very approachable humour--standing at the window, with his hands in his empty pockets, gloomily looking out. But Hugh was not disposed to neglect the opportunity; he ventured to say: "You don't seem to be in such good spirits as usual." The doctor gruffly expressed his opinion that Mr. Mountjoy would not be particularly cheerful, in his place. My lord had taken him to the office, on the distinct understanding that he was to earn a little pocket-money by becoming one of the contributors to the newspaper. And how had it ended? The editor had declared that his list of writers was full, and begged leave to suggest that Mr. Vimpany should wait for the next vacancy. A most impertinent proposal! Had Lord Harry--a proprietor, remember--exerted his authority? Not he! His lordship had dropped the doctor "like a hot potato," and had meanly submitted to his own servant. What did Mr. Mountjoy think of such conduct as that? Hugh answered the question, with his own end in view. Paving the way for Mr. Vimpany's departure from the cottage at Passy, he made a polite offer of his services. "Can't I help you out of your difficulty?" he said. "You!" cried the doctor. "Have you forgotten how you received me, sir, when I asked for a loan at your hotel in London?" Hugh admitted that he might have spoken hastily. "You took me by surprise," he said, "and (perhaps I was mistaken, on my side) I thought you were, to say the least of it, not particularly civil. You did certainly use threatening language when you left me. No man likes to be treated in that way." Mr. Vimpany's big bold eyes stared at Mountjoy in a state of bewilderment. "Are you trying to make a fool of me?" he asked. "I am incapable, Mr. Vimpany, of an act of rudeness towards anybody." "If you come to that," the doctor stoutly declared, "I am incapable too. It's plain to me that we have been misunderstanding each other. Wait a bit; I want to go back for a moment to that threatening language which you complained of just now. I was sorry for what I had said as soon as your door was shut on me. On my way downstairs I did think of turning back and making a friendly apology before I gave you up. Suppose I had done that?" Mr. Vimpany asked, wondering internally whether Mountjoy was foolish enough to believe him. Hugh advanced a little nearer to the design that he had in view. "You might have found me more kindly disposed towards you," he said, "than you had anticipated." This encouraging reply cost him an effort. He had stooped to the unworthy practice of perverting what he had said and done on a former occasion, to serve a present interest. Remind himself as he might of the end which, in the interests of Iris, did really appear to justify the means, he still sank to a place in his own estimation which he was honestly ashamed to occupy. Under other circumstances his hesitation, slight as it was, might have excited suspicion. As things were, Mr. Vimpany could only discover golden possibilities that dazzled his eyes. "I wonder whether you're in the humour," he said, "to be kindly disposed towards me now?" It was needless to be careful of the feelings of such man as this. "Suppose you had the money you want in your pocket," Hugh suggested, "what would you do with it?" "Go back to London, to be sure, and publish the first number of that work of mine I told you of." "And leave your friend, Lord Harry?" "What good is my friend to me? He's nearly as poor as I am--he sent for me to advise him--I put him up to a way of filling both our pockets, and he wouldn't hear of it. What sort of a friend do you call that?" Pay him and get rid of him. There was the course of proceeding suggested by the private counsellor in Mountjoy's bosom. "Have you got the publisher's estimate of expenses?" he asked. The doctor instantly produced the document. To a rich man the sum required was, after all, trifling enough. Mountjoy sat down at the writing-table. As he took up a pen, Mr. Vimpany's protuberant eyes looked as if they would fly out of his head. "If I lend you the money--" Hugh began. "Yes? Yes?" cried the doctor. "I do so on condition that nobody is to know of the loan but ourselves." "Oh, sir, on my sacred word of honour--" An order on Mountjoy's bankers in Paris for the necessary amount, with something added for travelling expenses, checked Mr. Vimpany in full career of protestation. He tried to begin again: "My friend! my benefactor--" He was stopped once more. His friend and benefactor pointed to the clock. "If you want the money to-day, you have just time to get to Paris before the bank closes." Mr. Vimpany did want the money--always wanted the money; his gratitude burst out for the third time: "God bless you!" The object of that highly original form of benediction pointed through the window in the direction of the railway station. Mr. Vimpany struggled no longer to express his feelings--he had made his last sacrifice to appearances--he caught the train. The door of the room had been left open. A voice outside said: "Has he gone?" "Come in, Fanny," said Mountjoy. "He will return to London either to-night or to-morrow morning." The strange maid put her head in at the door. "I'll be at the terminus," she said, "and make sure of him." Her head suddenly disappeared, before it was possible to speak to her again. "Was there some other person outside? The other person entered the room; it was Lord Harry. He spoke without his customary smile. "I want a word with you, Mr. Mountjoy." "About what, my lord?" That direct question seemed to confuse the Irishman. He hesitated. "About you," he said, and stopped to consider. "And another person," he added mysteriously. Hugh was constitutionally a hater of mysteries. He felt the need of a more definite reply, and asked for it plainly: "Does your lordship associate that other person with me?" "Yes, I do." "Who is the person?" "My wife." CHAPTER XXX SAXON AND CELT WHEN amicable relations between two men happen to be in jeopardy, there is least danger of an ensuing quarrel if the friendly intercourse has been of artificial growth, on either side. In this case, the promptings of self-interest, and the laws of politeness, have been animating influences throughout; acting under conditions which assist the effort of self-control. And for this reason: the man who has never really taken a high place in our regard is unprovided with those sharpest weapons of provocation, which make unendurable demands on human fortitude. In a true attachment, on the other hand, there is an innocent familiarity implied, which is forgetful of ceremony, and blind to consequences. The affectionate freedom which can speak kindly without effort is sensitive to offence, and can speak harshly without restraint. When the friend who wounds us has once been associated with the sacred memories of the heart, he strikes at a tender place, and no considerations of propriety are powerful enough to stifle our cry of rage and pain. The enemies who have once loved each other are the bitterest enemies of all. Thus, the curt exchange of question and answer, which had taken place in the cottage at Passy, between two gentlemen artificially friendly to one another, led to no regrettable result. Lord Harry had been too readily angry: he remembered what was due to Mr. Mountjoy. Mr. Mountjoy had been too thoughtlessly abrupt: he remembered what was due to Lord Harry. The courteous Irishman bowed, and pointed to a chair. The well-bred Englishman returned the polite salute, and sat down. My lord broke the silence that followed. "May I hope that you will excuse me," he began, "if I walk about the room? Movement seems to help me when I am puzzled how to put things nicely. Sometimes I go round and round the subject, before I get at it. I'm afraid I'm going round and round, now. Have you arranged to make a long stay in Paris?" Circumstances, Mountjoy answered, would probably decide him. "You have no doubt been many times in Paris before this," Lord Harry continued. "Do you find it at all dull, now?" Wondering what he could possibly mean, Hugh said he never found Paris dull--and waited for further enlightenment. The Irish lord persisted: "People mostly think Paris isn't as gay as it used to be. Not such good plays and such good actors as they had at one time. The restaurants inferior, and society very much mixed. People don't stay there as long as they used. I'm told that Americans are getting disappointed, and are trying London for a change." Could he have any serious motive for this irrelevant way of talking? Or was he, to judge by his own account of himself, going round and round the subject of his wife and his guest, before he could get at it? Suspecting him of jealousy from the first, Hugh failed--naturally perhaps in his position--to understand the regard for Iris, and the fear of offending her, by which her jealous husband was restrained. Lord Harry was attempting (awkwardly indeed!) to break off the relations between his wife and her friend, by means which might keep the true state of his feelings concealed from both of them. Ignorant of this claim on his forbearance, it was Mountjoy's impression that he was being trifled with. Once more, he waited for enlightenment, and waited in silence. "You don't find my conversation interesting?" Lord Harry remarked, still with perfect good-humour. "I fail to see the connection," Mountjoy acknowledged, "between what you have said so far, and the subject on which you expressed your intention of speaking to me. Pray forgive me if I appear to hurry you--or if you have any reasons for hesitation." Far from being offended, this incomprehensible man really appeared to be pleased. "You read me like a book!" he exclaimed. "It's hesitation that's the matter with me. I'm a variable man. If there's something disagreeable to say, there are times when I dash at it, and times when I hang back. Can I offer you any refreshment?" he asked, getting away from the subject again, without so much as an attempt at concealment. Hugh thanked him, and declined. "Not even a glass of wine? Such white Burgundy, my dear sir, as you seldom taste." Hugh's British obstinacy was roused; he repeated his reply. Lord Harry looked at him gravely, and made a nearer approach to an open confession of feeling than he had ventured on yet. "With regard now to my wife. When I went away this morning with Vimpany--he's not such good company as he used to be; soured by misfortune, poor devil; I wish he would go back to London. As I was saying--I mean as I was about to say--I left you and Lady Harry together this morning; two old friends, glad (as I supposed) to have a gossip about old times. When I come back, I find you left here alone, and I am told that Lady Harry is in her room. What do I see when I get there? I see the finest pair of eyes in the world; and the tale they tell me is, We have been crying. When I ask what may have happened to account for this--'Nothing, dear,' is all the answer I get. What's the impression naturally produced on my mind? There has been a quarrel perhaps between you and my wife." "I fail entirely, Lord Harry, to see it in that light." "Ah, likely enough! Mine's the Irish point of view. As an Englishman you fail to understand it. Let that be. One thing; Mr. Mountjoy, I'll take the freedom of saying at once. I'll thank you, next time, to quarrel with Me." "You force me to tell you, my lord, that you are under a complete delusion, if you suppose that there has been any quarrel, or approach to a quarrel, between Lady Harry and myself." "You tell me that, on your word of honour as a gentleman?" "Most assuredly!" "Sir! I deeply regret to hear it." "Which does your lordship deeply regret? That I have spoken to you on my word of honour, or that I have not quarrelled with Lady Harry?" "Both, sir! By the piper that played before Moses, both!" Hugh got up, and took his hat: "We may have a better chance of understanding each other," he suggested, "if you will be so good as to write to me." "Put your hat down again, Mr. Mountjoy, and pray have a moment's patience. I've tried to like you, sir--and I'm bound in candour to own that I've failed to find a bond of union between us. Maybe, this frank confession annoys you." "Far from it! You are going straight to your subject at last, if I may venture to say so." The Irish lord's good-humour had completely disappeared by this time. His handsome face hardened, and his voice rose. The outbreak of jealous feeling, which motives honourable to himself had hitherto controlled, now seized on its freedom of expression. His language betrayed (as on some former occasions) that association with unworthy companions, which had been one of the evil results of his adventurous life. "Maybe I'll go straighter than you bargain for," he replied; "I'm in two humours about you. My common-sense tells me that you're my wife's friend. And the best of friends do sometimes quarrel, don't they? Well, sir, you deny it, on your own account. I find myself forced back on my other humour--and it's a black humour, I can tell you. You may be my wife's friend, my fine fellow, but you're something more than that. You have always been in love with her--and you're in love with her now. Thank you for your visit, but don't repeat it. Say! do we understand each other at last?" "I have too sincere a respect for Lady Harry to answer you," Mountjoy said. "At the same time, let me acknowledge my obligations to your lordship. You have reminded me that I did a foolish thing when I called here without an invitation. I agree with you that the sooner my mistake is set right the better." He replied in those words, and left the cottage. On the way back to his hotel, Hugh thought of what Mrs. Vimpany had said to him when they had last seen each other: "Don't forget that there is an obstacle between you and Iris which will put even your patience and your devotion to a hard trial." The obstacle of the husband had set itself up, and had stopped him already. His own act (a necessary act after the language that had been addressed to him) had closed the doors of the cottage, and had put an end to future meetings between Iris and himself. If they attempted to communicate by letter, Lord Harry would have opportunities of discovering their correspondence, of which his jealousy would certainly avail itself. Through the wakeful night, Hugh's helpless situation was perpetually in his thoughts. There seemed to be no present alternative before him but resignation, and a return to England. CHAPTER XXXI THE SCHOOL FOR HUSBANDS ON the next day Mountjoy heard news of Iris, which was not of a nature to relieve his anxieties. He received a visit from Fanny Mere. The leave-taking of Mr. Vimpany, on the previous evening, was the first event which the maid had to relate. She had been present when the doctor said good-bye to the master and mistress. Business in London was the reason he gave for going away. The master had taken the excuse as if he really believed in it, and seemed to be glad to get rid of his friend. The mistress expressed her opinion that Mr. Vimpany's return to London must have been brought about by an act of liberality on the part of the most generous of living men. _"Your_ friend has, as I believe, got some money from _my_ friend," she said to her husband. My lord had looked at her very strangely when she spoke of Mr. Mountjoy in that way, and had walked out of the room. As soon as his back was turned, Fanny had obtained leave of absence. She had carried out her intention of watching the terminus, and had seen Mr. Vimpany take his place among the passengers to London by the mail train. Returning to the cottage, it was Fanny's duty to ascertain if her services were required in her mistress's room. On reaching the door, she had heard the voices of my lord and my lady, and (as Mr. Mountjoy would perhaps be pleased to know) had been too honourable to listen outside, on this occasion. She had at once gone away, and had waited until she should be sent for. After a long interval, the bell that summoned her had been rung. She had found the mistress in a state of agitation, partly angry, and partly distressed; and had ventured to ask if anything unpleasant had happened. No reply was made to that inquiry. Fanny had silently performed the customary duties of the night-toilet, in getting my lady ready for bed; they had said good-night to each other and had said no more. In the morning (that present morning), being again in attendance as usual, the maid had found Lady Harry in a more indulgent frame of mind; still troubled by anxieties, but willing to speak of them now. She had begun by talking of Mr. Mountjoy: "I think you like him, Fanny: everybody likes him. You will be sorry to hear that we have no prospect of seeing him again at the cottage." There she had stopped; something that she had not said, yet, seemed to be in her mind, and to trouble her. She was near to crying, poor soul, but struggled against it. "I have no sister," she said, "and no friend who might be like a sister to me. It isn't perhaps quite right to speak of my sorrow to my maid. Still, there is something hard to bear in having no kind heart near one--I mean, no other woman to speak to who knows what women feel. It is so lonely here--oh, so lonely! I wonder whether you understand me and pity me?" Never forgetting all that she owed to her mistress--if she might say so without seeming to praise herself--Fanny was truly sorry. It would have been a relief to her, if she could have freely expressed her opinion that my lord must be to blame, when my lady was in trouble. Being a man, he was by nature cruel to women; the wisest thing his poor wife could do would be to expect nothing from him. The maid was sorely tempted to offer a little good advice to this effect; but she was afraid of her own remembrances, if she encouraged them by speaking out boldly. It would be better to wait for what the mistress might say next. Lord Harry's conduct was the first subject that presented itself when the conversation was resumed. My lady mentioned that she had noticed how he looked, and how he left the room, when she had spoken in praise of Mr. Mountjoy. She had pressed him to explain himself---and she had made a discovery which proved to be the bitterest disappointment of her life. Her husband suspected her! Her husband was jealous of her! It was too cruel; it was an insult beyond endurance, an insult to Mr. Mountjoy as well as to herself. If that best and dearest of good friends was to be forbidden the house, if he was to go away and never to see her or speak to her again, of one thing she was determined--he should not leave her without a kind word of farewell; he should hear how truly she valued him; yes, and how she admired and felt for him! Would Fanny not do the same thing, in her place? And Fanny had remembered the time when she might have done it for such a man as Mr. Mountjoy. "Mind you stay indoors this evening, sir," the maid continued, looking and speaking so excitedly that Hugh hardly knew her again. "My mistress is coming to see you, and I shall come with her." Such an act of imprudence was incredible. "You must be out of your senses!" Mountjoy exclaimed. "I'm out of myself sir, if that's what you mean," Fanny answered. "I do so enjoy treating a man in that way! The master's going out to dinner--he'll know nothing about it--and," cried the cool cold woman of other times, "he richly deserves it." Hugh reasoned and remonstrated, and failed to produce the slightest effect. His next effort was to write a few lines to Lady Harry, entreating her to remember that a jealous man is sometimes capable of acts of the meanest duplicity, and that she might be watched. When he gave the note to Fanny to deliver, she informed him respectfully that he had better not trust her. A person sometimes meant to do right (she reminded him), and sometimes ended in doing wrong. Rather than disappoint her mistress, she was quite capable of tearing up the letter, on her way home, and saying nothing about it. Hugh tried a threat next: "Your mistress will not find me, if she comes here; I shall go out to-night." The impenetrable maid looked at him with a pitying smile, and answered: "Not you!" It was a humiliating reflection--but Fanny Mere understood him better than he understood himself. All that Mountjoy had said and done in the way of protest, had been really dictated by consideration for the young wife. If he questioned his conscience, selfish delight in the happy prospect of seeing Iris again asserted itself, as the only view with which he looked forward to the end of the day. When the evening approached, he took the precaution of having his own discreet and faithful servant in attendance, to receive Lady Harry at the door of the hotel, before the ringing of the bell could summon the porter from his lodge. On calm consideration, the chances seemed to be in favour of her escaping detection by Lord Harry. The jealous husband of the stage, who sooner (or later) discovers the innocent (or guilty) couple, as the case may be, is not always the husband of the world outside the theatre. With this fragment of experience present in his mind, Hugh saw the door of his sitting-room cautiously opened, at an earlier hour than he had anticipated. His trustworthy representative introduced a lady, closely veiled--and that lady was Iris. CHAPTER XXXII GOOD-BYE TO IRIS LADY HARRY lifted her veil, and looked at Mountjoy with sad entreaty in her eyes. "Are you angry with me?" she asked. "I ought to be angry with you," he said. "This is a very imprudent, Iris." "It's worse than that," she confessed. "It's reckless and desperate. Don't say I ought to have controlled myself. I can't control the shame I feel when I think of what has happened. Can I let you go--oh, what a return for your kindness!--without taking your hand at parting? Come and sit by me on the sofa. After my poor husband's conduct, you and I are not likely to meet again. I don't expect you to lament it as I do. Even your sweetness and your patience--so often tried--must be weary of me now." "If you thought that possible, my dear, you would not have come here to-night," Hugh reminded her. "While we live, we have the hope of meeting again. Nothing in this world lasts, Iris--not even jealousy. Lord Harry himself told me that he was a variable man. Sooner or later he will come to his senses." Those words seemed to startle Iris. "I hope you don't think that my husband is brutal to me!" she exclaimed, still resenting even the appearance of a reflection on her marriage, and still forgetting what she herself had said which justified a doubt of her happiness. "Have you formed a wrong impression?" she went on. "Has Fanny Mere innocently--?" Mountjoy noticed, for the first time, the absence of the maid. It was a circumstance which justified him in interrupting Iris--for it might seriously affect her if her visit to the hotel happened to be discovered. "I understood," he said, "that Fanny was to come here with you." "Yes! yes! She is waiting in the carriage. We are careful not to excite attention at the door of the hotel; the coachman will drive up and down the street till I want him again. Never mind that! I have something to say to you about Fanny. She thinks of her own troubles, poor soul, when she talks to me, and exaggerates a little without meaning it. I hope she has not misled you in speaking of her master. It is base and bad of him, unworthy of a gentleman, to be jealous--and he has wounded me deeply. But dear Hugh, his jealousy is a gentle jealousy. I have heard of other men who watch their wives--who have lost all confidence in them--who would even have taken away from me such a trifle as this." She smiled, and showed to Mountjoy her duplicate key of the cottage door. "Ah, Harry is above such degrading distrust as that! There are times when he is as heartily ashamed of his own weakness as I could wish him to be. I have seen him on his knees before me, shocked at his conduct. He is no hypocrite. Indeed, his repentance is sincere, while it lasts--only it doesn't last! His jealousy rises and falls, like the wind. He said last night (when the wind was high): 'If you wish to make me the happiest creature on the face of the earth, don't encourage Mr. Mountjoy to remain in Paris!' Try to make allowances for him!" "I would rather make allowances, Iris, for you. Do _you,_ too wish me to leave Paris?" Sitting very near to him--nearer than her husband might have liked to see--Iris drew away a little. "Did you mean to be cruel in saying that?" she asked. "I don't deserve it." "It was kindly meant," Hugh assured her. "If I can make your position more endurable by going away, I will leave Paris to-morrow." Iris moved back again to the place which she had already occupied. She was eager to thank him (for a reason not yet mentioned) as she had never thanked him yet. Silently and softly she offered her gratitude to Hugh, by offering her cheek. The irritating influence of Lord Harry's jealousy was felt by both of them at that moment. He kissed her cheek--and lingered over it. She was the first to recover herself. "When you spoke just now of my position with my husband," she said, "you reminded me of anxieties, Hugh, in which you once shared, and of services which I can never forget." Preparing him in those words for the disclosure which she had now to make, Iris alluded to the vagabond life of adventure which Lord Harry had led. The restlessness in his nature which that life implied, had latterly shown itself again; and his wife had traced the cause to a letter from Ireland, communicating a report that the assassin of Arthur Mountjoy had been seen in London, and was supposed to be passing under the name of Carrigeen. Hugh would understand that the desperate resolution to revenge the murder of his friend, with which Lord Harry had left England in the past time, had been urged into action once more. He had not concealed from Iris that she must be resigned to his leaving her for awhile, if the report which had reached him from Ireland proved to be true. It would be useless, and worse than useless, to remind this reckless man of the danger that threatened him from the Invincibles, if he returned to England. In using her power of influencing the husband who still loved her, Iris could only hope to exercise a salutary restraint in her own domestic interests, appealing to him for indulgence by careful submission to any exactions on which his capricious jealousy might insist. Would sad necessity excuse her, if she accepted Mountjoy's offer to leave Paris, for the one reason that her husband had asked it of her as a favour? Hugh at once understood her motive, and assured her of his sympathy. "You may depend upon my returning to London to-morrow," he said. "In the meantime, is there no better way in which I can be of use to you? If your influence fails, do you see any other chance of keeping Lord Harry's desperate purpose under control?" It had only that day occurred to Iris that there might be some prospect of an encouraging result, if she could obtain the assistance of Mrs. Vimpany. The doctor's wife was well acquainted with Lord Harry's past life, when he happened to be in Ireland; and she had met many of his countrymen with whom he had associated. If one of those friends happened to be the officious person who had written to him, it was at least possible that Mrs. Vimpany's discreet interference might prevent his mischievous correspondent from writing again. Lord Harry, waiting for more news, would in this event wait in vain. He would not know where to go, or what to do next--and, with such a nature as his, the end of his patience and the end of his resolution were likely to come together. Hugh handed his pocket-book to Iris. Of the poor chances in her favour, the last was to his mind the least hopeless of the two. "If you have discovered the name of your husband's correspondent," he said, "write it down for me, and I will ask Mrs. Vimpany if she knows him. I will make your excuses for not having written to her lately; and, in any case, I answer for her being ready to help you." As Iris thanked him and wrote the name, the clock on the chimneypiece struck the hour. She rose to say farewell. With a restless hand she half-lowered her veil, and raised it again. "You won't mind my crying," she said faintly, trying to smile through her tears. "This is the saddest parting I have ever known. Dear, dear Hugh--good-bye!" Great is the law of Duty; but the elder law of Love claims its higher right. Never, in all the years of their friendship, had they forgotten themselves as they forgot themselves now. For the first time her lips met his lips, in their farewell kiss. In a moment more, they remembered the restraints which honour imposed on them; they were only friends again. Silently she lowered her veil. Silently he took her arm and led her down to the carriage. It was moving away from them at a slow pace, towards the other end of the street. Instead of waiting for its return, they followed and overtook it. "We shall meet again," he whispered. She answered sadly: "Don't forget me." Mountjoy turned back. As he approached the hotel he noticed a tall man crossing from the opposite side of the street. Not two minutes after Iris was on her way home, her jealous husband and her old friend met at the hotel door. Lord Harry spoke first. "I have been dining out," he said, "and I came here to have a word with you, Mr. Mountjoy, on my road home." Hugh answered with formal politeness: "Let me show your lordship the way to my rooms." "Oh, it's needless to trouble you," Lord Harry declared. "I have so little to say--do you mind walking on with me for a few minutes?" Mountjoy silently complied. He was thinking of what might have happened if Iris had delayed her departure--or if the movement of the carriage had been towards, instead of away from the hotel. In either case it had been a narrow escape for the wife, from a dramatic discovery by the husband. "We Irishmen," Lord Harry resumed, "are not famous for always obeying the laws; but it is in our natures to respect the law of hospitality. When you were at the cottage yesterday I was inhospitable to my guest. My rude behaviour has weighed on my mind since--and for that reason I have come here to speak to you. It was ill-bred on my part to reproach you with your visit, and to forbid you (oh, quite needlessly, I don't doubt!) to call on me again. If I own that I have no desire to propose a renewal of friendly intercourse between us, you will understand me, I am sure; with my way of thinking, the less we see of each other for the future, the better it may be. But, for what I said when my temper ran away with me, I ask you to accept my excuses, and the sincere expression of my regret." "Your excuses are accepted, my lord, as sincerely as you have offered them," Mountjoy answered. "So far as I am concerned, the incident is forgotten from this moment." Lord Harry expressed his courteous acknowledgments. "Spoken as becomes a gentleman," he said. "I thank you." There it ended. They saluted each other; they wished each other good-night. "A mere formality!" Hugh thought, when they had parted. He had wronged the Irish lord in arriving at that conclusion. But time was to pass before events helped him to discover his error. CHAPTER XXXIII THE DECREE OF FATE ON his arrival in London, Mountjoy went to the Nurses' Institute to inquire for Mrs. Vimpany. She was again absent, in attendance on another patient. The address of the house (known only to the matron) was, on this occasion, not to be communicated to any friend who might make inquiries. A bad case of scarlet fever had been placed under the nurse's care, and the danger of contagion was too serious to be trifled with. The events which had led to Mrs. Vimpany's present employment had not occurred in the customary course. A nurse who had recently joined the Institute had been first engaged to undertake the case, at the express request of the suffering person--who was said to be distantly related to the young woman. On the morning when she was about to proceed to the scene of her labours, news had reached her of the dangerous illness of her mother. Mrs. Vimpany, who was free at the time, and who felt a friendly interest in her young colleague, volunteered to take her place. Upon this, a strange request had been addressed to the matron, on behalf of the sick man. He desired to be "informed of it, if the new nurse was an Irishwoman." Hearing that she was an Englishwoman, he at once accepted her services, being himself (as an additional element of mystery in the matter) an Irishman! The matron's English prejudices at once assumed that there had been some discreditable event in the man's life, which might be made a subject of scandalous exposure if he was attended by one of his own countrypeople. She advised Mrs. Vimpany to have nothing to do with the afflicted stranger. The nurse answered that she had promised to attend on him--and she kept her promise. Mountjoy left the Institute, after vainly attempting to obtain Mrs. Vimpany's address. The one concession which the matron offered to make was to direct his letter, and send it to the post, if he would be content with that form of communication. On reflection, he decided to write the letter. Prompt employment of time might be of importance, if it was possible to prevent any further communication with Lord Larry on the part of his Irish correspondent. Using the name with which Iris had provided him, Hugh wrote to inquire if it was familiar to Mrs. Vimpany, as the name of a person with whom she had been, at any time, acquainted. In this event, he assured her that an immediate consultation between them was absolutely necessary in the interests of Iris. He added, in a postscript, that he was in perfect health, and that he had no fear of infection--and sent his letter to the matron to be forwarded. The reply reached him late in the evening. It was in the handwriting of a stranger, and was to this effect: "Dear Mr. Mountjoy,--It is impossible that I can allow you to run the risk of seeing me while I am in my present situation. So serious is the danger of contagion in scarlet fever, that I dare not even write to you with my own hand on note-paper which has been used in the sick room. This is no mere fancy of mine; the doctor in attendance here knows of a case in which a small piece of infected flannel communicated the disease after an interval of no less than a year. I must trust to your own good sense to see the necessity of waiting, until I can receive you without any fear of consequences to yourself. In the meantime, I may answer your inquiry relating to the name communicated in your letter. I first knew the gentleman you mention some years since; we were introduced to each other by Lord Harry; and I saw him afterwards on more than one occasion." Mountjoy read this wise and considerate reply to his letter with indignation. Here was the good fortune for which he had not dared to hope, declaring itself in favour of Iris. Here (if Mrs. Vimpany could be persuaded to write to her friend) was the opportunity offered of keeping the hot-tempered Irish husband passive and harmless, by keeping him without further news of the assassin of Arthur Mountjoy. Under these encouraging circumstances the proposed consultation which might have produced such excellent results had been rejected; thanks to a contemptible fear of infection, excited by a story of a trumpery piece of flannel! Hugh snatched up the unfortunate letter (cast away on the floor) to tear it in pieces and throw it into the waste-paper basket--and checked himself. His angry hand had seized on it with the blank leaf of the note-paper uppermost. On that leaf he discovered two little lines of print, presenting, in the customary form, the address of the house at which the letter had been written! The writer, in taking the sheet of paper from the case, must have accidentally turned it wrong side uppermost on the desk, and had not cared to re-copy the letter, or had not discovered the mistake. Restored to his best good-humour, Hugh resolved to surprise Mrs. Vimpany by a visit, on the next day, which would set the theory of contagion at defiance, and render valuable service to Iris at a crisis in her life. Having time before him for reflection, in the course of the evening, he was at no loss to discover a formidable obstacle in the way of his design. Whether he gave his name or concealed his name, when he asked for Mrs. Vimpany at the house-door, she would in either case refuse to see him. The one accessible person whom he could consult in this difficulty was his faithful old servant. That experienced man--formerly employed, at various times, in the army, in the police, and in service at a public school--obtained leave to make some preliminary investigations on the next morning. He achieved two important discoveries. In the first place, Mrs. Vimpany was living in the house in which the letter to his master had been written. In the second place, there was a page attached to the domestic establishment (already under notice to leave his situation), who was accessible to corruption by means of a bribe. The boy would be on the watch for Mr. Mountjoy at two o'clock on that day, and would show him where to find Mrs. Vimpany, in the room near the sick man, in which she was accustomed to take her meals. Hugh acted on his instructions, and found the page waiting to admit him secretly to the house. Leading the way upstairs, the boy pointed with one hand to a door on the second floor, and held out the other hand to receive his money. While he pocketed the bribe, and disappeared, Mountjoy opened the door. Mrs. Vimpany was seated at a table waiting for her dinner. When Hugh showed himself she started to her feet with a cry of alarm. "Are you mad?" she exclaimed. "How did you get here? What do you want here? Don't come near me!" She attempted to pass Hugh on her way out of the room. He caught her by the arm, led her back to her chair, and forced her to seat herself again. "Iris is in trouble," he pleaded, "and you can help her." "The fever!" she cried, heedless of what he had said. "Keep back from me--the fever!" For the second time she tried to get out of the room. For the second time Hugh stopped her. "Fever or no fever," he persisted, "I have something to say to you. In two minutes I shall have said it, and I will go." In the fewest possible words he described the situation of Iris with her jealous husband. Mrs. Vimpany indignantly interrupted him. "Are you running this dreadful risk," she asked, "with nothing to say to me that I don't know already? Her husband jealous of her? Of course he is jealous of her! Leave me--or I will ring for the servant." "Ring, if you like," Hugh answered; "but hear this first. My letter to you alluded to a consultation between us, which might be necessary in the interests of Iris. Imagine her situation if you can! The assassin of Arthur Mountjoy is reported to be in London; and Lord Harry has heard of it." Mrs. Vimpany looked at him with horror in her eyes. "Gracious God!" she cried, "the man is here--under my care. Oh, I am not in the conspiracy to hide the wretch! I knew no more of him than you do when I offered to nurse him. The names that have escaped him, in his delirium, have told me the truth." As she spoke, a second door in the room was opened. An old woman showed herself for a moment, trembling with terror. "He's breaking out again, nurse! Help me to hold him!" Mrs. Vimpany instantly followed the woman into the bed-room. "Wait and listen," she said to Mountjoy--and left the door open. The quick, fierce, muttering tones of a man in delirium were now fearfully audible. His maddened memory was travelling back over his own horrible life. He put questions to himself; he answered himself: "Who drew the lot to kill the traitor? I did! I did! Who shot him on the road, before he could get to the wood? I did! I did! Arthur Mountjoy, traitor to Ireland. Set that on his tombstone, and disgrace him for ever. Listen, boys--listen! There is a patriot among you. I am the patriot--preserved by a merciful Providence. Ha, my Lord Harry, search the earth and search the sea, the patriot is out of your reach! Nurse! What's that the doctor said of me? The fever will kill him? Well, what does that matter, as long as Lord Harry doesn't kill me? Open the doors, and let everybody hear of it. I die the death of a saint--the greatest of all saints--the saint who shot Arthur Mountjoy. Oh, the heat, the heat, the burning raging heat!" The tortured creature burst into a dreadful cry of rage and pain. It was more than Hugh's resolution could support. He hurried out of the house. * * * * * * * * Ten days passed. A letter, in a strange handwriting, reached Iris at Passy. The first part of the letter was devoted to the Irish desperado, whom Mrs. Vimpany had attended in his illness. When she only knew him as a suffering fellow-creature she had promised to be his nurse. Did the discovery that he was an assassin justify desertion, or even excuse neglect? No! the nursing art, like the healing art, is an act of mercy--in itself too essentially noble to inquire whether the misery that it relieves merits help. All that experience, all that intelligence, all that care could offer, the nurse gave to the man whose hand she would have shrunk from touching in friendship, after she had saved his life. A time had come when the fever threatened to take Lord Harry's vengeance out of his hands. The crisis of the disease declared itself. With the shadow of death on him, the wretch lived through it--saved by his strong constitution, and by the skilled and fearless woman who attended on him. At the period of his convalescence, friends from Ireland (accompanied by a medical man of their own choosing) presented themselves at the house, and asked for him by the name under which he passed--Carrigeen. With every possible care, he was removed; to what destination had never been discovered. From that time, all trace of him had been lost. Terrible news followed on the next page. The subtle power of infection had asserted itself against the poor mortal who had defied it. Hugh Mountjoy, stricken by the man who had murdered his brother, lay burning under the scarlet fire of the fever. But the nurse watched by him, night and day. CHAPTER XXXIV MY LORD'S MIND HERE, my old-vagabond-Vimpany, is an interesting case for you--the cry of a patient with a sick mind. Look over it, and prescribe for your wild Irish friend, if you can. You will perhaps remember that I have never thoroughly trusted you, in all the years since we have known each other. At this later date in our lives, when I ought to see more clearly than ever what an unfathomable man you are, am I rash enough to be capable of taking you into my confidence? I don't know what I am going to do; I feel like a man who has been stunned. To be told that the murderer of Arthur Mountjoy had been seen in London--to be prepared to trace him by his paltry assumed name of Carrigeen--to wait vainly for the next discovery which might bring him within reach of retribution at my hands--and then to be overwhelmed by the news of his illness, his recovery, and his disappearance: these are the blows which have stupefied me. Only think of it! He has escaped me for the second time. Fever that kills thousands of harmless creatures has spared the assassin. He may yet die in his bed, and be buried, with the guiltless dead around him, in a quiet churchyard. I can't get over it; I shall never get over it. Add to this, anxieties about my wife, and maddening letters from creditors--and don't expect me to write reasonably. What I want to know is whether your art (or whatever you call it) can get at my diseased mind, through my healthy body. You have more than once told me that medicine can do this. The time has come for doing it. I am in a bad way, and a bad end may follow. My only medical friend, deliver me from myself. In any case, let me beg you to keep your temper while you read what follows. I have to confess that the devil whose name is Jealousy has entered into me, and is threatening the tranquillity of my married life. You dislike Iris, I know--and she returns your hostile feeling towards her. Try to do my wife justice, nevertheless, as I do. I don't believe my distrust of her has any excuse--and yet, I am jealous. More unreasonable still, I am as fond of her as I was in the first days of the honeymoon. Is she as fond as ever of me? You were a married man when I was a boy. Let me give you the means of forming an opinion by a narrative of her conduct, under (what I admit to have been) very trying circumstances. When the first information reached Iris of Hugh Mountjoy's dangerous illness, we were at breakfast. It struck her dumb. She handed the letter to me, and left the table. I hate a man who doesn't know what it is to want money; I hate a man who keeps his temper; I hate a man who pretends to be my wife's friend, and who is secretly in love with her all the time. What difference did it make to me whether Hugh Mountjoy ended in living or dying? If I had any interest in the matter, it ought by rights (seeing that I am jealous of him) to be an interest in his death. Well! I declare positively that the alarming news from London spoilt my breakfast. There is something about that friend of my wife--that smug, prosperous, well-behaved Englishman--which seems to plead for him (God knows how!) when my mind is least inclined in his favour. While I was reading about his illness, I found myself hoping that he would recover--and, I give you my sacred word of honour, I hated him all the time. My Irish friend is mad--you will say. Your Irish friend, my dear follow, does not dispute it. Let us get back to my wife. She showed herself again after a long absence, having something (at last) to say to her husband. "I am innocently to blame," she began, "for the dreadful misfortune that has fallen on Mr. Mountjoy. If I had not given him a message to Mrs. Vimpany, he would never have insisted on seeing her, and would never have caught the fever. It may help me to bear my misery of self-reproach and suspense, if I am kept informed of his illness. There is no fear of infection by my receiving letters. I am to write to a friend of Mrs. Vimpany, who lives in another house, and who will answer my inquiries. Do you object, dear Harry, to my getting news of Hugh Mountjoy every day, while he is in danger?" I was perfectly willing that she should get that news, and she ought to have known it. It seemed to me to be also a bad sign that she made her request with dry eyes. She must have cried, when she first heard that he was likely to sink under an attack of fever. Why were her tears kept hidden in her own room? When she came back to me, her face was pale and hard and tearless. Don't you think she might have forgotten my jealousy, when I was so careful myself not to show it? My own belief is that she was longing to go to London, and help your wife to nurse the poor man, and catch the fever, and die with him if _he_ died. Is this bitter? Perhaps it is. Tear it off, and light your pipe with it. Well, the correspondence relating to the sick man continued every day; and every day--oh, Vimpany, another concession to my jealousy!--she handed the letters to me to read. I made excuses (we Irish are good at that, if we are good at nothing else), and declined to read the medical reports. One morning, when she opened the letter of that day, there passed over her a change which is likely to remain in my memory as long as I live. Never have I seen such an ecstasy of happiness in any woman's face, as I saw when she read the lines which informed her that the fever was mastered. Iris is sweet and delicate and bright--essentially fascinating, in a word. But she was never a beautiful woman, until she knew that Mountjoy's life was safe; and she will never be a beautiful woman again, unless the time comes when my death leaves her free to marry him. On her wedding-day, he will see the transformation that I saw--and he will be dazzled as I was. She looked at me, as if she expected me to speak. "I am glad indeed," I said, "that he is out of danger." She ran to me--she kissed me; I wouldn't have believed it was in her to give such kisses. "Now I have your sympathy," she said, "my happiness is complete!" Do you think I was indebted for these kisses to myself or to that other man? No, no--here is an unworthy doubt. I discard it. Vile suspicion shall not wrong Iris this time. And yet---- Shall I go on, and write the rest of it? Poor, dear Arthur Mountjoy once told me of a foreign author, who was in great doubt of the right answer to some tough question that troubled him. He went into his garden and threw a stone at a tree. If he hit the tree, the answer would be--Yes. If he missed the tree, the answer would be--No. I am going into the garden to imitate the foreign author. You shall hear how it ends. I have hit the tree. As a necessary consequence, I must go on and write the rest of it. There is a growing estrangement between Iris and myself--and my jealousy doesn't altogether account for it. Sometimes, it occurs to me that we are thinking of what our future relations with Mountjoy are likely to be, and are ashamed to confess it to each other. Sometimes--and perhaps this second, and easiest, guess may be the right one--I am apt to conclude that we are only anxious about money matters. I am waiting for her to touch on the subject, and she is waiting for me; and there we are at a deadlock. I wish I had some reason for going to some other place. I wish I was lost among strangers. I should like to find myself in a state of danger, meeting the risks that I used to run in my vagabond days. Now I think of it, I might enjoy this last excitement by going back to England, and giving the Invincibles a chance of shooting me as a traitor to the cause. But my wife would object to that. Suppose we change the subject. You will be glad to hear that you knew something of law, as well as of medicine. I sent instructions to my solicitor in London to raise a loan on my life-insurance. What you said to me turns out to be right. I can't raise a farthing, for three years to come, out of all the thousands of pounds which I shall leave behind me when I die. Are my prospects from the newspaper likely to cheer me after such a disappointment as this? The new journal, I have the pleasure of informing you, is much admired. When I inquire for my profits, I hear that the expenses are heavy, and I am told that I must wait for a rise in our circulation. How long? Nobody knows. I shall keep these pages open for a few days more, on the chance of something happening which may alter my present position for the better. My position has altered for the worse. I have been obliged to fill my empty purse, for a little while, by means of a bit of stamped paper. And how shall I meet my liabilities when the note falls due? Let time answer the question; for the present the evil day is put off. In the meanwhile, if that literary speculation of yours is answering no better than my newspaper, I can lend you a few pounds to get on with. What do you say (on second thoughts) to coming back to your old quarters at Passy, and giving me your valuable advice by word of mouth instead of by letter? Come, and feel my pulse, and look at my tongue--and tell me how these various anxieties of mine are going to end, before we are any of us a year older. Shall I, like you, be separated from my wife--at her request; oh, not at mine! Or shall I be locked up in prison? And what will become of You? Do you take the hint, doctor? CHAPTER XXXV MY LADY'S MIND "ENTREAT Lady Harry not to write to me. She will be tempted to do so, when she hears that there is good hope of Mr. Mountjoy's recovery. But, even from that loving and generous heart, I must not accept expressions of gratitude which would only embarrass me. All that I have done, as a nurse, and all that I may yet hope to do, is no more than an effort to make amends for my past life. Iris has my heart's truest wishes for her happiness. Until I can myself write to her without danger, let this be enough." In those terms, dearest of women, your friend has sent your message to me. My love respects as well as admires you; your wishes are commands to me. At the same time, I may find some relief from the fears of the future that oppress me, if I can confide them to friendly ears. May I not harmlessly write to you, if I only write of my own poor self? Try, dear, to remember those pleasant days when you were staying with us, in our honeymoon time, at Paris. You warned me, one evening when we were alone, to be on my guard against any circumstances which might excite my husband's jealousy. Since then, the trouble that you foresaw has fallen on me; mainly, I am afraid, through my own want of self-control. It is so hard for a woman, when she really loves a man, to understand a state of mind which can make him doubt her. I have discovered that jealousy varies. Let me tell you what I mean. Lord Harry was silent and sullen (ah, how well I knew what that meant!) while the life of our poor Hugh was in jeopardy. When I read the good news which told me that he was no longer in danger, I don't know whether there was any change worth remarking in myself--but, there was a change in my husband, delightful to see. His face showed such sweet sympathy when he looked at me, he spoke so kindly and nicely of Hugh, that I could only express my pleasure by kissing him. You will hardly believe me, when I tell you that his hateful jealousy appeared again, at that moment. He looked surprised, he looked suspicious--he looked, I declare, as if he doubted whether I meant it with all my heart when I kissed him! What incomprehensible creatures men are! We read in novels of women who are able to manage their masters. I wish I knew how to manage mine. We have been getting into debt. For some weeks past, this sad state of things has been a burden on my mind. Day after day I have been expecting him to speak of our situation, and have found him obstinately silent. Is his mind entirely occupied with other things? Or is he unwilling to speak of our anxieties because the subject humiliates him? Yesterday, I could bear it no longer. "Our debts are increasing," I said. "Have you thought of any way of paying them?" I had feared that my question might irritate him. To my relief, he seemed to be diverted by it. "The payment of debts," he replied, "is a problem that I am too poor to solve. Perhaps I got near to it the other day." I asked how. "Well," he said, "I found myself wishing I had some rich friends. By-the-bye, how is _your_ rich friend? What have you heard lately of Mr. Mountjoy?" "I have heard that he is steadily advancing towards recovery." "Likely, I dare say, to return to France when he feels equal to it," my husband remarked. "He is a good-natured creature. If he finds himself in Paris again, I wonder whether he will pay us another visit?" He said this quite seriously. On my side, I was too much as astonished to utter a word. My bewilderment seemed to amuse him. In his own pleasant way he explained himself: "I ought to have told you, my dear, that I was in Mr. Mountjoy's company the night before he returned to England. We had said some disagreeable things to each other here in the cottage, while you were away in your room. My tongue got the better of my judgment. In short, I spoke rudely to our guest. Thinking over it afterwards, I felt that I ought to make an apology. He received my sincere excuses with an amiability of manner, and a grace of language, which raised him greatly in my estimation." There you have Lord Harry's own words! Who would suppose that he had ever been jealous of the man whom he spoke of in this way? I explain it to myself, partly by the charm in Hugh's look and manner, which everybody feels; partly by the readiness with which my husband's variable nature receives new impressions. I hope you agree with me. In any case, pray let Hugh see what I have written to you in this place, and ask him what he thinks of it.* *_Note by Mrs. Vimpany._--I shall certainly not be foolish enough to show what she has written to Mr. Mountjoy. Poor deluded Iris! Miserable fatal marriage! Encouraged, as you will easily understand, by the delightful prospect of a reconciliation between them, I was eager to take my first opportunity of speaking freely of Hugh. Up to that time, it had been a hard trial to keep to myself so much that was deeply interesting in my thoughts and hopes. But my hours of disappointment were not at an end yet. We were interrupted. A letter was brought to us--one of many, already received!--insisting on immediate payment of a debt that had been too long unsettled. The detestable subject of our poverty insisted on claiming attention when there was a messenger outside, waiting for my poor Harry's last French bank note. "What is to be done?" I said, when we were left by ourselves again. My husband's composure was something wonderful. He laughed and lit a cigar. "We have got to the crisis," he said. "The question of money has driven us into a corner at last. My darling, have you ever heard of such a thing as a promissory note?" I was not quite so ignorant as he supposed me to be; I said I had heard my father speak of promissory notes. This seemed to fail in convincing him. "Your father," he remarked, "used to pay his notes when they fell due." I betrayed my ignorance, after all. "Doesn't everybody do the same?" I asked. He burst out laughing. "We will send the maid to get a bit of stamped paper," he said; "I'll write the message for her, this time." Those last words alluded to Fanny's ignorance of the French language, which made it necessary to provide her with written instructions, when she was sent on an errand. In our domestic affairs, I was able to do this; but, in the present case, I only handed the message to her. When she returned with a slip of stamped paper, Harry called to me to come to the writing-table. "Now, my sweet," he said, "see how easily money is to be got with a scratch of the pen." I looked, over his shoulder. In less than a minute it was done; and he had produced ten thousand francs on paper--in English money (as he told me), four hundred pounds. This seemed to be a large loan; I asked how he proposed to pay it back. He kindly reminded me that he was a newspaper proprietor, and, as such, possessed of the means of inspiring confidence in persons with money to spare. They could afford, it seems, to give him three months in which to arrange for repayment. In that time, as he thought, the profits of the new journal might come pouring in. He knew best, of course. We took the next train to Paris, and turned our bit of paper into notes and gold. Never was there such a delightful companion as my husband, when he has got money in his pocket. After so much sorrow and anxiety, for weeks past, that memorable afternoon was like a glimpse of Paradise. On the next morning, there was an end to my short-lived enjoyment of no more than the latter half of a day. Watching her opportunity, Fanny Mere came to me while I was alone, carrying a thick letter in her hand. She held it before me with the address uppermost. "Please to look at that," she said. The letter was directed (in Harry's handwriting) to Mr. Vimpany, at a publishing office in London. Fanny next turned the envelope the other way. "Look at this side," she resumed. The envelope was specially protected by a seal; bearing a device of my husband's own invention; that is to say, the initials of his name (Harry Norland) surmounted by a star--his lucky star, as he paid me the compliment of calling it, on the day when he married me. I was thinking of that day now. Fanny saw me looking, with a sad heart, at the impression on the wax. She completely misinterpreted the direction taken by my thoughts. "Tell me to do it, my lady," she proceeded; "and I'll open the letter." I looked at her. She showed no confusion. "I can seal it up again," she coolly explained, "with a bit of fresh wax and my thimble. Perhaps Mr. Vimpany won't be sober enough to notice it." "Do you know, Fanny, that you are making a dishonourable proposal to me?" I said. "I know there's nothing I can do to help you that I won't do," she answered; "and you know why. I have made a dishonourable proposal--have I? That comes quite naturally to a lost woman like me. Shall I tell you what Honour means? It means sticking at nothing, in your service. Please tell me to open the letter." "How did you come by the letter, Fanny?" "My master gave it to me to put in the post." "Then, post it." The strange creature, so full of contraries--so sensitive at one time, so impenetrable at another--pointed again to the address. "When the master writes to that man," she went on--"a long letter (if you will notice), and a sealed letter--your ladyship ought to see what is inside it. I haven't a doubt myself that there's writing under this seal which bodes trouble to you. The spare bedroom is empty. Do you want to have the doctor for your visitor again? Don't tell me to post the letter, till I've opened it first." "I do tell you to post the letter." Fanny submitted, so far. But she had a new form of persuasion to try, before her reserves of resistance were exhausted. "If the doctor comes back," she continued, "will your ladyship give me leave to go out, whenever I ask for it?" This was surely presuming on my indulgence. "Are you not expecting a little too much?" I suggested--not unkindly. "If you say that, my lady," she answered, "I shall be obliged to ask you to suit yourself with another maid." There was a tone of dictation in this, which I found beyond endurance. In my anger, I said: "Leave me whenever you like." "I shall leave you when I'm dead--not before," was the reply that I received. "But if you won't let me have my liberty without going away from you, for a time, I must go--for your sake." (For my sake! Pray observe that.) She went on: "Try to see it, my lady, as I do! If we have the doctor with us again, I must be able to watch him." "Why?" "Because he is your enemy, as I believe." "How can he hurt me, Fanny?" "Through your husband, my lady, if he can do it in no other way. Mr. Vimpany shall have a spy at his heels. Dishonourable! oh, dishonourable again! Never mind. I don't pretend to know what that villain means to do, if he and my lord get together again. But this I can tell you, if it's in woman's wit to circumvent him, here I am with my mind made up. With my mind, made up!" she repeated fiercely--and recovered on a sudden her customary character as a quiet well-trained servant, devoted to her duties. "I'll take my master's letter to the post now," she said. "Is there anything your ladyship wants in the town?" What do you think of Fanny Mere? Ought I to have treated this last offer of her services, as I treated her proposal to open the letter? I was not able to do it. The truth is, I was so touched by her devotion to me, that I could not prevail on myself to mortify her by a refusal. I believe there may be a good reason for the distrust of the doctor which possesses her so strongly; and I feel the importance of having this faithful and determined woman for an ally. Let me hope that Mr. Vimpany's return (if it is to take place) may be delayed until you can safely write, with your own hand, such a letter of wise advice as I sadly need. In the meantime, give my love to Hugh, and say to this dear friend all that I might have said for myself, if I had been near him. But take care that his recovery is not retarded by anxiety for me. Pray keep him in ignorance of the doubts and fears with which I am now looking at the future. If I was not so fond of my husband, I should be easier in my mind. This sounds contradictory, but I believe you will understand it. For a while, my dear, good-bye. CHAPTER XXXVI THE DOCTOR MEANS MISCHIEF ON the day after Lord Harry's description of the state of his mind reached London, a gentleman presented himself at the publishing office of Messrs. Boldside Brothers, and asked for the senior partner, Mr. Peter Boldside. When he sent in his card, it bore the name of "Mr. Vimpany." "To what fortunate circumstance am I indebted, sir, for the honour of your visit?" the senior partner inquired. His ingratiating manners, his genial smile, his roundly resonant voice, were personal advantages of which he made a merciless use. The literary customer who entered the office, hesitating before the question of publishing a work at his own expense, generally decided to pay the penalty when he encountered Mr. Peter Boldside. "I want to inquire about the sale of my work," Mr. Vimpany replied. "Ah, doctor, you have come to the wrong man. You must go to my brother." Mr. Vimpany protested. "You mentioned the terms when I first applied to you," he said, "and you signed the agreement." "That is in _my_ department," the senior partner gently explained. "And I shall write the cheque when, as we both hope, your large profits shall fall due. But our sales of works are in the department of my brother, Mr. Paul Boldside." He rang a bell; a clerk appeared, and received his instructions: "Mr. Paul. Good-morning, doctor." Mr. Paul was, personally speaking, his brother repeated--without the deep voice, and without the genial smile. Conducted to the office of the junior partner, Mr. Vimpany found himself in the presence of a stranger, occupied in turning over the pages of a newspaper. When his name was announced, the publisher started, and handed his newspaper to the doctor. "This is a coincidence," he said. "I was looking, sir, for your name in the pages which I have just put into your hand. Surely the editor can't have refused to publish your letter?" Mr. Vimpany was sober, and therefore sad, and therefore (again) not to be trifled with by a mystifying reception. "I don't understand you," he answered gruffly. "What do you mean?" "Is it possible that you have not seen last week's number of the paper?" Mr. Paul asked. "And you a literary man!" He forthwith produced the last week's number, and opened it at the right place. "Read that, sir," he said, with something in his manner which looked like virtuous indignation. Mr. Vimpany found himself confronted by a letter addressed to the editor. It was signed by an eminent physician, whose portrait had appeared in the first serial part of the new work--accompanied by a brief memoir of his life, which purported to be written by himself. Not one line of the autobiography (this celebrated person declared) had proceeded from his pen. Mr. Vimpany had impudently published an imaginary memoir, full of false reports and scandalous inventions--and this after he had been referred to a trustworthy source for the necessary particulars. Stating these facts, the indignant physician cautioned readers to beware of purchasing a work which, so far as he was concerned, was nothing less than a fraud on the public. "If you can answer that letter, sir," Mr. Paul Boldside resumed, "the better it will be, I can tell you, for the sale of your publication." Mr. Vimpany made a reckless reply: "I want to know how the thing sells. Never mind the letter." "Never mind the letter?" the junior partner repeated. "A positive charge of fraud is advanced by a man at the head of his profession against a work which _we_ have published--and you say, Never mind the letter." The rough customer of the Boldsides struck his fist on the table. "Bother the letter! I insist on knowing what the sale is." Still preserving his dignity, Mr. Paul (like Mr. Peter) rang for the clerk, and briefly gave an order. "Mr. Vimpany's account," he said--and proceeded to admonish Mr. Vimpany himself. "You appear, sir, to have no defence of your conduct to offer. Our firm has a reputation to preserve. When I have consulted with my brother, we shall be under the disagreeable necessity--" Here (as he afterwards told his brother) the publisher was brutally interrupted by the author: "If you will have it," said this rude man, "here it is in two words. The doctor's portrait is the likeness of an ass. As he couldn't do it himself, I wanted materials for writing his life. He referred me to the year of his birth, the year of his marriage, the year of this, that, and the other. Who cares about dates? The public likes to be tickled by personal statements. Very well--I tickled the public. There you have it in a nutshell." The clerk appeared at that auspicious moment, with the author's account neatly exhibited under two sides: a Debtor side, which represented the expenditure of Hugh Mountjoy's money; and a Creditor side, which represented (so far) Mr. Vimpany's profits. Amount of these last: 3_l._ 14_s._ 10_d._ Mr. Vimpany tore up the account, threw the pieces in the face of Mr. Paul, and expressed his sentiments in one opprobrious word: "Swindlers!" The publisher said: "You shall hear of us, sir, through our lawyer." And the author answered: "Go to the devil!" Once out in the streets again, the first open door at which Mr. Vimpany stopped was the door of a tavern. He ordered a glass of brandy and water, and a cigar. It was then the hour of the afternoon, between the time of luncheon and the time of dinner, when the business of a tavern is generally in a state of suspense. The dining-room was empty when Mr. Vimpany entered it: and the waiter's unoccupied attention was in want of an object. Having nothing else to notice, he looked at the person who had just come in. The deluded stranger was drinking fiery potato-brandy, and smoking (at the foreign price) an English cigar. Would his taste tell him the melancholy truth? No: it seemed to matter nothing to him what he was drinking or what he was smoking. Now he looked angry, and now he looked puzzled; and now he took a long letter from his pocket, and read it in places, and marked the places with a pencil. "Up to some mischief," was the waiter's interpretation of these signs. The stranger ordered a second glass of grog, and drank it in gulps, and fell into such deep thought that he let his cigar go out. Evidently, a man in search of an idea. And, to all appearance, he found what he wanted on a sudden. In a hurry he paid his reckoning, and left his small change and his unfinished cigar on the table, and was off before the waiter could say, "Thank you." The next place at which he stopped was a fine house in a spacious square. A carriage was waiting at the door. The servant who opened the door knew him. "Sir James is going out again, sir, in two minutes," the man said. Mr. Vimpany answered: "I won't keep him two minutes." A bell rang from the room on the ground floor; and a gentleman came out, as Mr. Vimpany was shown in. Sir James's stethoscope was still in his hand; his latest medical fee lay on the table. "Some other day, Vimpany," the great surgeon said; "I have no time to give you now." "Will you give me a minute?" the humble doctor asked. "Very well. What is it?" "I am down in the world now, Sir James, as you know--and I am trying to pick myself up again." "Very creditable, my good fellow. How can I help you? Come, come--out with it. You want something?" "I want your great name to do me a great service. I am going to France. A letter of introduction, from you, will open doors which might be closed to an unknown man like myself." "What doors do you mean?" Sir James asked. "The doors of the hospitals in Paris." "Wait a minute, Vimpany. Have you any particular object in view?" "A professional object, of course," the ready doctor answered. "I have got an idea for a new treatment of diseases of the lungs; and I want to see if the French have made any recent discoveries in that direction." Sir James took up his pen--and hesitated. His ill-starred medical colleague had been his fellow-student and his friend, in the days when they were both young men. They had seen but little of each other since they had gone their different ways--one of them, on the high road which leads to success, the other down the byways which end in failure. The famous surgeon felt a passing doubt of the use which his needy and vagabond inferior might make of his name. For a moment his pen was held suspended over the paper. But the man of great reputation was also a man of great heart. Old associations pleaded with him, and won their cause. His companion of former times left the house provided with a letter of introduction to the chief surgeon at the Hotel Dieu, in Paris. Mr. Vimpany's next, and last, proceeding for that day, was to stop at a telegraph-office, and to communicate economically with Lord Harry in three words: "Expect me to-morrow." CHAPTER XXXVII THE FIRST QUARREL EARLY in the morning of the next day, Lord Harry received the doctor's telegram. Iris not having risen at the time, he sent for Fanny Mere, and ordered her to get the spare room ready for a guest. The maid's busy suspicion tempted her to put a venturesome question. She asked if the person expected was a lady or a gentleman. "What business is it of yours who the visitor is?" her master asked sharply. Always easy and good-humoured with his inferiors in general, Lord Harry had taken a dislike to his wife's maid, from the moment when he had first seen her. His Irish feeling for beauty and brightness was especially offended by the unhealthy pallor of the woman's complexion, and the sullen self-suppression of her manner. All that his native ingenuity had been able to do was to make her a means of paying a compliment to his wife. "Your maid has one merit in my eyes," he said; "she is a living proof of the sweetness of your temper." Iris joined her husband at the breakfast-table with an appearance of disturbance in her face, seldom seen, during the dull days of her life at Passy. "I hear of somebody coming to stay with us," she said. "Not Mr. Vimpany again, I hope and trust?" Lord Harry was careful to give his customary morning kiss, before he replied. "Why shouldn't my faithful old friend come and see me again?" he asked, with his winning smile. "Pray don't speak of that hateful man," she answered, "as your faithful old friend! He is nothing of the kind. What did you tell me when he took leave of us after his last visit, and I owned I was glad that he had gone? You said: 'Faith, my dear, I'm as glad as you are.'" Her good-natured husband laughed at this little picture of himself. "Ah, my darling, how many more times am I to make the same confession to my pretty priest? Try to remember, without more telling, that it's one of my misfortunes to be a man of many tempers. There are times when I get tired to death of Mr. Vimpany; and there are times when the cheery old devil exercises fascinations over me. I declare you're spoiling the eyebrows that I admire by letting them twist themselves into a frown! After the trouble I have taken to clear your mind of prejudice against an unfortunate man, it's disheartening to find you so hard on the poor fellow's faults and so blind to his virtues." The time had been when this remonstrance might have influenced his wife's opinion. She passed it over without notice now. "Does he come here by your invitation?" she asked. "How else should he come here, my dear?" She looked at her husband with doubt too plainly visible in her eyes. "I wonder what your motive is for sending for him," she said. He was just lifting his teacup to his lips--he put it down again when he heard those words. "Are you ill this morning?" he asked. "No." "Have I said anything that has offended you?" "Certainly not." "Then I must tell you this, Iris; I don't approve of what you have just said. It sounds, to my mind, unpleasantly like suspicion of me and suspicion of my friend. I see your face confessing it, my lady, at this moment." "You are half right, Harry, and no more. What you see in my face is suspicion of your friend." "Founded on what, if you please?" "Founded on what I have seen of him, and on what I know of him. When you tried to alter my opinion of Mr. Vimpany some time since, I did my best to make my view your view. I deceived myself, for your sake; I put the best construction on what he said and did, when he was staying here. It was well meant, but it was of no use. In a thousand different ways, while he was doing his best to win my favour, his true self was telling tales of him under the fair surface. Mr. Vimpany is a bad man. He is the very worst friend you could have about you at any time--and especially at a time when your patience is tried by needy circumstances." "One word, Iris. The more eloquent you are, the more I admire you. Only, don't mention my needy circumstances again." She passed over the interruption as she had already passed over the remonstrance, without taking notice of it. "Dearest, you are always good to me," she continued gently. "Am I wrong in thinking that love gives me some little influence over you still? Women are vain--are they not?--and I am no better than the rest of them. Flatter your wife's vanity, Harry, by attaching some importance to her opinion. Is there time enough, yet, to telegraph to Mr. Vimpany? Quite out of the question, is it? Well, then, if he must come here, do--pray, pray do consider Me. Don't let him stay in the house! I'll find a good excuse, and take a bedroom for him in the neighbourhood. Anywhere else, so long as he is not here. He turns me cold when I think of him, sleeping under the same roof with ourselves. Not with us! oh, Harry, not with us!" Her eyes eagerly searched her husband's face; she looked there for indulgence, she looked for conviction. No! he was still admiring her. "On my word of honour," he burst out, "you fascinate me. What an imagination you have got! One of these days, Iris, I shall be prouder of you than ever; I shall find you a famous literary character. I don't mean writing a novel; women who can't even hem a handkerchief can write a novel. It's poetry I'm thinking of. Irish melodies by Lady Harry that beat Tom Moore. What a gift! And there are fortunes made, as I have heard, by people who spoil fair white paper to some purpose. I wish I was one of them." "Have you no more to say to me?" she asked. "What more should there be? You wouldn't have me take you seriously, in what you have just said of Vimpany?" "Why not?" "Oh, come, come, my darling! Just consider. With a bedroom empty and waiting, upstairs, is my old Vimpany to be sent to quarters for the night among strangers? I wouldn't speak harshly to you, Iris, for the whole world; and I don't deny that the convivial doctor may be sometimes a little too fond of his drop of grog. You will tell me, maybe, that he hasn't got on nicely with his wife; and I grant it. There are not many people who set such a pretty example of matrimony as we do. Poor humanity--there's all that's to be said about it. But when you tell me that Vimpany is a bad man, and the worst friend I could possibly have, and so forth--what better can I do than set it down to your imagination? I've a pretty fancy, myself; and I think I see my angel inventing poetical characters, up among congenial clouds. What's the matter? Surely, you haven't done breakfast yet?" "Yes." "Are you going to leave me?" "I am going to my room." "You're in a mighty hurry to get away. I never meant to vex you, Iris. Ah, well, if you must leave the table, I'll have the honour of opening the door for you, at any rate. I wonder what you're going to do?" "To cultivate my imagination," she answered, with the first outbreak of bitterness that had escaped her yet. His face hardened. "There seems to be something like bearing malice in this," he said. "Are you treating me, for the first time, to an exhibition of enmity? What am I to call it, if it's not that?" "Call it disappointment," she suggested quietly, and left him. Lord Harry went back to his breakfast. His jealousy was up in arms again. "She's comparing me with her absent friend," he said to himself, "and wishing she had married the amiable Mountjoy instead of me." So the first quarrel ended--and Mr. Vimpany had been the cause of it. CHAPTER XXXVIII ICI ON PARLE FRANCAIS THE doctor arrived in good time for dinner, and shook hands with the Irish lord in excellent spirits. He looked round the room, and asked where my lady was. Lord Harry's reply suggested the presence of a cloud on the domestic horizon. He had been taking a long ride, and had only returned a few minutes since; Iris would (as he supposed) join them immediately. The maid put the soup on the table, and delivered a message. Her mistress was suffering from a headache, and was not well enough to dine with the gentlemen. As an old married man, Mr. Vimpany knew what this meant; he begged leave to send a comforting message to the suffering lady of the house. Would Fanny be good enough to say that he had made inquiries on the subject of Mr. Mountjoy's health, before he left London. The report was still favourable; there was nothing to complain of but the after-weakness which had followed the fever. On that account only, the attendance of the nurse was still a matter of necessity. "With my respects to Lady Harry," he called after Fanny, as she went out in dogged silence. "I have begun by making myself agreeable to your wife," the doctor remarked with a self-approving grin. "Perhaps she will dine with us to-morrow. Pass the sherry." The remembrance of what had happened at the breakfast-table, that morning, seemed to be dwelling disagreeably on Lord Harry's mind. He said but little--and that little related to the subject on which he had already written, at full length, to his medical friend. In an interval, when the service of the table required the attendance of Fanny in the kitchen, Mr. Vimpany took the opportunity of saying a few cheering words. He had come (he remarked) prepared with the right sort of remedy for an ailing state of mind, and he would explain himself at a fitter opportunity. Lord Harry impatiently asked why the explanation was deferred. If the presence of the maid was the obstacle which caused delay, it would be easy to tell her that she was not wanted to wait. The wary doctor positively forbade this. He had observed Fanny, during his previous visit, and had discovered that she seemed to distrust him. The woman was sly and suspicious. Since they had sat down to dinner, it was easy to see that she was lingering in the room to listen to the conversation, on one pretence or another. If she was told not to wait, there could be no doubt of her next proceeding: she would listen outside the door. "Take my word for it," the doctor concluded, "there are all the materials for a spy in Fanny Mere." But Lord Harry was obstinate. Chafing under the sense of his helpless pecuniary position, he was determined to hear, at once, what remedy for it Vimpany had discovered. "We can set that woman's curiosity at defiance," he said. "How?" "When you were learning your profession, you lived in Paris for some years, didn't you? "All right!" "Well, then, you can't have entirely forgotten your French?" The doctor at once understood what this meant, and answered significantly by a wink. He had found an opportunity (he said) of testing his memory, not very long since. Time had undoubtedly deprived him of his early mastery over the French language; but he could still (allowing for a few mistakes) make a shift to understand it and speak it. There was one thing, however, that he wanted to know first. Could they be sure that my lady's maid had not picked up French enough to use her ears to some purpose? Lord Harry easily disposed of this doubt. So entirely ignorant was the maid of the language of the place in which she was living, that she was not able to ask the tradespeople for the simplest article of household use, unless it was written for her in French before she was sent on an errand. This was conclusive. When Fanny returned to the dining-room, she found a surprise waiting for her. The two gentlemen had taken leave of their nationality, and were talking the language of foreigners. An hour later, when the dinner-table had been cleared, the maid's domestic duties took her to Lady Harry's room to make tea. She noticed the sad careworn look on her mistress's face, and spoke of it at once in her own downright way. "I thought it was only an excuse," she said, "when you gave me that message to the gentlemen, at dinner-time. Are you really ill, my lady?" "I am a little out of spirits," Iris replied. Fanny made the tea. "I can understand that," she said to herself, as she moved away to leave the room; "I'm out of spirits myself." Iris called her back: "I heard you say just now, Fanny, that you were out of spirits yourself. If you were speaking of some troubles of your own, I am sorry for you, and I won't say any more. But if you know what my anxieties are, and share them--" "Mine is the biggest share of the two," Fanny broke out abruptly. "It goes against the grain with me to distress you, my lady; but we are beginning badly, and you ought to know it. The doctor has beaten me already." "Beaten you already?" Iris repeated. "Tell me plainly what you mean?" "Here it is, if you please, as plainly as words can say it. Mr. Vimpany has something--something wicked, of course--to say to my master; and he won't let it pass his lips here, in the cottage." "Why not?" "Because he suspects me of listening at the door, and looking through the keyhole. I don't know, my lady, that he doesn't even suspect You. 'I've learnt something in the course of my life,' he says to my master; 'and it's a rule with me to be careful of what I talk about indoors, when there are women in the house. What are you going to do to-morrow?' he says. My lord told him there was to be a meeting at the newspaper office. The doctor says: 'I'll go to Paris with you. The newspaper office isn't far from the Luxembourg Gardens. When you have done your business, you will find me waiting at the gate. What I have to tell you, you shall hear out of doors in the Gardens--and in an open part of them, too, where there are no lurking-places among the trees.' My master seemed to get angry at being put off in this way. 'What is it you have got to tell me?' he says. 'Is it anything like the proposal you made, when you were on your last visit here?' The doctor laughed. 'To-morrow won't be long in coming,' he says. 'Patience, my lord--patience.' There was no getting him to say a word more. Now, what am I to do? How am I to get a chance of listening to him, out in an open garden, without being seen? There's what I mean when I say he has beaten me. It's you, my lady--it's you who will suffer in the end." "You don't _know_ that, Fanny." "No, my lady--but I'm certain of it. And here I am, as helpless as yourself! My temper has been quiet, since my misfortune; it would be quiet still, but for this." The one animating motive, the one exasperating influence, in that sad and secret life was still the mistress's welfare--still the safety of the generous woman who had befriended and forgiven her. She turned aside from the table, to hide her ghastly face. "Pray try to control yourself." As Iris spoke, she pointed kindly to a chair. "There is something that I want to say when you are composed again. I won't hurry you; I won't look at you. Sit down, Fanny." She appeared to shrink from being seated in her mistress's presence. "Please to let me go to the window," she said; "the air will help me." To the window she went, and struggled with the passionate self so steadily kept under at other times; so obstinately conquered now. "What did you wish to say to me?" she asked. "You have surprised--you have perplexed me," Iris said. "I am at a loss to understand how you discovered what seems to have passed between your master and Mr. Vimpany. You don't surely mean to tell me that they talked of their private affairs while you were waiting at table?" "I don't tell lies, my lady," Fanny declared impulsively. "They talked of nothing else all through the dinner." "Before _you!"_ Iris exclaimed. There was a pause. Fear and shame confessed themselves furtively on the maid's colourless face. Silently, swiftly, she turned to the door. Had a slip of the tongue hurried her into the betrayal of something which it was her interest to conceal? "Don't be alarmed," Iris said compassionately; "I have no wish to intrude on your secrets." With her hand on the door, Fanny Mere closed it again, and came back. "I am not so ungrateful," she said, "as to have any secrets from You. It's hard to confess what may lower me in your good opinion, but it must be done. I have deceived your ladyship--and I am ashamed of it. I have deceived the doctor--and I glory in it. My master and Mr. Vimpany thought they were safe in speaking French, while I was waiting on them. I know French as well as they do." Iris could hardly believe what she heard. "Do you really mean what you say?" she asked. "There's that much good in me," Fanny replied; "I always mean what I say." "Why did you deceive me? Why have you been acting the part of an ignorant woman?" "The deceit has been useful in your service," the obstinate maid declared. "Perhaps it may be useful again." "Was that what you were thinking of," Iris said, "when you allowed me to translate English into French for you, and never told me the truth?" "At any rate, I will tell you the truth, now. No: I was not thinking of you, when you wrote my errands for me in French--I was thinking again of some advice that was once given to me." "Was it advice given by a friend?" "Given by a man, my lady, who was the worst enemy I have ever had." Her considerate mistress understood the allusion, and forbade her to distress herself by saying more. But Fanny felt that atonement, as well as explanation, was due to her benefactress. Slowly, painfully she described the person to whom she had referred. He was a Frenchman, who had been her music-master during the brief period at which she had attended a school: he had promised her marriage; he had persuaded her to elope with him. The little money that they had to live on was earned by her needle, and by his wages as accompanist at a music-hall. While she was still able to attract him, and to hope for the performance of his promise, he amused himself by teaching her his own language. When he deserted her, his letter of farewell contained, among other things the advice to which she had alluded. "In your station of life," this man had written, "knowledge of French is still a rare accomplishment. Keep your knowledge to yourself. English people of rank have a way of talking French to each other, when they don't wish to be understood by their inferiors. In the course of your career, you may surprise secrets which will prove to be a little fortune, if you play your cards properly. Anyhow, it is the only fortune I have to leave to you." Such had been the villain's parting gift to the woman whom he had betrayed. She had hated him too bitterly to be depraved by his advice. On the contrary, when the kindness of a friend (now no longer in England) had helped her to obtain her first employment as a domestic servant, she had thought it might be to her interest to mention that she could read, write, and speak French. The result proved to be not only a disappointment, but a warning to her for the future. Such an accomplishment as a knowledge of a foreign language possessed by an Englishwoman, in her humble rank of life, was considered by her mistress to justify suspicion. Questions were asked, which it was impossible for her to answer truthfully. Small scandal drew its own conclusions--her life with the other servants became unendurable--she left her situation. From that time, until the happy day when she met with Iris, concealment of her knowledge of French became a proceeding forced on her by her own poor interests. Her present mistress would undoubtedly have been taken into her confidence, if the opportunity had offered itself. But Iris had never encouraged her to speak of the one darkest scene in her life; and for that reason, she had kept her own counsel until the date of her mistress's marriage. Distrusting the husband, and the husband's confidential friend--for were they not both men?--she had thought of the vile Frenchman's advice, and had resolved to give it a trial; not with the degrading motive which he had suggested, but with the vague presentiment of making a discovery of wickedness, threatening mischief under a French disguise, which might be of service to her benefactress at some future time. "And I may still turn it to your advantage, my lady," Fanny ventured to add, "if you will consent to say nothing to anybody of your having a servant who has learnt French." Iris looked at her coldly and gravely. "Must I remind you," she said, "that you are asking my help in practicing a deception on my husband?" "I shall be sent away," Fanny answered, "if you tell my master what I have told you." This was indisputably true. Iris hesitated. In her present situation, the maid was the one friend on whom she could rely. Before her marriage, she would have recoiled from availing herself, under any circumstances, of such services as Fanny's reckless gratitude had offered to her. But the moral atmosphere in which she was living had begun, as Mrs. Vimpany had foreseen, to exert its baneful influence. The mistress descended to bargaining with the servant. "Deceive the doctor," she said, "and I well remember that it may be for my good." She stopped, and considered for a moment. Her noble nature rallied its forces, and prompted her next words: "But respect your master, if you wish me to keep your secret. I forbid you to listen to what my lord may say, when he speaks with Mr. Vimpany to-morrow." "I have already told your ladyship that I shall have no chance of listening to what they say to each other, out of doors," Fanny rejoined. "But I can watch the doctor at any rate. We don't know what he may not do when he is left by himself, while my master is at the meeting. I want to try if I can follow that rogue through the streets, without his finding me out. Please to send me on an errand to Paris to-morrow." "You will be running a terrible risk," her mistress reminded her, "if Mr. Vimpany discovers you." "I'll take my chance of that," was the reckless reply. Iris consented. CHAPTER XXXIX THE MYSTERY OF THE HOSPITAL ON the next morning Lord Harry left the cottage, accompanied by the doctor. After a long absence, he returned alone. His wife's worst apprehensions, roused by what Fanny had told her, were more than justified, by the change which she now perceived in him. His eyes were bloodshot, his face was haggard, his movements were feeble and slow. He looked like a man exhausted by some internal conflict, which had vibrated between the extremes of anger and alarm. "I'm tired to death," he said; "get me a glass of wine." She waited on him with eager obedience, and watched anxiously for the reviving effect of the stimulant. The little irritabilities which degrade humanity only prolong their mischievous existence, while the surface of life stagnates in calm. Their annihilation follows when strong emotion stirs in the depths, and raises the storm. The estrangement of the day before passed as completely from the minds of the husband and wife--both strongly agitated--as if it had never existed. All-mastering fear was busy at their hearts; fear, in the woman, of the unknown temptation which had tried the man; fear, in the man, of the tell-tale disturbance in him, which might excite the woman's suspicion. Without venturing to look at him, Iris said: "I am afraid you have heard bad news?" Without venturing to look at her, Lord Harry answered: "Yes, at the newspaper office." She knew that he was deceiving her; and he felt that she knew it. For awhile, they were both silent. From time to time, she anxiously stole a look at him. His mind remained absorbed in thought. There they were, in the same room--seated near each other; united by the most intimate of human relationships--and yet how far, how cruelly far, apart! The slowest of all laggard minutes, the minutes which are reckoned by suspense, followed each other tardily and more tardily, before there appeared the first sign of a change. He lifted his drooping head. Sadly, longingly, he looked at her. The unerring instinct of true love encouraged his wife to speak to him. "I wish I could relieve your anxieties," she said simply. "Is there nothing I can do to help you?" "Come here, Iris." She rose and approached him. In the past days of the honeymoon and its sweet familiarities, he had sometimes taken her on his knee. He took her on his knee now, and put his arm round her. "Kiss me," he said. With all her heart she kissed him. He sighed heavily; his eyes rested on her with a trustful appealing look which she had never observed in them before. "Why do you hesitate to confide in me?" she asked. "Dear Harry, do you think I don't see that something troubles you?" "Yes," he said, "there is something that I regret." "What is it?" "Iris," he answered, "I am sorry I asked Vimpany to come back to us." At that unexpected confession, a bright flush of joy and pride overspread his wife's face. Again, the unerring instinct of love guided her to discovery of the truth. The opinion of his wicked friend must have been accidentally justified, at the secret interview of that day, by the friend himself! In tempting her husband, Vimpany had said something which must have shocked and offended him. The result, as she could hardly doubt, had been the restoration of her domestic influence to its helpful freedom of control--whether for the time only it was not in her nature, at that moment of happiness, to inquire. "After what you have just told me," she ventured to say, "I may own that I am glad to see you come home, alone." In that indirect manner, she confessed the hope that friendly intercourse between the two men had come to an end. His reply disappointed her. "Vimpany only remains in Paris," he said, "to present a letter of introduction. He will follow me home." "Soon?" she asked, piteously. "In time for dinner, I suppose." She was still sitting on his knee. His arm pressed her gently when he said his next words, "I hope you will dine with us to-day, Iris?" "Yes--if you wish it." "I wish it very much. Something in me recoils from being alone with Vimpany. Besides, a dinner at home without you is no dinner at all." She thanked him for that little compliment by a look. At the same time, her grateful sense of her husband's kindness was embittered by the prospect of the doctor's return. "Is he likely to dine with us often, now?" she was bold enough to say. "I hope not." Perhaps he was conscious that he might have made a more positive reply. He certainly took refuge in another subject--more agreeable to himself. "My dear, you have expressed the wish to relieve my anxieties," he said; "and you can help me, I think, in that way. I have a letter to write--of some importance, Iris, to your interests as well as to mine--which must go to Ireland by to-day's post. You shall read it, and say if you approve of what I have done. Don't let me be disturbed. This letter, I can tell you, will make a hard demand on my poor brains--I must go and write in my own room." Left alone with the thoughts that now crowded on her mind, Iris found her attention claimed once more by passing events. Fanny Mere arrived, to report herself on her return from Paris. She had so managed her departure from Passy as to precede Lord Harry and Mr. Vimpany, and to watch for their arrival in Paris by a later train. They had driven from the railway to the newspaper office---with the maid in attendance on them in another cab. When they separated, the doctor proceeded on foot to the Luxembourg Gardens. Wearing a plain black dress, and protected from close observation by her veil, Fanny followed him, cautiously keeping at a sufficient distance, now on one side of the street and now on the other. When my lord joined his friend, she just held them in view, and no more, as they walked up and down in the barest and loneliest part of the Gardens that they could find. Their talk having come to an end, they parted. Her master was the first who came out into the street; walking at a great rate, and looking most desperately upset. Mr. Vimpany next appeared, sauntering along with his hands in his pockets, grinning as if his own villainous thoughts were thoroughly amusing him. Fanny was now more careful than ever not to lose sight of the doctor. The course which he pursued led them to the famous hospital called the Hotel Dieu. At the entrance she saw him take a letter out of his pocket, and give it to the porter. Soon afterwards, a person appeared who greeted him politely, and conducted him into the building. For more than an hour, Fanny waited to see Mr. Vimpany come out again, and waited in vain. What could he possibly want in a French hospital? And why had he remained in that foreign institution for so long a time? Baffled by these mysteries, and weary after much walking, Fanny made the best of her way home, and consulted her mistress. Even if Iris had been capable of enlightening her, the opportunity was wanting. Lord Harry entered the room, with the letter which he had just written, open in his hand, As a matter of course, the maid retired. CHAPTER XL DIRE NECESSITY THE Irish lord had a word to say to his wife, before he submitted to her the letter which he had just written. He had been summoned to a meeting of proprietors at the office of the newspaper, convened to settle the terms of a new subscription rendered necessary by unforeseen expenses incurred in the interests of the speculation. The vote that followed, after careful preliminary consultation, authorised a claim on the purses of subscribing proprietors, which sadly reduced the sum obtained by Lord Harry's promissory note. Nor was this inconvenience the only trial of endurance to which the Irish lord was compelled to submit. The hope which he had entertained of assistance from the profits of the new journal, when repayment of the loan that he had raised became due, was now plainly revealed as a delusion. Ruin stared him in the face, unless he could command the means of waiting for the pecuniary success of the newspaper, during an interval variously estimated at six months, or even at a year to come. "Our case is desperate enough," he said, "to call for a desperate remedy. Keep up your spirits, Iris--I have written to my brother." Iris looked at him in dismay. "Surely," she said, "you once told me you had written to your brother, and he answered you in the cruellest manner through his lawyers." "Quite true, my dear. But, this time, there is one circumstance in our favour--my brother is going to be married. The lady is said to be an heiress; a charming creature, admired and beloved wherever she goes. There must surely be something to soften the hardest heart in that happy prospect. Read what I have written, and tell me what you think of it." The opinion of the devoted wife encouraged the desperate husband: the letter was dispatched by the post of that day. If boisterous good spirits can make a man agreeable at the dinner-table, then indeed Mr. Vimpany, on his return to the cottage, played the part of a welcome guest. He was inexhaustible in gallant attentions to his friend's wife; he told his most amusing stories in his happiest way; he gaily drank his host's fine white Burgundy, and praised with thorough knowledge of the subject the succulent French dishes; he tried Lord Harry with talk on politics, talk on sport, and (wonderful to relate in these days) talk on literature. The preoccupied Irishman was equally inaccessible on all three subjects. When the dessert was placed on the table--still bent on making himself agreeable to Lady Harry--Mr. Vimpany led the conversation to the subject of floriculture. In the interests of her ladyship's pretty little garden, he advocated a complete change in the system of cultivation, and justified his revolutionary views by misquoting the published work of a great authority on gardening with such polite obstinacy that Iris (eager to confute him) went away to fetch the book. The moment he had entrapped her into leaving the room, the doctor turned to Lord Harry with a sudden change to the imperative mood in look and manner. "What have you been about," he asked, "since we had that talk in the Gardens to-day? Have you looked at your empty purse, and are you wise enough to take my way of filling it?" "As long as there's the ghost of a chance left to me," Lord Harry replied, "I'll take any way of filling my purse but yours." "Does that mean you have found a way?" "Do me a favour, Vimpany. Defer all questions till the end of the week." "And then I shall have your answer?" "Without fail, I promise it. Hush!" Iris returned to the dining-room with her book; and polite Mr. Vimpany owned in the readiest manner that he had been mistaken. The remaining days of the week followed each other wearily. During the interval, Lord Harry's friend carefully preserved the character of a model guest--he gave as little trouble as possible. Every morning after breakfast the doctor went away by the train. Every morning (with similar regularity) he was followed by the resolute Fanny Mere. Pursuing his way through widely different quarters of Paris, he invariably stopped at a public building, invariably presented a letter at the door, and was invariably asked to walk in. Inquiries, patiently persisted in by the English maid, led in each case to the same result. The different public buildings were devoted to the same benevolent purpose. Like the Hotel Dieu, they were all hospitals; and Mr. Vimpany's object in visiting them remained as profound a mystery as ever. Early on the last morning of the week the answer from Lord Harry's brother arrived. Hearing of it, Iris ran eagerly into her husband's room. The letter was already scattered in fragments on the floor. What the tone of the Earl's inhuman answer had been in the past time, that it was again now. Iris put her arms round her husband's neck. "Oh, my poor love, what is to be done?" He answered in one reckless word: "Nothing!" "Is there nobody else who can help us?" she asked. "Ah, well, darling, there's perhaps one other person still left," "Who is the person?" "Who should it be but your own dear self?" She looked at him in undisguised bewilderment: "Only tell me, Harry, what I can do?" "Write to Mountjoy, and ask him to lend me the money." He said it. In those shameless words, he said it. She, who had sacrificed Mountjoy to the man whom she had married, was now asked by that man to use Mountjoy's devotion to her, as a means of paying his debts! Iris drew back from him with a cry of disgust. "You refuse?" he said. "Do you insult me by doubting it?" she answered. He rang the bell furiously, and dashed out of the room. She heard him, on the stairs, ask where Mr. Vimpany was. The servant replied: "In the garden, my lord." Smoking a cigar luxuriously in the fine morning air, the doctor saw his excitable Irish friend hastening out to meet him. "Don't hurry," he said, in full possession of his impudent good-humour; "and don't lose your temper. Will you take my way out of your difficulties, or will you not? Which is it--Yes or No?" "You infernal scoundrel--Yes!" "My dear lord, I congratulate you." "On what, sir?" "On being as great a scoundrel as I am." CHAPTER XLI THE MAN IS FOUND. THE unworthy scheme, by means of which Lord Harry had proposed to extricate himself from his pecuniary responsibilities, had led to serious consequences. It had produced a state of deliberate estrangement between man and wife. Iris secluded herself in her own room. Her husband passed the hours of every day away from the cottage; sometimes in the company of the doctor, sometimes among his friends in Paris. His wife suffered acutely under the self-imposed state of separation, to which wounded pride and keenly felt resentment compelled her to submit. No friend was near her, in whose compassionate advice she might have token refuge. Not even the sympathy of her maid was offered to the lonely wife. With the welfare of Iris as her one end in view, Fanny Mere honestly believed that it would be better and safer for Lady Harry if she and her husband finally decided on living separate lives. The longer my lord persisted in keeping the doctor with him as his guest, the more perilously he was associated with a merciless wretch, who would be capable of plotting the ruin of anyone--man or woman, high person or low person--who might happen to be an obstacle in his way. So far as a person in her situation could venture on taking the liberty, the maid did her best to widen the breach between her master and her mistress. While Fanny was making the attempt to influence Lady Harry, and only producing irritation as the result, Vimpany was exerting stronger powers of persuasion in the effort to prejudice the Irish lord against any proposal for reconciliation which might reach him through his wife. "I find an unforgiving temper in your charming lady," the doctor declared. "It doesn't show itself on the surface, my dear fellow, but there it is. Take a wise advantage of circumstances--say you will raise no inconvenient objections, if she wants a separation by mutual consent. Now don't misunderstand me. I only recommend the sort of separation which will suit our convenience. You know as well as I do that you can whistle your wife back again--" Mr. Vimpany's friend was rude enough to interrupt him, there. "I call that a coarse way of putting it," Lord Harry interposed. "Put it how you like for yourself," the doctor rejoined. "Lady Harry may be persuaded to come back to you, when we want her for our grand project. In the meantime (for I am always a considerate man where women are concerned) we act delicately towards my lady, in sparing her the discovery of--what shall I call our coming enterprise?--venturesome villainy, which might ruin you in your wife's estimation. Do you see our situation now, as it really is? Very well. Pass the bottle, and drop the subject for the present." The next morning brought with it an event, which demolished the doctor's ingenious arrangement for the dismissal of Iris from the scene of action. Lord and Lady Harry encountered each other accidentally on the stairs. Distrusting herself if she ventured to look at him, Iris turned her eyes away from her husband. He misinterpreted the action as an expression of contempt. Anger at once inclined him to follow Mr. Vimpany's advice. He opened the door of the dining-room, empty at that moment, and told Iris that he wished to speak with her. What his villainous friend had suggested that he should say, on the subject of a separation, he now repeated with a repellent firmness which he was far from really feeling. The acting was bad, but the effect was produced. For the first time, his wife spoke to him. "Do you really mean it?" she asked, The tone in which she said those words, sadly and regretfully telling its tale of uncontrollable surprise; the tender remembrance of past happy days in her eyes; the quivering pain, expressive of wounded love, that parted her lips in the effort to breathe freely, touched his heart, try as he might in the wretched pride of the moment to conceal it. He was silent. "If you are weary of our married life," she continued, "say so, and let us part. I will go away, without entreaties and without reproaches. Whatever pain I may feel, you shall not see it!" A passing flush crossed her face, and left it pale again. She trembled under the consciousness of returning love--the blind love that had so cruelly misled her! At a moment when she most needed firmness, her heart was sinking; she resisted, struggled, recovered herself. Quietly, and even firmly, she claimed his decision. "Does your silence mean," she asked, "that you wish me to leave you?" No man who had loved her as tenderly as her husband had loved her, could have resisted that touching self-control. He answered his wife without uttering a word--he held out his arms to her. The fatal reconciliation was accomplished in silence. At dinner on that day Mr. Vimpany's bold eyes saw a new sight, and Mr. Vimpany's rascally lips indulged in an impudent smile. My lady appeared again in her place at the dinner-table. At the customary time, the two men were left alone over their wine. The reckless Irish lord, rejoicing in the recovery of his wife's tender regard, drank freely. Understanding and despising him, the doctor's devilish gaiety indulged in facetious reminiscences of his own married life. "If I could claim a sovereign," he said, "for every quarrel between Mrs. Vimpany and myself, I put it at a low average when I declare that I should be worth a thousand pounds. How does your lordship stand in that matter? Shall we say a dozen breaches of the marriage agreement up to the present time?" "Say two--and no more to come!" his friend answered cheerfully. "No more to come!" the doctor repeated. "My experience says plenty more to come; I never saw two people less likely to submit to a peaceable married life than you and my lady. Ha! you laugh at that? It's a habit of mine to back my opinion. I'll bet you a dozen of champagne there will be a quarrel which parts you two, for good and all, before the year is out. Do you take the bet?" "Done!" cried Lord Harry. "I propose my wife's good health, Vimpany, in a bumper. She shall drink confusion to all false prophets in the first glass of your champagne!" The post of the next morning brought with it two letters. One of them bore the postmark of London, and was addressed to Lady Harry Norland. It was written by Mrs. Vimpany, and it contained a few lines added by Hugh Mountjoy. "My strength is slow in returning to me" (he wrote); "but my kind and devoted nurse says that all danger of infection is at an end. You may write again to your old friend if Lord Harry sees no objection, as harmlessly as in the happy past time. My weak hand begins to tremble already. How glad I shall be to hear from you, it is, happily for me, quite needless to add." In her delight at receiving this good news Iris impulsively assumed that her husband would give it a kindly welcome on his side; she insisted on reading the letter to him. He said coldly, "I am glad to hear of Mr. Mountjoy's recovery"--and took up the newspaper. Was this unworthy jealousy still strong enough to master him, even at that moment? His wife had forgotten it. Why had he not forgotten it too? On the same day Iris replied to Hugh, with the confidence and affection of the bygone time before her marriage. After closing and addressing the envelope, she found that her small store of postage stamps was exhausted, and sent for her maid. Mr. Vimpany happened to pass the open door of her room, while she was asking for a stamp; he heard Fanny say that she was not able to accommodate her mistress. "Allow me to make myself useful," the polite doctor suggested. He produced a stamp, and fixed it himself on the envelope. When he had proceeded on his way downstairs, Fanny's distrust of him insisted on expressing itself. "He wanted to find out what person you have written to," she said. "Let me make your letter safe in the post." In five minutes more it was in the box at the office. While these trifling events were in course of progress, Mr. Vimpany had gone into the garden to read the second of the two letters, delivered that morning, addressed to himself. On her return from the post-office, Fanny had opportunities of observing him while she was in the greenhouse, trying to revive the perishing flowers--neglected in the past days of domestic trouble. Noticing her, after he had read his letter over for the second time, Mr. Vimpany sent the maid into the cottage to say that he wished to speak with her master. Lord Harry joined him in the garden--looked at the letter--and, handing it back, turned away. The doctor followed him, and said something which seemed to be received with objection. Mr. Vimpany persisted nevertheless, and apparently carried his point. The two gentlemen consulted the railway time-table, and hurried away together, to catch the train to Paris. Fanny Mere returned to the conservatory, and absently resumed her employment among the flowers. On what evil errand had the doctor left the cottage? And, why, on this occasion, had he taken the master with him? The time had been when Fanny might have tried to set these questions at rest by boldly following the two gentlemen to Paris; trusting to her veil, to her luck, and to the choice of a separate carriage in the train, to escape notice. But, although her ill-judged interference with the domestic affairs of Lady Harry had been forgiven, she had not been received again into favour unreservedly. Conditions were imposed, which forbade her to express any opinion on her master's conduct, and which imperatively ordered her to leave the protection of her mistress--if protection was really needed--in his lordship's competent hands. "I gratefully appreciate your kind intentions," Iris had said, with her customary tenderness of regard for the feelings of others; "but I never wish to hear again of Mr. Vimpany, or of the strange suspicions which he seems to excite in your mind." Still as gratefully devoted to Iris as ever, Fanny viewed the change in my lady's way of thinking as one of the deplorable results of her return to her husband, and waited resignedly for the coming time when her wise distrust of two unscrupulous men would be justified. Condemned to inaction for the present, Lady Harry's maid walked irritably up and down the conservatory, forgetting the flowers. Through the open back door of the cottage the cheap clock in the hall poured its harsh little volume of sound, striking the hour. "I wonder," she said to herself, "if those two wicked ones have found their way to a hospital yet?" That guess happened to have hit the mark. The two wicked ones were really approaching a hospital, well known to the doctor by more previous visits than one. At the door they were met by a French physician, attached to the institution--the writer of the letter which had reached Mr. Vimpany in the morning. This gentleman led the way to the official department of the hospital, and introduced the two foreigners to the French authorities assembled for the transaction of business. As a medical man, Mr. Vimpany's claims to general respect and confidence were carefully presented. He was a member of the English College of Surgeons; he was the friend, as well as the colleague of the famous President of that College, who had introduced him to the chief surgeon of the Hotel Dieu. Other introductions to illustrious medical persons in Paris had naturally followed. Presented under these advantages, Mr. Vimpany announced his discovery of a new system of treatment in diseases of the lungs. Having received his medical education in Paris, he felt bound in gratitude to place himself under the protection of "the princes of science," resident in the brilliant capital of France. In that hospital, after much fruitless investigation in similar institutions, he had found a patient suffering from the form of lung disease, which offered to him the opportunity that he wanted. It was impossible that he could do justice to his new system, unless the circumstances were especially favourable. Air more pure than the air of a great city, and bed-room accommodation not shared by other sick persons, were among the conditions absolutely necessary to the success of the experiment. These, and other advantages, were freely offered to him by his noble friend, who would enter into any explanations which the authorities then present might think it necessary to demand. The explanations having been offered and approved, there was a general move to the bed occupied by the invalid who was an object of professional interest to the English doctor. The patient's name was Oxbye. He was a native of Denmark, and had followed in his own country the vocation of a schoolmaster. His knowledge of the English language and the French had offered him the opportunity of migrating to Paris, where he had obtained employment as translator and copyist. Earning his bread, poorly enough in this way, he had been prostrated by the malady which had obliged him to take refuge in the hospital. The French physician, under whose medical care he had been placed, having announced that he had communicated his notes enclosed in a letter to his English colleague, and having frankly acknowledged that the result of the treatment had not as yet sufficiently justified expectation, the officers of the institution spoke next. The Dane was informed of the nature of Mr. Vimpany's interest in him, and of the hospitable assistance offered by Mr. Vimpany's benevolent friend; and the question was then put, whether he preferred to remain where he was, or whether he desired to be removed under the conditions which had just been stated? Tempted by the prospect of a change, which offered to him a bed-chamber of his own in the house of a person of distinction--with a garden to walk about in, and flowers to gladden his eyes, when he got better--Oxbye eagerly adopted the alternative of leaving the hospital. "Pray let me go," the poor fellow said: "I am sure I shall be the better for it." Without opposing this decision, the responsible directors reminded him that it had been adopted on impulse, and decided that it was their duty to give him a little time for consideration. In the meanwhile, some of the gentlemen assembled at the bedside, looking at Oxbye and then looking at Lord Harry, had observed a certain accidental likeness between the patient and "Milord, the philanthropist," who was willing to receive him. The restraints of politeness had only permitted them to speak of this curious discovery among themselves. At the later time, however, when the gentlemen had taken leave of each other, Mr. Vimpany--finding himself alone with Lord Harry--had no hesitation in introducing the subject, on which delicacy had prevented the Frenchmen from entering. "Did you look at the Dane?" he began abruptly. "Of course I did!" "And you noticed the likeness?" "Not I!" The doctor's uproarious laughter startled the people who were walking near them in the street. "Here's another proof," he burst out, "of the true saying that no man knows himself. You don't deny the likeness, I suppose?" "Do you yourself see it?" Lord Harry asked. Mr. Vimpany answered the question scornfully: "Is it likely that I should have submitted to all the trouble I have taken to get possession of that man, if I had not seen a likeness between his face and yours?" The Irish lord said no more. When his friend asked why he was silent, he gave his reason sharply enough: "I don't like the subject." CHAPTER XLII THE METTLESOME MAID ON the evening of that day Fanny Mere, entering the dining-room with the coffee, found Lord Harry and Mr. Vimpany alone, and discovered (as soon as she opened the door) that they changed the language in which they were talking from English to French. She continued to linger in the room, apparently occupied in setting the various objects on the sideboard in order. Her master was speaking at the time; he asked if the doctor had succeeded in finding a bed-room for himself in the neighbourhood. To this Mr. Vimpany replied that he had got the bed-room. Also, that he had provided himself with something else, which it was equally important to have at his disposal. "I mean," he proceeded, in his bad French, "that I have found a photographic apparatus on hire. We are ready now for the appearance of our interesting Danish guest." "And when the man comes," Lord Harry added, "what am I to say to my wife? How am I to find an excuse, when she hears of a hospital patient who has taken possession of your bed-room at the cottage--and has done it with my permission, and with you to attend on him?" The doctor sipped his coffee. "We have told a story that has satisfied the authorities," he said coolly. "Repeat the story to your wife." "She won't believe it," Lord Harry replied. Mr. Vimpany waited until he had lit another cigar, and had quite satisfied himself that it was worth smoking. "You have yourself to thank for that obstacle," he resumed. "If you had taken my advice, your wife would have been out of our way by this time. I suppose I must manage it. If you fail, leave her ladyship to me. In the meanwhile, there's a matter of more importance to settle first. We shall want a nurse for our poor dear invalid. Where are we to find her?" As he stated that difficulty, he finished his coffee, and looked about him for the bottle of brandy which always stood on the dinner-table. In doing this, he happened to notice Fanny. Convinced that her mistress was in danger, after what she had already heard, the maid's anxiety and alarm had so completely absorbed her that she had forgotten to play her part. Instead of still busying herself at the sideboard, she stood with her back to it, palpably listening. Cunning Mr. Vimpany, possessing himself of the brandy, made a request too entirely appropriate to excite suspicion. "Some fresh cold water, if you please," was all that he said. The moment that Fanny left the room, the doctor addressed his friend in English, with his eye on the door: "News for you, my boy! We are in a pretty pickle--Lady Harry's maid understands French." "Quite impossible," Lord Harry declared. "We will put that to the test," Mr. Vimpany answered. "Watch her when she comes in again." "What are you going to do." "I am going to insult her in French. Observe the result." In another minute Fanny returned with the fresh water. As she placed the glass jug before Mr. Vimpany he suddenly laid his hand on her arm and looked her straight in the face. "Vous nous avez mis dedans, drolesse!"* he said. *In English: "You have taken us in, you jade!" An uncontrollable look of mingled rage and fear made its plain confession in Fanny's face. She had been discovered; she had heard herself called "drolesse;" she stood before the two men self-condemned. Her angry master threatened her with instant dismissal from the house. The doctor interfered. "No, no," he said; "you mustn't deprive Lady Harry, at a moment's notice, of her maid. Such a clever maid, too," he added with his rascally smile. "An accomplished person, who understands French, and is too modest to own it!" The doctor had led Fanny through many a weary and unrewarded walk when she had followed him to the hospitals; he had now inflicted a deliberate insult by calling her "drolesse" and he had completed the sum of his offences by talking contemptuously of her modesty and her mastery of the French language. The woman's detestation of him, which under ordinary circumstances she might have attempted to conceal, was urged into audaciously asserting itself by the strong excitement that now possessed her. Driven to bay, Fanny had made up her mind to discover the conspiracy of which Mr. Vimpany was the animating spirit, by a method daring enough to be worthy of the doctor himself. "My knowledge of French has told me something," she said. "I have just heard, Mr. Vimpany, that you want a nurse for your invalid gentleman. With my lord's permission, suppose you try Me?" Fanny's audacity was more than her master's patience could endure. He ordered her to leave the room. The peace-making doctor interfered again: "My dear lord, let me beg you will not be too hard on the young woman." He turned to Fanny, with an effort to look indulgent, which ended in the reappearance of his rascally smile. "Thank you, my dear, for your proposal," he said; "I will let you know if we accept it, to-morrow." Fanny's unforgiving master pointed to the door; she thanked Mr. Vimpany, and went out. Lord Harry eyed his friend in angry amazement. "Are you mad?" he asked. "Tell me something first," the doctor rejoined. "Is there any English blood in your family?" Lord Harry answered with a burst of patriotic feeling: "I regret to say my family is adulterated in that manner. My grandmother was an Englishwoman." Mr. Vimpany received this extract from the page of family history with a coolness all his own. "It's a relief to hear that," he said. "You may be capable (by the grandmother's side) of swallowing a dose of sound English sense. I can but try, at any rate. That woman is too bold and too clever to be treated like an ordinary servant--I incline to believe that she is a spy in the employment of your wife. Whether I am right or wrong in this latter case, the one way I can see of paring the cat's claws is to turn her into a nurse. Do you find me mad now?" "Madder than ever!" "Ah, you don't take after your grandmother! Now listen to me. Do we run the smallest risk, if Fanny finds it her interest to betray us? Suppose we ask ourselves what she has really found out. She knows we have got a sick man from a hospital coming here--does she know what we want him for? Not she! Neither you nor I said a word on that subject. But she also heard us agree that your wife was in our way. What does that matter? Did she hear us say what it is that we don't want your wife to discover? Not she, I tell you again! Very well, then--if Fanny acts as Oxbye's nurse, shy as the young woman may be, she innocently associates herself with the end that we have to gain by the Danish gentleman's death! Oh, you needn't look alarmed! I mean his natural death by lung disease--no crime, my noble friend! no crime!" The Irish lord, sitting near the doctor, drew his chair back in a hurry. "If there's English blood in my family," he declared, "I'll tell you what, Vimpany, there's devil's blood in yours!" "Anything you like but Irish blood," the cool scoundrel rejoined. As he made that insolent reply, Fanny came in again, with a sufficient excuse for her reappearance. She announced that a person from the hospital wished to speak to the English doctor. The messenger proved to be a young man employed in the secretary's office. Oxbye still persisting in his desire to be placed under Mr. Vimpany's care; one last responsibility rested on the official gentlemen now in charge of him. They could implicitly trust the medical assistance and the gracious hospitality offered to the poor Danish patient; but, before he left them, they must also be satisfied that he would be attended by a competent nurse. If the person whom Mr. Vimpany proposed to employ in this capacity could be brought to the hospital, it would be esteemed a favour; and, if her account of herself satisfied the physician in charge of Oxbye's case, the Dane might be removed to his new quarters on the same day. The next morning witnessed the first in a series of domestic incidents at the cottage, which no prophetic ingenuity could have foreseen. Mr. Vimpany and Fanny Mere actually left Passy together, on their way to Paris! CHAPTER XLIII FICTION: ATTEMPTED BY MY LORD THE day on which the doctor took his newly-appointed nurse with him to the hospital became an occasion associated with distressing recollections in the memory of Iris. In the morning, Fanny Mere had asked for leave to go out. For some time past this request had been so frequently granted, with such poor results so far as the maid's own designs were concerned, that Lady Harry decided on administering a tacit reproof, by means of a refusal. Fanny made no attempt at remonstrance; she left the room in silence. Half an hour later, Iris had occasion to ring for her attendant. The bell was answered by the cook--who announced, in explanation of her appearance, that Fanny Mere had gone out. More distressed than displeased by this reckless disregard of her authority, on the part of a woman who had hitherto expressed the most grateful sense of her kindness, Iris only said: "Send Fanny to me as soon as she comes back." Two hours passed before the truant maid returned. "I refused to let you go out this morning," Lady Harry said; "and you have taken the liberty of leaving the house for two hours. You might have made me understand, in a more becoming manner, that you intended to leave my service." Steadily respectful, Fanny answered: "I don't wish to leave your ladyship's service." "Then what does your conduct mean?" "It means, if you please, that I had a duty to do--and did it." "A duty to yourself?" Iris asked. "No, my lady; a duty to you." As she made that strange reply the door was opened, and Lord Harry entered the room. When he saw Fanny Mere he turned away again, in a hurry, to go out. "I didn't know your maid was with you," he said. "Another time will do." His permitting a servant to be an obstacle in his way, when he wished to speak to his wife, was a concession so entirely unbecoming in the master of the house, and so strangely contrary to his customary sense of what was due to himself, that Iris called him back in astonishment. She looked at her maid, who at once understood her, and withdrew. "What can you possibly be thinking of?" she said to her husband, when they were alone. Putting that question, she noticed an embarrassment in his manner, and an appearance of confusion in his face, which alarmed her. "Has something happened?" she asked; "and is it so serious that you hesitate to mention it to me?" He sat down by her and took her hand. The loving look in his eyes, which she knew so well, was not in them now; they expressed doubt, and something with it which suggested an effort at conciliation. "I am fearing I shall surprise you," he said. "Don't keep me in suspense!" she returned. "What is it?" He smiled uneasily: "It's something about Vimpany." Having got as far as that, he stopped. She drew her hand away from him. "I understand now," she said; "I must endeavour to control myself--you have something to tell me which will try my temper." He held up his hands in humorous protest: "Ah, my darling, here's your vivid imagination again, making mountains out of molehills, as they say! It's nothing half so serious as you seem to think; I have only to tell you of a little change." "A little change?" she repeated. "What change?" "Well, my dear, you see--" He hesitated and recovered himself. "I mean, you must know that Vimpany's plans are altered. He won't any longer occupy his bedroom in the cottage here." Iris looked inexpressibly relieved. "Going away, at last!" she exclaimed. "Oh, Harry, if you have been mystifying me, I hope you will never do it again. It isn't like you; it's cruel to alarm me about nothing. Mr. Vimpany's empty bedroom will be the most interesting room in the house, when I look into it to-night." Lord Harry got up, and walked to the window. As a sign of trouble in his mind, and of an instinctive effort to relieve it, the object of this movement was well-known to Iris. She followed him and stood by his side. It was now plain to her that there was something more to be told--and that he was hesitating how to confide it to his wife. "Go on," she said resignedly. He had expected her to take his arm, or perhaps to caress him, or at least to encourage him by her gentlest words and her prettiest smiles. The steady self-restraint which she now manifested was a sign, as he interpreted it, of suppressed resentment. Shrinking, honestly shrinking, from the bare possibility of another quarrel, he confronted the hard necessities of further confession. "Well, now," he said, "it's only this--you mustn't look into the empty bedroom to-night." "Why not?" "Ah, for the best of all good reasons! Because you might find somebody in there." This reply excited her curiosity: her eyes rested on him eagerly. "Some friend of yours?" she asked. He persisted in an assumption of good-humour, which betrayed itself as mere artifice in the clumsiest manner: "I declare I feel as if I were in a court of justice, being cross-examined by a lawyer of skill and dexterity! Well, my sweet counsellor, no--not exactly a friend of mine." She reflected for a moment. "You don't surely mean one of Mr. Vimpany's friends?" she said. He pretended not to have heard her, and pointed to the view of the garden from the window. "Isn't it a lovely day? Let's go and look at the flowers," he suggested. "Did you not hear what I said to you just now?" she persisted. "I beg your pardon, dear; I was thinking of something else. Suppose we go into the garden?" When women have a point to gain in which they are interested, how many of them are capable of deferring it to a better opportunity? One in a thousand, perhaps. Iris kept her place at the window, resolved on getting an answer. "I asked you, Harry, whether the person who is to occupy our spare bedroom, to-night, was one of Mr. Vimpany's friends?" "Say one of Mr. Vimpany's patients--and you will be nearer the truth," he answered, with an outburst of impatience. She could hardly believe him. "Do you mean a person who is really ill?" she said. "Of course I mean it," he said; irritated into speaking out, at last. "A man? or a woman?" "A man." "May I ask if he comes from England?" "He comes from one of the French hospitals. Anything more?" Iris left her husband to recover his good-humour, and went back to her chair. The extraordinary disclosure which she had extracted from him had produced a stupefying effect on her mind. Her customary sympathy with him, her subtle womanly observation of his character, her intimate knowledge of his merits and his defects, failed to find the rational motive which might have explained his conduct. She looked round at him with mingled feelings of perplexity and distrust. He was still at the window, but he had turned his back on the view of the garden; his eyes were fixed, in furtive expectation, on his wife. Was he waiting to hear her say something more? She ran the risk and said it. "I don't quite understand the sacrifice you seem to be making to Mr. Vimpany," she confessed. "Will you tell me, dear, what it means?" Here was the opportunity offered of following the doctor's advice, and putting his wife's credulity to the test. With her knowledge of Vimpany, would she really believe the story which had imposed on the strangers who managed the hospital? Lord Harry made up his mind, to try the experiment. No matter what the result might be, it would bring the responsibilities that were crushing him to an end. He need say no more, if the deception succeeded. He could do no more, if it failed. Under the influence of this cheering reflection, he recovered his temper; his handsome face brightened again with its genial boyish smile. "What a wonderful woman you are!" he cried. "Isn't it just the thing that I am here for, to tell you what I mean--and my clever wife sees through and through me, and reminds me of what I must do! Pay my fee beforehand, Iris! Give me a kiss--and my poor meaning shall be offered in return. It will help me if you remember one thing. Vimpany and I are old friends, and there's nothing we won't do to accommodate each other. Mind that!" Tried fairly on its own merits, the stupid fiction invented by the doctor produced an effect for which Lord Harry was not prepared. The longer Iris listened, the more strangely Iris looked at him. Not a word fell from her lips when he had done. He noticed that she had turned pale: it seemed to be almost possible that he had frightened her! If his bird-witted brains could have coupled cause and effect, this was exactly the result which he might have anticipated. She was asked to believe that a new system of medical practice had been invented by such a person as Mr. Vimpany. She was asked to believe that an invalid from a foreign hospital, who was a perfect stranger to Lord Harry, had been willingly made welcome to a bedroom at the cottage. She was asked to believe that this astounding concession had been offered to the doctor as a tribute of friendship, after her husband had himself told her that he regretted having invited Vimpany, for the second time, to become his guest. Here was one improbable circumstance accumulated on another, and a clever woman was expected to accept the monstrous excuses, thus produced, as a trustworthy statement of facts. Irresistibly, the dread of some evil deed in secret contemplation cast its darkening presence on the wife's mind. Lord Harry's observation had not misled him, when he saw Iris turn pale, and when the doubt was forced on him whether he might not have frightened her. "If my explanation of this little matter has satisfied you," he ventured to resume, "we need say no more about it." "I agree with you," she answered, "let us say no more about it." Conscious, in spite of the effort to resist it, of a feeling of oppression while she was in the same room with a man who had deliberately lied to her, and that man her husband, she reminded Lord Harry that he had proposed to take a walk in the garden. Out in the pure air, under the bright sky, she might breathe more freely. "Come to the flowers," she said. They went to the garden together--the wife fearing the deceitful husband, the husband fearing the quick-witted wife. Watching each other like two strangers, they walked silently side by side, and looked now and then at the collection of flowers and plants. Iris noticed a delicate fern which had fallen away from the support to which it had been attached. She stopped, and occupied herself in restoring it to its place. When she looked round again, after attending to the plant, her husband had disappeared, and Mr. Vimpany was waiting in his place. CHAPTER XLIV FICTION: IMPROVED BY THE DOCTOR "WHERE is Lord Harry?" Iris asked. The reply startled her: "Lord Harry leaves me to say to your ladyship, what he has not had resolution enough to say for himself." "I don't understand you, Mr. Vimpany." The doctor pointed to the fern which had just been the object of Lady Harry's care. "You have been helping that sickly plant there to live and thrive," he said, "and I have felt some curiosity in watching you. There is another sickly plant, which I have undertaken to rear if the thing can be done. My gardening is of the medical kind--I can only carry it on indoors--and whatever else it may be, I tell you plainly, like the outspoken sort of fellow I am, it's not likely to prove agreeable to a lady. No offence, I hope? Your humble servant is only trying to produce the right sort of impression--and takes leave to doubt his lordship in one particular." "In what particular, sir?" "I'll put it in the form of a question, ma'am. Has my friend persuaded you to make arrangements for leaving the cottage?" Iris looked at Lord Harry's friend without attempting to conceal her opinion of him. "I call that an impertinent question," she said. "By what right do you presume to inquire into what my husband and I may, or may not, have said to each other?" "Will you do me a favour, my lady? Or, if that is asking too much, perhaps you will not object to do justice to yourself. Suppose you try to exercise the virtue of self-control? "Quite needless, Mr. Vimpany. Pray understand that you are not capable of making me angry." "Many thanks, Lady Harry: you encourage me to go on. When I was bold enough to speak of your leaving the cottage, my motive was to prevent you from being needlessly alarmed." Did this mean that he was about to take her into his confidence? All her experience of him forbade her to believe it possible. But the doubts and fears occasioned by her interview with her husband had mastered her better sense; and the effort to conceal from the doctor the anxiety under which she suffered was steadily weakening the influence of her self-respect. "Why should I be alarmed?" she asked, in the vain hope of encouraging him to tell the truth. The doctor arrived at a hasty conclusion, on his side. Believing that he had shaken her resolution, he no longer troubled himself to assume the forms of politeness which he had hitherto, with some difficulty, contrived to observe. "In this curious little world of ours," he resumed, "we enjoy our lives on infernally hard terms. We live on condition that we die. The man I want to cure may die, in spite of the best I can do for him---he may sink slowly, by what we medical men call a hard death. For example, it wouldn't much surprise me if I found some difficulty in keeping him in his bed. He might roam all over your cottage when my back was turned. Or he might pay the debt of Nature--as somebody calls it--with screaming and swearing. If you were within hearing of him, I'm afraid you might be terrified, and, with the best wish to be useful, I couldn't guarantee (if the worst happened) to keep him quiet. In your place, if you will allow me to advise you--" Iris interrupted him. Instead of confessing the truth, he was impudently attempting to frighten her. "I don't allow a person in whom I have no confidence to advise me," she said; "I wish to hear no more." Mr. Vimpany found it desirable to resume the forms of politeness. Either he had failed to shake her resolution, or she was sufficiently in possession of herself to conceal what she felt. "One last word!" he said. "I won't presume to advise your ladyship; I will merely offer a suggestion. My lord tells me that Hugh Mountjoy is on the way to recovery. You are in communication with him by letter, as I happened to notice when I did you that trifling service of providing a postage-stamp. Why not go to London and cheer your convalescent friend? Harry won't mind it--I beg your pardon, I ought to have said Lord Harry. Come! come! my dear lady; I am a rough fellow, but I mean well. Take a holiday, and come back to us when my lord writes to say that he can have the pleasure of receiving you again." He waited for a moment. "Am I not to be favoured with an answer?" he asked. "My husband shall answer you." With those parting words, Iris turned her back on him. She entered the cottage. Now in one room, and now in another, she searched for Lord Harry; he was nowhere to be found. Had he purposely gone out to avoid her? Her own remembrance of Vimpany's language and Vimpany's manner told her that so it must be--the two men were in league together. Of all dangers, unknown danger is the most terrible to contemplate. Lady Harry's last resources of resolution failed her. She dropped helplessly into a chair. After an interval--whether it was a long or a short lapse of time she was unable to decide--someone gently opened the door. Had her husband felt for her? Had he returned? "Come in! she cried eagerly--" come in! CHAPTER XLV FACT: RELATED BY FANNY THE person who now entered the room was Fanny Mere. But one interest was stirring in the mind of Iris now. "Do you know where your master is?" she asked. "I saw him go out," the maid replied. "Which way I didn't particularly notice--" She was on the point of adding, "and I didn't particularly care," when she checked herself. "Yesterday and to-day, my lady, things have come to my knowledge which I must not keep to myself," the resolute woman continued. "If a servant may say such a thing without offence, I have never been so truly my mistress's friend as I am now. I beg you to forgive my boldness; there is a reason for it." So she spoke, with no presumption in her looks, with no familiarity in her manner. The eyes of her friendless mistress filled with tears, the offered hand of her friendless mistress answered in silence. Fanny took that kind hand, and pressed it respectfully--a more demonstrative woman than herself might perhaps have kissed it. She only said, "Thank you, my lady," and went on with what she felt it her duty to relate. As carefully as usual, as quietly as usual, she repeated the conversation, at Lord Harry's table; describing also the manner in which Mr. Vimpany had discovered her as a person who understood the French language, and who had cunningly kept it a secret. In this serious state of things, the doctor--yes, the doctor himself!--had interfered to protect her from the anger of her master, and, more wonderful still, for a reason which it seemed impossible to dispute. He wanted a nurse for the foreigner whose arrival was expected on that evening, and he had offered the place to Fanny. "Your ladyship will, I hope, excuse me; I have taken the place." This amazing end to the strange events which had just been narrated proved to be more than Iris was immediately capable of understanding. "I am in the dark," she confessed. "Is Mr. Vimpany a bolder villain even than I have supposed him to be?" "That he most certainly is!" Fanny said with strong conviction. "As to what he really had in his wicked head when he engaged me, I shall find that out in time. Anyway, I am the nurse who is to help him. When I disobeyed you this morning, my lady, it was to go to the hospital with Mr. Vimpany. I was taken to see the person whose nurse I am to be. A poor, feeble, polite creature, who looked as if he couldn't hurt a fly---and yet I promise you he startled me! I saw a likeness, the moment I looked at him." "A likeness to anybody whom I know?" Iris asked. "To the person in all the world, my lady, whom you know most nearly--a likeness to my master." "What!" "Oh, it's no fancy; I am sure of what I say. To my mind, that Danish man's likeness to my lord is (if you will excuse my language) a nasty circumstance. I don't know why or wherefore--all I can say is, I don't like it; and I shan't rest until I have found out what it means. Besides this, my lady, I must know the reason why they want to get you out of their way. Please to keep up your heart; I shall warn you in time, when I am sure of the danger." Iris refused to sanction the risk involved in this desperate design. "It's _you_ who will be in danger!" she exclaimed. In her coolest state of obstinacy, Fanny answered: "That's in your ladyship's service--and that doesn't reckon." Feeling gratefully this simple and sincere expression of attachment, Iris held to her own opinion, nevertheless. "You are in my service," she said; "I won't let you go to Mr. Vimpany. Give it up, Fanny! Give it up!" "I'll give it up, my lady, when I know what the doctor means to do--not before." The assertion of authority having failed, Iris tried persuasion next. "As your mistress, it is my duty to set you an example," she resumed. "One of us must be considerate and gentle in a dispute--let me try to be that one. There can be no harm, and there may be some good, in consulting the opinion of a friend; some person in whose discretion we can trust." "Am I acquainted with the person your ladyship is thinking of?" Fanny inquired. "In that case, a friend will know what we want of her by to-morrow morning. I have written to Mrs. Vimpany." "The very person I had in my mind, Fanny! When may we expect to hear from her?" "If Mrs. Vimpany can put what she has to say to us into few words," Fanny replied, "we shall hear from her to-morrow by telegraph." As she answered her mistress in those cheering words, they were startled by a heavy knock at the door of the room. Under similar circumstances, Lord Harry's delicate hand would have been just loud enough to be heard, and no more. Iris called out suspiciously: "Who's there?" The doctor's gross voice answered: "Can I say a word, if you please, to Fanny Mere?" The maid opened the door. Mr. Vimpany's heavy hand laid bold of her arm, pulled her over the threshold, and closed the door behind her. After a brief absence, Fanny returned with news of my lord. A commissioner had arrived with a message for the doctor; and Fanny was charged to repeat it or not, just as she thought right under the circumstances. Lord Harry was in Paris. He had been invited to go to the theatre with some friends, and to return with them to supper. If he was late in getting home, he was anxious that my lady should not be made uneasy. After having authorised Mr. Vimpany's interference in the garden, the husband evidently had his motives for avoiding another interview with the wife. Iris was left alone, to think over that discovery. Fanny had received orders to prepare the bedroom for the doctor's patient. CHAPTER XLVI MAN AND WIFE TOWARDS evening, the Dane was brought to the cottage. A feeling of pride which forbade any display of curiosity, strengthened perhaps by an irresistible horror of Vimpany, kept Iris in her room. Nothing but the sound of footsteps, outside, told her when the suffering man was taken to his bed-chamber on the same floor. She was, afterwards informed by Fanny that the doctor turned down the lamp in the corridor, before the patient was helped to ascend the stairs, as a means of preventing the mistress of the house from plainly seeing the stranger's face, and recognising the living likeness of her husband. The hours advanced--the bustle of domestic life sank into silence--everybody but Iris rested quietly in bed. Through the wakeful night the sense of her situation oppressed her sinking spirits. Mysteries that vaguely threatened danger made their presence felt, and took their dark way through her thoughts. The cottage, in which the first happy days of her marriage had been passed, might ere long be the scene of some evil deed, provoking the lifelong separation of her husband and herself! Were these the exaggerated fears of a woman in a state of hysterical suspicion? It was enough for Iris to remember that Lord Harry and Mr. Vimpany had been alike incapable of telling her the truth. The first had tried to deceive her; the second had done his best to frighten her. Why? If there was really nothing to be afraid of--why? The hours of the early morning came; and still she listened in vain for the sound of my lord's footstep on the stairs; still she failed to hear the cautious opening of his dressing-room door. Leaving her chair, Iris rested on the bed. As time advanced, exhaustion mastered her; she slept. Awakening at a late hour, she rang for Fanny Mere. The master had just returned. He had missed the latest night-train to Passy; and, rather than waste money on hiring a carriage at that hour, he had accepted the offer of a bed at the house of his friends. He was then below stairs, hoping to see Lady Harry at breakfast. His wife joined him. Not even at the time of the honeymoon had the Irish lord been a more irresistibly agreeable man than he was on that memorable morning. His apologies for having failed to return at the right time were little masterpieces of grace and gaiety. The next best thing to having been present, at the theatrical performance of the previous night, was to hear his satirical summary of the story of the play, contrasting delightfully with his critical approval of the fine art of the actors. The time had been when Iris would have resented such merciless trifling with serious interests as this. In these earlier and better days, she would have reminded him affectionately of her claim to be received into his confidence--she would have tried all that tact and gentleness and patience could do to win his confession of the ascendency exercised over him by his vile friend--and she would have used the utmost influence of her love and her resolution to disunite the fatal fellowship which was leading him to his ruin. But Iris Henley was Lady Harry now. She was sinking--as Mrs. Vimpany had feared, as Mountjoy had foreseen--lower and lower on the descent to her husband's level. With a false appearance of interest in what he was saying she waited for her chance of matching him with his own weapons of audacious deceit. He ignorantly offered her the opportunity--setting the same snare to catch his wife, which she herself had it in contemplation to use for entrapping her husband into a confession of the truth. "Ah, well--I have said more than enough of my last night's amusement," he confessed. "It's your turn now, my dear. Have you had a look at the poor fellow whom the doctor is going to cure?" he asked abruptly; eager to discover whether she had noticed the likeness between Oxbye and himself. Her eyes rested on him attentively. "I have not yet seen the person you allude to," she answered. "Is Mr. Vimpany hopeful of his recovery?" He took out his case, and busied himself in choosing a cigar. In the course of his adventurous life, he had gained some knowledge of the effect of his own impetuous temper on others, and of difficulties which he had experienced when circumstances rendered it necessary to keep his face in a state of discipline. "Oh, there's no reason for anxiety!" he said, with an over-acted interest in examining his cigar. "Mr. Oxbye is in good hands." "People do sometimes sink under an illness," she quietly remarked. Without making any reply he took out his matchbox. His hand trembled a little; he failed at the first attempt to strike a light. "And doctors sometimes make mistakes," Iris went on. He was still silent. At the second attempt, he succeeded with the match, and lit his cigar. "Suppose Mr. Vimpany made a mistake," she persisted. "In the case of this stranger, it might lead to deplorable results." Lord Harry lost his temper, and with it his colour. "What the devil do you mean?" he cried. "I might ask, in my turn," she said, "what have I done to provoke an outbreak of temper? I only made a remark." At that critical moment, Fanny Mere entered the room with a telegram in her hand. "For you, my lady." Iris opened the telegram. The message was signed by Mrs. Vimpany, and was expressed in these words: "You may feel it your duty to go to your father. He is dangerously ill." Lord Harry saw a sudden change in his wife's face that roused his guilty suspicions. "Is it anything about me?" he asked. Iris handed the telegram to him in silence. Having looked at it, he desired to hear what her wishes were. "The telegram expresses my wishes," she said. "Have you any objection to my leaving you?" "None whatever," he answered eagerly. "Go, by all means." If it had still been possible for her to hesitate, that reply would have put an end to all further doubt. She turned away to leave the room. He followed her to the door. "I hope you don't think there is any want of sympathy on my part," he said. "You are quite right to go to your father. That was all I meant." He was agitated, honestly agitated, while he spoke. Iris saw it, and felt it gratefully. She was on the point of making a last appeal to his confidence, when he opened the door for her. "Don't let me detain you," he said. His voice faltered; he suddenly turned aside before she could look at him. Fanny was waiting in the hall, eager to see the telegram. She read it twice and reflected for a moment. "How often do things fit themselves to one's wishes in this convenient way?" she asked herself. "It's lucky," she privately decided--"almost too lucky. Let me pack up your things," she continued, addressing her mistress, "while I have some time to myself. Mr. Oxbye is asleep." As the day wore on, the noble influences in the nature of Iris, failing fast, yet still at rare intervals struggling to assert themselves, inspired her with the resolution to make a last attempt to give her husband an opportunity of trusting her. He was not in his room, not in any other part of the house, not in the garden. The hours passed--she was left to eat her dinner in solitude. For the second time, he was avoiding her. For the second time, he distrusted the influence of his wife. With a heavy heart she prepared for her departure by the night-mail. The duties of the new nurse kept her in the cottage. Filled with alarm for the faithful creature whom she was leaving--to what fate, who could say?--Iris kissed her at parting. Fanny's faint blue eyes filled with tears. She dashed them away, and held her mistress for an instant in her arms. "I know whom you are thinking of," she whispered. "He is not here to bid you good-bye. Let me see what I can find in his room." Iris had already looked round the room, in the vain hope of finding a letter. Fanny rushed up the stairs, determined on a last search--and ran down again with a folded morsel of flimsy foreign notepaper in her hand. "My ugly eyes are quicker than yours," she said. "The air must have come in at the window and blown it off the table." Iris eagerly read the letter: "I dare not deny that you will be better away from us, but only for a while. Forgive me, dearest; I cannot find the courage to say good-bye." Those few words spoke for him--and no more. Briefly on her side, but not unkindly, his wife answered him: "You have spared me a bitter moment. May I hope to find the man whom I have trusted and honoured, when I come back? Good-bye." When were they to meet again? And how? CHAPTER XLVII THE PATIENT AND MY LORD THERE now remained but one other person in Lord Harry's household whose presence on the scene was an obstacle to be removed. This person was the cook. On condition of her immediate departure (excused by alleged motives of economy), she received a month's wages from her master, in advance of the sum due to her, and a written character which did ample justice to her many good qualities. The poor woman left her employment with the heartiest expressions of gratitude. To the end of her days, she declared the Irish lord to be a nobleman by nature. Republican principles, inherited from her excellent parents, disinclined her to recognise him as a nobleman by birth. But another sweet and simple creature was still left to brighten the sinister gloom in the cottage. The good Dane sorely tried the patience of Fanny Mere. This countryman of Hamlet, as he liked to call himself, was a living protest against the sentiments of inveterate contempt and hatred, with which his nurse was accustomed to regard the men. When pain spared him at intervals, Mr. Oxbye presented the bright blue eyes and the winning smile which suggested the resemblance to the Irish lord. His beardless face, thin towards the lower extremities, completed the likeness in some degree only. The daring expression of Lord Harry, in certain emergencies, never appeared. Nursing him carefully, on the severest principles of duty as distinguished from inclination, Fanny found herself in the presence of a male human being, who in the painless intervals of his malady, wrote little poems in her praise; asked for a few flowers from the garden, and made prettily arranged nosegays of them devoted to herself; cried, when she told him he was a fool, and kissed her hand five minutes afterwards, when she administered his medicine, and gave him no pleasant sweet thing to take the disagreeable taste out of his mouth. This gentle patient loved Lord Harry, loved Mr. Vimpany, loved the furious Fanny, resist it as she might. On her obstinate refusal to confide to him the story of her life--after he had himself set her the example at great length--he persisted in discovering for himself that "this interesting woman was a victim of sorrows of the heart." In another state of existence, he was offensively certain that she would be living with _him._ "You are frightfully pale, you will soon die; I shall break a blood-vessel, and follow you; we shall sit side by side on clouds, and sing together everlastingly to accompaniment of celestial harps. Oh, what a treat!" Like a child, he screamed when he was in pain; and, like a child, he laughed when the pain had gone away. When she was angry enough with him to say, "If I had known what sort of man you were, I would never have undertaken to nurse you," he only answered, "my dear, let us thank God together that you did not know." There was no temper in him to be roused; and, worse still, on buoyant days, when his spirits were lively, there was no persuading him that he might not live long enough to marry his nurse, if he only put the question to her often enough. What was to be done with such a man as this? Fanny believed that she despised her feeble patient. At the same time, the food that nourished him was prepared by her own hands--while the other inhabitants of the cottage were left (in the absence of the cook) to the tough mercies of a neighbouring restaurant. First and foremost among the many good deeds by which the conduct of women claims the gratitude of the other sex, is surely the manner in which they let an unfortunate man master them, without an unworthy suspicion of that circumstance to trouble the charitable serenity of their minds. Carefully on the look-out for any discoveries which might enlighten her, Fanny noticed with ever-increasing interest the effect which the harmless Dane seemed to produce on my lord and the doctor. Every morning, after breakfast, Lord Harry presented himself in the bedroom. Every morning, his courteous interest in his guest expressed itself mechanically in the same form of words: "Mr. Oxbye, how do you find yourself to-day?" Sometimes the answer would be: "Gracious lord, I am suffering pain." Sometimes it was: "Dear and admirable patron, I feel as if I might get well again." On either occasion, Lord Harry listened without looking at Mr. Oxbye--said he was sorry to hear a bad account or glad to hear a good account, without looking at Mr. Oxbye--made a remark on the weather, and took his leave, without looking at Mr. Oxbye. Nothing could be more plain than that his polite inquiries (once a day) were unwillingly made, and that it was always a relief to him to get out of the room. So strongly was Fanny's curiosity excited by this strange behaviour, that she ventured one day to speak to her master. "I am afraid, my lord, you are not hopeful of Mr. Oxbye's recovering?" "Mind your own business," was the savage answer that she received. Fanny never again took the liberty of speaking to him; but she watched him more closely than ever. He was perpetually restless. Now he wandered from one room to another, and walked round and round the garden, smoking incessantly. Now he went out riding, or took the railway to Paris and disappeared for the day. On the rare occasions when he was in a state of repose, he always appeared to have taken refuge in his wife's room; Fanny's keyhole-observation discovered him, thinking miserably, seated in his wife's chair. It seemed to be possible that he was fretting after Lady Harry. But what did his conduct to Mr. Oxbye mean? What was the motive which made him persist, without an attempt at concealment, in keeping out of Mr. Vimpany's way? And, treated in this rude manner, how was it that his wicked friend seemed to be always amused, never offended? As for the doctor's behaviour to his patient, it was, in Fanny's estimation, worthy of a savage. He appeared to feel no sort of interest in the man who had been sent to him from the hospital at his own request, and whose malady it was supposed to be the height of his ambition to cure. When Mr. Oxbye described his symptoms, Mr. Vimpany hardly even made a pretence at listening. With a frowning face he applied the stethoscope, felt the pulse, looked at the tongue--and drew his own conclusions in sullen silence. If the nurse had a favourable report to make, he brutally turned his back on her. If discouraging results of the medical treatment made their appearance at night, and she felt it a duty to mention them, he sneered as if he doubted whether she was speaking the truth. Mr. Oxbye's inexhaustible patience and amiability made endless allowances for his medical advisor. "It is my misfortune to keep my devoted doctor in a state of perpetual anxiety," he used to say; "and we all know what a trial to the temper is the consequence of unrelieved suspense. I believe in Mr. Vimpany." Fanny was careful not to betray her own opinion by making any reply; her doubts of the doctor had, by this time, become terrifying doubts even to herself. Whenever an opportunity favoured her, she vigilantly watched him. One of his ways of finding amusement, in his leisure hours, was in the use of a photographic apparatus. He took little pictures of the rooms in the cottage, which were followed by views in the garden. Those having come to an end, he completed the mystification of the nurse by producing a portrait of the Dane, while he lay asleep one day after he had been improving in health for some little time past. Fanny asked leave to look at the likeness when it had been "printed" from the negative, in the garden. He first examined it himself--and then deliberately tore it up and let the fragments fly away in the wind. "I am not satisfied with it," was all the explanation he offered. One of the garden chairs happened to be near him; he sat down, and looked like a man in a state of torment under his own angry thoughts. If the patient's health had altered for the worse, and if the tendency to relapse had proved to be noticeable after medicine had been administered, Fanny's first suspicions might have taken a very serious turn. But the change in Oxbye--sleeping in purer air and sustained by better food than he could obtain at the hospital--pointed more and more visibly to a decided gain of vital strength. His hollow checks were filling out, and colour was beginning to appear again on the pallor of his skin. Strange as the conduct of Lord Harry and Mr. Vimpany might be, there was no possibility, thus far, of connecting it with the position occupied by the Danish guest. Nobody who had seen his face, when he was first brought to the cottage, could have looked at him again, after the lapse of a fortnight, and have failed to discover the signs which promise recovery of health. CHAPTER XLVIII "THE MISTRESS AND THE MAID" IN the correspondence secretly carried on between the mistress in London and the maid at Passy, it was Fanny Mere's turn to write next. She decided on delaying her reply until she had once more given careful consideration to the first letter received from Lady Harry, announcing her arrival in England, and a strange discovery that had attended it. Before leaving Paris, Iris had telegraphed instructions to Mrs. Vimpany to meet her at the terminus in London. Her first inquiries were for her father. The answer given, with an appearance of confusion and even of shame, was that there was no need to feel anxiety on the subject of Mr. Henley's illness. Relieved on hearing this good news, Iris naturally expressed some surprise at her father's rapid recovery. She asked if the doctors had misunderstood his malady when they believed him to be in danger. To this question Mrs. Vimpany had replied by making an unexpected confession. She owned that Mr. Henley's illness had been at no time of any serious importance. A paragraph in a newspaper had informed her that he was suffering from nothing worse than an attack of gout. It was a wicked act to have exaggerated this report, and to have alarmed Lady Harry on the subject of her father's health. Mrs. Vimpany had but one excuse to offer. Fanny's letter had filled her with such unendurable doubts and forebodings that she had taken the one way of inducing Lady Harry to secure her own safety by at once leaving Passy--the way by a false alarm. Deceit, so sincerely repented, so resolutely resisted, had tried its power of temptation again, and had prevailed. "When I thought of you at the mercy of my vile husband," Mrs. Vimpany said, "with your husband but too surely gained as an accomplice, my good resolutions failed me. Is it only in books that a true repentance never stumbles again? Or am I the one fallible mortal creature in the world? I am ashamed of myself. But, oh, Lady Harry, I was so frightened for you! Try to forgive me; I am so fond of you, and so glad to see you here in safety. Don't go back! For God's sake, don't go back!" Iris had no intention of returning, while the doctor and his patient were still at Passy; and she found in Mrs. Vimpany's compassion good reason to forgive an offence committed through devotion to herself, and atoned for by sincere regret. Fanny looked carefully over the next page of the letter, which described Lady Harry's first interview with Mr. Mountjoy since his illness. The expressions of happiness on renewing her relations with her old and dear friend confirmed the maid in her first impression that there was no fear of a premature return to Passy, with the wish to see Lord Harry again as the motive. She looked over the later letters next--and still the good influence of Mr. Mountjoy seemed to be in time ascendant. There was anxiety felt for Fanny's safety, and curiosity expressed to hear what discoveries she might have made; but the only allusions to my lord contained ordinary inquiries relating to the state of his health, and, on one occasion, there was a wish expressed to know whether he was still on friendly terms with Mr. Vimpany. There seemed to be no fear of tempting her mistress to undervalue the danger of returning to the cottage, if she mentioned the cheering improvement now visible in Mr. Oxbye. And yet Fanny still hesitated to trust her first impressions, even after they had been confirmed. Her own sad experience reminded her of the fatal influence which an unscrupulous man can exercise over the woman who loves him. It was always possible that Lady Harry might not choose to confide the state of her feelings towards her husband to a person who, after all, only occupied the position of her maid. The absence, in her letters, of any expressions of affectionate regret was no proof that she was not thinking of my lord. So far as he was personally concerned, the Dane's prospects of recovery would appear to justify the action of the doctor and his accomplice. Distrusting them both as resolutely as ever, and determined to keep Lady Harry as long as possible at the safe distance of London, Fanny Mere, in writing her reply, preserved a discreet silence on the subject of Mr. Oxbye's health. [At this point Wilkie Collins' health prevented his finishing the novel.] CHAPTER XLIX THE NURSE IS SENT AWAY "YOU have repented and changed your mind, Vimpany?" said Lord Harry. "I repented?" the doctor repeated, with a laugh. "You think me capable of that, do you?" "The man is growing stronger and better every day. You are going to make him recover, after all. I was afraid"--he corrected himself--"I thought"--the word was the truer--"that you were going to poison him." "You thought I was going--we were going, my lord--to commit a stupid and a useless crime. And, with our clever nurse present, all the time watching with the suspicions of a cat, and noting every change in the symptoms? No--I confess his case has puzzled me because I did not anticipate this favourable change. Well--it is all for the best. Fanny sees him grow stronger every day--whatever happens she can testify to the care with which the man has been treated. So far she thought she would have us in her power, and we have her." "You are mighty clever, Vimpany; but sometimes you are too clever for me, and, perhaps, too clever for yourself." "Let me make myself clearer"--conscious of the nurse's suspicions, he leaned forward and whispered: "Fanny must go. Now is the time. The man is recovering. The man must go: the next patient will be your lordship himself. Now do you understand?" "Partly." "Enough. If I am to act it is sufficient for you to understand step by step. Our suspicious nurse is to go. That is the next step. Leave me to act." Lord Harry walked away. He left the thing to the doctor. It hardly seemed to concern him. A dying man; a conspiracy; a fraud:--yet the guilty knowledge of all this gave him small uneasiness. He carried with him his wife's last note: "May I hope to find on my return the man whom I have trusted and honoured?" His conscience, callous as regards the doctor's scheme, filled him with remorse whenever--which was fifty times a day--he took this little rag of a note from his pocket-book and read it again. Yes: she would always find the man, on her return--the man whom she had trusted and honoured--the latter clause he passed over--it would be, of course the same man: whether she would still be able to trust and honour him--that question he did not put to himself. After all, the doctor was acting--not he, himself. And he remembered Hugh Mountjoy. Iris would be with him--the man whose affection was only brought out in the stronger light by his respect, his devotion, and his delicacy. She would be in his society: she would understand the true meaning of this respect and delicacy: she would appreciate the depth of his devotion: she would contrast Hugh, the man she might have married, with himself, the man she did marry. And the house was wretched without her; and he hated the sight of the doctor--desperate and reckless. He resolved to write to Iris: he sat down and poured out his heart, but not his conscience, to her. "As for our separation," he said, "I, and only I, am to blame. It is my own abominable conduct that has caused it. Give me your pardon, dearest Iris. If I have made it impossible for you to live with me, it is also impossible for me to live without you. So am I punished. The house is dull and lonely; the hours crawl, I know not how to kill the time; my life is a misery and a burden because you are not with me. Yet I have no right to complain; I ought to rejoice in thinking that you are happy in being relieved of my presence. My dear, I do not ask you to come at present"--he remembered, indeed, that her arrival at this juncture might be seriously awkward--"I cannot ask you to come back yet, but let me have a little hope--let me feel that in the sweetness of your nature you will believe in my repentance, and let me look forward to a speedy reunion in the future." When he had written this letter, which he would have done better to keep in his own hands for awhile, he directed it in a feigned hand to Lady Harry Norland, care of Hugh Mountjoy, at the latter's London hotel. Mountjoy would not know Iris's correspondent, and would certainly forward the letter. He calculated--with the knowledge of her affectionate and impulsive nature--that Iris would meet him half-way, and would return whenever he should be able to call her back. He did not calculate, as will be seen, on the step which she actually took. The letter despatched, he came back to the cottage happier--he would get his wife again. He looked in at the sick-room. The patient was sitting up, chatting pleasantly; it was the best day he had known; the doctor was sitting in a chair placed beside the bed, and the nurse stood quiet, self-composed, but none the less watchful and suspicious. "You are going on so well, my man," Doctor Vimpany was saying, "That we shall have you out and about again in a day or two. Not quite yet, though--not quite yet," he pulled out his stethoscope and made an examination with an immense show of professional interest. "My treatment has succeeded, you see"--he made a note or two in his pocket-book--"has succeeded," he repeated. "They will have to acknowledge that." "Gracious sir, I am grateful. I have given a great deal too much trouble." "A medical case can never give too much trouble--that is impossible. Remember, Oxbye, it is Science which watches at your bedside. You are not Oxbye; you are a case; it is not a man, it is a piece of machinery that is out of order. Science watches: she sees you through and through. Though you are made of solid flesh and bones, and clothed, to Science you are transparent. Her business is not only to read your symptoms, but to set the machinery right again." The Dane, overwhelmed, could only renew his thanks. "Can he stand, do you think, nurse?" the doctor went on. "Let us try--not to walk about much to-day, but to get out of bed, if only to prove to himself that he is so much better; to make him understand that he is really nearly well. Come, nurse, let us give him a hand." In the most paternal manner possible the doctor assisted his patient, weak, after so long a confinement to his bed, to get out of bed, and supported him while he walked to the open window, and looked out into the garden. "There," he said, "that is enough. Not too much at first. To-morrow he will have to get up by himself. Well, Fanny, you agree at last, I suppose, that I have brought this poor man round? At last, eh?" His look and his words showed what he meant. "You thought that some devilry was intended." That was what the look meant. "You proposed to nurse this man in order to watch for and to discover this devilry. Very well, what have you got to say?" All that Fanny had to say was, submissively, that the man was clearly much better; and, she added, he had been steadily improving ever since he came to the cottage. That is what she said; but she said it without the light of confidence in her eyes--she was still doubtful and suspicious. Whatever power the doctor had of seeing the condition of lungs and hidden machinery, he certainly had the power of reading this woman's thoughts. He saw, as clearly as if upon a printed page, the bewilderment of her mind. She knew that something was intended---something not for her to know. That the man had been brought to the cottage to be made the subject of a scientific experiment she did not believe. She had looked to see him die, but he did not die. He was mending fast; in a little while he would be as well as ever he had been in his life. What had the doctor done it for? Was it really possible that nothing was ever intended beyond a scientific experiment, which had succeeded? In the case of any other man, the woman's doubts would have been entirely removed; in the case of Dr. Vimpany these doubts remained. There are some men of whom nothing good can be believed, whether of motive or of action; for if their acts seem good, their motive must be bad. Many women know, or fancy they know, such a man--one who seems to them wholly and hopelessly bad. Besides, what was the meaning of the secret conversation and the widespread colloquies of the doctor and my lord? And why, at first, was the doctor so careless about his patient? "The time has come at last," said the doctor that evening, when the two men were alone, "for this woman to go. The man is getting well rapidly, he no longer wants a nurse; there is no reason for keeping her. If she has suspicions there is no longer the least foundation for them; she has assisted at the healing of a man desperately sick by a skilful physician. What more? Nothing--positively nothing." "Can she tell my wife so much and no more?" asked Lord Harry. "Will there be no more?" "She can tell her ladyship no more, because she will have no more to tell," the doctor replied quietly. "She would like to learn more; she is horribly disappointed that there is no more to tell; but she shall hear no more. She hates me: but she hates your lordship more." "Why?" "Because her mistress loves you still. Such a woman as this would like to absorb the whole affection of her mistress in herself. You laugh. She is a servant, and a common person. How can such a person conceive an affection so strong as to become a passion for one so superior? But it is true. It is perfectly well known, and there have been many recorded instances of such a woman, say a servant, greatly inferior in station, conceiving a desperate affection for her mistress, accompanied by the fiercest jealousy. Fanny Mere is jealous--and of you. She hates you; she wants your wife to hate you. She would like nothing better than to go back to her mistress with the proofs in her hand of such acts on your part--such acts, I say," he chose his next words carefully, "as would keep her from you for ever." "She's a devil, I dare say," said Lord Harry, carelessly. "What do I care? What does it matter to me whether a lady's maid, more or less, hates me or loves me?" "There spoke the aristocrat. My lord, remember that a lady's maid is a woman. You have been brought up to believe, perhaps, that people in service are not men and women. That is a mistake--a great mistake. Fanny Mere is a woman--that is to say, an inferior form of man; and there is no man in the world so low or so base as not to be able to do mischief. The power of mischief is given to every one of us. It is the true, the only Equality of Man--we can all destroy. What? a shot in the dark; the striking of a lucifer match; the false accusation; the false witness; the defamation of character;--upon my word, it is far more dangerous to be hated by a woman than by a man. And this excellent and faithful Fanny, devoted to her mistress, hates you, my lord, even more"--he paused and laughed--"even more than the charming Mrs. Vimpany hates her husband. Never mind. To-morrow we see the last of Fanny Mere. She goes; she leaves her patient rapidly recovering. That is the fact that she carries away--not the fact she hoped and expected to carry away. She goes to-morrow and she will never come back again." The next morning the doctor paid a visit to his patient rather earlier than usual. He found the man going on admirably: fresh in colour, lively and cheerful, chatting pleasantly with his nurse. "So," said Dr. Vimpany, after the usual examination and questions, "this is better than I expected. You are now able to get up. You can do so by-and-by, after breakfast; you can dress yourself, you want no more help. Nurse," he turned to Fanny, "I think that we have done with you. I am satisfied with the careful watch you have kept over my patient. If ever you think of becoming a nurse by profession, rely on my recommendation. The experiment," he added, thoughtfully, "has fully succeeded. I cannot deny that it has been owing partly to the intelligence and patience with which you have carried out my instructions. But I think that your services may now be relinquished." "When am I to go, sir?" she asked, impassively. "In any other case I should have said, 'Stay a little longer, if you please. Use your own convenience.' In your case I must say, 'Go to your mistress.' Her ladyship was reluctant to leave you behind. She will be glad to have you back again. How long will you take to get ready?" "I could be ready in ten minutes, if it were necessary." "That is not necessary. You can take the night mail _via_ Dieppe and Newhaven. It leaves Paris at 9.50. Give yourself an hour to get from station to station. Any time, therefore, this evening before seven o'clock will do perfectly well. You will ask his lordship for any letters or messages he may have." "Yes, sir," Fanny replied. "With your permission, sir, I will go at once, so as to get a whole day in Paris." "As you please, as you please," said the doctor, wondering why she wanted a day in Paris; but it could have nothing to do with his sick man. He left the room, promising to see the Dane again in an hour or two, and took up a position at the garden gate through which the nurse must pass. In about half an hour she walked down the path carrying her box. The doctor opened the gate for her. "Good-bye, Fanny," he said. "Again, many thanks for your care and your watchfulness--especially the latter. I am very glad," he said, with what he meant for the sweetest smile, but it looked like a grin, "that it has been rewarded in such a way as you hardly perhaps expected." "Thank you, sir," said the girl. "The man is nearly well now, and can do without me very well indeed." "The box is too heavy for you, Fanny. Nay, I insist upon it: I shall carry it to the station for you." It was not far to the station, and the box was not too heavy, but Fanny yielded it. "He wants to see me safe out of the station," she thought. "I will see her safe out of the place," he thought. Ten minutes later the doors of the _salle d'attente_ were thrown open, the train rolled in, and Fanny was carried away. The doctor returned thoughtfully to the house. The time was come for the execution of his project. Everybody was out of the way. "She is gone," he said, when Lord Harry returned for breakfast at eleven. "I saw her safely out of the station." "Gone!" his confederate echoed: "and I am alone in the house with you and--and----" "The sick man--henceforth, yourself, my lord, yourself." CHAPTER L IN THE ALCOVE THE doctor was wrong. Fanny Mere did return, though he did not discover the fact. She went away in a state of mind which is dangerous when it possesses a woman of determination. The feminine mind loves to understand motives and intentions; it hates to be puzzled. Fanny was puzzled. Fanny could not understand what had been intended and what was now meant. For, first, a man, apparently dying, had been brought into the house--why? Then the man began slowly to recover, and the doctor, whose attentions had always been of the most slender character, grew more morose every day. Then he suddenly, on the very day when he sent her away, became cheerful, congratulated the patient on his prospect of recovery, and assisted in getting him out of bed for a change. The cook having been sent away, there was now no one in the house but the Dane, the doctor, and Lord Harry. Man hunts wild creatures; woman hunts man. Fanny was impelled by the hunting instinct. She was sent out of the house to prevent her hunting; she began to consider next, how, without discovery, she could return and carry on the hunt. Everything conspired to drive her back: the mystery of the thing; the desire to baffle, or at least to discover, a dark design; the wish to be of service to her mistress; and the hope of finding out something which would keep Iris from going back to her husband. Fanny was unable to comprehend the depth of her mistress's affection for Lord Harry; but that she was foolishly, weakly in love with him, and that she would certainly return to him unless plain proofs of real villainy were prepared--so much Fanny understood very well. When the omnibus set her down, she found a quiet hotel near the terminus for Dieppe. She spent the day walking about--to see the shops and streets, she would have explained; to consider the situation, she should have explained. She bought a new dress, a new hat, and a thick veil, so as to be disguised at a distance. As for escaping the doctor's acuteness by any disguise should he meet her face to face, that was impossible. But her mind was made up--she would run any risk, meet any danger, in order to discover the meaning of all this. Next morning she returned by an omnibus service which would allow her to reach the cottage at about a quarter-past eleven. She chose this time for two reasons: first, because breakfast was sent in from the restaurant at eleven, and the two gentlemen would certainly be in the _salle 'a manger_ over that meal; and, next, because the doctor always visited his patient after breakfast. She could, therefore, hope to get in unseen, which was the first thing. The spare bedroom--that assigned to the patient--was on the ground-floor next to the dining-room; it communicated with the garden by French windows, and by a small flight of steps. Fanny walked cautiously along the road past the garden-gate; a rapid glance assured her that no one was there; she hastily opened the gate and slipped in. She knew that the windows of the sick-room were closed on the inner side, and the blinds were still down. The patient, therefore, had not yet been disturbed or visited. The windows of the dining-room were on the other side of the house. The woman therefore slipped round to the back, where she found, as she expected, the door wide open. In the hall she heard the voices of the doctor and Lord Harry and the clicking of knives and forks. They were at breakfast. One thing more--What should she say to Oxbye? What excuse should she make for coming back? How should she persuade him to keep silence about her presence? His passion suggested a plan and a reason. She had come back, she would tell him, for love of him, to watch over him, unseen by the doctor, to go away with him when he was strong enough to travel. He was a simple and a candid soul, and he would fall into such a little innocent conspiracy. Meantime, it would be quite easy for her to remain in the house perfectly undisturbed and unknown to either of the gentlemen. She opened the door and looked in. So far, no reason would be wanted. The patient was sleeping peacefully. But not in the bed. He was lying, partly dressed and covered with a blanket, on the sofa. With the restlessness of convalescence he had changed his couch in the morning after a wakeful night, and was now sleeping far into the morning. The bed, as is common in French houses, stood in an alcove. A heavy curtain hung over a rod, also in the French manner. Part of this curtain lay over the head of the bed. The woman perceived the possibility of using the curtain as a means of concealment. There was a space of a foot between the bed and the wall. She placed herself, therefore, behind the bed, in this space, at the head, where the curtain entirely concealed her. Nothing was more unlikely than that the doctor should look behind the bed in that corner. Then with her scissors she pierced a hole in the curtain large enough for her to see perfectly without the least danger of being seen, and she waited to see what would happen. She waited for half an hour, during which the sleeping man slept on without movement, and the voices of the two men in the _salle 'a manger_ rose and fell in conversation. Presently there was silence, broken only by an occasional remark. "They have lit their cigars," Fanny murmured; "they will take their coffee, and in a few minutes they will be here." When they came in a few minutes later, they had their cigars, and Lord Harry's face was slightly flushed, perhaps with the wine he had taken at breakfast--perhaps with the glass of brandy after his coffee. The doctor threw himself into a chair and crossed his legs, looking thoughtfully at his patient. Lord Harry stood over him. "Every day," he said, "the man gets better." "He has got better every day, so far," said the doctor. "Every day his face gets fatter, and he grows less like me." "It is true," said the doctor. "Then--what the devil are we to do?" "Wait a little longer," said the doctor. The woman in her hiding-place hardly dared to breathe. "What?" asked Lord Harry. "You mean that the man, after all--" "Wait a little longer," the doctor repeated quietly. "Tell me"--Lord Harry bent over the sick man eagerly--"you think----" "Look here," the doctor said. "Which of us two has had a medical education--you, or I?" "You, of course." "Yes; I, of course. Then I tell you, as a medical man, that appearances are sometimes deceptive. This man, for instance--he looks better; he thinks he is recovering; he feels stronger. You observe that he is fatter in the face. His nurse, Fanny Mere, went away with the knowledge that he was much better, and the conviction that he was about to leave the house as much recovered as such a patient with such a disorder can expect." "Well?" "Well, my lord, allow me to confide in you. Medical men mostly keep their knowledge in such matters to themselves. We know and recognise symptoms which to you are invisible. By these symptoms--by those symptoms," he repeated slowly and looking hard at the other man, "I know that this man--no longer Oxbye, my patient, but--another--is in a highly dangerous condition. I have noted the symptoms in my book"--he tapped his pocket--"for future use." "And when--when----" Lord Harry was frightfully pale. His lips moved, but he could not finish the sentence. The Thing he had agreed to was terribly near, and it looked uglier than he had expected. "Oh! when?" the doctor replied carelessly. "Perhaps to-day--perhaps in a week. Here, you see, Science is sometimes baffled. I cannot say." Lord Harry breathed deeply. "If the man is in so serious a condition," he said, "is it safe or prudent for us to be alone in the house without a servant and without a nurse?" "I was not born yesterday, my lord, I assure you," said the doctor in his jocular way. "They have found me a nurse. She will come to-day. My patient's life is, humanly speaking"--Lord Harry shuddered--"perfectly safe until her arrival." "Well--but she is a stranger. She must know whom she is nursing." "Certainly. She will be told--I have already told her--that she is going to nurse Lord Harry Norland, a young Irish gentleman. She is a stranger. That is the most valuable quality she possesses. She is a complete stranger. As for you, what are you? Anything you please. An English gentleman staying with me under the melancholy circumstances of his lordship's illness. What more natural? The English doctor is staying with his patient, and the English friend is staying with the doctor. When the insurance officer makes inquiries, as he is very likely to do, the nurse will be invaluable for the evidence she will give." He rose, pulled up the blinds noiselessly, and opened the windows. Neither the fresh air nor the light awoke the sleeping man. Vimpany looked at his watch. "Time for the medicine," he said. "Wake him up while I get it ready." "Would you not--at least---suffer him to have his sleep out?" asked Lord Harry, again turning pale. "Wake him up. Shake him by the shoulder. Do as I tell you," said the doctor, roughly. "He will go to sleep again. It is one of the finer qualities of my medicine that it sends people to sleep. It is a most soothing medicine. It causes a deep--a profound sleep. Wake him up, I say." he went to the cupboard in which the medicines were kept. Lord Harry with some difficulty roused the sick man, who awoke dull and heavy, asking why he was disturbed. "Time for your medicine, my good fellow," said the doctor. "Take it, and you shall not be disturbed again--I promise you that." The door of the cupboard prevented the spy from seeing what the doctor was doing; but he took longer than usual in filling the glass. Lord Harry seemed to observe this, for he left the Dane and looked over the doctor's shoulder. "What are you doing?" he asked in a whisper. "Better not inquire, my lord," said the doctor. "What do you know about the mysteries of medicine?" "Why must I not inquire?" Vimpany turned, closing the cupboard behind him. In his hand was a glass full of the stuff he was about to administer. "If you look in the glass," he said, "you will understand why." Lord Harry obeyed. He saw a face ghastly in pallor: he shrank back and fell into a chair, saying no more. "Now, my good friend," said the doctor, "drink this and you'll be better--ever so much better, ever so much better. Why--that is brave----" he looked at him strangely, "How do you like the medicine?" Oxbye shook his head as a man who has taken something nauseous. "I don't like it at all," he said. "It doesn't taste like the other physic." "No I have been changing it--improving it." The Dane shook his head again. "There's a pain in my throat," he said; "it stings--it burns!" "Patience--patience. It will pass away directly, and you will lie down again and fall asleep comfortably." Oxbye sank back upon the sofa. His eyes closed. Then he opened them again, looking about him strangely, as one who is suffering some new experience. Again he shook his head, again he closed his eyes, and he opened them no more. He was asleep. The doctor stood at his head watching gravely. Lord Harry, in his chair, leaned forward, also watching, but with white face and trembling hands. As they watched, the man's head rolled a little to the side, turning his face more towards the room. Then a curious and terrifying thing happened. His mouth began slowly to fall open. "Is he--is he--is he fainting?" Lord Harry whispered. "No; he is asleep. Did you never see a man sleep with his mouth wide open?" They were silent for a space. The doctor broke the silence. "There's a good light this morning," he said carelessly. "I think I will try a photograph. Stop! Let me tie up his mouth with a handkerchief--so." The patient was not disturbed by the operation, though the doctor tied up the handkerchief with vigour enough to awaken a sound sleeper. "Now--we'll see if he looks like a post-mortem portrait." He went into the next room, and returned with his camera. In a few minutes he had taken the picture, and was holding the glass negative against the dark sleeve of his coat, so as to make it visible. "We shall see how it looks," he said, "when it is printed. At present I don't think it is good enough as an imitation of you to be sent to the insurance offices. Nobody, I am afraid, who knew you, would ever take this for a post-mortem portrait of Lord Harry. Well, we shall see. Perhaps by-and-by--to-morrow--we may be able to take a better photograph. Eh?" Lord Harry followed his movements, watching him closely, but said nothing. His face remained pale and his fingers still trembled. There was now no doubt at all in his mind, not only as to Vimpany's intentions, but as to the crime itself. He dared not speak or move. A ring at the door pealed through the house. Lord Harry started in his chair with a cry of terror. "That," said the doctor, quietly, "is the nurse--the new nurse---the stranger." He took off the handkerchief from Oxbye's face, looked about the room as if careful that everything should be in its right place, and went out to admit the woman. Lord Harry sprang to his feet and passed his hand over the sick man's face. "Is it done?" he whispered. "Can the man be poisoned? Is he already dead?--already? Before my eyes?" He laid his finger on the sick man's pulse. But the doctor's step and voice stopped him. Then the nurse came in, following Vimpany. She was an elderly, quiet-looking French woman. Lord Harry remained standing at the side of the sofa, hoping to see the man revive. "Now," said Vimpany, cheerfully, "here is your patient, nurse. He is asleep now. Let him have his sleep out--he has taken his medicine and will want nothing more yet awhile. If you want anything let me know. We shall be in the next room or in the garden--somewhere about the house. Come, my friend." He drew away Lord Harry gently by the arm, and they left the room. Behind the curtain Fanny Mere began to wonder how she was to get off unseen. The nurse, left alone, looked at her patient, who lay with his head turned partly round, his eyes closed, his mouth open. "A strange sleep," she murmured; "but the doctor knows, I suppose. He is to have his sleep out." "A strange sleep, indeed!" thought the watcher. She was tempted at this moment to disclose herself and to reveal what she had seen; but the thought of Lord Harry's complicity stopped her. With what face could she return to her mistress and tell her that she herself was the means of her husband being charged with murder? She stayed herself, therefore, and waited. Chance helped her, at last, to escape. The nurse took off her bonnet and shawl and began to look about the room. She stepped to the bed and examined the sheets and pillow-case as a good French housewife should. Would she throw back the curtain? If so--what would happen next? Then it would become necessary to take the new nurse into confidence, otherwise----Fanny did not put the remainder of this sentence into words. It remained a terror: it meant that if Vimpany found out where she had been and what she had seen and heard, there would be two, instead of one, cast into a deep slumber. The nurse turned from the bed, however, attracted by the half-open door of the cupboard. Here were the medicine bottles. She took them out one by one, looked at them with professional curiosity, pulled out the corks, smelt the contents, replaced the bottles. Then she went to the window, which stood open; she stepped out upon the stone steps which led into the garden, looking about her, to breathe the soft air of noon among the flowers. She came back, and it again seemed as if she would examine the bed, but her attention was attracted by a small book-case. She began to pull down the books one after the other and to turn them over, as a half-educated person does, in the hope of finding something amusing. She found a book with pictures. Then she sat down in the armchair beside the sofa and began to turn over the leaves slowly. How long was this going to last? It lasted about half an hour. The nurse laid down the volume with a yawn, stretched herself, yawned again, crossed her hands, and closed her eyes. She was going to sleep. If she would only fall so fast asleep that the woman behind the curtain could creep away! But sometimes at the sleepiest moment sleep is driven away by an accident. The accident in this case was that the nurse before finally dropping off remembered that she was nursing a sick man, and sat up to look at him before she allowed herself to drop off. Stung with sudden inspiration she sprang to her feet and bent over the man. "Does he breathe?" she asked. She bent lower. "His pulse! does it beat?" she caught his wrist. "Doctor!" she shrieked, running into the garden. "Doctor! Come--come quick! He is dead!" Fanny Mere stepped from her hiding-place and ran out of the back door, and by the garden gate into the road. She had escaped. She had seen the crime committed. She knew now at least what was intended and why she was sent away. The motive for the crime she could not guess. CHAPTER LI WHAT NEXT? WHAT should she do with the terrible secret? She ought to inform the police. But there were two objections. First, the nurse may have been mistaken in supposing her patient to be dead. She herself had no choice but to escape as she did. Next, the dreadful thought occurred to her that she herself until the previous day had been the man's nurse--his only nurse, day and night. What was to prevent the doctor from fixing the guilt of poisoning upon herself? Nay; it would be his most obvious line of action. The man was left alone all the morning; the day before he had shown every sign of returning strength; she would have to confess that she was in hiding. How long had she been there? Why was she in hiding? Was it not after she had poisoned the man and when she heard the doctor's footstep? Naturally ignorant of poisons and their symptoms, it seemed to her as if these facts so put together would be conclusive against her. Therefore, she determined to keep quiet in Paris that day and to cross over by the night boat from Dieppe in the evening. She would at first disclose everything to Mrs. Vimpany and to Mountjoy. As to what she would tell her mistress she would be guided by the advice of the others. She got to London in safety and drove straight to Mr. Mountjoy's hotel, proposing first to communicate the whole business to him. But she found in his sitting-room Mrs. Vimpany herself. "We must not awake him," she said, "whatever news you bring. His perfect recovery depends entirely on rest and quiet. There"--she pointed to the chimneypiece--"is a letter in my lady's handwriting. I am afraid I know only too well what it tells him." "What does it tell?" "This very morning," Mrs. Vimpany went on, "I called at her lodging. She has gone away." "Gone away? My lady gone away? Where is she gone?" "Where do you think she is most likely to have gone?" "Not?--oh!--not to her husband? Not to him!--oh! this is more terrible--far more terrible--than you can imagine." "You will tell me why it is now so much more terrible. Meantime, I find that the cabman was told to drive to Victoria. That is all I know. I have no doubt, however, but that she has gone back to her husband. She has been in a disturbed, despondent condition ever since she arrived in London. Mr. Mountjoy has been as kind as usual: but he has not been able to chase away her sadness. Whether she was fretting after her husband, or whether--but this I hardly think--she was comparing the man she had lost with the man she had taken--but I do not know. All I do know is that she has been uneasy ever since she came from France, and what I believe is that she has been reproaching herself with leaving her husband without good cause." "Good cause!" echoed Fanny. "Oh! good gracious! If she only knew, there's cause enough to leave a hundred husbands." "Nothing seemed to rouse her," Mrs. Vimpany continued, without regarding the interruption. "I went with her to the farm to see her former maid, Rhoda. The girl's health is re-established; she is engaged to marry the farmer's brother. Lady Harry was kind, and said the most pleasant things; she even pulled off one of her prettiest rings and gave it to the girl. But I could see that it was an effort for her to appear interested--her thoughts were with her husband all the time. I was sure it would end in this way, and I am not in the least surprised. But what will Mr. Mountjoy say when he opens the letter?" "Back to her husband!" Fanny repeated. "Oh! what shall we do?" "Tell me what you mean. What has happened?" "I must tell you. I thought I would tell Mr. Mountjoy first: but I must tell you, although--" She stopped. "Although it concerns my husband. Never mind that consideration--go on." Fanny told the story from the beginning. When she had finished, Mrs. Vimpany looked towards the bedroom door. "Thank God!" she said, "that you told this story to me instead of to Mr. Mountjoy. At all events, it gives me time to warn you not to tell him what you have told me. We can do nothing. Meantime, there is one thing you must do--go away. Do not let Mr. Mountjoy find you here. He must not learn your story. If he hears what has happened and reads her letter, nothing will keep him from following her to Passy. He will see that there is every prospect of her being entangled in this vile conspiracy, and he will run any risk in the useless attempt to save her. He is too weak to bear the journey--far too weak for the violent emotions that will follow; and, oh! how much too weak to cope with my husband--as strong and as crafty as he is unprincipled! "Then, what, in Heaven's name, are we to do?" "Anything--anything--rather than suffer Mr. Mountjoy, in his weak state, to interfere between man and wife." "Yes--yes--but such a man! Mrs. Vimpany, he was present when the Dane was poisoned. He _knew_ that the man was poisoned. He sat in the chair, his face white, and he said nothing. Oh! It was as much as I could do not to rush out and dash the glass from his hands. Lord Harry said nothing." "My dear, do you not understand what you have got to do?" Fanny made no reply. "Consider--my husband---Lord Harry--neither of them knows that you were present. You can return with the greatest safety; and then whatever happens, you will be at hand to protect my lady. Consider, again, as her maid, you can be with her always--in her own room; at night; everywhere and at all times; while Mr. Mountjoy could only be with her now and then, and at the price of not quarrelling with her husband." "Yes," said Fanny. "And you are strong, and Mr. Mountjoy is weak and ill." "You think that I should go back to Passy?" "At once, without the delay of an hour. Lady Harry started last night. Do you start this evening. She will thus have you with her twenty-four hours after her arrival." Fanny rose. "I will go," she said. "It terrifies me even to think of going back to that awful cottage with that dreadful man. Yet I will go. Mrs. Vimpany, I know that it will be of no use. Whatever is going to happen now will happen without any power of mine to advance or to prevent. I am certain that my journey will prove useless. But I will go. Yes, I will go this evening." Then, with a final promise to write as soon as possible--as soon as there should be anything to communicate--Fanny went away. Mrs. Vimpany, alone, listened. From the bedroom came no sound at all. Mr. Mountjoy slept still. When he should be strong enough it would be time to let him know what had been done. But she sat thinking--thinking--even when one has the worst husband in the world, and very well knows his character, it is disagreeable to hear such a story as Fanny had told that wife this morning. CHAPTER LII THE DEAD MAN'S PHOTOGRAPH "HE is quite dead," said the doctor, with one finger on the man's pulse and another lifting his eyelid. "He is dead. I did not look for so speedy an end. It is not half an hour since I left him breathing peacefully. Did he show signs of consciousness?" "No, sir; I found him dead." "This morning he was cheerful. It is not unusual in these complaints. I have observed it in many cases of my own experience. On the last morning of life, at the very moment when Death is standing on the threshold with uplifted dart, the patient is cheerful and even joyous: he is more hopeful than he has felt for many months: he thinks--nay, he is sure--that he is recovering: he says he shall be up and about before long: he has not felt so strong since the beginning of his illness. Then Death strikes him, and he falls." He made this remark in a most impressive manner. "Nothing remains," he said, "but to certify the cause of death and to satisfy the proper forms and authorities. I charge myself with this duty. The unfortunate young man belonged to a highly distinguished family. I will communicate with his friends and forward his papers. One last office I can do for him. For the sake of his family, nurse, I will take a last photograph of him as he lies upon his death-bed." Lord Harry stood in the doorway, listening with an aching and a fearful heart. He dared not enter the chamber. It was the Chamber of Death. What was his own part in calling the Destroying Angel who is at the beck and summons of every man--even the meanest? Call him and he comes. Order him to strike--and he obeys. But under penalties. The doctor's prophecy, then, had come true. But in what way and by what agency? The man was dead. What was his own share in the man's death? He knew when the Dane was brought into the house that he was brought there to die. As the man did not die, but began to recover fast, he had seen in the doctor's face that the man would have to die. He had heard the doctor prophesy out of his medical knowledge that the man would surely die; and then, after the nurse had been sent away because her patient required her services no longer, he had seen the doctor give the medicine which burned the patient's throat. What was that medicine? Not only had it burned his throat, but it caused him to fall into a deep sleep, in which his heart ceased to beat and his blood ceased to flow. He turned away and walked out of the cottage. For an hour he walked along the road. Then he stopped and walked back. Ropes drew him; he could no longer keep away. He felt as if something must have happened. Possibly he would find the doctor arrested and the police waiting for himself, to be charged as an accomplice or a principal. He found no such thing. The doctor was in the salon, with letters and official forms before him. He looked up cheerfully. "My English friend," he said, "the unexpected end of this young Irish gentleman is a very melancholy affair. I have ascertained the name of the family solicitors and have written to them. I have also written to his brother as the head of the house. I find also, by examination of his papers, that his life is insured--the amount is not stated, but I have communicated the fact of the death. The authorities--they are, very properly, careful in such matters--have received the necessary notices and forms: to-morrow, all legal forms having been gone through, we bury the deceased." "So soon?" "So soon? In these eases of advanced pulmonary disease the sooner the better. The French custom of speedy interment may be defended as more wholesome than our own. On the other hand, I admit that it has its weak points. Cremation is, perhaps, the best and only method of removing the dead which is open to no objections except one. I mean, of course, the chance that the deceased may have met with his death by means of poison. But such cases are rare, and, in most instances, would be detected by the medical man in attendance before or at the time of death. I think we need not----My dear friend, you look ill. Are you upset by such a simple thing as the death of a sick man? Let me prescribe for you. A glass of brandy neat. So," he went into the _salle 'a manger_ and returned with his medicine. "Take that. Now let us talk." The doctor continued his conversation in a cheerfully scientific strain, never alluding to the conspiracy or to the consequences which might follow. He told hospital stories bearing on deaths sudden and unexpected; some of them he treated in a jocular vein. The dead man in the next room was a Case: he knew of many similar and equally interesting Cases. When one has arrived at looking upon a dead man as a Case, there is little fear of the ordinary human weakness which makes us tremble in the awful presence of death. Presently steps were heard outside. The doctor rose and left the room--but returned in a few minutes. "The _croque-morts_ have come," he said. "They are with the nurse engaged upon their business. It seems revolting to the outside world. To them it is nothing but the daily routine of work. By-the-way, I took a photograph of his lordship in the presence of the nurse. Unfortunately--but look at it----" "It is the face of the dead man"--Lord Harry turned away. "I don't want to see it. I cannot bear to see it. You forget--I was actually present when--" "Not when he died. Come, don't be a fool. What I was going to say was this: The face is no longer in the least like you. Nobody who ever saw you once even would believe that this is your face. The creature--he has given us an unconscionable quantity of trouble--was a little like you when he first came. I was wrong in supposing that this likeness was permanent. Now he is dead, he is not in the least like you. I ought to have remembered that the resemblance would fade away and disappear in death. Come and look at him." "No, no." "Weakness! Death restores to every man his individuality. No two men are like in death, though they may be like in life. Well. It comes to this. We are going to bury Lord Harry Norland to-morrow, and we must have a photograph of him as he lay on his deathbed." "Well?" "Well, my friend, go upstairs to your own room, and I will follow with the camera." In a quarter of an hour he was holding the glass against his sleeve. "Admirable!" he said. "The cheek a little sunken--that was the effect of the chalk and the adjustment of the shadows--the eyes closed, the face white, the hands composed. It is admirable! Who says that we cannot make the sun tell lies?" As soon as he could get a print of the portrait, he gave it to Lord Harry. "There," he said, "we shall get a better print to-morrow. This is the first copy." He had mounted it on a frame of card, and had written under it the name once borne by the dead man, with the date of his death. The picture seemed indeed that of a dead man. Lord Harry shuddered. "There," he said, "everything else has been of no use to us--the presence of the sick man--the suspicions of the nurse--his death--even his death--has been of no use to us. We might have been spared the memory--the awful memory--of this death!" "You forget, my English friend, that a dead body was necessary for us. We had to bury somebody. Why not the man Oxbye?" CHAPTER LIII THE WIFE'S RETURN OF course Mrs. Vimpany was quite right. Iris had gone back to her husband. She arrived, in fact, at the cottage in the evening just before dark--in the falling day, when some people are more than commonly sensitive to sights and sounds, and when the eyes are more apt than at other times to be deceived by strange appearances. Iris walked into the garden, finding no one there. She opened the door with her own key and let herself in. The house struck her as strangely empty and silent. She opened the dining-room door: no one was there. Like all French dining-rooms, it was used for no other purpose than for eating, and furnished with little more than the barest necessaries. She closed the door and opened that of the salon: that also was empty. She called her husband: there was no answer. She called the name of the cook: there was no answer. It was fortunate that she did not open the door of the spare room, for there lay the body of the dead man. She went upstairs to her husband's room. That too was empty. But there was something lying on the table--a photograph. She took it up. Her face became white suddenly and swiftly. She shrieked aloud, then drooped the picture and fell fainting to the ground. For the photograph was nothing less than that of her husband, dead in his white graveclothes, his hands composed, his eyes closed, his cheek waxen. The cry fell upon the ears of Lord Harry, who was in the garden below. He rushed into the house and lifted his wife upon the bed. The photograph showed him plainly what had happened. She came to her senses again, but seeing her husband alive before her, and remembering what she had seen, she shrieked again, and fell into another swoon. "What is to be done now?" asked the husband. "What shall I tell her? How shall I make her understand? What can I do for her?" As for help, there was none: the nurse was gone on some errand; the doctor was arranging for the funeral of Oxbye under the name of Lord Harry Norland; the cottage was empty. Such a fainting fit does not last for ever. Iris came round, and sat up, looking wildly around. "What is it?" she cried. "What does it mean?" "It means, my love, that you have returned to your husband." He laid an arm round her, and kissed her again and again. "You are my Harry!--living!--my own Harry?" "Your own Harry, my darling. What else should I be?" "Tell me then, what does it mean--that picture--that horrid photograph?" "That means nothing--nothing--a freak--a joke of the doctor's. What could it mean?" He took it up. "Why, my dear, I am living--living and well. What should this mean but a joke?" He laid it on the table again, face downwards. But her eyes showed that she was not satisfied. Men do not make jokes on death; it is a sorry jest indeed to dress up a man in grave-clothes, and make a photograph of him as of one dead. "But you--you, my Iris; you are here--tell me how and why--and when, and everything? Never mind that stupid picture: tell me." "I got your letter, Harry," she replied. "My letter?" he repeated. "Oh! my dear, you got my letter, and you saw that your husband loved you still." "I could not keep away from you, Harry, whatever had happened. I stayed as long as I could. I thought about you day and night. And at last I--I--I came back. Are you angry with me, Harry?" "Angry? Good God! my dearest, angry?" He kissed her passionately--not the less passionately that she had returned at a time so terrible. What was he to say to her? How was he to tell her? While he showered kisses on her he was asking himself these questions. When she found out--when he should confess to her the whole truth--she would leave him again. Yet he did not understand the nature of the woman who loves. He held her in his arms; his kisses pleaded for him; they mastered her--she was ready to believe, to accept, to surrender even her truth and honesty; and she was ready, though she knew it not, to become the accomplice of a crime. Rather than leave her husband again, she would do everything. Yet, Lord Harry felt there was one reservation: he might confess everything, except the murder of the Dane. No word of confession had passed the doctor's lips, yet he knew too well that the man had been murdered; and, so far as the man had been chosen for his resemblance to himself, that was perfectly useless, because the resemblance, though striking at the first, had been gradually disappearing as the man Oxbye grew better; and was now, as we have seen, wholly lost after death. "I have a great deal--a great deal--to tell you, dear," said the husband, holding both her hands tenderly. "You will have to be very patient with me. You must make up your mind to be shocked at first, though I shall be able to convince you that there was really nothing else to be done--nothing else at all." "Oh! go on, Harry. Tell me all. Hide nothing." "I will tell you all," he replied. "First, where is that poor man whom the doctor brought here and Fanny nursed? And where is Fanny?" "The poor man," he replied carelessly, "made so rapid a recovery that he has got on his legs and gone away--I believe, to report himself to the hospital whence he came. It is a great triumph for the doctor, whose new treatment is now proved to be successful. He will make a grand flourish of trumpets about it. I dare say, if all he claims for it is true, he has taken a great step in the treatment of lung diseases." Iris had no disease of the lungs, and consequently cared very little for the scientific aspect of the question. "Where is my maid, then?" "Fanny? She went away--let me see: to-day is Friday--on Wednesday morning. It was no use keeping her here. The man was well, and she was anxious to get back to you. So she started on Wednesday morning, proposing to take the night boat from Dieppe. She must have stopped somewhere on the way." "I suppose she will go to see Mrs. Vimpany. I will send her a line there." "Certainly. That will be sure to find her." "Well, Harry, is there anything else to tell me? "A great deal," he repeated. "That photograph, Iris, which frightened you so much, has been very carefully taken by Vimpany for a certain reason." "What reason?" "There are occasions," he replied, "when the very best thing that can happen to a man is the belief that he is dead. Such a juncture of affairs has happened to myself--and to you--at this moment. It is convenient--even necessary--for me that the world should believe me dead. In point of fact, I must be dead henceforth. Not for anything that I have done, or that I am afraid of--don't think that. No; it is for the simple reason that I have no longer any money or any resources whatever. That is why I must be dead. Had you not returned in this unexpected manner, my dear, you would have heard of my death from the doctor, and he would have left it to chance to find a convenient opportunity of letting you know the truth. I am, however, deeply grieved that I was so careless as to leave that photograph upon the table." "I do not understand," she said. "You pretend to be dead?" "Yes. I _must_ have money. I have some left--a very little. I _must_ have money; and, in order to get it, I must be dead." "How will that help?" "Why, my dear, I am insured, and my insurances will be paid after my death; but not before." "Oh! must you get money--even by a----" She hesitated. "Call it a conspiracy, my dear, if you please. As there is no other way whatever left, I must get money that way." "Oh, this is dreadful! A conspiracy, Harry? a--a--fraud?" "If you please. That is the name which lawyers give to it." "But oh, Harry!--it is a crime. It is a thing for which men are tried and found guilty and sentenced." "Certainly; if they are found out. Meantime, it is only the poor, ignorant, clumsy fool who gets found out. In the City these things are done every day. Quite as a matter of course," he added carelessly. "It is not usual for men to take their wives into confidence, but in this case I must take you into confidence: I have no choice, as you will understand directly." "Tell me, Harry, who first thought of this way?" "Vimpany, of course. Oh! give him the credit where real cleverness is concerned. Vimpany suggested the thing. He found me well-nigh as desperately hard up as he is himself. He suggested it. At first, I confess, I did not like it. I refused to listen to any more talk about it. But, you see, when one meets destitution face to face, one will do anything--everything. Besides, as I will show you, this is not really a fraud. It is only an anticipation of a few years. However, there was another reason." "Was it to find the money to meet the promissory note?" "My dear, you may forget--you may resolve never to throw the thing in my teeth; but my love for you will never suffer me to forget that I have lost your little fortune in a doubtful speculation. It is all gone, never to be recovered again; and this after I had sworn never to touch a farthing of it. Iris!"--he started to his feet and walked about the room as one who is agitated by emotion--"Iris! I could face imprisonment for debt, I could submit to pecuniary ruin, for that matter; the loss of money would not cause me the least trouble, but I cannot endure to have ruined you." "Oh! Harry, as if I mind. Everything that I have is yours. When I gave you myself I gave all. Take--use--lose it all. As you think, I should never _feel_ reproach, far less utter a word of blame. Dearest Harry, if that is all--" "No; it is the knowledge that you will not even feel reproach that is my constant accuser. At my death you will get all back again. But I am not old; I may live for many, many years to come. How can I wait for my own death when I can repair this wickedness by a single stroke?" "But by another wickedness--and worse." "No--not another crime. Remember that this money is mine. It will come to my heirs some day, as surely as to-morrow's sun will rise. Sooner or later it will be mine; I will make it sooner, that is all. The Insurance Company will lose nothing but the paltry interest for the remainder of my life. My dear, if it is disgraceful to do this I will endure disgrace. It is easier to bear that than constant self-reproach which I feel when I think of you and the losses I have inflicted upon you." Again he folded her in his arms; he knelt before her; he wept over her. Carried out of herself by this passion, Iris made no more resistance. "Is it--is it," she asked timidly, "too late to draw back?" "It is too late," he replied, thinking of the dead man below. "It is too late. All is completed." "My poor Harry! What shall we do? How shall we live? How shall we contrive never to be found out?" She would not leave him, then. She accepted the situation. He was amazed at the readiness with which she fell; but he did not understand how she was ready to cling to him, for better for worse, through worse evils than this; nor could he understand how things formerly impossible to her had been rendered possible by the subtle deterioration of the moral nature, when a woman of lofty mind at the beginning loves and is united to a man of lower nature and coarser fibre than herself. Only a few months before, Iris would have swept aside these sophistrics with swift and resolute hand. Now she accepted them. "You have fallen into the doctor's hands, dear," she said. "Pray Heaven it brings us not into worse evils! What can I say? it is through love of your wife--through love of your wife--oh! husband!" she threw herself into his arms, and forgave everything and accepted everything. Henceforth she would be--though this she knew not--the willing instrument of the two conspirators. CHAPTER LIV ANOTHER STEP "I HAVE left this terrible thing about once too often already," and Lord Harry took it from the table. "Let me put it in a place of safety." He unlocked a drawer and opened it. "I will put it here," he said. "Why"--as if suddenly recollecting something--"here is my will. I shall be leaving that about on the table next. Iris, my dear, I have left everything to you. All will be yours." He took out the document. "Keep it for me, Iris. It is yours. You may as well have it now, and then I know, in your careful hands, it will be quite safe. Not only is everything left to you, but you are the sole executrix." Iris took the will without a word. She understood, now, what it meant. If she was the sole executrix she would have to act. If everything was left to her she would have to receive the money. Thus, at a single step, she became not only cognisant of the conspiracy, but the chief agent and instrument to carry it out. This done, her husband had only to tell her what had to be done at once, in consequence of her premature arrival. He had planned, he told her, not to send for her--not to let her know or suspect anything of the truth until the money had been paid to the widow by the Insurance Company. As things had turned out, it would be best for both of them to leave Passy at once--that very evening--before her arrival was known by anybody, and to let Vimpany carry out the rest of the business. He was quite to be trusted--he would do everything that was wanted. "Already," he said, "the Office will have received from the doctor a notification of my death. Yesterday evening he wrote to everybody--to my brother--confound him!--and to the family solicitor. Every moment that I stay here increases the danger of my being seen and recognised--after the Office has been informed that I am dead." "Where are we to go?" "I have thought of that. There is a little quiet town in Belgium where no English people ever come at all. We will go there, then we will take another name; we will be buried to the outer world, and will live, for the rest of our lives, for ourselves alone. Do you agree?" "I will do, Harry, whatever you think best." "It will be for a time only. When all is ready, you will have to step to the front--the will in your hand to be proved--to receive what is due to you as the widow of Lord Harry Norland. You will go back to Belgium, after awhile, so as to disarm suspicion, to become once more the wife of William Linville." Iris sighed heavily, Then she caught her husband's eyes gathering with doubt, and she smiled again. "In everything, Harry," she said, "I am your servant. When shall we start?" "Immediately. I have only to write a letter to the doctor. Where is your bag? Is this all? Let me go first to see that no one is about. Have you got the will? Oh! it is here--yes--in the bag. I will bring along the bag." He ran downstairs, and came up quickly. "The nurse has returned," he said. "She is in the spare room." "What nurse?" "The nurse who came after Fanny left. The man was better, but the doctor thought it wisest to have a nurse to the end," he explained hurriedly, and she suspected nothing till afterwards. "Come down quietly--go out by the back-door--she will not see you." So Iris obeyed. She went out of her own house like a thief, or like her own maid Fanny, had she known. She passed through the garden, and out of the garden into the road. There she waited for her husband. Lord Harry sat down and wrote a letter. "Dear Doctor," he said, "while you are arranging things outside an unexpected event has happened inside. Nothing happens but the unexpected. My wife has come back. It is the most unexpected event of any. Anything else might have happened. Most fortunately she has not seen the spare bedroom, and has no idea of its contents. "At this point reassure yourself. "My wife has gone. "She found on the table your first print of the negative. The sight of this before she saw me threw her into some kind of swoon, from which, however, she recovered. "I have explained things to a certain point. She understands that Lord Harry Norland is deceased. She does not understand that it was necessary to have a funeral; there is no necessity to tell her of that. I think she understands that she must not seem to have been here. Therefore she goes away immediately. "The nurse has not seen her. No one has seen her. "She understands, further, that as the widow, heir, and executrix of Lord Harry she will have to prove his will, and to receive the money due to him by the Insurance Company. She will do this out of love for her husband. I think that the persuasive powers of a certain person have never yet been estimated at their true value. "Considering the vital importance of getting her out of the place before she can learn anything of the spare bedroom, and of getting me out of the place before any messenger can arrive from the London office, I think you will agree with me that I am right in leaving Passy--and Paris--with Lady Harry this very afternoon. "You may write to William Linville, Poste-Restante, Louvain, Belgium. I am sure I can trust you to destroy this letter. "Louvain is a quiet, out-of-the-way place, where one can live quite separated from all old friends, and very cheaply. "Considering the small amount of money that I have left, I rely upon you to exercise the greatest economy. I do not know how long it may be before just claims are paid up--perhaps in two months--perhaps in six--but until things are settled there will be tightness. "At the same time it will not be difficult, as soon as Lady Harry goes to London, to obtain some kind of advance from the family solicitor on the strength of the insurance due to her from her late husband. "I am sorry, dear doctor, to leave you alone over the obsequies of this unfortunate gentleman. You will also have, I hear, a good deal of correspondence with his family. You may, possibly, have to see them in England. All this you will do, and do very well. Your bill for medical attendance you will do well to send in to the widow. "One word more. Fanny Mere, the maid, has gone to London; but she has not seen Lady Harry. As soon as she hears that her mistress has left London she will be back to Passy. She may come at any moment. I think if I were you I would meet her at the garden gate and send her on. It would be inconvenient if she were to arrive before the funeral. "My dear doctor, I rely on your sense, your prudence, and your capability.--Yours very sincerely, "Your ENGLISH FRIEND." He read this letter very carefully. Nothing in it he thought the least dangerous, and yet something suggested danger. However, he left it; he was obliged to caution and warn the doctor, and he was obliged to get his wife away as quietly as possible. This done, he packed up his things and hurried off to the station, and Passy saw him no more. The next day the mortal remains of Lord Harry Norland were lowered into the grave. CHAPTER LV THE ADVENTURES OF A FAITHFUL MAID IT was about five o'clock on Saturday afternoon. The funeral was over. The unfortunate young Irish gentleman was now lying in the cemetery of Auteuil in a grave purchased in perpetuity. His name, age, and rank were duly inscribed in the registers, and the cause of his death was vouched for by the English physician who had attended him at the request of his family. He was accompanied, in going through the formalities, by the respectable woman who had nursed the sick man during his last seizure. Everything was perfectly in order. The physician was the only mourner at the funeral. No one was curious about the little procession. A funeral, more or less, excites no attention. The funeral completed, the doctor gave orders for a single monument to be put in memory of Lord Harry Norland, thus prematurely cut off. He then returned to the cottage, paid and dismissed the nurse, taking her address in case he should find an opportunity, as he hoped, to recommend her among his numerous and distinguished clientele, and proceeded to occupy himself in setting everything in order before giving over the key to the landlord. First of all he removed the medicine bottles from the cupboard with great care, leaving nothing. Most of the bottles he threw outside into the dust-hole; one or two he placed in a fire which he made for the purpose in the kitchen: they were shortly reduced to two or three lumps of molten glass. These contained, no doubt, the mysteries and secrets of Science. Then he went into every room and searched in every possible place for any letters or papers which might have been left about. Letters left about are always indiscreet, and the consequences of an indiscretion may be far-reaching and incalculable. Satisfied at last that the place was perfectly cleared, he sat down in the salon and continued his business correspondence with the noble family and the solicitors. Thus engaged, he heard footsteps outside, footsteps on the gravel, footsteps on the doorstop. He got up, not without the slightest show of nervousness, and opened the door. Lord Harry was right. There stood the woman who had been his first nurse--the woman who overheard and watched--the woman who suspected. The suspicion and the intention of watching were legible in her eyes still. She had come back to renew her watch. In her hand she carried her box, which she had lugged along from the place where the omnibus had deposited her. She made as if she were stepping in; but the big form of the doctor barred the way. "Oh!" he said carelessly, "it is you. Who told you to come back?" "Is my mistress at home?" "No; she is not." He made no movement to let her pass. "I will come in, please, and wait for her." He still stood in the way. "What time will she return?" "Have you heard from her?" "No." "Did she leave orders that you were to follow her?" "No; none that I received. I thought--" "Servants should never think. They should obey." "I know my duty, Dr. Vimpany, without learning it from you. Will you let me pass?" He withdrew, and she entered. "Come in, by all means," he said, "if you desire my society for a short time. But you will not find your mistress here." "Not here! Where is she, then?" "Had you waited in London for a day or two you would, I dare say, have been informed. As it is, you have had your journey for nothing." "Has she not been here?" "She has not been here." "Dr. Vimpany," said the woman, driven to desperation, "I don't believe you! I am certain she has been here. What have you done with her?" "Don't you believe me? That is sad, indeed. But one cannot always help these wanderings. You do not believe me? Melancholy, truly!" "You may mock as much as you like. Where is she?" "Where, indeed?" "She left London to join his lordship. Where is he? "I do not know. He who would answer that question would be a wise man indeed." "Can I see him?" "Certainly not. He has gone away. On a long journey. By himself." "Then I shall wait for him. Here!" she added with decision. "In this house!" "By all means." She hesitated. There was an easy look about the doctor which she did not like. "I believe," she said, "that my mistress is in the house. She must be in the house. What are you going to do with her? I believe you have put her somewhere." "Indeed!" "You would do anything! I will go to the police." "If you please." "Oh! doctor, tell me where she is!" "You are a faithful servant: it is good, in these days, to find a woman so zealous on account of her mistress. Come in, good and faithful. Search the house all over. Come in--what are you afraid of? Put down your box, and go and look for your mistress." Fanny obeyed. She ran into the house, opened the doors of the salon and the dining-room one after the other: no one was there. She ran up the stairs and looked into her mistress's room: nothing was there, not even a ribbon or a hair-pin, to show the recent presence of a woman. She looked into Lord Harry's room. Nothing was there. If a woman leaves hairpins about, a man leaves his toothbrush: nothing at all was there. Then she threw open the armoire in each room: nothing behind the doors. She came downstairs slowly, wondering what it all meant. "May I look in the spare room?" she asked, expecting to be roughly refused. "By all means--by all means," said the doctor, blandly. "You know your way about. If there is anything left belonging to your mistress or to you, pray take it." She tried one more question. "How is my patient? How is Mr. Oxbye?" "He is gone." "Gone? Where has he gone to? Gone?" "He went away yesterday--Friday. He was a grateful creature. I wish we had more such grateful creatures as well as more such faithful servants. He said something about finding his way to London in order to thank you properly. A good soul, indeed!" "Gone?" she repeated. "Why, on Thursday morning I saw him--" She checked herself in time. "It was on Wednesday morning that you saw him, and he was then recovering rapidly." "But he was far too weak to travel." "You may be quite certain that I should not have allowed him to go away unless he was strong enough." Fanny made no reply. She had seen with her own eyes the man lying still and white, as if in death; she had seen the new nurse rushing off, crying that he was dead. Now she was told that he was quite well, and that he had gone away! But it was no time for thought. She was on the point of asking where the new nurse was, but she remembered in time that it was best for her to know nothing, and to awaken no suspicions. She opened the door of the spare room and looked in. Yes; the man was gone--dead or alive--and there were no traces left of his presence. The place was cleared up; the cupboard stood with open doors, empty; the bed was made; the curtain pushed back; the sofa was in its place against the wall; the window stood open. Nothing in the room at all to show that there had been an occupant only two days before. She stared blankly. The dead man was gone, then. Had her senses altogether deceived her? Was he not dead, but only sleeping? Was her horror only a thing of imagination? Behind her, in the hall, stood the doctor, smiling, cheerful. She remembered that her first business was to find her mistress. She was not connected with the Dane. She closed the door and returned to the hall. "Well," asked the doctor, "have you made any discoveries? You see that the house is deserted. You will perhaps learn before long why. Now what will you do? Will you go back to London?" "I must find her ladyship." The doctor smiled. "Had you come here in a different spirit," he said, "I would have spared you all this trouble. You come, however, with suspicion written on your face. You have always been suspecting and watching. It may be in a spirit of fidelity to your mistress; but such a spirit is not pleasing to other people, especially when there is not a single person who bears any resentment towards that mistress. Therefore, I have allowed you to run over the empty house, and to satisfy your suspicious soul. Lady Harry is not hidden here. As for Lord Harry--but you will hear in due time no doubt. And now I don't mind telling you that I have her ladyship's present address." "Oh! What is it?" "She appears to have passed through Paris on her way to Switzerland two days ago, and has sent here her address for the next fortnight. She has now, I suppose, arrived there. The place is Berne; the Hotel ----. But how do I know that she wants you?" "Of course she wants me." "Or of course you want her? Very good. Yours is the responsibility, not mine. Her address is the Hotel d'Angleterre. Shall I write it down for you? There it is. 'Hotel d'Angleterre, Berne.' Now you will not forget. She will remain there for one fortnight only. After that, I cannot say whither she may go. And, as all her things have been sent away, and as I am going away, I am not likely to hear." "Oh I must go to her. I must find her!" cried the woman earnestly; "if it is only to make sure that no evil is intended for her." "That is your business. For my own part, I know of no one who can wish her ladyship any evil." "Is my lord with her?" "I don't know whether that is your business. I have already told you that he is gone. If you join your mistress in Berne, you will very soon find out if he is there as well." Something in his tone made Fanny look up quickly. But his face revealed nothing. "What shall you do then?" asked the doctor. "You must make up your mind quickly whether you will go back to England or whether you will go on to Switzerland. You cannot stay here, because I am putting together the last things, and I shall give the landlord the key of the house this evening. All the bills are paid, and I am going to leave the place." "I do not understand. There is the patient," she murmured vaguely. "What does it mean? I cannot understand." "My good creature," he replied roughly, "what the devil does it matter to me whether you understand or whether you do not understand? Her ladyship is, as I have told you, at Berne. If you please to follow her there, do so. It is your own affair, not mine. If you prefer to go back to London, do so. Still--your own affair. Is there anything else to say?" Nothing. Fanny took up her box--this time the doctor did not offer to carry it for her. "Where are you going?" he asked. "What have you decided?" "I can get round by the Chemin de Fer de Ceinture to the Lyons station. I shall take the first cheap train which will take me to Berne." "Bon voyage!" said the doctor, cheerfully, and shut the door. It is a long journey from Paris to Berne even for those who can travel first class and express--that is, if sixteen hours can be called a long journey. For those who have to jog along by third class, stopping at all the little country stations, it is a long and tedious journey indeed. The longest journey ends at last. The train rolled slowly into the station of Berne, and Fanny descended with her box. Her wanderings were over for the present. She would find her mistress and be at rest. She asked to be directed to the Hotel d'Angleterre. The Swiss guardian of the peace with the cocked hat stared at her. She repeated the question. "Hotel d'Angleterre?" he echoed. "There is no Hotel d'Angleterre in Berne." "Yes, yes; there is. I am the maid of a lady who is staying at that hotel." "No; there is no Hotel d'Angleterre," he reported. "There is the Hotel Bernehof." "No." She took out the paper and showed it to him--"Lady Harry Norland, Hotel d'Angleterre, Berne." "There is the Hotel de Belle Vue, the Hotel du Faucon, the Hotel Victoria, the Hotel Schweizerhof. There is the Hotel schrodel, the Hotel Schneider, the Pension Simkin." Fanny as yet had no other suspicion than that the doctor had accidentally written a wrong name. Her mistress was at Berne: she would be in one of the hotels. Berne is not a large place. Very good; she would go round to the hotels and inquire. She did so. There are not, in fact, more than half a dozen hotels in Berne where an English lady could possibly stay. Fanny went to every one of these. No one had heard of any such lady: they showed her the lists of their visitors. She inquired at the post-office. No lady of that name had asked for letters. She asked if there were any pensions, and went round them all--uselessly. No other conclusion was possible. The doctor had deceived her wilfully. To get her out of the way he sent her to Berne. He would have sent her to Jericho if her purse had been long enough to pay the fare. She was tricked. She counted her money. There was exactly twenty-eight shillings and tenpence in her purse. She went back to the cheapest (and dirtiest) of the pensions she had visited. She stated her case--she had missed milady her mistress--she must stay until she should receive orders to go on, and money--would they take her in until one or the other arrived? Certainly. They would take her in, at five francs a day, payable every morning in advance. She made a little calculation--she had twenty-eight and tenpence; exactly thirty-five francs--enough for seven days. If she wrote to Mrs. Vimpany at once she could get an answer in five days. She accepted the offer, paid her five shillings, was shown into a room, and was informed that the dinner was served at six o'clock. Very good. Here she could rest, at any rate, and think what was to be done. And first she wrote two letters--one to Mrs. Vimpany and one to Mr. Mountjoy. In both of these letters she told exactly what she had found: neither Lord Harry nor his wife at the cottage, the place vacated, and the doctor on the point of going away. In both letters she told how she had been sent all the way into Switzerland on a fool's errand, and now found herself planted there without the means of getting home. In the letter to Mrs. Vimpany she added the remarkable detail that the man whom she had seen on the Thursday morning apparently dead, whose actual poisoning she thought she had witnessed, was reported on the Saturday to have walked out of the cottage, carrying his things, if he had any, and proposing to make his way to London in order to find out his old nurse. "Make what you can out of that," she said. "For my own part, I understand nothing." In the letter which she wrote to Mr. Mountjoy she added a petition that he would send her money to bring her home. This, she said, her mistress she knew would willingly defray. She posted these letters on Tuesday, and waited for the answers. Mrs. Vimpany wrote back by return post. "My dear Fanny," she said, "I have read your letter with the greatest interest. I am not only afraid that some villainy is afloat, but I am perfectly sure of it. One can only hope and pray that her ladyship may be kept out of its influence. You will be pleased to hear that Mr. Mountjoy is better. As soon as he was sufficiently recovered to stand the shock of violent emotion, I put Lady Harry's letter into his hands. It was well that I had kept it from him, for he fell into such a violence of grief and indignation that I thought he would have had a serious relapse. 'Can any woman,' he cried, 'be justified in going back to an utterly unworthy husband until he has proved a complete change? What if she had received a thousand letters of penitence? Penitence should be shown by acts, not words: she should have waited.' He wrote her a letter, which he showed me. 'Is there,' he asked, 'anything in the letter which could justly offend her?' I could find nothing. He told her, but I fear too late, that she risks degradation--perhaps worse, if there is anything worse--if she persists in returning to her unworthy husband. If she refuses to be guided by his advice, on the last occasion on which he would presume to offer any device, he begged that she would not answer. Let her silence say--No. That was the substance of his letter. Up to the present moment no answer has been received from Lady Harry. Nor has he received so much as an acknowledgment of the letter. What can be understood by this silence? Clearly, refusal. "You must return by way of Paris, though it is longer than by Basle and Laon. Mr. Mountjoy, I know, will send you the money you want. He has told me as much. 'I have done with Lady Harry,' he said. 'Her movements no longer concern me, though I can never want interest in what she does. But since the girl is right to stick to her mistress, I will send her the money--not as a loan to be paid back by Iris, but as a gift from myself.' "Therefore, my dear Fanny, stop in Paris for one night at least, and learn what has been done if you can. Find out the nurse, and ask her what really happened. With the knowledge that you already possess, it will be hard, indeed, if we cannot arrive at the truth. There must be people who supplied things to the cottage--the restaurant, the _pharmacien,_ the laundress. See them all--you know them already, and we will put the facts together. As for finding her ladyship, that will depend entirely upon herself. I shall expect you back in about a week. If anything happens here I shall be able to tell you when you arrive. "Yours affectionately, L. Vimpany." This letter exactly coincided with Fanny's own views. The doctor was now gone. She was pretty certain that he was not going to remain alone in the cottage; and the suburb of Passy, though charming in many ways, is not exactly the place for a man of Dr. Vimpany's temperament. She would stay a day, or even two days or more, if necessary, at Passy. She would make those inquiries. The second letter, which reached her the same day, was from Mr. Mountjoy. He told her what he had told Mrs. Vimpany: he would give her the money, because he recognised the spirit of fidelity which caused Fanny to go first to Paris and then to Berne. But he could not pretend to any right to interference in the affairs of Lord and Lady Harry Norland. He enclosed a _mandat postal_ for a hundred and twenty-five francs, which he hoped would be sufficient for her immediate wants. She started on her return-journey on the same day--namely, Saturday. On Sunday evening she was in a pension at Passy, ready to make those inquiries. The first person whom she sought out was the _rentier_--the landlord of the cottage. He was a retired tradesman--one who had made his modest fortune in a _charcuterie_ and had invested it in house property. Fanny told him that she had been lady's-maid to Lady Harry Norland, in the recent occupancy of the cottage, and that she was anxious to know her present address. "Merci, mon Dieu! que sais-je? What do I know about it?" he replied. "The wife of the English milord is so much attached to her husband that she leaves him in his long illness--" "His long illness?" "Certainly--Mademoiselle is not, perhaps, acquainted with the circumstances--his long illness; and does not come even to see his dead body after he is dead. There is a wife for you--a wife of the English fashion!" Fanny gasped. "After he is dead! Is Lord Harry dead? When did he die?" "But, assuredly, Mademoiselle has not heard? The English milord died on Thursday morning, a week and more ago, of consumption, and was buried in the cemetery of Auteuil last Saturday. Mademoiselle appears astonished." "En effet, Monsieur, I am astonished." "Already the tombstone is erected to the memory of the unhappy young man, who is said to belong to a most distinguished family of Ireland. Mademoiselle can see it with her own eyes in the cemetery." "One word more, Monsieur. If Monsieur would have the kindness to tell her who was the nurse of milord in his last seizure?" "But certainly. All the world knows the widow La Chaise. It was the widow La Chaise who was called in by the doctor. Ah! there is a man--what a man! What a miracle of science! What devotion to his friend! What admirable sentiments! Truly, the English are great in sentiments when their insular coldness allows them to speak. This widow can be found--easily found." He gave Fanny, in fact, the nurse's address. Armed with this, and having got out of the landlord the cardinal fact of Lord Harry's alleged death, the lady's-maid went in search of this respectable widow. She found her, in her own apartments, a respectable woman indeed, perfectly ready to tell everything that she knew, and evidently quite unsuspicious of anything wrong. She was invited to take charge of a sick man on the morning of Thursday: she was told that he was a young Irish lord, dangerously ill of a pulmonary disorder; the doctor, in fact, informed her that his life hung by a thread, and might drop at any moment, though on the other hand he had known such cases linger on for many months. She arrived as she had been ordered, at midday: she was taken into the sick-room by the doctor, who showed her the patient placidly sleeping on a sofa: the bed had been slept in, and was not yet made. After explaining the medicines which she was to administer, and the times when they were to be given, and telling her something about his diet, the doctor left her alone with the patient. "He was still sleeping profoundly," said the nurse. "You are sure that he was sleeping, and not dead?" asked Fanny, sharply. "Mademoiselle, I have been a nurse for many years. I know my duties. The moment the doctor left me I verified his statements. I proved that the patient was sleeping by feeling his pulse and observing his breath." Fanny made no reply. She could hardly remind this respectable person that after the doctor left her she employed herself first in examining the cupboards, drawers, _armoire,_ and other things; that she then found a book with pictures, in which she read for a quarter of an hour or so; that she then grew sleepy and dropped the book-- "I then," continued the widow, "made arrangements against his waking--that is to say, I drew back the curtains and turned over the sheet to air the bed"--O Madame! Madame! Surely this was needless!--"shook up the pillows, and occupied myself in the cares of a conscientious nurse until the time came to administer the first dose of medicine. Then I proceeded to awaken my patient. Figure to yourself! He whom I had left tranquilly breathing, with the regularity of a convalescent rather than a dying man, was dead! He was dead!" "You are sure he was dead?" "As if I had never seen a dead body before! I called the doctor, but it was for duty only, for I knew that he was dead." "And then?" "Then the doctor--who must also have known that he was dead--felt his pulse and his heart, and looked at his eyes, and declared that he was dead." "And then?" "What then? If a man is dead he is dead. You cannot restore him to life. Yet one thing the doctor did. He brought a camera and took a photograph of the dead man for the sake of his friends." "Oh! he took a photograph of--of Lord Harry Norland. What did he do that for?" "I tell you: for the sake of his friends." Fanny was more bewildered than ever. Why on earth should the doctor want a photograph of the Dane Oxbye to show the friends of Lord Harry? Could he have made a blunder as stupid as it was uncalled for? No one could possibly mistake the dead face of that poor Dane for the dead face of Lord Harry. She had got all the information she wanted--all, in fact, that was of any use to her. One thing remained. She would see the grave. The cemetery of Auteuil is not so large as that of Pere-la-Chaise, nor does it contain so many celebrated persons as the latter--perhaps the greatest cemetery, as regards its illustrious dead, in the whole world. It is the cemetery of the better class. The tombs are not those of Immortals but of Respectables. Among them Fanny easily found, following the directions given to her, the tomb she was searching after. On it was written in English, "Sacred to the Memory of Lord Harry Norland, second son of the Marquis of Malven." Then followed the date and the age, and nothing more. Fanny sat down on a bench and contemplated this mendacious stone. "The Dane Oxbye," she said, "was growing better fast when I went away. That was the reason why I was sent away. The very next day the doctor, thinking me far away, poisoned him. I saw him do it. The nurse was told that he was asleep, and being left alone presently discovered that he was dead. She has been told that the sick man is a young Irish gentleman. He is buried under the name of Lord Harry. That is the reason I found the doctor alone. And my lady? Where is she?" CHAPTER LVI FANNY'S NARRATIVE FANNY returned to London. Partly, the slenderness of her resources gave her no choice; partly, she had learned all there was to learn, and would do no good by staying longer at Passy. She arrived with thirty shillings left out of Mr. Mountjoy's timely gift. She sought a cheap lodging, and found a room, among people who seemed respectable, which she could have for four-and-sixpence a week, with board at a shilling a day. This settled, she hastened to Mr. Mountjoy's hotel brimful of her news for Mrs. Vimpany. Everyone knows the disappointment when the one person in the world whom you want at the moment to see and to talk with proves to be out. Then the news has to be suppressed; the conclusions, the suspicions, the guesses have to be postponed; the active brain falls back upon itself. This disappointment--almost as great as that at Berne--was experienced by Fanny Mere at the hotel. Mr. Mountjoy was no longer there. The landlady of the hotel, who knew Fanny, came out herself and told her what had happened. "He was better," she said, "but still weak. They sent him down to Scotland in Mrs. Vimpany's care. He was to travel by quick or slow stages, just as he felt able. And I've got the address for you. Here it is. Oh! and Mrs. Vimpany left a message. Will you, she says, when you write, send the letter to her and not to him? She says, you know why." Fanny returned to her lodging profoundly discouraged. She was filled with this terrible secret that she had discovered. The only man who could advise at this juncture was Mr. Mountjoy, and he was gone. And she knew not what had become of her mistress. What could she do? The responsibility was more than she could bear. The conversation with the French nurse firmly established one thing in her mind. The man who was buried in the cemetery of Auteuil with the name of Lord Harry Norland on a headstone, the man who had lingered so long with pulmonary disease, was the man whose death she had witnessed. It was Oxbye the Dane. Of that there could be no doubt. Equally there was no doubt in her own mind that he had been poisoned by the doctor--by Mrs. Vimpany's husband--in the presence and, to all appearance, with the consent and full knowledge of Lord Harry himself. Then her mistress was in the power of these two men--villains who had now added murder to their other crimes. As for herself, she was alone, almost friendless; in a week or two she would be penniless. If she told her tale, what mischief might she not do? If she was silent, what mischief might not follow? She sat down to write to the only friend she had. But her trouble froze her brain. She had not been able to put the case plainly. Words failed her. She was not at any time fluent with her pen. She now found herself really unable to convey any intelligible account of what had happened. To state clearly all that she knew so that the conclusion should be obvious and patent to the reader would have been at all times difficult, and was now impossible. She could only confine herself to a simple vague statement. "I can only say that from all I have seen and heard I have reasons for believing that Lord Harry is not dead at all." She felt that this was a feeble way of summing up, but she was not at the moment equal to more. "When I write again, after I have heard from you, I will tell you more. To-day I cannot. I am too much weighed down. I am afraid of saying too much. Besides, I have no money, and must look for work. I am not anxious, however, about my own future, because my lady will not forsake me. I am sure of that. It is my anxiety about her and the dreadful secrets I have learned which give me no rest." Several days passed before the answer came. And then it was an answer which gave her little help. "I have no good news for you," she said. "Mr. Mountjoy continues weak. Whatever your secret, I cannot ask you to communicate it to him in his present condition. He has been grieved and angry beyond all belief by Lady Harry's decision to rejoin her husband. It is hard to understand that a man should be so true a friend and so constant a lover. Yet he has brought himself to declare that he has broken off all friendly relations with her. He could no longer endure London. It was associated with thoughts and memories of her. In spite of his weak condition, he insisted on coming down here to his Scotch villa. Ill as he was, he would brook no delay. We came down by very easy stages, stopping at Peterborough, York, Durham, Newcastle, and Berwick--at some places for one night, and others for more. In spite of all my precautions, when we arrived at the villa he was dangerously exhausted. I sent for the local doctor, who seems to know something. At all events, he is wise enough to understand that this is not a case for drugs. Complete rest and absence from all agitating thoughts must be aimed at. Above all, he is not to see the newspapers. That is fortunate, because, I suppose, Lord Harry's death has been announced in them, and the thought that his former mistress is a widow might excite him very dangerously. You will now understand why I left that message at the hotel for you, and why I have not shown him your letter. I told him, it is true, that you had returned without finding your mistress. 'Speak no more to me of Lady Harry,' he replied irritably. So I have said no more. As for money, I have a few pounds by me, which are at your service. You can repay me at some future time. I have thought of one thing--that new Continental paper started by Lord Harry. Wherever she may be, Lady Harry is almost sure to see that. Put an advertisement in it addressed to her, stating that you have not heard of her address, but that you yourself will receive any letter sent to some post-office which you can find. I think that such an advertisement will draw a reply from her, unless she desires to remain in seclusion." Fanny thought the suggestion worth adopting. After careful consideration, she drew up an advertisement:-- "Fanny H. to L--H--. I have not been able to ascertain your address. Please write to me, at the Post Office, Hunter Street, London, W.C." She paid for the insertion of this advertisement three times on alternate Saturdays. They told her that this would be a more likely way than to take three successive Saturdays. Then, encouraged by the feeling that something, however little, had been done, she resolved to sit down to write out a narrative in which she would set down in order everything that had happened--exactly as it had happened. Her intense hatred and suspicion of Dr. Vimpany aided her, strange to say, to keep to the strictest fidelity as regards the facts. For it was not her desire to make up charges and accusations. She wanted to find out the exact truth, and so to set it down that anybody who read her statement would arrive at the same conclusion as she herself had done. In the case of an eye-witness there are thousands of things which cannot be produced in evidence which yet are most important in directing and confirming suspicions. The attitude, the voice, the look of a speaker, the things which he conceals as well as the things which he reveals--all these are evidence. But these Fanny was unable to set down. Therefore it behoved her to be strictly careful. First, she stated how she became aware that there was some secret scheme under consideration between Lord Harry and the doctor. Next, she set down the fact that they began to talk French to each other, thinking that she could not understand them; that they spoke of deceiving Lady Harry by some statement which had already deceived the authorities; that the doctor undertook to get the lady out of the house; that they engaged herself as nurse to a sick man; that she suspected from the beginning that their design was to profit in some way by the death of this sick than, who bore a slight resemblance to Lord Harry himself. And so on, following the story as closely as she could remember, to the death of the Dane and her own subsequent conversation with the nurse. She was careful to put in the dates, day after day. When she had done all this--it took a good deal of time--she bought a manuscript book and copied it all out. This enabled her to remember two or three facts which had escaped her at the beginning. Then she made another copy this time without names of people or place. The second copy she forwarded as a registered letter to Mrs. Vimpany, with a letter of which this was the conclusion: "Considering, therefore, that on Wednesday morning I left Lord Harry in perfect health; considering that on the Thursday morning I saw the man who had been ill so long actually die--how, I have told you in the packet enclosed; considering that the nurse was called in purposely to attend a patient who was stated to have long been ill--there can be no doubt whatever that the body in the cemetery is that of the unfortunate Dane, Oxbye; and that, somewhere or other, Lord Harry is alive and well. "What have they done it for? First of all, I suppose, to get money. If it were not for the purpose of getting money the doctor would have had nothing to do with the conspiracy, which was his own invention. That is very certain. Your idea was they would try to get money out of the Insurance Offices. I suppose that is their design. But Lord Harry may have many other secret reasons of his own for wishing to be thought dead. They say his life has been full of wicked things, and he may well wish to be considered dead and gone. Lots of wicked men would like above all things, I should think, to be considered dead and buried. But the money matter is at the bottom of all, I am convinced. What are we to do?" What could they do? These two women had got hold of a terrible secret. Neither of them could move. It was too big a thing. One cannot expect a woman to bring her own husband--however wicked a husband he may be--to the awful shame and horror of the gallows if murder should be proved--or to a lifelong imprisonment if the conspiracy alone should be brought home to him. Therefore Mrs. Vimpany could do nothing. As for Fanny, the mere thought of the pain she would inflict upon her mistress, were Lord Harry, through her interference, to be brought to justice and an infamous sentence, kept her quiet. Meantime, the announcement of Lord Harry's death had been made. Those who knew the family history spoke cheerfully of the event. "Best timing he had ever done. Very good thing for his people. One more bad lot out of the way. Dead, Sir, and a very good thing, too. Married, I believe. One of the men who have done everything. Pity they can't write a life of him." These were the comments made upon the decease of this young gentleman. Such is fame. Next day he was clean forgotten; just as if he had never existed. Such is life. CHAPTER LVII AT LOUVAIN NOT many English tourists go out of their way to visit Louvain, even though it has a Hotel de Ville surpassing even that of Brussels itself, and though one can get there in an hour from that city of youth and pleasure. And there are no English residents at all in the place--at least, none in evidence, though perhaps there may be some who have gone there for the same reasons which led Mr. William Linville and his wife to choose this spot--in order to be private and secluded. There are many more people than we know of who desire, above all things, seclusion and retirement, and dread nothing so much as a chance meeting with an old friend. Mr. William Linville took a small house, furnished, like the cottage at Passy, and, also like that little villa, standing in its own garden. Here, with a cook and a maid, Iris set up her modest _menage._ To ask whether she was happy would be absurd. At no time since her marriage had she been happy; to live under the condition of perpetual concealment is not in itself likely to make a woman any the happier. Fortunately she had no time to experience the full bitterness of the plan proposed by her husband. Consider. Had their scheme actually been carried out quite successfully, this pair, still young, would have found themselves condemned to transportation for life. That was the first thing. Next, they could never make any friends among their own countrymen or countrywomen for fear of discovery. Iris could never again speak to an English lady. If they had children the risk would appear ten times more terrible, the consequences ten times more awful. The children themselves would have to grow up without family and without friends. The husband, cut off from intercourse with other men, would be thrown back upon himself. Husband and wife, with this horrible load laid upon them, would inevitably grow to loathe and hate the sight of each other. The man would almost certainly take to drink: the woman--but we must not follow this line any further. The situation lasted only so long as to give the wife a glimpse of what it might become in the future. They took their house, and sat down in it. They were very silent. Lord Harry, his great _coup_ successfully carried so far, sat taciturn and glum. He stayed indoors all day, only venturing out after dark. For a man whose whole idea of life was motion, society, and action, this promised ill. The monotony was first broken by the arrival of Hugh's letter, which was sent in with other documents from Passy. Iris read it; she read it again, trying to understand exactly what it meant. Then she tore it up. "If he only knew," she said, "he would not have taken the trouble even to write this letter. There is no answer, Hugh. There can be none--now. Act by your advice? Henceforth, I must act by order. I am a conspirator." Two days afterwards came a letter from the doctor. He did not think it necessary to say anything about Fanny's appearance or her journey to Borne. "Everything," he wrote, "has so far gone well. The world knows, through the papers, that Lord Harry is dead. There will be now only the business of claiming the money. For this purpose, as his widow is the sole heiress and executrix, it will be necessary for her to place the will and the policies of insurance in the hands of her husband's lawyers, so that the will may be proved and the claims duly made. Forms will have to be signed. The medical certificate of death and the forms attesting the burial are already in the lawyers' hands. The sooner the widow goes to London the better. She should write to announce her arrival, and she should write from Paris as if she had been staying there after her husband's death. "I have only to remind you, my dear Linville, that you are indebted to me in a good round sum. Of course, I shall be very pleased to receive a cheque for this sum in full as soon as you have touched the amount due to you. I shall be in Paris, at the Hotel Continental, where you may address me. Naturally, there is no desire for concealment, and if the Insurance Companies desire any information from me I am always ready and willing to afford it." Lord Harry gave this letter to his wife. She read it, and laid it open in her lap. "Must it be, Harry? Oh! must it be?" "There is no other way possible, dear. But really, it is nothing. You were not at Passy when your husband died. You had been in London--you were in Brussels--anywhere; when you arrived it was all over; you have seen his headstone. Dr. Vimpany had him in his care; you knew he was ill, but you thought it was a trifling matter which time would cure; you go to the lawyers and present the will. They have the policies, and will do everything else; you will not even have to sign anything. The only thing that you must do is to get a complete rig-out of widow's weeds. Mind--there will not be the slightest doubt or question raised. Considering everything, you will be more than justified in seeing no one and going nowhere." Hugh's letter breaking in upon her fool's paradise had awakened the poor woman to her better self; she had gone so far with the fraud as to acquiesce in it; but she recoiled with horror and shame when this active part was forced upon her. "Oh, Harry!"--she burst into tears. "I cannot--I cannot. You ask me to be a liar and a thief--oh! heavens!--a vile thief! "It is too late, Iris! We are all vile thieves. It is too late to begin crying now." "Harry"--she threw herself upon her knees--"spare me! Let some other woman go, and call herself your widow. Then I will go away and hide myself." "Don't talk nonsense, Iris," he replied roughly. "I tell you it is far too late. You should have thought of this before. It is now all arranged." "I cannot go," she said. "You must go; otherwise, all our trouble may prove useless." "Then I will not go!" she declared, springing to her feet. "I will not degrade myself any further. I will not go!" Harry rose too. He faced her for a moment. His eyes dropped. Even he remembered, at that moment, how great must be the fall of a woman who would consent to play such a part. "You shall not go," he said, "unless you like. You can leave me to the consequences of my own acts--to my own degradation. Go back to England. In one thing only spare me. Do not tell what you know. As for me, I will forge a letter from you--" "Forge a letter!" "It is the only way left open, giving the lawyers authority to act, and inclosing the will. What will happen next? By whose hands the money is to reach me I know not yet. But you can leave me, Iris. Better that you should leave me--I shall only drag you lower." "Why must you forge the letter? Why not come with me somewhere--the world is large!--to some place where you are not known, and there let us begin a new life? We have not much money, but I can sell my watches and chains and rings, and we shall have enough. O Harry! for once be guided--listen to me! We shall find some humble manner of living, and we may be happy yet. There is no harm done if you have only pretended to be dead; nobody has been injured or defrauded--" "Iris, you talk wildly! Do you imagine, for one moment, that the doctor will release me from my bargain?" "What bargain?" "Why--of course he was to be paid for the part he has taken in the business. Without him it could never have been done at all." "Yes--yes--it was in the letter that you gave me," she said, conscious that such agreements belonged to works of fiction and to police courts. "Certainly I have to pay him a good large slice out of the money." "It is fifteen thousand pounds, is it not? How much is to be paid to the--to the doctor?" "We agreed that he was to have the half," said Lord Harry, laughing lightly. "But as I thought that seven thousand five hundred pounds was a sum of money which would probably turn his head and bring him to starvation in a year or two, I told him that the whole amount was four thousand pounds. Therefore he is to have two thousand pounds for his share. And quite enough too." "Treachery on treachery!" said his wife. "Fraud on fraud! Would to GOD," she added with a sigh, "that you had never met this man!" "I dare say it would have been better for me, on the whole," he replied. "But then, my dear, a man like myself is always meeting people whom it would have been better not to have met. Like will to like, I suppose. Given the active villain and the passive consenter, and they are sure to meet. Not that I throw stones at the worthy doctor. Not at all." "We cannot, Harry," said his wife. "We cannot, my dear. _Bien entendu!_ Well, Iris, there is no more to be said. You know the situation completely. You can back out of it if you please, and leave me. Then I shall have to begin all over again a new conspiracy far more dangerous than the last. Well, I shall not drag you down with me. That is my resolution. If it comes to public degradation--but it shall not. Iris, I promise you one thing." For once he looked as if he meant it. "Death before dishonour. Death without your name being mixed up at all, save with pity for being the wife of such a man." Again he conquered her. "Harry," she said, "I will go." CHAPTER LVIII OF COURSE THEY WILL PAY THREE days afterwards a hansom cab drove to the offices of the very respectable firm of solicitors who managed the affairs of the Norland family. They had one or two other families as well, and in spite of agricultural depression, they made a very good thing indeed out of a very comfortable business. The cab contained a lady in deep widow's weeds. Lady Harry Norland expected to be received with coldness and suspicion. Her husband, she knew, had not led the life expected in these days of a younger son. Nor had his record been such as to endear him to his elder brother. Then, as may be imagined, there were other tremors, caused by a guilty knowledge of certain facts which might by some accident "come out." Everybody has tremors for whom something may come out. Also, Iris had had no experience of solicitors, and was afraid of them. Instead of being received, however, by a gentleman as solemn as the Court of Chancery and as terrible as the Court of Assize, she found an elderly gentleman, of quiet, paternal manners, who held both her hands, and looked as if he was weeping over her bereavement. By long practice this worthy person could always, at a moment's notice, assume the appearance of one who was weeping with his client. "My dear lady!" he murmured. "My dear lady! This is a terrible time for you." She started. She feared that something had come out. "In the moment of bereavement, too, to think of business." "I have brought you," she replied curtly, "my husband's--my late husband's--will." "Thank you. With your permission--though it may detain your ladyship--I will read it. Humph! it is short and to the point. This will certainly give us little trouble. I fear, however, that, besides the insurances, your ladyship will not receive much." "Nothing. My husband was always a poor man, as you know. At the time of his death he left a small sum of money only. I am, as a matter of fact, greatly inconvenienced." "Your ladyship shall be inconvenienced no longer. You must draw upon us. As regards Lord Harry's death, we are informed by Dr. Vimpany, who seems to have been his friend as well as his medical adviser--" "Dr. Vimpany had been living with him for some time." --"that he had a somewhat protracted illness?" "I was away from my husband. I was staying here in London--on business--for some time before his death. I was not even aware that he was in any danger. When I hurried back to Passy I was too late. My husband was--was already buried." "It was most unfortunate. And the fact that his lordship was not on speaking terms with the members of his own family--pray understand that I am not expressing any opinion on the case--but this fact seems to render his end more unhappy." "He had Dr. Vimpany," said Iris, in a tone which suggested to the lawyer jealousy or dislike of the doctor. "Well," he said, "it remains to prove the will and to make our claims against the Insurance Office. I have the policy here. His lordship was insured in the Royal Unicorn Life Insurance Company for the sum of 15,000 pounds. We must not expect to have this large claim satisfied quite immediately. Perhaps the office will take three months to settle. But, as I said before, your ladyship can draw upon us." "You are certain that the Company will pay?" "Assuredly. Why not? They must pay." "Oh! I thought that perhaps so large a sum--" "My dear Madam"--the man who administered so much real and personal property smiled--"fifteen thousand pounds is not what we call a very large sum. Why, if an Insurance Company refused to pay a lawful claim it would cut its own throat--absolutely. Its very existence depends upon its meeting all just and lawful claims. The death being proved it remains for the Company to pay the insurance into the hands of the person entitled to receive it. That is, in this case, to me, acting for you." "Yes--I see--but I thought that, perhaps, my husband having died abroad there might be difficulty--" "There might, if he had died in Central Africa. But he died in a suburb of Paris, under French law, which, in such matters, is even more careful and exacting than our own. We have the official papers, and the doctor's certificate. We have, besides, a photograph of the unfortunate gentleman lying on his death-bed--this was well thought of: it is an admirable likeness--the sun cannot lie--we have also a photograph of the newly erected tombstone. Doubt? Dear me, Madam, they could no more raise a doubt as to your husband's death than if he were buried in the family vault. If anything should remove any ground for doubt, it is the fact that the only person who benefits by his death is yourself. If, on the other hand, he had been in the hands of persons who had reason to wish for his death, there might have been suspicions of foul play, which would have been matter for the police--but not for an insurance company." "Oh! I am glad to learn, at least, that there will be no trouble. I have no knowledge of business, and I thought that--" "No--no--your ladyship need have no such ideas. In fact, I have already anticipated your arrival, and have sent to the manager of the company. He certainly went so far as to express a doubt as to the cause of death. Consumption in any form was not supposed to be in your husband's family. But Lord Harry--ahem!--tried his constitution--tried his constitition, as I put it." He had put it a little differently. What he said was to the following effect--"Lord Harry Norland, sir, was a devil. There was nothing he did not do. I only wonder that he has lived so long. Had I been told that he died of everything all together, I should not have been surprised. Ordinary rapid consumption was too simple for such a man." Iris gave the lawyer her London address, obeyed him by drawing a hundred pounds, half of which she sent to Mr. William Linville, at Louvain, and went home to wait. She must now stay in London until the claim was discharged. She waited six weeks. At the end of that time she learned from her solicitors that the company had settled, and that they, the lawyers, had paid to her bankers the sum of 15,000 pounds being the whole of the insurance. Acting, then, on her husband's instructions, she sought another bank and opened an account for one William Linville, gentleman, residing abroad. She gave herself as a reference, left the usual signature of William Linville, and paid to his account a cheque for 8,000 pounds. She saw the manager of her own bank, explained that this large cheque was for an investment, and asked him to let her have 2,000 pounds in bank notes. This sum, she added, was for a special purpose. The manager imagined that she was about to perform some act of charity, perhaps an expiatory work on behalf of her late husband. She then wrote to Dr. Vimpany, who was in Paris, making an appointment with him. Her work of fraud and falsehood was complete. "There has been no trouble at all," she wrote to her husband; "and there will not be any. The insurance company has already settled the claim. I have paid 8,000 pounds to the account of William Linville. My own banker--who knows my father--believes that the money is an investment. My dear Harry, I believe that, unless the doctor begins to worry us--which he will do as soon as his money is all gone--a clear course lies before us. Let us, as I have already begged you to do, go straight away to some part of America, where you are certain not to be known. You can dye your hair and grow a beard to make sure. Let us go away from every place and person that may remind us of time past. Perhaps, in time, we may recover something of the old peace and--can it ever be?--the old self-respect." There was going to be trouble, however, and that of a kind little expected, impossible to be guarded against. And it would be trouble caused by her own act and deed. CHAPTER LIX THE CONSEQUENCES OF AN ADVERTISEMENT THE trouble was made by Iris herself. In this way-- She saw Fanny's advertisement. Her first impulse was to take her back into her service. But she remembered the necessity for concealment. She must not place herself--she realised already the fact that she had done a thing which would draw upon her the vengeance of the law--and her husband in the power of this woman, whose fidelity might not stand the shock of some fit of jealousy, rage, or revenge for fancied slight. She must henceforth be cut off altogether from all her old friends. She therefore answered the letter by one which contained no address, and which she posted with her own hand at the General Post Office. She considered her words carefully. She must not say too much or too little. "I enclose," she said, "a bank note for ten pounds to assist you. I am about to travel abroad, but must, under existing circumstances, dispense with the services of a maid. In the course of my travels I expect to be in Brussels. If, therefore, you have anything to tell me or to ask of me, write to me at the Poste Restante of that city, and in the course of six mouths or so I am tolerably sure to send for the letter. In fact, I shall expect to find a letter from you. Do not think that I have forgotten you or your faithful services, though for a moment I am not able to call you to my side. Be patient." There was no address given in the letter. This alone was mysterious. If Lady Harry was in London and the letter was posted at the General Post Office--why should she not give her address? If she was abroad, why should she hide her address? In any case, why should she do without a maid--she who had never been without a maid--to whom a maid was as necessary as one of her hands? Oh! she could never get along at all without a maid. As for Iris's business in London and her part in the conspiracy, of course Fanny neither knew nor suspected. She had recourse again to her only friend--Mrs. Vimpany--to whom she sent Lady Harry's letter, and imploring her to lay the whole before Mr. Mountjoy. "He is getting so much stronger," Mrs. Vimpany wrote back, "that I shall be able to tell him every thing before long. Do not be in a hurry. Let us do nothing that may bring trouble upon her. But I am sure that something is going on--something wicked. I have read your account of what has happened over and over again. I am as convinced as you could possibly be that my husband and Lord Harry are trading on the supposed death of the letter. We can do nothing. Let us wait." Three days afterwards she wrote again. "The opportunity for which I have been waiting has come at last. Mr. Mountjoy is, I believe, fully recovered. This morning, seeing him so well and strong, I asked him if I might venture to place in his hands a paper containing a narrative. "'Is it concerning Iris?' he asked. "'It has to do with Lady Harry--indirectly.' "For a while he made no reply. Then he asked me if it had also to do with her husband. "'With her husband and with mine,' I told him. "Again he was silent. "After a bit he looked up and said, 'I had promised myself never again to interfere in Lady Harry Norland's affairs. You wish me to read this document, Mrs. Vimpany?" "'Certainly; I am most anxious that you should read it and should advise upon it.' "'Who wrote it?' "'Fanny Mere, Lady Harry's maid.' "'If it is only to tell me that her husband is a villain,' he said, 'I will not read it.' "'If you were enabled by reading it to keep Lady Harry from a dreadful misfortune?' I suggested. "'Give me the document,' he said. "Before I gave it to him--it was in my pocket--I showed him a newspaper containing a certain announcement. "'Lord Harry dead?' he cried. 'Impossible! Then Iris is free.' "'Perhaps you will first read the document.' I drew it out of my pocket, gave it to him, and retired. He should be alone while he read it. "Half an hour afterwards I returned. I found him in a state of the most violent agitation, without, however, any of the weakness which he betrayed on previous occasions. "'Mrs. Vimpany,' he cried, 'this is terrible! There is no doubt--not the least doubt--in my mind that the man Oxbye is the man buried under the name of Lord Harry, and that he was murdered--murdered in cold blood--by that worst of villains----' "'My husband,' I said. "'Your husband--most unfortunate of wives! As for Lord Harry's share in the murder, it is equally plain that he knew of it, even if he did not consent to it. Good heavens! Do you understand? Do you realise what they have done? Your husband and Iris's husband may be tried--actually tried--for murder and put to a shameful death. Think of it!' "'I do think of it, Heaven knows! I think of it every day--I think of it all day long. But, remember, I will say nothing that will bring this fate upon them. And Fanny will say nothing. Without Fanny's evidence there cannot be even a suspicion of the truth.' "'What does Iris know about it?' "'I think that she cannot know anything of the murder. Consider the dates. On Wednesday Fanny was dismissed; on Thursday she returned secretly and witnessed the murder. It was on Thursday morning that Lady Harry drove to Victoria on her return to Passy, as we all supposed, and as I still suppose. On Saturday Funny was back again. The cottage was deserted. She was told that the man Oxbye had got up and walked away; that her mistress had not been at the house at all, but was travelling in Switzerland; and that Lord Harry was gone on a long journey. And she was sent into Switzerland to get her out of the way. I gather from all this that Lady Harry was taken away by her husband directly she arrived--most likely by night--and that of the murder she knew nothing.' "'No--no--she could know nothing! That, at least, they dared not tell her. But about the rest? How much does she know? How far has she lent herself to the conspiracy? Mrs. Vimpany, I shall go back to London to-night. We will travel by the night train. I feel quite strong enough.' "I began this letter in Scotland; I finish it in London. "We are back again in town. Come to the hotel at once, and see us." So, there was now a Man to advise. For once, Fanny was thankful for the creation of Man. To the most misanthropic female there sometimes comes a time when she must own that Man has his uses. These two women had now got a Man with whom to take counsel. "I do not ask you," said Mr. Mountjoy, with grave face, "how far this statement of yours is true: I can see plainly that it is true in every particular." "It is quite true, sir; every word of it is true. I have been tempted to make out a worse case against the doctor, but I have kept myself to the bare truth." "You could not make out a worse case against any man. It is the blackest case that I ever heard of or read. It is the foulest murder. I do not understand the exact presence of Lord Harry when the medicine was given. Did he see the doctor administer it? Did he say anything?" "He turned white when the doctor told him that the man was going to die--that day, perhaps, or next day. When the doctor was pouring out the medicine he turned pale again and trembled. While the doctor was taking the photograph he trembled again. I think, sir--I really think--that he knew all along that the man was going to die, but when it came to the moment, he was afraid. If it had depended on him, Oxbye would be alive still." "He was a consenting party. Well; for the moment both of you keep perfect silence. Don't discuss the timing with each other lest you should be overheard: bury the thing. I am going to make some inquiries." The first thing was to find out what steps had been taken, if any, with insurance companies. For Iris's sake his inquiry had to be conducted quite openly. His object must seem none other than the discovery of Lady Harry Norland's present address. When bankers, insurance companies, and solicitors altogether have to conduct a piece of business it is not difficult to ascertain such a simple matter. He found out the name of the family solicitor, he went to the office, sent in his card, and stated his object. As a very old friend of Lady Harry's, he wanted to learn her address. He had just come up from Scotland, where he had been ill, and had only just learned her terrible bereavement. The lawyer made no difficulty at all. There was no reason why he should. Lady Harry had been in London; she was kept in town for nearly two months by business connected with the unfortunate event; but she had now gone--she was travelling Switzerland or elsewhere. As for her address, a letter addressed to his care should be forwarded on hearing from her ladyship. "Her business, I take it, was the proving of the will and the arrangement of the property." "That was the business which kept her in town." "Lady Harry," Mr. Mountjoy went on, "had a little property of her own apart from what she may ultimately get from her father. About five thousand pounds--not more." "Indeed? She did not ask my assistance in respect of her own property." "I suppose it is invested and in the hands of trustees. But, indeed, I do not know. Lord Harry himself, I have heard, was generally in a penniless condition. Were there any insurances?" "Yes; happily there was insurance paid for him by the family. Otherwise there would have been nothing for the widow." "And this has been paid up, I suppose?" "Yes; it has been paid into her private account." "Thank you," said Mr. Mountjoy. "With your permission, I will address a letter to Lady Harry here. Will you kindly order it to be forwarded at the very earliest opportunity?" "Iris," he thought, "will not come to London any more. She has been persuaded by her husband to join in the plot. Good heavens! She has become a swindler--a conspirator---a fraudulent woman! Iris!--it is incredible--it is horrible! What shall we do?" He first wrote a letter, to the care of the lawyers. He informed her that he had made a discovery of the highest importance to herself--he refrained from anything that might give rise to suspicion; he implored her to give him an interview anywhere, in any part of the world--alone, he told her that the consequences of refusal might be fatal--absolutely fatal--to her future happiness: he conjured her to believe that he was anxious for nothing but her happiness: that he was still, as always, her most faithful friend. Well; he could do no more. He had not the least expectation that his letter would do any good; he did not even believe that it would reach Iris. The money was received and paid over to her own account. There was really no reason at all why she should place herself again in communication with these lawyers. What would she do, then? One thing only remained. With her guilty husband, this guilty woman must remain in concealment for the rest of their days, or until death released her of the man who was pretending to be dead. At the best, they might find some place where there would be no chance of anybody ever finding them who knew either of them before this wicked thing was done. But could she know of the murder? He remembered the instruction given to Fanny. She was to write to Brussels. Let her therefore write at once. He would arrange what she was to say. Under his dictation, therefore, Fanny wrote as follows:-- "My Lady,--I have received your ladyship's letter, and your kind gift of ten pounds. I note your directions to write to you at Brussels, and I obey them. "Mr. Mountjoy, who has been ill and in Scotland, has come back to London. He begs me to tell you that he has had an interview with your lawyers, and has learned that you have been in town on business, the nature of which he has also learned. He has left an important letter for you at their office. They will forward it as soon as they learn your address. "Since I came back from Passy I have thought it prudent to set down in writing an exact account of everything that happened there under my own observation. Mr. Mountjoy has read my story, and thinks that I ought without delay to send a copy of it to you. I therefore send you one, in which I have left out all the names, and put in A, B, and C instead, by his directions. He says that you will have no difficulty in filling up the names. "I remain, my dear Lady, "Your ladyship's most obedient and humble servant, "FANNY MERE." This letter, with the document, was dispatched to Brussels that night. And this is the trouble which Iris brought upon herself by answering Fanny's advertisement. CHAPTER LX ON THE EVE OF A CHANGE IRIS returned to Louvain by way of Paris. She had to settle up with the doctor. He obeyed her summons and called upon her at the hotel. "Well, my lady," he began in his gross voice, rubbing his hands and laughing, "it has come off, after all; hasn't it?" "I do not desire, Dr. Vimpany, to discuss anything with you. We will proceed to settle what business we have together." "To think that your ladyship should actually fall in!" he replied. "Now I confess that this was to me the really difficult part of the job. It is quite easy to pretend that a man is dead, but not so easy to touch his money. I really do not see how we could have managed at all without your co-operation. Well, you've had no difficulty, of course?" "None at all." "I am to have half." "I am instructed to give you two thousand pounds. I have the money here for you." "I hope you consider that I deserve this share?" "I think, Dr. Vimpany, that whatever you get in the future or the present you will richly deserve. You have dragged a man down to your own level--" "And a woman too." "A woman too. Your reward will come, I doubt not." "If it always takes the form of bank-notes I care not how great the reward may be. You will doubtless, as a good Christian, expect your own reward--for him and for you?" "I have mine already," she replied sadly. "Now, Dr. Vimpany, let me pay you, and get rid of your company." He counted the money carefully and put it in the banker's bag in his coat-pocket. "Thank you, my lady. We have exchanged compliments enough over this job." "I hope--I pray--that we may never set eyes on you again." "I cannot say. People run up against each other in the strangest manner, especially people who've done shady things and have got to keep in the background." "Enough!--enough!" "The background of the world is a very odd place, I assure you. It is full of interesting people. The society has a piquancy which you will find, I hope, quite charming. You will be known by another name, of course?" "I shall not tell you by what name--" "Tut--tut! I shall soon find out. The background gets narrower when you fall into misery." "What do you mean?" "I mean, Lady Harry, that your husband has no idea whatever as to the value of money. The two thousand that you are taking him will vanish in a year or two. What will you do then? As for myself, I know the value of money so well that I am always buying the most precious and delightful things with it. I enjoy them immensely. Never any man enjoyed good things so much as I do. But the delightful things cost money. Let us be under no illusions. Your ladyship and your noble husband and I all belong to the background; and in a year or two we shall belong to the needy background. I daresay that very soon after that the world will learn that we all belong to the criminal background. I wish your ladyship a joyful reunion with your husband!" He withdrew, and Iris set eyes on him no more. But the prophecy with which he departed remained with her, and it was with a heart foreboding fresh sorrows that she left Paris and started for Louvain. Here began the new life--that of concealment and false pretence. Iris put off her weeds, but she never ventured abroad without a thick veil. Her husband, discovering that English visitors sometimes ran over from Brussels to see the Hotel de Ville, never ventured out at all till evening. They had no friends and no society of any kind. The house, which stood secluded behind a high wall in its garden, was in the quietest part of this quiet old city; no sound of life and work reached it; the pair who lived there seldom spoke to each other. Except at the midday breakfast and the dinner they did not meet. Iris sat in her own room, silent; Lord Harry sat in his, or paced the garden walks for hours. Thus the days went on monotonously. The clock ticked; the hours struck; they took meals; they slept; they rose and dressed; they took meals again--this was all their life. This was all that they could expect for the future. The weeks went on. For three months Iris endured this life. No news came to her from the outer world; her husband had even forgotten the first necessary of modern life--the newspaper. It was not the ideal life of love, apart from the world, where the two make for themselves a Garden of Eden; it was a prison, in which two were confined together who were kept apart by their guilty secret. They ceased altogether to speak; their very meals were taken in silence. The husband saw continual reproach in his wife's eyes; her sad and heavy look spoke more plainly than any words, "It is to this that you have brought me." One morning Iris was idly turning over the papers in her desk. There were old letters, old photographs, all kinds of trifling treasures that reminded her of the past--a woman keeps everything; the little mementoes of her childhood, her first governess, her first school, her school friendships--everything. As Iris turned over these things her mind wandered back to the old days. She became again a young girl--innocent, fancy free; she grew up--she was a woman innocent still. Then her mind jumped at one leap to the present, and she saw herself as she was--innocent no longer, degraded and guilty, the vile accomplice of a vile conspiracy. Then, as one who has been wearing coloured glasses puts them off and sees things in their own true colours, she saw how she had been pulled down by a blind infatuation to the level of the man who had held her in his fascination; she saw him as he was--reckless, unstable, careless of name and honour. Then for the first time she realised the depths into which she was plunged and the life which she was henceforth doomed to lead. The blind love fell from her--it was dead at last; but it left her bound to the man by a chain which nothing could break; she was in her right senses; she saw things as they were; but the knowledge came too late. Her husband made no attempt to bridge over the estrangement which had thus grown up between them: it became wider every day; he lived apart and alone; he sat in his own room, smoking more cigars, drinking more brandy-and-water than was good for him; sometimes he paced the gravel walks in the garden; in the evening, after dinner, he went out and walked about the empty streets of the quiet city. Once or twice he ventured into a cafe, sitting in a corner, his hat drawn over his eyes; but that was dangerous. For the most part he kept in the streets, and he spoke to no one. Meantime the autumn had given place to winter, which began in wet and dreary fashion. Day and night the rain fell, making the gravel walks too wet and the streets impossible. Then Lord Harry sat in his room and smoked all day long. And still the melancholy of the one increased, and the boredom of the other. He spoke at last. It was after breakfast. "Iris," he said, "how long is this to continue?" "This--what?" "This life--this miserable solitude and silence." "Till we die," she replied. "What else do you expect? You have sold our freedom, and we must pay the price." "No; it shall end. I will end it. I can endure it no longer." "You are still young. You will perhaps have forty years more to live--all like this--as dull and empty. It is the price we must pay." "No," he repeated, "it shall end. I swear that I will go on like this no longer." "You had better go to London and walk in Piccadilly to get a little society." "What do you care what I do or where I go?" "We will not reproach each other, Harry." "Why--what else do you do all day long but reproach me with your gloomy looks and your silence?" "Well--end it if you can. Find some change in the life." "Be gracious for a little, and listen to my plan. I have made a plan. Listen, Iris. I can no longer endure this life. It drives me mad." "And me too. That is one reason why we should not desire to change it. Mad people forget. They think they are somewhere else. For us to believe that we were somewhere else would be in itself happiness." "I am resolved to change it--to change it, I say--at any risk. We will leave Louvain." "We can, I dare say," Iris replied coldly, "find another town, French or Belgian, where we can get another cottage, behind high walls in a garden, and hide there." "No. I will hide no longer. I am sick of hiding." "Go on. What is your plan? Am I to pretend to be some one else's widow?" "We will go to America. There are heaps of places in the States where no English people ever go---neither tourists nor settlers--places where they have certainly never heard of us. We will find some quiet village, buy a small farm, and settle among the people. I know something about farming. We need not trouble to make the thing pay. And we will go back to mankind again. Perhaps, Iris--when we have gone back to the world--you will--" he hesitated--"you will be able to forgive me, and to regard me again with your old thoughts. It was done for your sake." "It was not done for my sake. Do not repeat that falsehood. The old thoughts will never come back, Harry. They are dead and gone. I have ceased to respect you or myself. Love cannot survive the loss of self-respect. Who am I that I should give love to anybody? Who are you that you should expect love?" "Will you go with me to America--love or no love? I cannot stay here--I will not stay here." "I will go with you wherever you please. I should like not to run risks. There are still people whom it would pain to see Iris Henley tried and found guilty with two others on a charge of fraudulent conspiracy." "I wouldn't accustom myself, if I were you, Iris, to speak of things too plainly. Leave the thing to me and I will arrange it. See now, we will travel by a night train from Brussels to Calais. We will take the cross-country line from Amiens to Havre; there we will take boat for New York--no English people ever travel by the Havre line. Once in America we will push up country--to Kentucky or somewhere--and find that quiet country place: after that I ask no more. I will settle down for the rest of my life, and have no more adventures. Do you agree, Iris?" "I will do anything that you wish," she replied coldly. "Very well. Let us lose no time. I feel choked here. Will you go into Brussels and buy a Continental Bradshaw or a Baedeker, or something that will tell us the times of sailing, the cost of passage, and all the rest of it? We will take with us money to start us with: you will have to write to your bankers. We can easily arrange to have the money sent to New York, and it can be invested there--except your own fortune--in my new name. We shall want no outfit for a fortnight at sea. I have arranged it all beautifully. Child, look like your old self." He took an unresisting hand. "I want to see you smile and look happy again." "You never will." "Yes--when we have got ourselves out of this damnable, unwholesome way of life; when we are with our fellow-creatures again. You will forget this--this little business--which was, you know, after all, an unhappy necessity." "Oh! how can I ever forget?" "New interests will arise; new friendships will be formed--" "Harry, it is myself that I cannot forgive. Teach me to forgive myself, and I will forget everything." He pressed her no longer. "Well, then," he said, "go to Brussels and get this information. If you will not try to conquer this absurd moral sensitiveness--which comes too late--you will at least enable me to place you in a healthier atmosphere." "I will go at once," she said, "I will go by the next train." "There is a train at a quarter to two. You can do all you have to do and catch the train at five. Iris"--the chance of a change made him impatient--"let us go to-morrow. Let us go by the night express. There will be English travellers, but they shall not recognise me. We shall be in Calais at one in the morning. We will go on by an early train before the English steamer comes in. Will you be ready?" "Yes; there is nothing to delay me. I suppose we can leave the house by paying the rent? I will go and do what you want." "Let us go this very night." "If you please; I am always ready." "No: there will be no time; it will look like running away. We will go to-morrow night. Besides, you would be too tired after going to Brussels and back. Iris, we are going to be happy again--I am sure we are." He, for one, looked as if there was nothing to prevent a return of happiness. He laughed and waved his hands. "A new sky---new scenes--new work--you will be happy again, Iris. You shall go, dear. Get me the things I want." She put on her thick veil and started on her short journey. The husband's sudden return to his former good spirits gave her a gleam of hope. The change would be welcome indeed if it permitted him to go about among other men, and to her if it gave her occupation. As to forgetting--how could she forget the past, so long as they were reaping the fruit of their wickedness in the shape of solid dividends? She easily found what she wanted. The steamer of the Compagnie Generale Transatlantique left Havre every eighth day. They would go by that line. The more she considered the plan the more it recommended itself. They would at any rate go out of prison. There would be a change in their life. Miserable condition! To have no other choice of life but that of banishment and concealment: no other prospect than that of continual fraud renewed by every post that brought them money. When she had got all the information that was wanted she had still an hour or two before her. She thought she would spend the time wandering about the streets of Brussels. The animation and life of the cheerful city--where all the people except the market-women are young--pleased her. It was long since she had seen any of the cheerfulness that belongs to a busy street. She walked slowly along, up one street and down another, looking into the shops. She made two or three little purchases. She looked into a place filled with Tauchnitz Editions, and bought two or three books. She was beginning to think that she was tired and had better make her way back to the station, when suddenly she remembered the post-office and her instructions to Fanny Mere. "I wonder," she said, "if Fanny has written to me." She asked the way to the post-office. There was time if she walked quickly. At the Poste Restante there was a letter for her--more than a letter, a parcel, apparently a book. She received it and hurried back to the station. In the train she amused herself with looking through the leaves of her new books. Fanny Mere's letter she would read after dinner. At dinner they actually talked. Lord Harry was excited with the prospect of going back to the world. He had enjoyed his hermitage, he said, quite long enough. Give him the society of his fellow-creatures. "Put me among cannibals," he said, "and I should make friends with them. But to live alone--it is the devil! To-morrow we begin our new flight." After dinner he lit his cigar, and went on chattering about the future. Iris remembered the packet she had got at the post-office, and opened it. It contained a small manuscript book filled with writing and a brief letter. She read the letter, laid it down, and opened the book. CHAPTER LXI THE LAST DISCOVERY "I SHALL like to turn farmer," Lord Harry went on talking while Iris opened and began to read Fanny's manuscript. "After all my adventures, to settle down in a quiet place and cultivate the soil. On market-day we will drive into town together"--he talked as if Kentucky were Warwickshire--"side by side in a spring cart. I shall have samples of grain in bags, and you will have a basket of butter and cream. It will be an ideal life. We shall dine at the ordinary, and, after dinner, over a pipe and a glass of grog, I shall discuss the weather and the crops. And while we live in this retreat of ours, over here the very name of Harry Norland will have been forgotten. Queer, that! We shall go on living long after we are dead and buried and forgotten. In the novels the man turns up after he is supposed to be cast away--wrecked--drowned--dead long ago. But he never turns up when he is forgotten--unless he is Rip Van Winkle. By Gad, Iris! when we are old people we will go home and see the old places together. It will be something to look forward to--something to live for--eh?" "I feel quite happy this evening, Iris; happier than I have been for months. The fact is, this infernal place has hipped us both confoundedly. I didn't like to grumble, but I've felt the monotony more than a bit. And so have you. It's made you brood over things. Now, for my part, I like to look at the bright side. Here we are comfortably cut off from the past. That's all done with. Nothing in the world can revive the memory of disagreeable things if we are only true to ourselves and agree to forget them. What has been done can never be discovered. Not a soul knows except the doctor, and between him and ourselves we are going to put a few thousand--What's the matter, Iris? What the devil is the matter?" For Iris, who had been steadily reading while her husband chattered on, suddenly dropped the book, and turned upon him a white face and eyes struck with horror. "What is it?" Lord Harry repeated. "Oh! Is this true?" "What?" "I cannot say it. Oh, my God! can this be true?" "What? Speak, Iris." He sprang to his feet. "Is it--is it discovered?" "Discovered? Yes, all--all--all--is discovered!" "Where? How? Give me the thing, Iris. Quick! Who knows? What is known?" He snatched the book from her hands. She shrank from his touch, and pushed back her chair, standing in an attitude of self-defence--watching him as one would watch a dangerous creature. He swiftly read page after page, eager to know the worst. Then he threw the book upon the table. "Well?" he said, not lifting his eyes. "The man was murdered--murdered!" she whispered. He made no reply. "You looked on while he was murdered! You looked on consenting! You are a murderer!" "I had no share or part in it. I did not know he was being poisoned." "You knew when I was with you. Oh! the dead man--the murdered man--was in the house at the very moment! Your hands were red with blood when you took me away--to get me out of the way--so that I should not know--" She stopped, she could not go on. "I did not know, Iris--not with certainty. I thought he was dying when he came into the house. He did not die; he began to recover. When the doctor gave him his medicine--after that woman went away--I suspected. When he died, my suspicions were stronger. I challenged him. He did not deny it. Believe me, Iris, I neither counselled it nor knew of it." "You acquiesced in it. You consented. You should have warned the--the other murderer that you would denounce him if the man died. You took advantage of it. His death enabled you to carry out your fraud with me as your accomplice. With ME! I am an accomplice in a murder!" "No, no, Iris; you knew nothing of it. No one can ever accuse you--" "You do not understand. It is part of the accusation which I make against myself." "As for what this woman writes," her husband went on, "it is true. I suppose it is useless to deny a single word of it. She was hidden behind the curtain, then! She heard and saw all! If Vimpany had found her! He was right. No one so dangerous as a woman. Yes; she has told you exactly what happened. She suspected all along. We should have sent her away and changed our plans. This comes of being too clever. Nothing would do for the doctor but the man's death. I hoped--we both hoped--that he would die a natural death. He did not. Without a dead man we were powerless. We had to get a dead man, Iris, I will hide nothing more from you, whatever happens. I confess everything. I knew that he was going to die. When he began to get well I was filled with forebodings, because I knew that he would never be allowed to go away. How else could we find a dead body? You can't steal a body; you can't make one up. You must have one for proof of death. I say"--his voice was harsh and hoarse--"I say that I knew he must die. I saw his death in the doctor's face. And there was no more money left for a new experiment if Oxbye should get well and go away. When it came to the point I was seized with mortal terror. I would have given up everything--everything--to see the man get up from his bed and go away. But it was too late. I saw the doctor prepare the final dose, and when he had it to his lips I saw by his eyes that it was the drink of death. I have told you all," he concluded. "You have told me all," she repeated. "All! Good Heavens! All!" "I have hidden nothing from you. Now there is nothing more to tell." She stood perfectly still--her hands clasped, her eyes set, her face white and stern. "What I have to do now," she said, "lies plain before me." "Iris! I implore you, make no change in our plans. Let us go away as we proposed. Let the past be forgotten. Come with me--" "Go with you? With you? With you? Oh!" she shuddered. "Iris! I have told you all. Let us go on as if you had heard nothing. We cannot be more separated than we have been for the last three months. Let us remain as we are until the time when you will be able to feel for me--to pity my weakness--and to forgive me." "You do not understand. Forgive you? It is no longer a question of forgiveness. Who am I that my forgiveness should be of the least value to you--or to any?" "What is the question, then?" "I don't know. A horrible crime has been committed--a horrible, ghastly, dreadful crime--such a thing as one reads of in the papers and wonders, reading it, what manner of wild beasts must be those who do such things. Perhaps one wonders, besides, what manner of women must be those who associate with those wild beasts. My husband is one of those wild beasts!--my husband!--my husband!--and--I--I am one of the women who are the fit companions of these wild creatures." "You can say what you please, Iris; what you please." "I have known--only since I came here have I really known and understood--that I have wrecked my life in a blind passion. I have loved you, Harry; it has been my curse. I followed you against the warnings of everybody: I have been rewarded--by this. We are in hiding. If we are found we shall be sent to a convict prison for conspiracy. We shall be lucky if we are not tried for murder and hanged by the neck until we are dead. This is my reward!" "I have never played the hypocrite with you, Iris. I have never pretended to virtues which I do not possess. So far--" "Hush! Do not speak to me. I have something more to say, and then I shall never speak to you any more. Hush! Let me collect my thoughts. I cannot find the words. I cannot. . . Wait--wait! Oh!" She sat down and burst into sobbings and moanings. But only for a minute. Then she sprang to her feet again and dashed back the tears. "Time for crying," she said, "when all is done. Harry, listen carefully; these are my last words. You will never hear from me any more. You must manage your own life in your own way, to save it or to spoil it; I will never more bear any part in it. I am going back to England--alone. I shall give up your name, and I shall take my maiden name again--or some other. I shall live somewhere quietly where you will not discover me. But perhaps you will not look for me?" "I will not," he said. "I owe you so much. I will not look for you." "As regards the money which I have obtained for you under false pretences, out of the fifteen thousand pounds for which you were insured, five thousand have been paid to my private account. I shall restore to the Company all that money." "Good Heavens! Iris, you will be prosecuted on a criminal charge." "Shall I? That will matter little, provided I make reparation. Alas! who shall make reparation--who shall atone--for the blood-spilling? For all things else in this world we may make what we call atonement; but not for the spilling of blood." "You mean this? You will deliberately do this?" "I mean every word. I will do nothing and say nothing that will betray you. But the money that I can restore, I will restore--SO HELP ME, GOD!" With streaming eyes she raised her hand and pointed upwards. Her husband bowed his head. "You have said all you wished to say?" he asked humbly. "I have said all." "Let me look in your face once more---so--full--with the light upon it. Yes; I have loved you, Iris--I have always loved you. Better, far better, for you had you fallen dead at my feet on the day when you became my wife. Then I should have been spared--I should have been spared a great deal. You are right, Iris. Your duty lies plainly before you. As for me, I must think of mine. Farewell! The lips of a murderer are not fit to touch even the hem of your garments. Farewell!" He left her. She heard the hall door open and shut. She would see her husband no more. She went to her own room and packed a single box with necessary things. Then she called the housemaid and informed her that she had been summoned to return suddenly to England; she must reach Brussels at least that evening. The woman brought a porter who carried her box to the station; and Iris left Louvain--and her husband--for ever. CHAPTER LXII THE BOARD OF DIRECTORS AT a Board Meeting of the Royal Unicorn Life Insurance Company, specially convened, the Chairman had to make a communication of a very remarkable character. "Gentlemen," he said, "I call upon the Secretary, without further introduction, to read a letter, to consider which you are called together this day." "The letter," the Secretary began, "is simply headed 'Paris,' dated two days ago." "Only two days ago," said the Chairman, mysteriously. "But, of course, that means nothing. There has been plenty of time for him to change his residence. I dare say he may be in London at our very elbow. Go on, if you please." "Gentlemen"--the Secretary proceeded to read the letter. "It is now three months since a claim was sent in to you by the firm of Erskine, Mansfield, Denham & Co., solicitors of Lincoln's Inn Fields, for the sum of 15,000 pounds due to the heirs of Lord Harry Norland in respect of an insurance effected upon his life." "The claim, gentlemen," said the Chairman, "was duly acknowledged and paid some weeks later. It was a heavy loss; but these things will occur, and there seemed no reason to doubt the facts alleged, or to dispute the claim." "I write this letter," the Secretary continued reading, "in order to inform you that the claim was fraudulent, inasmuch as Lord Harry Norland was at the time, and is still, actually living." Fraudulent! The man still living! At this point there was a sudden awakening. Everybody sat up and listened with all their ears. "I may tell you, gentlemen," the Chairman explained, "that the writer of this remarkable letter is none other than Lord Harry Norland himself. We will now proceed without further interruption." "In conjunction with another person, I devised and carried out successfully a plan by which I was enabled to touch at once, and without the disagreeable necessity of previously expiring and being buried, the whole of the money for which I was insured. Other people have attempted the same design, I believe, but the thing has hitherto been managed clumsily. In my own case, it has been managed with great dexterity and artistic skill. As you will naturally be curious on a subject which interests you so closely I have no objection to reveal the method. It is not enough to write to your office and state that a certain person is dead. One must be prepared with proofs of the death should any doubt arise. No proof of death is quite satisfactory without evidence as to the disposal of the dead body. With that object, we procured from the Hotel Dieu a patient apparently in an advanced state of consumption. My accomplice, being a medical man, highly recommended, was able to do this without suspicion. We nursed him ostentatiously. During the latter part of the illness he was nursed under the name of Lord Harry Norland. He died. His name was entered in the official register as Lord Harry Norland. He was buried in the cemetery at Auteuil, near Paris, as Lord Harry Norland. A headstone marks his grave, which is purchased in perpetuity. The doctor certified the cause of his death, and communicated the fact to the deceased's brother, Lord Malven, and to the deceased's solicitors. The death was also announced to the papers. The difficulties attendant on the successful conduct of the business are so great that you need not fear a repetition. Nobody, in order to assist a fraud, will consent to die and lend his own body. It is seldom, indeed, that a sick man can be found--a foreigner and friendless--whose death will cause no curiosity and raise no questions. Add to this, it is extremely difficult, as I have now experienced, to find the necessary assistance without encountering the objections of conscience." "Upon my word!" cried one of the Directors, "this is a most wonderful letter. I beg your pardon. Pray go on." "We began very well. We buried our man under the name of Lord Harry Norland, as I have said. The difficulty then arose as to the presentation of the claim. It was most desirable that the claim should be made by the person who would most naturally be the deceased's heir and after proving his will and by his own solicitor. "I am married. I have no children. I have not lived on good terms with my family. It was, therefore, quite reasonable to expect that I should leave my wife sole heir and executrix. It was also natural that she should go to my solicitors--the family solicitors--and ask them to manage her affairs. "With this object I confessed to my wife as much of the conspiracy as was necessary. Like many women, she possesses, in addition to every virtue, a blessed devotion to her husband. Where he is concerned she is easily led even from the paths of honour. I practised on that devotion; I used all the arguments and persuasions based on that devotion necessary to convert a woman of honour into the accomplice of a conspiracy. In brief, I made my wife join in the fraud. She consented to act for me, persuaded that if she did not the conspiracy would be discovered. The business has, therefore been carried through with the greatest success. You have paid the claim in full without question. For me there was left the very comfortable provision of 15,000 pounds, with the consciousness of a daring and successful swindle. Unfortunately, my wife has now discovered that her conscience will give her no peace or rest until full restitution of the money has been made. She has informed me of her intention to send back without delay that part of it which lies at her bank in her own name--that is to say, five thousand pounds. "I do not suppose that, as gentlemen, you would be disposed to subject a woman who thus desires to repair a wrong to the degradation of a public prosecution. No useful end, in fact, will be served in so doing. It is, in fact, in the conviction that you will take no proceedings that I write this letter. "Further, as I wish my wife's scruples of conscience to be completely set at rest, I am prepared, on an assurance that the matter will be allowed to drop, to forward to you the remainder of the money, less two thousand pounds, which I have reason to believe will be sent to you in course of time. I am also prepared to instruct my wife, as my heir, in the event of my death to make no claim on the Company; and I have requested my solicitor to cease paying the annual premium. The Company will, therefore, be the gainers of the whole premiums which have been paid--namely, 300 pounds a year for ten years: that is to say, 3,000 pounds. "As for myself, I will take the necessary steps as soon as you have given me that letter of assurance. As regards the other principal in the Conspiracy, it is hardly worth your while to search after him. I shall be obliged if you will be so good as to acknowledge this letter without delay, with any assurance which you may be able to make as regards the person whom I have dragged into the affair. I send you an address where a letter will find me. You may wish to watch the house. I assure you beforehand that it is useless. I shall not go there.--I remain, Gentlemen, "Your obedient servant, "HARRY NORLAND." "Perhaps," said the Secretary, "it is in connection with this letter that I have this day received a packet of bank-notes amounting in all to the sum of five thousand pounds. The packet is endorsed 'Restitution money.'" "Bank-notes, gentlemen," said the Chairman significantly, "may be traced if necessary." The Directors looked at each other. This was, indeed, a very remarkable story, and one never before brought to the notice of any Board. "Gentlemen," said the Chairman, "you have heard the letter; you now have the case before you. I should like to hear your views." "We are likely to get most of our money back," said one of the Directors, "it seems to me, by holding our tongues. That is the main thing." "If we could get Lord Harry himself," said another, "I should say: Go for him, but not for his wife. I wonder we ever took his life at all. If all stories are true about him he is as bad as they make 'em. He ran away when he was a boy, and went to sea: he was a strolling actor after that: he went out to the States and was reported to have been seen in the West: he has been a ship's steward: he has been on the turf. What has he not been?" "We have got the money," said another; "that is the great thing. We must remember that we should never have found out the thing unless--" "The Company must not compound a felony," said the Chairman. "Certainly not. By no means. At the same time, would any good purpose be served by public scandal in connection with a noble House?" "The noble House," said another Director, who was Radical, "may very well take care of itself. Question is, Would it do any good to anybody if we ran in the wife?" "Who is she?" "You would expect a ruffian like Lord Harry to marry a woman like himself. Not at all. He married a most charming creature named Henley--Iris Henley--father very well known in the City. I heard of it at the time. She would have him---infatuated about him--sad business. Mr. Chairman, I submit that it is quite impossible for us to take proceedings against this unfortunate lady, who is doing her utmost to make restitution." "The Company must not compound a felony," the Chairman repeated. "Even if we do not get back that two thousand pounds," said the Secretary, "the Company will lose nothing. The surrender value must be considered." Then another of the Directors spoke. "We do not know where this lady is to be found. She is probably passing under another name. It is not our business to hunt her down." "And if we found her we should have to prove the case, and her guilty knowledge of the conspiracy," said another. "How would this precious letter be taken as evidence? Why, we do not even know that it is true. We might exhume the body: what would that prove after three months? We might open up the case, and spend a heap of money, and create a great scandal, and be none the better for it afterwards. My advice is, let the thing drop." "Well, but," objected another, "suppose we admit that the man is still living. He may die, and then there would be another claim upon us." "Of that," said the Chairman, "I think there need be no apprehension whatever. You have heard his letter. But, I repeat, we must not compound a felony!" "I submit, Mr. Chairman," said one who had not spoken--and he was a barrister--"that the Company knows nothing at all about Lady Harry Norland. We have had to deal with the firm of Erskine, Mansfield, Denham & Co., of Lincoln's Inn Fields: and a most respectable firm too. On their representations we paid the money. If it can be ascertained that we have been defrauded we must look to them. If we have to prosecute anybody it must be that respectable firm." "Good," said the Chairman. "I propose, therefore, that the Secretary write to Lord Harry Norland, informing him that the Company have had nothing at all to do with his wife, and do not recognise her action in any way. We shall then see what happens, and can proceed in accordance." At this moment a card was brought in. It was that of Mr. Erskine himself, senior partner in the very firm. He came in, old, eminently respectable, but shaken. He was greatly shaken. "Gentlemen," he said nervously, "I hasten to bring you a communication, a most extraordinary communication, which I have just received. It is nothing less than a confession--a full confession--from a person whom I had every reason to believe was dead. It is from Lord Harry Norland." "We know already," said the Chairman, superior, "the main facts which you are going to lay before us. We are met to-day in order to discuss our action in view of these facts. There has been a conspiracy of a very artful and ingenious character. It has been successful so far through the action of a woman. By the action of the same woman it is sought to make restitution. The hand of justice, however--" "Perhaps," said the lawyer, "you will oblige me by allowing me to read the letter." "Pray read it"--the Chairman bowed--"though I do not suppose it will add to the information we already possess." "Gentlemen"--the lawyer read--"You will be surprised and pained to learn that I am not--as you were given to understand--dead; but on the other hand, living and in the enjoyment of rude health. I see no reason why my life should not be prolonged to threescore years and ten. "The claim, therefore, which you sent in to the Royal Unicorn Life Insurance Company was fraudulent. It was the result of a deep-laid conspiracy. You have been made the innocent accomplice of a great crime. "My wife, who now knows the whole truth, is most anxious for restitution to be made. She is about to restore that portion of the money which lies in her name. Most of the rest will be sent back by myself, on certain conditions. "In communicating the fact of my being still alive to the head of my family you will please also to inform him that I authorise the discontinuance of the premium. This will save the family 300 pounds a year. This will be a solatium to him for the fact that his brother still lives to disgrace the name. If I should die before the next premium is due I order my heirs not to claim the money.--I remain, Gentlemen, your obedient servant, "HARRY NORLAND." "The premium which should have been paid under ordinary circumstances," said the Secretary, "was due six weeks ago. The policy has therefore expired." "It is a characteristic letter," said the lawyer. "Lord Harry was born to be a trouble to his family. There has never been a time, so far as I remember, when he was not a trouble and a disgrace. Hitherto, however, he has avoided actual crime--at least, actual detection. Now, I suppose, the game is up. Yet, gentlemen, the letter is not that of an utter villain." "He will not be caught," observed the Chairman. "The letter is from too cool a hand. He has prepared a retreat. I dare say by this time he is in some safe and convenient disguise. We are only concerned--are we not?--for the moment with the lady. She has received the money from you. We paid it to you on your representations." "Observe," said the lawyer, "that the moment she learns the truth she hastens to make restitution." "Humph!" said the Director, turning over Lord Harry's letter so that the lawyer should not be able to read the contents. "Have you seen her?" "I have not. I expect to do so before long. She will certainly call upon me." "She will be ill-advised," said the Chairman, "if she calls upon anybody just at present. Well, sir, I confess that I should be sorry--every member of this Board would be sorry--to see that lady placed in the dock beside her husband." "In the interests of the noble family concerned, I hope that neither of them will be placed in the dock." "Do you know who is the other man--the second principal?" "I can guess. I do not know, however, where he is. All I know is what I have communicated to you--the contents of this letter." "One would like to get hold of the other man," said the Chairman. "Presumably he does not belong to a noble family. Well, sir, I don't know what may be done; but this Company cannot, I repeat, compound a felony." "Certainly not. Most certainly not. At present, however, you have got very little to go upon. And unless evidence is forthcoming--" "We will not discuss that part of the business," said the Chairman. "A conspiracy has been undoubtedly entered into. We may be compelled to bring an action of some kind against your firm, Mr. Erskine. As regards the lady, if she is guilty--" "No--no," said the lawyer, "upon my life! Sinned against--not guilty." The Chairman folded up Lord Harry's letter and gave it to the Secretary. "We are much obliged to you, sir, for your prompt action. It is, of course, only what we should have expected of your firm. Meantime, remember that the claim was made by you, that you received the money, and--but we will communicate with you in a few days." The Secretary wrote such a letter as was suggested. By return of post a cheque was sent, signed by one William Linville, for the sum of eight thousand pounds. The Company had, therefore, recovered thirteen out of fifteen thousand pounds. The Secretary had another interview with Mr. Erskine, the result of which was that the Company recovered the remaining two thousand pounds. Every firm of solicitors contains its own secrets and keeps them. Therefore, we need not inquire whether it was intended that this money should be paid by the firm or by the noble family to which Lord Harry Norland belonged. It is, however, certain that a few days afterwards Mr. Hugh Mountjoy called at the office and had a long conversation with the senior partner, and that he left behind him a very big cheque. The subject has never been brought before the Directors again. It was, indeed, privately discussed, and that frequently. Perhaps the story was whispered about outside the Board-room. These things do get about. There has been, however, a feeling that the thing, which would have been perfectly successful but for the conscience of a woman concerned, might be repeated with less tender consciences, and so the Companies be defrauded. Now the wickedness of the world is already so great that it needs no more teaching to make it worse. On the whole, the less said the better. Besides, the tragic event which happened a day or two later effectively prevented any further step. That in itself was sufficient to wipe out the whole business. CHAPTER LXIII A REFUGE IT was all over. Iris had sent in her money. She was in a small lodging found for her by Fanny Mere, who called her cousin. She stayed indoors all day long, afraid of stirring abroad; afraid to read the papers; afraid that her husband was arrested on the charge of conspiracy and fraud; afraid that some kind of hue and cry might be out after her. Therefore, when she heard a manly step on the stair, she started and turned pale, expecting nothing short of an armed messenger of the law. She never was in this danger for a single minute, but conscience made a coward of her. The step was that of Hugh Mountjoy. "I found you out," he said, "by means of Fanny. The girl knew that she was safe in letting me know your secret. Why are you in concealment?" "You cannot know all, or you would not ask me that." "I do know all; and again I ask, why are you in concealment?" "Because--Oh, Hugh--spare me!" "I know all, which is the reason why I cannot choose but come to see you. Come out of this poor place; resume your own name. There is no reason why you should not. You were not present at Passy when this conspiracy was hatched; you got there after the funeral. You, naturally, went to see the family solicitors. Iris, what has the conspiracy to do with you?" It will be observed that Hugh had not read the letter written to the Directors of the Company. "Do you know about the money?" "Certainly. You sent back all that you could--five thousand pounds. That showed your own innocence--" "Hugh, you know that I am guilty." "The world will think that you are innocent. At any rate, you can come out and go about without fear. Tell me, what are your plans?" "I have no plans. I only want to hide my head--somewhere." "Yes; we will talk about that presently. Meantime, I have some news for you." "News? What news?" "Really good news. I have to tell you a thing which will surprise you." "Good news? What good news is there for me?" "Your husband has sent back the whole of the money." "Sent back? To the Insurance Office?" "All has been sent back. He wrote two letters--one to the solicitors and the other to the Insurance Company. It is not likely now that anything can be said, because the Directors have accepted the money. Moreover, it appears that they might have proceeded against the lawyers for the recovery of the money, but that they have nothing to do either with you or with Lord Harry Norland. That is a difficult point, however. Somebody, it seems, has compounded--or is going to compound--a felony. I do not understand exactly what this means, or what dreadful consequences might follow; but I am assured by the lawyers that we need apprehend nothing more. All is over." Iris heaved a profound sigh. "Then he is safe?" she said. "You think of him first," said Hugh, jealously. "Yes: he is safe; and, I do hope, gone away, out of the country, never to come back any more. The more important thing is that you should be safe from him. As for the doctor--but I cannot speak of the doctor with common patience. Let him be left to the end which always awaits such men. It is to be hoped that he will never, wherever he goes, feel himself in safety." "I am safe," said Iris, "not only from my husband, but from what else beside? You know what I mean. You mean that I, as well as my husband, am safe from that. Oh! the fear of it has never left me--never for one moment. You tell me that I am safe from public disgrace, and I rejoice--when I ought to sink into the earth with shame!" She covered her face with her hands. "Iris, we know what you have done. We also know why you did it. What need we say more? The thing is finished and done with. Let us never again allude to it. The question now is--what will you do next? Where will you live?" "I do not know. I have got Fanny Mere with me. Mrs. Vimpany is also anxious to live with me. I am rich, indeed, since I have two faithful dependants and one friend." "In such wealth, Iris, you will always be rich. Now listen seriously. I have a villa in the country. It is far away from London, in the Scottish Lowlands--quite out of the way--remote even from tourists and travellers. It is a very lonely place, but there is a pretty house, with a great garden behind and a stretch of sand and seashore in front. There one may live completely isolated. I offer you that villa for your residence. Take it; live in it as long as you please." "No, no. I must not accept such a gift." "You must, Iris--you shall. I ask it of you as a proof of friendship, and nothing more. Only, I fear that you will get tired of the loneliness." "No--no," she said. "I cannot get tired of loneliness it is all I want." "There is no society at all." "Society? Society for me?" "I go to the neighbourhood sometimes for fishing. You will let me call upon you?" "Who else has such a right?" "Then you will accept my offer?" "I feel that I must. Yes, Hugh; yes, with deepest gratitude." The next day she went down by the night-mail to Scotland. With her travelled Mrs. Vimpany and Fanny Mere. CHAPTER LXIV THE INVINCIBLES THE proceedings of Lord Harry after he had sent off that cheque were most remarkable. If he had invited--actually courted--what followed--he could not have acted differently. He left London and crossed over to Dublin. Arrived there, he went to a small hotel entirely frequented by Irish Americans and their friends. It was suspected of being the principal place of resort of the Invincibles. It was known to be a house entirely given up to the Nationalists. He made no attempt to conceal his name. He entered the hotel, greeted the landlord cheerfully, saluted the head waiter, ordered his dinner, and took no notice of the sullen looks with which he was received or the scowls which followed him about the coffee-room, where half a dozen men were sitting and talking, for the most part in whispers. He slept there that night. The next day, still openly and as if there was nothing to fear, either from England or from Ireland, he walked to the station and took his ticket, paying no attention to what all the world might have seen and understood--that he was watched. When he had taken his ticket two men immediately afterwards took tickets to the same place. The place where he was going was that part of Kerry where the Invincibles had formerly assassinated Arthur Mountjoy. The two men who followed him--who took their tickets for the same place--who got into the same carriage with him--were two members of that same fraternity. It is well known that he who joins that body and afterwards leaves it, or disobeys its order, or is supposed to betray its secrets, incurs the penalty of death. On the unexpected arrival of Lord Harry at this hotel, there had been hurriedly called together a meeting of those members then in Dublin. It was resolved that the traitor must be removed. Lots were cast, and the lot fell upon one who remembered past acts of kindness done by Lord Harry to his own people. He would fain have been spared this business, but the rules of the society are imperative. He must obey. It is the practice of the society when a murder has been resolved upon to appoint a second man, whose duty it is to accompany the murderer and to see that he executes his task. In the afternoon, about an hour before sunset, the train arrived at the station where Lord Harry was to get down. The station-master recognised him, and touched his hat. Then he saw the two other men got down after him, and he turned pale. "I will leave my portmanteau," said Lord Harry, "in the cloak-room. It will be called for." Afterwards the station-master remembered those words. Lord Harry did not say "I will call for it," but "It will be called for." Ominous words. The weather was cold; a drizzling rain fell; the day was drawing in. Lord Harry left the station, and started with quick step along the road, which stretched across a dreary desolate piece of country. The two men walked after him. One presently quickened his step, leaving the second man twenty yards behind. The station-master looked after them till he could see them no longer. Then he shook his head and returned to his office. Lord Harry walking along the road knew that the two men were following him. Presently he became aware that one of them was quickening his pace. He walked on. Perhaps his cheeks paled and his lips were set close, because he knew that he was walking to his death. The steps behind him approached faster--faster. Lord Harry never even turned his head. The man was close behind him. The man was beside him. "Mickey O'Flynn it is," said Lord Harry. "'Tis a ---- traitor, you are," said the man. "Your friends the Invincibles told you that, Mickey. Why, do you think I don't know, man, what are you here for? Well?" he stopped. "I am unarmed. You have got a revolver in your hand--the hand behind your back. What are you stopping for?" "I cannot," said the man. "You must, Mickey O'Flynn--you must; or it's murdered you'll be yourself," said Lord Harry, coolly. "Why, man, 'tis but to lift your hand. And then you'll be a murderer for life. I am another--we shall both be murderers then. Why don't you fire, man." "By ---- I cannot!" said Mickey. He held the revolver behind him, but he did not lift his arm. His eyes started: his mouth was open; the horror of the murderer was upon him before the murder was committed. Then he started. "Look!" he cried. "Look behind you, my lord!" Lord Harry turned. The second man was upon him. He bent forward and peered in his face. "Arthur Mountjoy's murderer!" he cried, and sprang at his throat. One, two, three shots rang out in the evening air. Those who heard them in the roadside cabin, at the railway-station on the road, shuddered. They knew the meaning of those shots. One more murder to load the soul of Ireland. But Lord Harry lay dead in the middle of the road. The second man got up and felt at his throat. "Faith!" he said, "I thought I was murdered outright. Come, Mick, let us drag him to the roadside." They did so, and then with bent heads and slouched hats, they made their way across country to another station where they would not be recognised as the two who had followed Lord Harry down the road. Two mounted men of the Constabulary rode along an hour later and found the body lying where it had been left. They searched the pockets. They found a purse with a few sovereigns; the portrait of a lady---the murdered man's wife--a sealed envelope addressed to Hugh Mountjoy, Esq, care of his London hotel; and a card-case: nothing of any importance. "It is Lord Harry Norland," said one. "The wild lord--he has met his end at last." The letter to Iris was brief. It said: "Farewell! I am going to meet the death of one who is called a Traitor to the Cause. I am the Traitor of a Cause far higher. May the end that is already plotted for me be accepted as an atonement! Forgive me, Iris! Think of me as kindly as you can. But I charge you--it is my latest word--mourn not for one who has done his best to poison your life and to ruin your soul." In the other letter he said: "I know the affection you have always entertained for Iris. She will tell you what she pleases about the past. If she tells you nothing about her late husband, think the worst and you will not be wrong. Remember that whatever she has done was done for me and at my instigation. She ought to have married you instead of me. "I am in the presence of Death. The men who are going to kill me are under this very roof. They will kill me, perhaps to-night. Perhaps they will wait for a quieter and a safer place. But they will kill me. "In the presence of Death, I rise superior to the pitiful jealousy with which I have always regarded you. I now despise it. I ask your pardon for it. Help Iris to forget the action of her life of which she has most reason to be ashamed. Show that you forgive me--when you have forgiven her--and when you have helped her in the warmth and strength of your love to drive me out of your thoughts for ever. "H. N." EPILOGUE IT is two years after the murder of Lord Harry Norland, the last event connected with this history. Iris, when she accepted Hugh Mountjoy's offer of his Scotch villa, went there resolved to hide herself from the world. Too many people, she thought, knew her history, and what she had done. It was not likely that the Directors of the Insurance Company would all hold their tongues about a scandal so very unusual. Even if they did not charge her with complicity, as they could, they would certainly tell the story--all the more readily since Lord Harry's murder--of the conspiracy and its success. She could never again, she told herself, be seen in the world. She was accompanied by her friend and maid--the woman whose fidelity to her had been so abundantly proved--and by Mrs. Vimpany, who acted as housekeeper. After a decent interval, Hugh Mountjoy joined her. She was now a widow. She understood very well what he wished to say, and she anticipated him. She informed him that nothing would ever induce her to become the wife of any other man after her degradation. Hugh received this intimation without a remark. He remained in the neighbourhood, however, calling upon her frequently and offering no word of love. But he became necessary to her. The frequent visits became daily; the afternoon visits were paid in the morning: the visitor stayed all day. When the time came for Iris to yield, and he left the house no more, there seemed to be no change. But still they continued their retired life, and now I do not think they will ever change it again. Their villa was situated on the north shore of the Solway Firth, close to the outfall of the Annan River, but on the west bank, opposite to the little town of Annan. At the back was a large garden, the front looked out upon the stretch of sand at low tide and the water at high tide. The house was provided with a good library. Iris attended to her garden, walked on the sands, read, or worked. They were a quiet household. Husband and wife talked little. They walked about in the garden, his arm about her waist, or hand in hand. The past, if not forgotten, was ceasing to trouble them; it seemed a dreadful, terrible dream. It left its mark in a gentle melancholy which had never belonged to Iris in the old days. And then happened the last event which the chronicler of this history has to relate. It began in the morning with a letter. Mrs. Vimpany received it. She knew the handwriting, started, and hid it quickly in her bosom. As soon as she could get away to her own room she opened and read it. "Good and Tender Creature,--I ascertained, a good while ago, thinking that probably I might have to make this kind of application to you, where you were living and with whom. It was not difficult; I only had to connect you with Mr. Hugh Mountjoy and to find out where he lived. I congratulate you on being so well able to take care of yourself. You are probably settled for life in a comfortable home. I feel as happy about it as if I had myself contributed to thus satisfactory result. "I have no intention of making myself more disagreeable than I am obliged to do. Necessity, however, knows no law. You will understand me when I tell you that I have spent all my money. I do not regret the manner in which the money has been spent, but the fact that it has all gone. This it is which cuts me to the heart. "I have also discovered that the late lamented Lord Harry, whose death I myself have the greatest reasons to deplore, played me a scurvy trick in regard to certain sums of money. The amount for which he was insured was not less than 15,000 pounds. The amount as he stated it to me was only 4,000 pounds. In return for certain services rendered at a particular juncture I was to receive the half of the insurance money. I only received 2,000 pounds, consequently there is still due to me the sum of 5,500 pounds. This is a large lump of money. But Mr. Mountjoy is, I believe, a wealthy man. He will, doubtless, see the necessity of paying this money to me without further question or delay. "You will, therefore, seek his presence--he is now, I hear, at home. You may read to him any part of this letter that you please, and you will let him know that I am in earnest. A man with empty pockets cannot choose but be in earnest. "He may very possibly object. "Very good. In that case you will tell him that a fraud has been committed in connection with which I am prepared to make a full confession. I consented, on the death of my patient, and at the earnest entreaty of Lord Harry Norland, to represent the dead man as his lordship. I then went away, resolving to have nothing more to do with the further villainy which I believe was carried on to the obtaining of the whole amount for which he was insured. "The murder of Lord Harry immediately afterwards caused the Company to drop their intended prosecution. I shall reveal to them the present residence of his widow, and shall place my evidence at their disposition. Whatever happens I shall make the facts of the case public. This done, nothing can hurt me; while, whether the Public Prosecutor intervenes or not, neither Mr. Hugh Mountjoy nor his wife can ever show face to the world again. "Tell Mr. Mountjoy, I say, whatever you please, except that I am joking. You must not tell him that. I shall call to-morrow morning, and shall expect to find the business as good as done. "A. V." Mrs. Vimpany dropped the letter in dismay. Her husband had vanished out of her life for more than two years. She hoped that she was effectually hidden; she hoped that he had gone away to some far-off country where he would never more return. Alas! This world of ours has no far-off country left, and, even if the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness so far as to go to the Rocky Mountains, an express train and a swift boat will bring him back to his wickedness whenever he desires a little more enjoyment and the society of his old friends. Mr. Vimpany was back again. What should she do? What would Iris do? What would Mr. Mountjoy do? She read the letter again. Two things were obvious: first, that he had no clue of the restitution; and, next, that he had no idea of the evidence against him for the murder of the Dane. She resolved to communicate the latter fact only. She was braver now than she had been formerly. She saw more clearly that the way of the wicked man is not always so easy for him. If he knew that his crime could be brought home to him; that he would certainly be charged with murder if he dared to show himself, or if he asked for money, he would desist. Before such a danger the most hardened villain would shrink. She also understood that it was desirable to hide from him the nature of the evidence and the name of the only witness against him. She would calmly tell him what would happen, and bid him begone, or take the consequences. Yet even if he were driven off he would return. She would live henceforth in continual apprehension of his return. Her tranquillity was gone. Heavens! That a man should have such power over the lives of others! She passed the most wretched day of her whole life. She saw in anticipation the happiness of that household broken up. She pictured his coming, but she could not picture his departure. For she had never seen him baffled and defeated. He would come in, big, burly, with his farmer-like manner confident, bullying, masterful. He would ask her what she had done; he would swear at her when he learned that she had done nothing; he would throw himself into the most comfortable chair, stretch out his legs, and order her to go and fetch Mr. Mountjoy. Would she be subdued by him as of old? Would she find the courage to stand up to him? For the sake of Iris--yes. For the sake of the man who had been so kind to her--yes. In the evening, the two women--Mrs. Vimpany and Fanny--were seated in the housekeeper's room. Both had work in their laps: neither was doing any work. The autumnal day had been boisterous; the wind was getting higher. "What are you thinking of?" asked Fanny. "I was thinking of my husband. If he were to come back, Fanny--if he were to threaten--" "You would loose my tongue--you would let me speak?" "Yes; for her sake. I would have shielded him once---if I could. But not now. I know, at last, that there is no single good thing left in him." "You have heard from him. I saw the letter this morning, in the box. I knew the handwriting. I have been waiting for you to speak." "Hush! Yes, Fanny; I have heard from him. He wants money. He will come here to-morrow morning, and will threaten Mr. Mountjoy. Keep your mistress in her own room. Persuade her to lie in bed--anything." "He does not know what I have seen. Charge him with the murder of the Dane. Tell him," said Fanny, her lips stiffening, "that if he dares to come again--if he does not go away--he shall be arrested for murder. I will keep silence no longer!" "I will--I am resolved! Oh! who will rid us of this monster?" Outside, the gale rose higher--higher still. They heard it howling, grinding branches together; they heard the roaring and the rushing of the waters as the rising tide was driven over the shallow sands, like a mountain reservoir at loose among the valleys below. In the midst of the tempest there came a sudden lull. Wind and water alike seemed hushed. And out of the lull, as if in answer to the woman's question, there came a loud cry--the shriek of a man in deadly peril. The two women caught each other by the hand and rushed to the window. They threw it open; the tempest began again; a fresh gust drove them back; the waters roared: the wind howled; they heard the voice no more. They closed the window and put up the shutters. It was long past midnight when they dared to go to bed. One of them lay awake the whole night long. In the roaring tempest she had seen an omen of the wrath of Heaven about to fall once more upon her mistress. She was wrong. The wrath of Heaven fell upon one far more guilty. In the morning, with the ebbing tide, a dead body was found lashed to the posts of one of the standing nets in the Solway. It was recognised by Hugh, who went out to look at it, and found it the body of Vimpany. Whether he was on his way back to Annan, or whether he intended to call at the villa that evening instead of next morning, no one can tell. His wife shed tears, but they were tears of relief. The man was buried as a stranger. Hugh kept his counsel. Mrs. Vimpany put the letter in the fire. Neither of them thought it wise to disturb the mind of Iris by any mention of the man. Some days later, however, Mrs. Vimpany came downstairs in a widow's cap. To Iris's look of interrogation she replied calmly, "Yes, I heard the other day. He is dead. Is it not better--even for him, perhaps--that he should be dead? He can do no more wickedness; he can bring misery into no more households. He is dead." Iris made no reply. Better--better far--that he was dead. But how she had been delivered from the man, to what new dangers she had been exposed, she knew not, and will never know. She has one secret--and only one--which she keeps from her husband. In her desk she preserves a lock of Lord Harry's hair. Why? I know not. Blind Love doth never wholly die. THE END